I became a blogger today. It was totally unpremeditated. I had never thought of becoming a blogger. I had always fancied myself more of a budding novelist, but novelists don’t score media passes, and I had come across one at the Conscious Life Expo at the LAX Hilton. A radio producer I met outside had a spare, and I looked forward to using it to breeze into seminars on Accessing Angelic Realms and Channeling Guides.
It was dangling around my neck, nearly concealed by my brightly colored Indian pashmina, and I had even forgotten all about it until a man on the elevator, pointing at my pass asked me what I do. Reaching for something accessible and non-committal, I declared myself a blogger. It seemed innocent enough, almost a non-lie. Doesn’t practically everyone have a blog now-a-days?
I had anticipated that he would nod and say, “that’s nice,” and that would be the end of it. But my little statement snowballed. It avalanched. It led to more and more questions that led to more and more lies. My name: Lori Stevenson. (Lori really is my first name, but I have no idea where Stevenson came from. It was my first act of creating fiction). My occupation: Blogger. My phone number? I was stuck. His ipad was already cued in his hand. Not wanting to have to engage in this charade ever again, I couldn’t give him my real phone number, but not able to tell one more lie for fear of spontaneously combusting, I gave him what I thought was my old phone number.
I must proclaim, even though I told a dozen non-truths on that long, long elevator ride down six floors, I don’t normally lie. It doesn’t feel good. I intrinsically stand in the truth. You can handle the truth, and if you can’t, you will learn to.
But with that one statement that churned into more, minute after agonizing minute, I traded my integrity for a media pass, and I paid for it with my guilt.
My guilt followed me around, manifesting into anxiety and shame. Perhaps in an act of penance, I continued to wear the pass, bared across my chest like the shaming scarlet letter, weighted down by the metaphorical albatross across my neck.
All around the expo, there were healers and healing products that promised to cure all ills. I scouted out booths that displayed cleansing amethyst crystals and clearing quartz. I sought the healing vibrations of bronze and crystal singing bowls. A man spritzed me down with ion infused healing waters. All of these things in conglomeration appeared to help, but did not entirely clear my dis-ease.
If the greatest healing must come from one’s self, only one thing could absolve me: becoming the thing I professed to be: a blogger.
There’s a part of my belief system that acknowledges the synchronicity of the universe which orchestrates things into being by chance meetings and whatnot. There’s also a big part of me that believes in the law of attraction and that verbalizations such as “I am ______” lead me to manifest that which I say I am.
I’m not yet sure who Lori Stevenson is, what her interests are, and what she will blog about next.
But the Lori who called the Lori Stevenson into being still has a ripple in the pond to contend with. When I gave that man on the elevator my fake phone number, in a panic I gave him a number recorded deep into my memory: I gave him my father’s.
To add to the imminently awkward situation, my dad, a Vietnam Vet who goes by the handle Gunner Bob, had the better part of his hearing blown out by rapid machine gun fire somewhere over The Iron Triangle in 1968. He also has touch-and-go PTSD and does not take kindly to telemarketers calling him on Saturdays.
In short, I will be putting my media pass to good use at the expo tomorrow, attending seminars on Clearing the Past, Manifesting Good Vibrations, and Offering a Damn Good Apology, if Needed
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