Iphone and the Holy Grail

Two days ago, my cell phone went into the x-ray scanner machine at Reagan International Airport, and never came out.  I know for sure it went into the grey plastic bin, because I attempted to check my email just before the security belt started moving again.  I remember feeling frustrated that gmail didn't load in time for me to see if I had any new messages before I had to give up my iphone for a total of 30 seconds as it rolled through the machine.  I also remember judging myself for feeling frustrated... I could check it in a minute, duh?  Then, I worried that the security people would think I was a freak if they saw my phone loading email messages as it came under their scrutiny.  So, a second before disappearing behind the car-wash-like plastic marking entry into the security tunnel, I hit the iphone home button so nobody would see just how lame I am.

Feelings of frustration and shame are excellent pathways of memory.

Most of us know what the ambience of the security lines at airports are like, especially less than a week after Bin Laden was killed.  As soon as your stuff rolls through the machine, you gotta hustle: get your stuff back in your possession, the plastic grey bins stacked and off the luggage tram, and slide your shoes back on your feet.  In the initial frenzy of reclaiming my luggage and getting out of the way, I didn't notice that my cell phone didn't come through.  It was only after I walked away from the mayhem that I thought, "where's my phone?"

This is not an unusual thought for me.  Along with my keys, I regularly have fleeting moments of doubt that my phone is missing.  I looked in all the familiar places, then looked in unlikely places, and looked again.

I thought, "most likely, this is just anxiety.  I am in an airport, after all, and I do get nervous when traveling.  I bet my phone is somewhere very obvious."

Not 100% sure my phone was missing, I returned to the security station because I was scheduled to board the plane 10 minutes ago, and the plane would leave in 20 minutes.  If I didn't check with them now, I'd soon be hundreds of miles away.  A wonderful woman at security did her best.  When I told her I was there with my phone less than 5 minutes ago, we shared optimistic glances, words, and then launched into the search.  To no avail.

I got on the plane out of sorts.  My phone is an iphone and along with the phone numbers of every person I talk to, it has my calendar, voice memos, and access to my email and facebook accounts.  I didn't like the idea of someone else having access to my phone nor the personal inconvenience of being iphone-less.

On the plane, Charlie was kind and reassuring, "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah, I guess."

After half an hour flying, I turned to him and said, "I'm afraid of letting go of the phone, mentally.  I think that if I do there's no way the phone will come back. I feel like acceptance is giving up.  Like, if I let go, I'm not committed to getting it back."

He listened and in his listening, I heard myself. I heard my holding on.  I heard my fear of letting go.   When I told Charlie about my phone, I heard all my holding on, all my fear of letting go:  holding on to how I think my marriage should look, holding on to people's good opinions of me, holding on to what I wanted for my life five years ago, holding on to fitting in, holding on to my 20-year-old body, holding on to moments of joy.

This is what I do when I'm in a tight spot, I hold on.

In other words, if something does not go according to plan, I somehow flood my body with energy that stimulates the "Danger!  Danger!  Danger!" signal.  When, in fact, no danger is afoot.   There is no danger.  There is no danger.

Okay, I can let go of my phone.  It may come back.  It may not.  Either way, I am fine.

A little later in the flight, I had another insight. When we first boarded, I had sent a text to my iphone, from Charlie's, that said, "If you find this phone, please call:  (my cousin's phone number, who was still in the airport).  Bless you!  Bless you!!!"

I got honest with myself; I was using spiritual manipulation.  I hoped to appeal to the person's best self - one person who would bless a person to another person who would receive a blessing.  Surely, if we're in the mood for blessing and being blessed, we're in the mood to return cell phones to security/lost and found rather than sell the cell phone for $50 or watch porn on it, uninterrupted, for a couple days, then ditch it in a trash can.

That's not cool, I thought.  I'm pretty sure blessings aren't designed to get iphones back.  Plus, my blessing was conditional - I was blessing the person that would bring my phone back, not the person that wouldn't.  I decided that, too, is not cool with me.  We all, mistakes and all, are worthy of blessings no matter our choices.  Nobody needs to earn a blessing, that's the point of blessings - they are HIGHER ORDER wishes!  So, I blessed the person who found my phone, whether or not s/he chose to send my phone back to me.  I felt much better.  I live in a good world.  We all do things others wish we wouldn't do and we are all worthy of blessing one another and receiving blessings.   What a relief!

When we landed in Boston, I used Charlie's phone to call mine.  I didn't leave a message and I didn't try calling it again.  When I left my plane on a phone in Boston flying home from Puerto Rico three years ago, I called it 10 times in a row, desperately trying to get someone to answer it.  I wasn't going for a repeat performance, I called once and would leave it at that.  They would choose to answer, and help, or not.  Acceptance.

I let go.  I created an unconditional blessing.  And, I accepted, again.

Then, wouldn't you know, someone called Charlie's phone from mine and said, "We have your phone."

It's all holy.  Every moment, every experience, any time we are conscious and willing to grow.