You’ll notice that the horoscopes are different today - I’m sharing the piece I wrote for the Solstice event we just had this past weekend at Black Bird Bookstore - some tender advice for Donald Trump. Perhaps some of the advice I’m offering to him could be applicable to you. Perhaps.
The exercise of this writing for me was about finding a way in to not reinforcing the opacity of the hatred of Trump, which feels very energetically similar to the opacity of his hatred and delusion. I’ve been thinking a lot about the satisfaction of ‘rightness’, being convinced of one’s own ‘rightness,’ and how intoxicating it can feel, like a hit of sugar, or booze, something we can use like a drug. And the separative qualities of rightness. The isolation of rightness. Where do you feel ‘right’? And when you’re feeling ‘right’, who are you feeling connected to? Who are you feeling separate from? How does your heart feel when you are feeling ‘right’? I’m not even suggesting you need to stop feeling right, I’m just wondering what we find when we really pay attention to the qualities that accompany that feeling. Perhaps it’s a good thing to contemplate while many of us are with family who we often politically disagree with right now.
Remember that no matter where you are, how triggered you might get, you can always count your breaths to slow them down and bring your attention back to them. You can remember you are in a body on planet Earth, breathing, like every other body on planet Earth. You can get a glass of water and drink it, and know you are drinking it while you do.
With love, and as little separation as possible on this day.
Very Tender Advice for Donald Trump
Drink a glass of water.
Then have another.
Lie on the floor in the oval office.
Go outside and take off your shoes and socks.
Lie on the lawn of the white house.
Put your bare feet in the ocean, or a river, or a lake.
Get the secret service to drive you somewhere with trees and animals and soil, then take off your shoes and stand on the ground. Stand on grass and soil.
Delete your twitter account.
Then turn off your phone.
Pay all your back taxes.
Stand naked in front of the mirror with no makeup on, alone.
Contemplate your internal organs.
Contemplate your pancreas.
Contemplate your lungs.
Contemplate your circulation.
Contemplate the years your body has lived.
Sell your Rolls Royce Silver Cloud and give the money to me.
Sell your Lamborghini Diablo and give the money to anyone who has held a baby today.
Sell your Mercedes SLR McLaren and give the money to anyone who has put their feet in the ocean this week.
Sell your Cadillac Allante and give the money to anyone who has visited a prison.
Sell your Tesla Roadster and give the money to someone living in a prison.
Sell your 24 Karat Gold Chopper and give the money to someone who has made food for someone else.
Sell your Boing 757 and give the money to anyone who has served you food.
Sell your Mar-a-Lago Mansion with 33 bathrooms and give the money to anyone who has ironed your boxers.
Sell your 39,000 square foot Seven Springs mansion and give the money to anyone who has been a caretaker for the dying.
Sell your 23,000 square foot Virginia mansion and give the money to someone who has birthed.
Sell your Sikorsky S-76 remodeled helicopter and give the money to a scientist who has watched a species they have been studying for 30 years die off.
Sell Trump Tower and give the money to Bill Gates.
Sell your National Golf Club in Bedminster and give the money to a midwife.
Give the money to a piano player.
Give the money to someone you betrayed.
Give the money to anyone.
Give something away, to someone, today.
Once you give the money away, observe the moon. Or maybe observe the moon before you give the money away, I’m not sure.
Also observe plants.
Water a plant.
Observe someone else.
Observe your own breath. (What does it feel like to breathe?)
Join the caravan for a day. Walk next to a family. Hold a child while walking in the caravan, if someone will let you.
Ask someone a question.
Listen to their answer.
Then ask a follow up question.
Get a scientist to take you to a place where a species you have never seen before exists. Get them to show you what is dying. And what is living.
Find a newborn to hold for a day.
And a night.
Change the newborn’s diaper.
Give the newborn a bath.
Remember when you were a newborn.
Remember who gave you a bath.
Remember who gave you your first bites of food.
Remember your time in the womb.
Convert your golf courses to nature preserves.
Tell Melania you are sorry for saying that she had to lose the baby weight in a day. Tell her you are sorry for saying she had to lose it in two days. Tell her you are sorry for saying she had to lose it in a week.
Ask someone who lives at sea for advice.
Ask someone who makes $15,000 a year for advice.
Ask someone who makes $80,000 for advice.
Ask a person in the caravan for advice.
Ask a child in detention for advice.
Ask an old woman for advice.
Ask the ocean for advice.
Ask a NICU nurse for advice.
Ask a SF General Hospital social worker for advice.
Ask a garbage collector for advice.
Ask a buddhist monk for advice.
Ask a teacher for advice.
Ask the earth for advice.
Peel a pomegranate, then eat it. Peel another one, give it to someone who works for you.
Put your dirty clothes in a washer. Once they are clean, put them in a dryer. Then take them out and fold them. Iron your shirts. Iron your boxers. Iron your pants.
Put someone else’s clothes in a washer. Once they are clean, put them in a dryer. Then take them out and fold them. Iron their shirts. Iron their boxers. Iron their pants.
Make a cup of coffee and bring it to someone.
Cut up a winter squash and cook it in an oven with olive oil and salt. Serve it to anyone. Serve it to Barron.
Feed a pet. Take a pet on a walk.
Lie on the lawn outside the white house. Stay there until you experience feelings of remorse. Once you do, drink another glass of water.