Deactivation: Bamboo

In the back of our garden stand clumps of bamboo appropriately named clumping bamboo. Some of it had been cut to dozens of razor sharp stumps by yard hackers before we moved in (I injured my heal and arch while naively walking barefoot in the dark shortly after we arrived). Another section of it hadn’t been cut at all.

The uncut portion was thick with its own dead branches, and bent over a wooden fence into our neighbor’s yard. This unruly full-grown portion (I’ve learned all parts of the bamboo plant can be monstrously out-of-control) was in the far right corner of our garden. Being one who loves symbolism and knows a bit about Feng Shui, I determined that this part of the bamboo was in my Feng Shui “Relationship Corner.” Another section of razor-sharp clumps rests in the middle of the back garden, which is my “Fame/Illumination/Self Expression” area—not a good place to have mangling, bamboo shards!

One recent sunny day, I decided it was time to start cleaning it up. Having nothing other than rose clippers, I went to the local, super-friendly, hardware store to obtain the proper tools. This store is staffed by a brigade of such over-the-top helpful people that Mike can’t stand going there. I like it, and enjoy the free popcorn on Tuesday (Mike isn’t too much into popcorn). This time I ended up in conversation with two employees and a chatty customer. Each told me of the horrors of bamboo: I would soon find out that many Portlanders had similar stories. One elderly employee told me that after first cutting, then digging, and finally using acid, his father (I can only imagine how old his father was) had to cover the bamboo with concrete. The customer, an attractive young woman, said that she broke three shovels trying to dig the menacing plant out, and needed to resort to a six foot metal pick. She brought one over. The thing weighed a ton and cost $49! Much more than I had anticipated spending.

I chose what I felt would be appropriate and extricated myself from the store. The next several hours and days were consumed with cutting, digging, and yanking roots (respectfully) with the full thrust of my 165 pound, pretty-well-built (if I do say so myself) body. The other hardware store customer had asked me if I knew why bamboo was so useful a product now a days. I didn’t know, but soon found out. She told me that like above, so too below: the roots are intertwined in such a fibrous knot that they are nearly impregnable. I soon also found that in addition to the tangle of branches above and rats nest of interconnected roots below, the bamboo had sent missionary shoots. Wayward roots—bamboo roots grow with daunting rapidity—had shot out to form the basis of colonies next to rose bushes and into the yard itself. One boulevard had manifested three twenty-foot-plus stalks in some bushes near my “Relationship Corner” and daringly close to my “Inner Child.” I worked furiously, and managed to get my “Relationship Corner” under control.

Then an odd thing happened. I awoke one morning to find that a hacker had stolen my Facebook identity and Gmail account, and was trying to get friends and family to believe I was stranded in London and needed money. I quickly deactivated the account and stopped the culprit. But who, I had to wonder, were the 200 “friends” I had made on Facebook? Some were quite clearly not who they said they were. One “friend” only posted pictures of herself as a mannequin, pretending to be a former model: Leslie Lemons, or the person behind Leslie, had actually become one of my best Facebook pals. A good majority of the others had been acquaintances from my prior life in West Hollywood, who, quite honestly didn’t have the time of day for me if they saw me in the street. It soon became clear that what I was expressing in my Facebook relationships was not friendship but insecurity. I wanted to appear (not even be) popular. I wanted to be acquainted with people I felt I could entertain; people who I could think cared about the photos and witty remarks I posted. I wanted to be liked. Far too much time had been spent. It had come time to cut the bamboo roots, so to speak, of my imaginary Facebook relationships. Indeed, this time had come and gone well before the identity thief forced me to deactivate.

This was not the only synergy that occurred. The identity theft of my Facebook account had occurred during the time I was working on the prologue and first chapter of my next book. I had been writing about an identity theft: the one that had occurred when I hit my alcoholic bottom. I’ve noticed in the past that when I write about an issue, I sometimes manifest it in a similar situation in my current life. Had I done this again? I’m not sure. What I am aware of is the difference between then and now. Then I had a real identity, which due to alcoholism, I had squandered. This time, what I lost was only a Facebook facsimile of myself. What I lost were relationships that were an illusion. I can see, by comparison, how far I’ve come in my spiritual growth and sobriety by what I lose or don’t.

I’ve recently begun removing the oldest, most unnecessary clumps of bamboo from my Fame/Illumination/Self Esteem corner. I can’t wait to see what will come of that. Hopefully nothing as crazy as my last experience. Perhaps the miracle can work here without the drama? Let’s see.

Roots