For the first time in a while, I’m actually writing during the day. It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. The sun is up! My brain is–functioning. I guess you could call it a miracle, but I’d call it a deadline. I’m going out of town to dance tonight, and then I’m driving to Springfield after that (to teach dance and aerials tomorrow), so if I want to sleep (which I do), I’ve got to write (right) now. Okay, that’s seventy-five words. I’m aiming for at least five hundred. I told Mom that I may need to underachieve today. She said, “That’s okay.”

At breakfast I went into a sneezing fit. I think I sneezed four or five times. This is something I may have inherited from my Mom, except when she does it, she somehow screams at the same time. It’s the type of sound that can take paint off the walls, break crystal glasses. I have one friend who–whenever he sneezes–says, “I must have something up my nose.” Then immediately adds, “It’s not there anymore.”

Anyway, after I sneezed in the kitchen, Dad said, “What do they say? Every time you sneeze it takes a minute off your life?”

Mom said, “I’ve NEVER heard that, Ron.”

I said, “I don’t know about sneezing, but if farting takes time off your life, you’ve got A SERIOUS PROBLEM.”

The conversation made me think of something my grandpa (my dad’s dad) used to say–“You’ll learn the difference between sneezing and farting.” Well, this is the type of statement that can really confuse a child, and I honestly don’t know that I completely understand it now. So I asked my dad about it, and he said he honestly didn’t know either, but that I could ask Google (thanks, Dad). He said he thought it was Grandpa’s way of saying, “You’ll learn the way of the world,” just like he used to say, “You’ll learn how the cow eats the corn.”

What the hell? Is it any wonder foreigners have trouble learning the English language?

For the last two hours I’ve been trying to think of a specific example of when Grandpa used the sneezing/farting comment, but I can’t. But I do remember what I felt like whenever he’d say it, and it wasn’t smart. When I asked Google about the phrase, it brought up a scene from the movie Varsity Blues in which a coach tells a player, “You show me the kind of smarts makes me wonder if you know the difference between a sneeze and a wet fart.” In other words, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stupid, son.” I doubt that was Grandpa’s intention with me, but it’s the way I felt, the same way I felt whenever he’d say, “When you start paying those bills, you’ll learn where the light switches are (damn it).” The sense was–you don’t know everything–I do–this is the way the world turns.

So there.

In more than one self-help workbook, I’ve been asked to identify where my beliefs have come from–beliefs about God, health, self-worth, money–you name it. Of course, in almost every instance, my beliefs have come from my parents or grandparents, maybe from teachers at school. I don’t think there’s any blame in this statement, as all of our beliefs get passed down, and we can only know and teach what we know and have been taught. That being said, whenever I meditate on my thoughts about abundance and scarcity, I think of that statement about the light switches. I think about our cars being repossessed when Dad was arrested. Whenever I think about my intelligence, I think about being told, “Use your brain for something besides a damn hat rack.” Plenty of times I think other people know more than I do, and that always makes me feel like I don’t know the difference between sneezing and farting.

So I wish I could tell you that what you say to your children and grandchildren–what you say to anyone–doesn’t matter. But that’s not my experience. People remember. Words make up our entire world.

Once when I was talking about my health, my therapist said, “Well, you’re in your thirties now,” like, you’re not a spring chicken anymore. (WHOA! Watch your mouth, please!) As I am pushing forty, this is something I’m starting to hear a lot–from doctors, peers, the media. And whereas I’m not suggesting anyone bury their head in the sand over a health problem, I do think we underestimate ourselves. I think we start giving up and giving in much sooner than we have to, simply because “that’s how the cow eats the corn.”

Caroline Myss says that our first experience in life is the tribe, which is represented within our first (base or root) chakra. That’s our primal instinct, our need for security, our root to the earth. Tribal mentality is always–always–about the survival of the tribe–it’s we, never I. Whenever you see people getting heated, yelling at a football game or a political rally, whenever a church or family kicks someone out for not following the rules, that’s the tribe at work. It’s not good or bad, it’s just the way it is. But the thing about the tribe versus the individual is that they both have different beliefs and different experiences. In other words, the tribe may believe that there’s not enough money to go around, and that can be true for the tribe, and the individual can believe there’s abundance everywhere, and that can be true for the individual.

This is why when it comes to something like healing, the tribe can believe–it takes six months to heal this problem–but someone can come along and heal whatever it is in one month, maybe two. It’s not that they are an exception to the rule, it’s that they aren’t “ruled” by the tribal belief. Again, nothing wrong with tribal beliefs, but Caroline says you’re bound to move at the speed of the tribe if you identify with it. So she recommends unplugging from the tribe (the journey of the self/the spiritual path). But if you go that way, don’t expect the tribe to cheer you on. (Yay! You’re leaving us!) It doesn’t work that way.

In my experience, it can be difficult to break free of ideas and beliefs you’ve had since you were a child, to see abundance where your family didn’t, to own your own intelligence, to really learn the difference between a sneeze and a fart, which as I see it means that you can be smart enough to not believe everything you’re told. Deepak Chopra tells the story of a primitive tribe in which THE BEST runners were the guys in their fifties or sixties. They got better with age, not worse. My meditation teacher says this is the reason she dyes her hair–she doesn’t want the daily reminder that (as society says) she’s old.

This, I think, is what authenticity is about–following the truth that’s inside you, not the truth someone else tells you, the truth you read about in a book. Tribes, of course, have their purpose. They introduce us to the world, protect us when we can’t protect ourselves, give us a sense of belonging. But we’re not meant to stay there. In terms of the chakras, we’re literally meant to rise above, into third (self-empowerment), into the seventh (our personal connection to the divine). We are meant for so much more than sneezing and farting and how the world turns.

[Even though I’m writing in the middle of the day, I’ll post this close to midnight.]