To cuss or not to cuss

July 31, 2009. Tachimedes is perched atop the CPU. The mickey birds are shrilling alarm calls. No way will Tach relax while so much danger lurks outside. This office has a large bank of windows facing onto a spreading poinciana tree (one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house). Jamaica, the black whippet, is soaking up the warm winter sun. Ah, I just got a glimpse of the threat; a snowy ibis. Anything large which glides rather than flaps is possibly a predator at least in the minds of small cockatiels and mickeys.
Having trouble settling to anything today. Been to the gym, done yoga, should write but as I haven't written in almost a week I'm having trouble. Even here. This warm-up is a stuttering mess. Keep referencing yoga sites (wish there was a decent yoga class in this tiny town!) to avoid facing up to stiff stilted writing effort. Insomnia too lately which doesn't help. Beating myself up while at the same time letting myself off the hook. Master of self-sabotage. It's already 3:30 in the afternoon and I've written nothing. Ack! I really could scream I get so frustrated with myself at the same time as I know frustration just shuts things down. It's not a positive anything! R in and out banging doors. Should've tried to meditate while he was gone but didn't do that either.
Some positive things, have been off the spider solitaire for a couple of weeks now. I feel cleansed, like an addict kicking heroin. No more cards floating behind my eyes when I close them at night. When I do write I stick to the task and write. No more switching windows between the book and the spread.
I suspect yoga practice is having an insidious unexpected effect. Just little things, like trying to clean up my act a little and not swear so much. Working at a veterinary clinic is no excuse but it can get somewhat stressful. I blow stress by swearing, mostly under my breath but out loud too (not in front of clients however which shows I have the willpower and focus to control it if I want). I haven't thought about swearing for years. It was just a fact. Now, however, I think it's not such a good thing. I could still swear but swear creatively. Or bring back into fashion some of the old swear words from generations ago. Like jeepers or criminently or even blast it! Swearing is really lazy thinking, a refusal to find an appropriate adjective to describe something troublesome. Better yet would be to be in that state of mind where I am no longer troubled. But until I reach that sweet spot I will try and curb the cussing or at least cuss creatively.

The Blog, the Journal and the Painting

Haven't touched the book yet (warm up here) but will get to it later. Last week I wrote heaps. With one and a half glasses of wine, enough to censor the internal censor but not kill her, the words and ideas flowed. It was great. And as much as I love R, it is SO much easier to write when he's not home. He has gone to T'ba today and won't be home until this afternoon so I've a few hours in which to get stuck in.
I was thinking how different my writing is here than in my handwritten journal. As much as I would like to say I write as freely, I don't. Although no one has read my blog, it is possible they might. Writing for an audience is one thing but trying to write as if you aren't is another. Writing fiction I write for myself. I am trying to write the kind of book I would enjoy reading. It isn't possible, at least for me, to write as if a potential publisher was looking over my shoulder. I guess that means I'm not writing for publication -- but of course I am. Just not now. Like painting for a potential buyer. I paint for me. If someone likes what I paint and wants to buy it, then that's a bonus.
I had a show with 3 other women many years ago on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, Florida. I don't know if it's the same now but back then it was Florida's version of Rodeo Drive. Posh. The opening was very swish; chandeliers, black baby grand, wine and cheese and classical music. Lots of people. I sold nothing. My teacher at the time said if I painted using a different colour scheme I would probably sell as it would fit in with client's decor. He was a portrait painter for the hoi-polloi. Very successful. Lovely house in a ritzy district. His lover would pose for us while Queen blasted out of speakers on the garden studio walls.
I remember having a conversation with him about the satisfaction his work brought him. It didn't. He was a very good artist but he'd decided on a comfortable living rather than exploring his artistry. Perhaps he had a room where he painted for himself, paintings which never saw the light of day. I don't know. I do know he was sad. Successful but sad. I never did re-paint those paintings.
I don't regret not chasing the sale. I would be nice to sell some but I'm just not motivated enough to get myself out there. HOWEVER. Saw a program on the ABC how a group of artists in Byron Bay got together and had a speed dating event, only it was a speed artist-meet-gallery event. Four minutes to present their paintings and then move on to the next. What a brilliant idea. I could go for that. Get someone to photograph my paintings, make prints to put in a binder and present them that way. Four minutes is not enough time to get nervous. Well, not too nervous anyway.
Part of the problem is framing. I've so many paintings stuck in one of those huge ledger things. I just can't afford to get paintings framed and again, am not motivated enough to teach myself (I really am quite lazy. I like doing the things I like to do as there are so many things I have to do, adding another project just overwhelms me). R would be willing to frame my work but he has so much on his plate it would not be fair to slop on another helping.

Synchronicity and Cary Grant

Sometimes things happen that have no logical explanation. R and I took the whippets for a walk on our dead end dirt road. Beautiful sunny day, warm after a cold winter night. So warm I removed my sweatshirt and hung it on a roadside reflector to pick up on our return trip. Which I did. The old royal blue sweatshirt has a hole in the back, no doubt the result of climbing through a barb wire fence. Stuck into this small hole was a many branched twig, some kind of Australian native. It has five small twigs jutting out from the central branch. It's only about 10" long. It is also covered with tiny deep blue, almost purple flowers. I've never seen anything blooming in the bush with flowers that colour, nor did I see anything around where I'd hung my sweatshirt resembling it.

So where did it come from and why was it placed so precisely in the hole of my shirt? Only one car passed us on the road and I'm sure the occupant wouldn't have done it. Just not his style. Besides, he would've had to have the plant with him and he's just not that interested in nature.

So it sits beside me on the desk, wilting slightly but with the colours of the tiny flowers still vivid. Is it a sign?

I'm a great believer in signs and synchronicity. When I am in the right frame of mind I see the Universe speaking all the time. Speaking to me in a language which is pertinent to me. That may sound mad yet if the stuff of the universe is mind stuff, why not? What is a thought but a form of energy. Everything solid is a form of energy. It has to be malleable. It has to be coherent. One wavelength amplifying or cancelling out another or just making white noise. It is all so mysterious but at the same time so bloody obvious.

For instance I was born on the 29th (11) day of the 11th (11) month in 19 (1) 55 (1). Elevens and twenty-twos have figured prominently in my life. Strictly speaking 1955 would be a 2 but for purposes of this I prefer to see it as I've set out. Today I was looking at Cary Grant (who wouldn't?). I'd gone there after looking up something else and one thing led to another and then there I was with Cary. Turns out he died in Davenport Iowa on November 29, 1986 at 11:22pm. I hadn't met to find that but I still think it's significant. Significant of what I don't know. My own particular idiosyncracy?

Unfortunately I am often out of touch with the Language and signs. I am too caught up in the white noise of my own mind chatter to see the bleeding obvious. One of the things I hope yoga will teach me is how to lose some of that, to be aware of the moment, to be IN the moment. To be still and know God or whatever you want to call it. Powers That Be works for me. There is Something but I've too many negative connotations associated with the word God.

I've been trying to meditate off and on for years. Much more off than on. Who would've thought simply following one's breath and focusing on that to the exclusion of anything else would be so hard? It is damned hard! I may get one or two breaths where I actually follow the breath, I am in the breath and then bang! I'm thinking that it's time to change birds (change in that it's time for Cornelius to go in his cage so Tachimedes can come out) or remembering some snippet of conversation from work. It seems my mind has a brilliant work ethic. It does not want to sit idle and watch the breath go in and out. It's got places to go (flights of fancy), people to see (ancient history or wishful thinking). Bludging on the job while awake is not in its job description. However. I am determined to rein in my over zealous workaholic brain and convince it that calm quiet attention is not in breach of its Lifetime Contract.

Maiden Mother Crone

There's a strange dichotomy to growing older. I've left the Maiden years far behind, and have recently bid adieu to the Mother and am now standing firmly if somewhat querulously on the shifting sands of The Crone. I see the deepening lines on my face, the map of my life. Part of me, the public part, says yeah, I'm proud of every one of them.
I remember photos I saw once of Georgia O'Keefe and Helena Rubenstein. Georgia O'Keefe had her haired pulled back into a severe skull-hugging bun. Frankly I don't remember how Ms. Rubenstein was wearing her hair although I suspect it was in a styled society matron helmet. Ms. O'Keefe's face was a network of lines, crossing and criss-crossing her face. Ms. Rubenstein was well-preserved, pampered and young (for her age). But it was Georgia's face that was beautiful. Full of life, experience, it was a reflection of her inner being. Helena's lifelong attempts to preserve her youthfulness succeeded in preserving, to a degree, that illusion, but the success meant she had constructed a mask and her inner being was hidden.
So publicly I affirm that my face is what I've got after more than half a century of life and I'm proud of it. Inwardly, or privately looking in the mirror, I lament the loss. It's shallow and somewhat sad. Can I blame the fixation on youthfulness in today's society for my dissatisfaction? No, despite the daily inculcation that only the young matter I do know better.
The loss of beauty and youth is the price I pay for living. OTOH, I do fight against the loss of physical strength and suppleness. The gym and yoga help, especially yoga.
When I first started yoga it was so hard and so painful it seemed as if I'd begun too late. But every day there is some small improvement in flexibility. My back hurts less, I'm stronger and more flexible than I was. Mentally I don't meditate enough to notice improvement. That's something I need to address. Even allocating 5 minutes to following my breath, there is a second or two when my ceaseless mind chatter stops long enough to touch that still calm center. And then off I go again on another tangent of chittering chattering mindspeak.
I began this post because I was thinking about books and reading books. Twice in 2 weeks I've borrowed a book from the library and then after reading a few pages decided it wasn't worth reading. Is that incipient loss of mental power or the ability to concentrate or is it that my time is more precious now and I don't have to read everything I get just because I got it? I used to read everything. Even if I didn't like a book I'd read it. Now I can't be bothered.
I should be out riding today. Haven't ridden B since last week but it's cold and windy and quite miserable. I've got a painting to work on and The Book, which I haven't added a word to in 2 weeks. R is away until late tonight and gone again tomorrow which gives me the opportunity to work uninterrupted. I should also spend time with little Tach but it's not very comfortable to open this room to the winds coming in off the verandah (and feeling like they're rolling off the glaciers of the Antarctic!) so I go out and make quick visits and long for summer.

Coping with Anger in Others

Last day, half day, of work before four days off. Finished on a frantic note. Quiet morning and then a caesar on a shar pei with whelping difficulties. All pups deformed. And dead. Bitch has a skin condition swelling her muzzle and giving her that distinctive 'itchy dog' smell. Everyone on lunch but the vet and I. Me juggling phones, trying to get everything ready for the surgery, trying to track down the boss for an appointment he'd made but his phone was off the hook, trying to track down the other vet nurses. The usual stuff. Moments of complete madness followed by relative sanity. And then I'm driving home looking forward to the serenity of this quiet country property. The contrast is great.
Had a woman come in and get a bit aggressive. She's not a client. Her daughter's a client. After I'd finished with her and went out back, heart pounding with sweat drying on my skin I heard what an awful time another nurse had had with her, how abusive she was to the boss' son and how way off the charts her reasoning is. Soon after I started working at this surgery I was screamed at by a woman on the phone. Screaming and shouting and lots of abuse before she hung up. I was completely demoralized, wrung out, shaking. As I got to know her I realised she has a mental condition. She can't help being who she is, even when she's abusive. I dealt with her again a few weeks ago. She didn't shout or scream and I, armed with more understanding, wasn't personally upset that she was irrational and aggressive. By taking myself and my ego out of the equation I maintained my equilibrium.
With this other woman today it was a little harder but I maintained my composure. Experience helps I guess. She was very tall and leaned over me, although we were divided by the reception desk. I got the feeling she was used to using her superior height to her advantage. I'm only 5'4". I also got the feeling she was used to getting her own way when she shows her anger. I had to hold my ground. Took the line, it's not my decision, I'm only the messenger. It was like a tai chi move in a way for she no longer had anything to push against which helped diffuse things. She didn't shout or swear at me, and even though she said 'this isn't the end of it and you'll be hearing from me' she was civil.
It's an interesting phenomenon taking away that counter force. If force is met with force, the ante and the aggression level escalates. If there is force and it is met with, not acquiescence but an accepting attitude, it seems to absorb the hostility. If I say I understand what you're saying, why you're upset, I hear you and don't get defensive or worse, hostile in return, there somehow remains some common ground on which to communicate. Certainly in a vet practice there are some complaints, a few of them legitimate or at least understandable. Unfortunately there are also the 'nutters' or just plain angry people, like this woman, who are in it for the adrenaline rush of fighting. I can't hide out the back. Someone has to deal with them and being the eldest one there it often falls to me. I think, however, that the older I become the more empathetic I become. It's not all about me and my hurt pride. These people must be so miserable so much of the time. Like Don Quixotie tilting at windmills. They are hung up on windmills, hung there by their own inability to empathise or to communicate with anything other than anger.

thoughts are things

July 12, 5pm Sunday. I have this phobia. Well, I have a few phobias but this particular one is pertinent today. I've been unwell. Major headache; even my nose and teeth hurt. Slept badly because of it, then woke up bilious (isn't that a wonderful word? Bilious?). Anyway, it's all part of turning from a mother into a crone, a process I've been experiencing since I was 42. Haven't read up too much on menopause but enough to know headaches can be a part of it. So they are a part of it for me. Cluster headaches; 2 or 3 days then nothing for weeks, maybe even months. It's okay. Uncomfortable but okay. I can live with it. It's part of the 'change'.
Today we go to a friends for lunch. I don't really want to go but R promises we won't stay long and it 'will be good for me to get out'(?). Don't understand that reasoning but all right, I'll go. They're lovely people, lovely setting and I have R's assurance we'll return soon. R tells them I've been unwell so G grabs a medical book and tells me as I'm a long term vegetarian I'm not getting enough Vit B which can cause headaches as well as many many other symptoms. I know she means well. She's generous, knowledgeable, caring, etc. But her effort to help educate me about what's wrong by reading from some medical tome annoys me, not because she's interfering. She's not but because I don't want a picture in my mind's eye of another's truth. Because of A there will be B. Because of B there must be C. That's my phobia.
There used to be a TV commercial for a cold medicine for the 'flu you will get this winter'. The ad should've been banned. Way too suggestible. And human's are suggestible. Look at the Zero Point Field by Lynne McTaggert. Thoughts are things. Intentions yield results. Hence I didn't want to do too much research on menopause, just enough to assure me that as well as hot flashes, headaches and short term memory loss are normal. I fear taking on another's reality. G suggested I should be getting a blood test at least every 5 years to check whatever. Over 50's should have annual mammograms and pap smears. Poppycock, is what I say. Why?
What is the real reason we have more incidence of cancer than ever before? Is it because we live in a carcinogenic environment? Probably. R and I live without the chemicals found in most kitchens and sheds.
Is it because we test more for various types of cancer than ever before? Probably.
But I suspect there is also a third reason, not counted by the researchers, why we have more cancer than ever before. Because we're told we will.
We live in an age where unless you don't have a television, computer or radio, you are bombarded with facts. These may not be facts at all. Or what is a fact to one observer is not a fact to another. For instance, I've watched a news story about how many homeless in Bangladesh after a typhoon. Try two different sources, newspaper and televsion, and get two different numbers.
Facts, read statistics, can be groomed to fit a preconceived conclusion. The facts may differ depending on the particular sort of question. In fact, reality seems such a fluid sort of medium, I'm not sure what is fact and what is not. I think therefore I am? If I follow that thought I find it is way too deep for me.
What I do know is that I am suggestible. As such I prefer to make my own reality, create my own health or ill health for whatever reason I need health or ill health at that time. What I don't need is someone saying I will have this, just because that's what the facts say.

impressionist painting, cubism, picasso, enlightenment without change

July 10, 2009. That gold part of the afternoon. Haven't written. Yesterday went to Brisbane and saw the American Impressionist and Realism painting exhibition. It was good but not as exciting as the exhibition of Pablo Picasso's personal collection. I came away from that one deeply impressed with both the variety and talent. There was one painting, by a spaniard whose name I've forgotten. It was sort of an obscene painting in that it was made up of penises, testicles and vaginas (I think the female bits were there) yet the painting's design had so much energy. It almost didn't matter what the subject was as the pattern and detail was so extraordinary. I tried to find his work on the net but couldn't. Nor was it listed in the blurb we got from the gallery. Anyway, the memory stays with me.
Yesterdays exhibition didin't 'blow my hair back' as much. Well, not really at all. Arrogant thing to say for I certainly can't paint like Homer or Whistler or Cassatt but save for the full length portraits and one painting by an australian painter (again whose name escapes me) called Moonrise I wasn't that impressed. Perhaps because they were of a type I was familiar with. The impressionists and the new realists are well trodden territory. So is Picasso and cubism come to think of it. But there was so much variety there; startling things. I don't understand the attraction of cubism, perhaps because it is so familiar now. I suspect at the time it was because it was an entirely new way of seeing objects. Beyond that, Picasso's tastes were eclectic. And electric.
I went down with K and C and C's parents visiting from Ireland. Took 2 cars as C and her parents went home while K and I explored the West End. A bit disappointing as it was full of ethnic restaurants and not much else. I did find a really great second hand bookstore that I could've spent hours and lots of $$ in but as we had to keep moving I contented myself with one book, Perfect Madness by Donna Lee Gorrell, a woman's journey to enlightenment. She 'wanted growth without change, wisdom without experience, security without sacrifice and life without death'. Intriguing enough for me to buy it.
For don't we all want that? I know I do. Enlightenment like an add-on so that I don't really have to change. Despite the bumps and lumps in this egocentric self, I am comfortable with the blemishes and fear the unknown. Fear too having to give up bits of myself. Would it be such hard work to let parts of myself go? Like losing excess weight, things that darken my spirit and weigh me down? Why do I cling so to parts of me that no longer work? Safety in the familiar? Like an abused wife who would rather stay with her husband than face the unknown? Like W who stays with her husband, who is not physically abusive, because as she said, 'the devil you know....' So easy to be superior and therefore sad for her but we all do it in some respect or another. So perhaps the book will scare me off or maybe not.

July 5, 2009, 11am. Last day before work. For a lark I've done a google search on my name. Who would've thought there would be so many in the world. There's even a 19 year old artist out there who likes to write, paint and loves cats. Actually it's a bit eerie. I met a woman once who was the same age and born on the same day. As far as I could see we had nothing in common. I wasn't drawn to her at all. Maybe she was like me and I couldn't see it.
Would we like ourselves if we met ourselves in real life? It's an interesting question. I *think* I would. After all, we'd have everything in common. The little reading I've done of doppelgangers seems to suggest they are fleeting occurrences. Not like you're sitting down and sharing a cup of coffee. Perhaps it's the shock of meeting yourself that dissipates the event like, for me at least, realizing I'm starting to have an OBE, getting excited and waking myself up. But it is humbling to realize so many women share my name. There are 23 pages so far and more lurking in the wings. And these women are doing great things too by the looks of it. I am mentioned but only on a submission to parliament. I'm #162 so it's not like I'm out there in the forefront. I have no degrees. I'm not active in business. Oh well. I feel a strange sense of camaraderie with all those people.
Today is a good day. I worked some on the book yesterday and also the current painting. What is even better is that I spent time thinking of them. On Sunday, if I wait long enough, R will often get up before me and start doing the morning chores (birds, etc.). Usually I don't fall asleep again but enjoy that precious extra 30 minutes when I just look into the green gold of the sun-dappled fernery and think.
I'm beginning to realise I don't make enough time to just stop and think, or daydream or whatever. My world is, like most people, just busy. And if it isn't busy I make it so with radio or television or busy-ness. And spider solitaire. I took a positive step this morning and deleted it. I know I can reinstate it but it is an effort to do so, not much of an effort but enough to put me off doing so. I'm quite proud of myself as I am addicted (yes, addicted) to spider solitaire. I have played for hours. So long that upon closing my eyes at night I am still seeing cards and changing their positions. It's like smoking or drinking or drugs. My dirty little secret. I used the excuse of playing a row while waiting for the screen to load. But lying to myself is not wise. Of course I wasn't using it to kill time. I was just using.
I've just written two letters to two different ministers (environment and local gov't) in a last ditch effort to stop this quarry. We've been fighting it since 1993. It keeps rearing its ugly head, we keep fighting, it starts again. The amazing thing is they want to quarry 23ha of declared (by the DERM) endangered habitat. Amazing in this day and age that it is even considered.
I've opened the door to the verandah so that Tachimedes, my darling half wild cockatiel, can come in and scream from atop the CPU. I don't know why he's screaming. When he screams he ducks his head and snakes it from side to side. Snaking it not like in aggressive but in winding it around from one side to the other. When he does that he doesn't want head scratching or even a barley seed (his favourite). I've just scratched his head so long my fingers were tingling from lack of circulation. I got him from the pet shop, something I swore I'd never do in that I wasn't going to support the pet shop trade. I'd gone in to get a friend for Cornelius, the tiny budgie but all the budgies they had were male save for one enormous female. Too big for Cornelius. In another cage was Tachimedes. He was sharing it with 7 or 8 others. The others ignored me but he followed me from one side to another, craning his neck and chattering. Of course I took him home and then preceded to scare the living daylights out of him by dosing him that day and the next for coccidiosis. The second time his wing became caught in a loose thread of the towel I used to wrap him. Naturally he thought I was trying to kill him. It's taken many months to get him to the stage where I can scratch his head. He'll fly to my hand from a distance but not if it's near him, less than a foot away. Strange little creature but I love him. There is so much someone in there when I look in his eye.
He's a native coloured one, grey back and breast, white edges down his shoulder, yellow cheek patches with a bright orange center and a greenish yellow crest. Prettier than the mutations I think. I could've gone for a hand-reared one and perhaps I should have but I like that all the progress we've made is with him fully flighted and able to fly away, which he does frequently.
He's flown down to my shoulder. I balance a barley seed on it to tempt him. The idea is to get him used to sitting there, eventually without the seed motivation. Sit there and feel safe, like it's a nice place to be to get his head scratched. He's back on the CPU now, drumming his beak on the metal.

July 4, 2009, Independence Day in the States, well, tomorrow. It's not quite the 4th of July here yet. My stepson is on leave from Afghanistan, talked about how patriotic the Americans are. It's a funny thing patriotism. I used to think about it in school, not the flag waving American brand but how quickly we band together against The Other. My home room in a contest with other home rooms, my class against other classes, my school against other schools, my state against other states and then of course, my country against and better than other countries. Sometimes, in my bleaker moments, I think we need an alien invasion to stop us squabbling amongst ourselves and get us to pull together. It's a strange kink in the human psyche that we have this Us against Them attitude. We always find an Other, whether it's the Aryan super race against the Jews, Gypsies, political activists and anyone else who didn't fit their idea of the perfect specimen, or as I see it here in Oz, the *native* Australians against, let's see, 50 or more years ago, the Italians and Greeks and Yugoslavs or now, that the mediterranean immigrants have been here for several generations, those new *natives* against the tide of refugees seeking a new start in this lucky country at great personal risk to themselves. Yet we're so afraid of losing something to them (jobs? culture? race purity?) we attack them; the Indians, Pakistanis, Afghans, Africans, Asians, etc. They are now the Other. White is right.
Another thing that occurs to me is how each country, race, even continent, has their time in the sun. Hundreds of years ago, the Portuguese ruled the world - and the French, the Spanish, the Dutch, the English. Now, for awhile longer, altho the sun is setting on their economic empire, the Americans. Who will be next? The Chinese? The Indians? I place my bet on the Chinese. That will be a bitter pill to swallow. Improved communication, the aforementioned patriotism and our increased tendency to violent eruptions may mean disaster.
On the other hand, there is an increased Self-Awareness. I am not normally pessimistic about the fate of the world. More and more people are turning to Spirit, in whatever guise or label they understand. I'm NOT talking about fanatical evangelical Christianity (Jesus would be spinning in his grave if he had one) as that seems as violent as the hard line Islamics, both determined to wipe the other from the planet. I'm talking about what could be conveniently lumped under New Age, despite it not being very new: Zen Buddhism, Wiccan, Paganism, all the self-help gurus and teachers, the New Age ethos which harkens back to the basic tenet of all the major religions; humility, treating others as you would like to be treated, forgiveness and above all else, love. Violence spreads but so too does this. We may not be able to change the world but we can make major changes to our place in it.
It's something I work on alot. I get angry, impatient, snide, callous, selfish -- all those icky traits. I see them, don't like them, don't even overcome them all the time but I try. I have a problem with a girl at work. I know she is a gift so that I may work on myself. When I resent her I very much doubt she knows. I am courteous, cheerful, etc. but inside I'm seething. Who does it hurt? Me. Who does that help? No one. So I continue to plug away at seeing her, really *seeing* her as another soul who is doing the best she can at this time. Like me.
It would be better if we, the entire human race, saluted one another on meeting, with Namaste - my soul greets and salutes your soul - to keep us mindful of who we really are. And who they really are. *They* are not The Other. They are ourselves looking back at us. When I hurt her (and thoughts are things as far as I'm concerned) I'm not hurting her. I hurt myself. It's so obvious when I think about it. We are all interconnected. The butterfly and the typhoon thing. So when we do violence to them, in thought, word or deed, we do violence to ourselves. Isn't that sad? It's like the human race has a severe self-image problem.
All this talk about love and kindness and non-violence and there's a fly that keeps landing on my face. I want to kill it. Ironic, eh?

First post on blog site

I've started another blog space for those times I don't feel like physically writing. I can type far faster than I can write longhand. Of course, the urge to journal has dissipated with the searching for and creating this space. I mean, the initial impetus. That was this morning when I had a few dreams and awoke feeling very sorry for myself, iow didn't like myself much. Happily I pulled myself out of that and have had a pretty good day. What gets me about me is that I waste time on trivia when I could be; writing, painting, riding, doing yoga, going to the gym, walking the dogs, digging out lantana, cleaning up the yards, the list goes on.
Then there's this sense of solitude, which I crave and find necessary, but which also keeps me from talking to like-minded people much. Suppose the one being who would really understand me is the person who is almost always with me in my dreams, there but just out of sight, standing to my left or right. Strange that. I've questioned a few people about that but haven't met anyone who has this *shadow* in their dream although I think it's a common experience.
And then, writing here I think, I should be working on the book. Did bugger all yesterday and nothing today either. Ack! I'm my mother's daughter in some ways. Dad complained she started many things and didn't finish them. I made certain I broke the mold by completing one book. Just because I love to read and started with an idea, thought I'd try to write another. Of course the motivating buzz has long since died with the hard grind of writing. The initial idea even changed when I found it unworkable, altho the second idea hasn't worked out too badly. I just finished reading the last of the Vampire series. I procrastinated for a couple of weeks. A friend had lent me the book. It was like having a yummy chocolate bar in the pantry. Once I bit I'd have to finish it. I didn't want the book to be over. Now it is. Sigh. Should re-read it as she makes the writing seem so effortless, so natural. Like JK Rowling. Now you know (is there a you out there?) know what kind of writing I'm attempting although it is for adults, not children. I'm not even jumping on the bandwagon as I've been attempting this sort of book for many years until I finally finished the first one (don't ask, it was a learning experience). It's easy to say next year, after I've finished work, I will be able to devote more time to it but good habits start now, don't they? I'm a master procrastinator (God curse Spider Solitaire!). And that's a funny thing for once I've actually opened the ywriter software (brilliant writing software and it's free) and write the first word, it isn't that bad.
Then I beat myself up for having an unfinished painting lounging about the lounge room. I know I go through phases. I'll want to paint again but am put off when it doesn't go well. That's a self-defeating exercise. Who wants to be perfect from the get go? (me).
Our entire lives are learning experiences. Learning not to self-destruct with self-loathing. Learning to allow for oneself as one would make allowances for others - which I usually do. With the animals (birds, horses, dogs, cats) I am very patient usually. With myself, not so much. And I've so much to be grateful for. The six o'clock news is a grim reminder of how easily one could lose everything or even never have had anything. I AM grateful. Truly I am. You can hear a *but* in there, can't you. Maybe just best to leave it at that. I am grateful.
Good things: I'm getting fitter and more supple. The yoga I'm doing is making a huge difference to this 53 year old body. Wouldn't have believed it possible, but it's true. Perhaps not changing my shape so much but, for instance, I can bend over and lay my hands flat on the floor. I can finally do the cobra pose without pain. Other things too. Just by being consistent and working within my boundaries, not making it hurt. By breathing. It's wonderful. There's hope. I'm still smoking, darn it. 7 months now after 2 years smoke free. What a silly thing to do but there you go. It's a learning process.
Drinking a glass of red wine and listening to the masked lapwing creaking in the darkness. Life is good. And I have that different kind of glow from having written, even tho' it's not The Book. There's something that stretches and breathes inside when I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard.