I dunno. I think everyone must be far more mature than I am.
It's a small thing but so tellingly significant as to the level of my maturity. I have felt slighted and ignored by someone I thought of as a friend. It seems any communication centers on them and their activities with no reference to what has gone on in my life. I have always known this person as being self-absorbed. It is not a surprise so why suddenly is it an issue? Because I was reliably there for them during a prolonged personal crisis. And, in my small minded way, I felt they owed me.
I think of interactions between people as a back and forth kind of affair. You say something, I say something. You share something, I comment or listen and then I share something. Not rigidly, one two one two but as a general *feeling*. But with this person it has all gone one way for quite a while now. Emails weren't answered and if they were they were answered days or weeks later and not answered with any reference to what I said but only to share some new tidbit in their life.
So this person sent another email with photos of what they were doing. No text. No reference to the fact that I lost and grieved for a budgie I'd had for 4 years or that I had a horse that had a serious eye injury. And I got petty. Thought, right, I won't answer for, let me see, three days and then I'll only reply in the subject line. Petty petty petty. I was doing yoga and my mind was buzzing with my 'retaliation' for their not paying proper attention to me.
Yoga is, among many things,a mirror. When it is clear I am doing yoga. When it is not, I'm only going through the motions. When I only go through the motions I fall over, I forget the sequences, I forget to breathe. Because I do yoga I realized that the only thing my retaliation was accomplishing was the total monopoly of my thoughts about the behaviour of someone else. I was the only one affected. I was the only one paying. I was the only one who cared. And, by being small minded, my thoughts were small. Small but heavy. I could feel my spirit clogged with this chaff of egomania.
So, right in the middle of yoga, I got up and replied to the email. Once I did that I felt fine - and free.
Do other people go through this? I remember seeing my wise grandfather act like a spoiled child with his wife. He made her cry in front of me and I realized then that I didn't actually know any adults. My parents were divorcing and it wasn't pretty. Teachers lost their temper, tv preachers had mistresses, presidents lied, not one of the grown ups behaved like a grown up all of the time.
Is that what we're actually here for? Not to rediscover our identity as gods. No, our goal is far less grand. We're here to learn how to be mature adults. To be truthful, noble, empathetic, compassionate, wise and forgiving. And if that's the goal, I've such a long long way to go.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Cat Dancing
Two of our three cats dance. Nairobi, tailless and with only three legs, does not. I've tried to explain to her that it doesn't matter that she has only three legs and no tail, she can still dance but she doesn't feel comfortable and begs off.
Matisse, neurotic, self-absorbed with OCD tendencies, is the best dancer. He lets me lead, relaxes into my arms and just trusts that I won't step on his paws or make him look bad. Perhaps he knows that as his hind paws are against my ribs it is impossible for me to step on them. Perhaps he just likes the closeness or perhaps dancing is a form of cat meditation. When he's dancing he can just BE in the here and now and doesn't have to keep checking on our whereabouts or that the rooms are as he left them, or that the other cats aren't enacting plots against him. Besides his dancing prowess, his size and solidity make for a satisfying dancing partner. Mataisse has Substance at the same time as he is fluid and graceful in my arms. His purring is a pleasant counterpoint to the music.
Our dances aren't planned. Something comes on the radio and I need to dance. Often it's just me leaping and shaking and twirling about like a mad thing. At 57 perhaps I should be past the need to dance. Certainly if anyone saw me I would be mortified but the cats don't mind and the house on 10 acres is far enough from neighbours to keep the sound of reverberating floor boards local. A dance that requires partnering is usually a song from the Age of Crooners; a Bing an Astaire a Martin or a Cole communicate directly to me feet. If a song comes on and I'm alone in the house I find Matisse, swing him into my arms, front paws on either side of my neck, and away we go. He especially likes twirls. Twirl one way and his head pushes into my neck, twirl the other and he looks with amazement at the swirling walls.
It is always polite, after the dance, to thank the cat and smooth his fur which can get a little ruffled and moist from gripping fingers and sweaty palms. Always polite too not to dance too long. Sometimes another cat wants a go, sometimes I suspect they can get a little dizzy (although Matisse loves being spun on a lazy susan chair). Of course there are those times when they just aren't in the mood. Even Matisse has days where dancing is just not on. I pick him up and he doesn't relax. He doesn't fight. He is never rude or impolite, he just makes himself stiff and awkward. It is best then to immediately place him back where he was, thank him and move on. That is if I want a dancing partner another day. The beauty of the dance cannot be forced.
Whether Natalia, our newest addition, becomes a dancer remains to be seen. We have danced but I keep the partnering very short and sweet. Cat dancing is something which takes time to do well. It is alien to a cat to be spun about 5 feet above ground. It takes trust and a willingness to feel clunky and awkward while the steps are learned. Natalia however purrs with gusto and although she tries to lead and hasn't mastered the movement in stillness or the stillness in movement I suspect she will be a terrific cat dancer.
Matisse, neurotic, self-absorbed with OCD tendencies, is the best dancer. He lets me lead, relaxes into my arms and just trusts that I won't step on his paws or make him look bad. Perhaps he knows that as his hind paws are against my ribs it is impossible for me to step on them. Perhaps he just likes the closeness or perhaps dancing is a form of cat meditation. When he's dancing he can just BE in the here and now and doesn't have to keep checking on our whereabouts or that the rooms are as he left them, or that the other cats aren't enacting plots against him. Besides his dancing prowess, his size and solidity make for a satisfying dancing partner. Mataisse has Substance at the same time as he is fluid and graceful in my arms. His purring is a pleasant counterpoint to the music.
Our dances aren't planned. Something comes on the radio and I need to dance. Often it's just me leaping and shaking and twirling about like a mad thing. At 57 perhaps I should be past the need to dance. Certainly if anyone saw me I would be mortified but the cats don't mind and the house on 10 acres is far enough from neighbours to keep the sound of reverberating floor boards local. A dance that requires partnering is usually a song from the Age of Crooners; a Bing an Astaire a Martin or a Cole communicate directly to me feet. If a song comes on and I'm alone in the house I find Matisse, swing him into my arms, front paws on either side of my neck, and away we go. He especially likes twirls. Twirl one way and his head pushes into my neck, twirl the other and he looks with amazement at the swirling walls.
It is always polite, after the dance, to thank the cat and smooth his fur which can get a little ruffled and moist from gripping fingers and sweaty palms. Always polite too not to dance too long. Sometimes another cat wants a go, sometimes I suspect they can get a little dizzy (although Matisse loves being spun on a lazy susan chair). Of course there are those times when they just aren't in the mood. Even Matisse has days where dancing is just not on. I pick him up and he doesn't relax. He doesn't fight. He is never rude or impolite, he just makes himself stiff and awkward. It is best then to immediately place him back where he was, thank him and move on. That is if I want a dancing partner another day. The beauty of the dance cannot be forced.
Whether Natalia, our newest addition, becomes a dancer remains to be seen. We have danced but I keep the partnering very short and sweet. Cat dancing is something which takes time to do well. It is alien to a cat to be spun about 5 feet above ground. It takes trust and a willingness to feel clunky and awkward while the steps are learned. Natalia however purrs with gusto and although she tries to lead and hasn't mastered the movement in stillness or the stillness in movement I suspect she will be a terrific cat dancer.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Incredible Blightness of Being
Have you ever felt *heavy*? I feel heavy when I've not aligned myself with what is best in me. Typically, because I tend to overeat, it is because I overeat. But it's not only the physical manifestation of overeating, it's a psychic heaviness. Psychic Sludge is as heavy if not heavier than the extra slice of chocolate cake. It is a weighing down of one's spirit.
It is this realization that made me think of how losing bad habits, like smoking, is not so much a denial of pleasure, but a lightening of the load. After all one wouldn't keep wearing scarves and mittens in a sauna. What is not needed is left behind.
I do believe we are a coherent collection of energy. Not random energy in the universe, but an intellgent collection of cooperative energy which has come together to experience this apparent now-ness of present reality. Anyway, without getting too lost in the wherefores and wherewhy's, this coherent thinking collection of energy seems to be experiencing reality as well as seeking its source. And that source is pure, bereft of extraneous *stuff* which weighs it down.
Smoking is one. Why add something so obviously banal and clunky to this pure and perfect spirit. Because we're learning, me thinks. Also because pure spirit is a bit hard to take if not prepared. And Western civilization is anything but prepared. We are the masters of distraction. I am the master of distraction, dissembling, dumbing down. So much easier than facing, no not facing, being, what is within me to be.
Why am I so scared. Why is it so hard to be who we really are? If I knew the answer to that, I could help millions of people. Including myself.
But it is easier to focus on the spare tyre I've collected since qutting smoking 7 months ago. One has to start somewhere after all. It is weighing me down - and I'm not talking in the physical sense. It is a blight on my spirit because I continue to live with this *thing* which has Nothing to do with who I am. It is an accoutrement, an addition, a consciously chosen extra to this life I lead. Doesn't make sense, does it? Why wear those gloves in a hot room? Why wrap a scarp around one's neck when it is already 80 degrees?
There must be hardwired into us this need to do the wrong thing. Is it so that when we overcome it and are true to ourselves the elation is like an intellectual orgasm? For it is a conscious thing.
For instance, I was supposed to go to yoga tonight. I always walk the dogs before I go. I start at 3pm so that I am home and ready to pop into the shower by 4:10pm. If Richard comes with me we need to start 15 minutes earlier. At 3pm Richard decided he'd come for the walk. I hadn't started earlier as I didn't expect him to come. I was peeved. Either the walk would have to be cut short or I wouldn't make it home in time to shower for yoga. But as I walked along, I decided to just let it go? How important was it, after all? So I missed a yoga class. I *made the decision* to not be annoyed.
And what a revelation that was! Instead of being filled with resentment and ruining the walk and the moment, that continuous moment of now, I decided just to let it go. And I had a really nice walk, a really nice evening and a little glow of satisfation at a teeny tiny life lesson successfully implemented.
It is this realization that made me think of how losing bad habits, like smoking, is not so much a denial of pleasure, but a lightening of the load. After all one wouldn't keep wearing scarves and mittens in a sauna. What is not needed is left behind.
I do believe we are a coherent collection of energy. Not random energy in the universe, but an intellgent collection of cooperative energy which has come together to experience this apparent now-ness of present reality. Anyway, without getting too lost in the wherefores and wherewhy's, this coherent thinking collection of energy seems to be experiencing reality as well as seeking its source. And that source is pure, bereft of extraneous *stuff* which weighs it down.
Smoking is one. Why add something so obviously banal and clunky to this pure and perfect spirit. Because we're learning, me thinks. Also because pure spirit is a bit hard to take if not prepared. And Western civilization is anything but prepared. We are the masters of distraction. I am the master of distraction, dissembling, dumbing down. So much easier than facing, no not facing, being, what is within me to be.
Why am I so scared. Why is it so hard to be who we really are? If I knew the answer to that, I could help millions of people. Including myself.
But it is easier to focus on the spare tyre I've collected since qutting smoking 7 months ago. One has to start somewhere after all. It is weighing me down - and I'm not talking in the physical sense. It is a blight on my spirit because I continue to live with this *thing* which has Nothing to do with who I am. It is an accoutrement, an addition, a consciously chosen extra to this life I lead. Doesn't make sense, does it? Why wear those gloves in a hot room? Why wrap a scarp around one's neck when it is already 80 degrees?
There must be hardwired into us this need to do the wrong thing. Is it so that when we overcome it and are true to ourselves the elation is like an intellectual orgasm? For it is a conscious thing.
For instance, I was supposed to go to yoga tonight. I always walk the dogs before I go. I start at 3pm so that I am home and ready to pop into the shower by 4:10pm. If Richard comes with me we need to start 15 minutes earlier. At 3pm Richard decided he'd come for the walk. I hadn't started earlier as I didn't expect him to come. I was peeved. Either the walk would have to be cut short or I wouldn't make it home in time to shower for yoga. But as I walked along, I decided to just let it go? How important was it, after all? So I missed a yoga class. I *made the decision* to not be annoyed.
And what a revelation that was! Instead of being filled with resentment and ruining the walk and the moment, that continuous moment of now, I decided just to let it go. And I had a really nice walk, a really nice evening and a little glow of satisfation at a teeny tiny life lesson successfully implemented.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Karma and this Gossip Girl
Karma can deliver swift and merciless punishment. Not subtle either. KAPOW! Pay ATTENTION! What was I thinking just before I slipped in the spilled water Richard asked me to clean up which I didn't because I thought by the time he got home it would have dried anyway and while I was carrying the saucepan full of cat faeces and urine soaked litter? I was thinking about a vet nurse I knew and what I said about her to someone the other day. I said, nice girl but she's lazy.
Yup, I gossiped and said some not very nice things about not just her but some other people I know. Even as the words were leaving my mouth I was sorry. Not sorry enough I guess for the fact that I was reliving those words was enough to send me down on my butt and elbow in a spreading carpet of dirty cat litter. So I will do better. Instead of indulging in that fleeting dubious pleasure of dishing dirt I will listen to that little voice and keep my mouth shut.
As a gossip I am probably at the leaner end of the scale. I've often tried to change the subject or defuse it when someone else gossips. That doesn't excuse me when I do. The challenge now is there is so much delicious gossip going on right now. Clear sinners and those sinned against. It is easy to damn them. The temptation is enormous. It is easy to forget they are just like me. Those sayings about stoned glass houses and those among us who has not sinned are not words created in a vacuum. Who am I to tell tales when my life has not been without evil? Oh yes, I have been evil. Evil, in my opinion, is the deliberate and conscious harm to another living being. Every time I jerk on Radar's collar when he pulls. Every time I say something unkind to Richard. Every time I gossip - gossip is harming at one remove - I am evil. It isn't nice. I don't like it. I don't like it about myself. I would rather admire myself, enjoy my company, think I'm an okay kind of guy (or girl). So Karma, swift and merciless, bring it on!
Yup, I gossiped and said some not very nice things about not just her but some other people I know. Even as the words were leaving my mouth I was sorry. Not sorry enough I guess for the fact that I was reliving those words was enough to send me down on my butt and elbow in a spreading carpet of dirty cat litter. So I will do better. Instead of indulging in that fleeting dubious pleasure of dishing dirt I will listen to that little voice and keep my mouth shut.
As a gossip I am probably at the leaner end of the scale. I've often tried to change the subject or defuse it when someone else gossips. That doesn't excuse me when I do. The challenge now is there is so much delicious gossip going on right now. Clear sinners and those sinned against. It is easy to damn them. The temptation is enormous. It is easy to forget they are just like me. Those sayings about stoned glass houses and those among us who has not sinned are not words created in a vacuum. Who am I to tell tales when my life has not been without evil? Oh yes, I have been evil. Evil, in my opinion, is the deliberate and conscious harm to another living being. Every time I jerk on Radar's collar when he pulls. Every time I say something unkind to Richard. Every time I gossip - gossip is harming at one remove - I am evil. It isn't nice. I don't like it. I don't like it about myself. I would rather admire myself, enjoy my company, think I'm an okay kind of guy (or girl). So Karma, swift and merciless, bring it on!
Sunday, February 3, 2013
A Little Birdie Doppelganger
The Story of Cornelius' disappearance had a new chapter added yesterday. One of the vets I used to work with came to visit. Got him to go with me while I medicated Dakota's eye. Heard what I thought was a sparrow chirping over the hill down by the pig pens. Didn't think too much about it although I commented to Jason that it was unusual to have sparrows here. Later, while we were sitting on the deck heard the chirping again and knew it was a budgie. In the poinciana tree above the aviaries was a little yellow and green budgie. Cornelius returned! What a miracle, after a week and he was still alive. And weak. Got a net and caught him. He flew to the ground between the lorikeet and galah aviaries, got spooked and flew to the top of the lorikeets. My heart was in my mouth. I'd only get one chance. If I missed he'd be wise to what I was trying to do. I took a deep prayer-filled breath and swung the net. And got him! Jason raced over with the tablecloth he'd taken from Mallory's cage and wrapped the bird, still in the net, up. I took the bird, clothand net and bundled the whole thing onto the verandah. When I turned him loose he looked odd. Behaved oddly too. Even if he was a bit disoriented he'd soon figure out where he was but this bird was bumping his head against the ceiling. His tail feathers were shorter and he wasn't as yellow on his breast as Cornielius. Soon it became obvious he was not Cornelius. A male bird, yes. A yellow bird with black markings and an olive breast, yes, but not Cornie.
Isn't that weird? Lose a bird, gain a bird. Our small house in the middle of nowhere (difficult to type, Natalia is smooching) and he comes here when we're in a position to hear him? Life is odd. Have locked him in Tony's night cage to ensure he gets enough to eat (and recognizes coop cups as holding food). Will put a found ad in the Star. Maybe Cornelius turned up at someone else's house and is being cared for. That a yellow budgie survived predation for a week is a miracle. I've named him Lazarus.
Friday, February 1, 2013
No Cornelius but Facebook Aplenty
No sign of Cornelius. In the predawn heard mickey birds harrassing something. Was it Cornelius? Not only is he at the mercy of the elements and predators, he would be attacked just because he looks different, small and bright yellow. It sounds cruel but I hope he is already dead. Better a quick death than a lingering one.
Over 180mm of rain in 24 hours - and we got less rain than most people. Some gauges registered 300 to 500 mm. Had a phone call from neighbours to see how much rain we had. There's always a friendly competition to see who had the most rain. They were 50mm short. The neighbour suggested I check out Facebook to see local flood photos.
Facebook. The principle is great, a way to stay in touch with friends, to see what they are doing and keep them up to date with yours. So why do I loathe it so much? It says some not very complimentary things about me that I dislike it so. I want to like it. I want to snuggle comfortably into the digital bosom. It seems so normal for everyone else. They read and post and stay in touch, these lovely normal people. I reactivate my account and dive in like an osprey diving for fish. Get in and get out. That's my motto. Why? It's the pull of it. Facebook is a sucking vortex of need. The more friends you have the more obligated you are to keep up and all that keeping up entails.
But the keeping up is by necessity a superficial exercise. When I dove in the first thing to meet my eye, actually the first two things were photos of food. It's not like every interaction with a friend has to be about the meaning of life but food photos? Yet having seen them one should comment on how delicious they look, shouldn't one? I moved on.
The second photo was of a naked man being passed overhead overhand in a nosh pit full of women. He was face down. The expressions on the faces of the women ranged from disgust to gaped mouth joy. I moved on.
Don't know if it's still there but there used to be a question on my Facebook homepage. 'What are you doing right now?" Well, what do you think I'm doing? I'm on Facebook, you ninny! The point being you are supposed to share with all your friends what you've been up to. Never felt right about that. It's like saying 'Look at me! Validate me! I NEED your attention to know that I'm worthy.' Also, unless I'm riding a stroppy horse or trying to translate a brilliant idea onto canvas or having a fight with Richard or losing a little yellow bird to a storm (and isn't that a bid for sympathy? sympathy that is compelled by FB etiquette between me and all my friends?) what I'm doing 'right now' isn't newsworthy. As much as I like my friends, much of what they put on FB is boring. I'm not good at feigning excitement where I feel none. Virtual head patting - and aren't you a bright little boy/girl?
If writing the above makes me a bitch, perhaps I am. FB has it's uses. If we ever need a revolution I'll be on it. Ditto news during natural disasters. Otherwise I move on.
Over 180mm of rain in 24 hours - and we got less rain than most people. Some gauges registered 300 to 500 mm. Had a phone call from neighbours to see how much rain we had. There's always a friendly competition to see who had the most rain. They were 50mm short. The neighbour suggested I check out Facebook to see local flood photos.
Facebook. The principle is great, a way to stay in touch with friends, to see what they are doing and keep them up to date with yours. So why do I loathe it so much? It says some not very complimentary things about me that I dislike it so. I want to like it. I want to snuggle comfortably into the digital bosom. It seems so normal for everyone else. They read and post and stay in touch, these lovely normal people. I reactivate my account and dive in like an osprey diving for fish. Get in and get out. That's my motto. Why? It's the pull of it. Facebook is a sucking vortex of need. The more friends you have the more obligated you are to keep up and all that keeping up entails.
But the keeping up is by necessity a superficial exercise. When I dove in the first thing to meet my eye, actually the first two things were photos of food. It's not like every interaction with a friend has to be about the meaning of life but food photos? Yet having seen them one should comment on how delicious they look, shouldn't one? I moved on.
The second photo was of a naked man being passed overhead overhand in a nosh pit full of women. He was face down. The expressions on the faces of the women ranged from disgust to gaped mouth joy. I moved on.
Don't know if it's still there but there used to be a question on my Facebook homepage. 'What are you doing right now?" Well, what do you think I'm doing? I'm on Facebook, you ninny! The point being you are supposed to share with all your friends what you've been up to. Never felt right about that. It's like saying 'Look at me! Validate me! I NEED your attention to know that I'm worthy.' Also, unless I'm riding a stroppy horse or trying to translate a brilliant idea onto canvas or having a fight with Richard or losing a little yellow bird to a storm (and isn't that a bid for sympathy? sympathy that is compelled by FB etiquette between me and all my friends?) what I'm doing 'right now' isn't newsworthy. As much as I like my friends, much of what they put on FB is boring. I'm not good at feigning excitement where I feel none. Virtual head patting - and aren't you a bright little boy/girl?
If writing the above makes me a bitch, perhaps I am. FB has it's uses. If we ever need a revolution I'll be on it. Ditto news during natural disasters. Otherwise I move on.
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