To Be or Not to Be Happy

R has gone into town to do a few errands.  He will also stop in and see a friend of his who returned from the coast recently.  R won't be home until well after lunchtime which means I have a few free hours.  Did the old roll the die (The Dice Man, Luke Rhinehart) to see what I'm to do. (As a side note, read reviews of the Dice Man.  Polarizing.  No one kind of likes it or kind of dislikes it.  They either love it or hate it.  No middle ground.)  Anyway, back to me -  I don't quite feel like doing yoga, although it's on the list, along with icky chores like grubbing lantana and digging out the ever numerous khaki weeds.  But I was lucky.  I rolled 'Blog'.

Don't often blog, usually because blogging, at least for me, requires solitude.  R, bless him, usually wanders in with a 'whatcha doin'?' at least once.  I don't write things that he can't read.    Nevertheless, the words don't flow if someone if peering over my shoulder.  Even if they aren't.  It's his presence that puts me off.   Not because it's him.  Anyone in this room, save for a cat or 3, would throttle the flow.  If there is a flow. 

Blogging or keeping a journal is something I should do on a daily basis.  For my own mental health.  "We all skate so close to that line and so far from satisfaction." (Joni Mitchell, Song for Sharon, Hejira).  I'm usually pretty adept at skating far away from that line and being satisfied.  I make a practice of gratitude and seeing beauty.  I look for it.  Living well means working at it.  Being happy doesn't just happen, one has to find the happiness in spite of appearances.  For the world is apparently a cruel and unhappy place.  Seriously cruel.  And senseless.  I think there's hope and then read of 148 students being massacred in Kenya because they weren't Moslem.  And the same mindset? 'God hates Gays' iced onto a cake, except the baker refused to do so.  Humans must have a stupid gene encoded into our DNA, one that compels us to knowingly self destruct, not only self-destruct but have enough despair and self-loathing to take everyone down with us.  In view of what scrolls across my retina every day, it is hard to remain hopeful.  And happy.  Is the way to preserve happiness possible only by ignorance?  Don't watch the news, don't read the news, love my husband, ride my horse, pet the cats, listen to the birds, cook fine meals, create drawings, read nice books.  Is that how one keeps hold of happiness? 

Believing in the crap of evil, does that create more?  I'm not of the mindset of revenge.  History proves revenge just perpetuates violence.  But I do get frustrated with us.  We seem to be an experiment gone wrong.  There are so many lovely normal people who just want to be here, want to love others and be loved in return.  Unfortunately, they get subsumed by the crazy people and become victims.  Like the refugees in Yemen, trapped between two murderous ideologies which will sacrifice them without a qualm. 

Yesterday, as Balthazar grazed on the sweet grass in Pedersens laneway (at ride finish, I dismount, loosen girth and walk him home, allowing him to graze on the way), I looked up.  A fig tree was brilliantly lit against the  sky.  The grey white bark and the dark green leaves were so sharply etched it looked like a  two dimensional Japanese woodcut.  Just an idle glance and breath taking beauty right there for the looking.  For free.  All around.  Peace and happiness.  One has to make a choice.  To brush away all the dross and believe in Beauty and Truth and Happiness.  Despite appearances to the contrary.

Tossed the die to see what I would do after yoga.  Choices were Balthazar (ride), vacuum, paint the office, paint the painting, blog or write to my aunt.  It's amazing how tossing the die (or dice if you use two) always seems to make the best possible choice.  I read The Dice Man when I was in my early twenties and have used the dice ever since.  It ties in with Jung's synchronicity, with metaphysics, quantum mechanics and the Powers That Be (for want of a better description of the indescribable).  Writing something, anything, pulls me into myself, in a way that is somehow related to meditation and the creative act.  I've discovered something else about myself too.  When I load my brain with 'stuff', it acts as insulation so that I can't get close to or hear or sense the intrinsic truth of my being.  That sounds like a high falutin' esoteric fuzzy wuzzy sentence but it's true.  Feeding my brain junk gives out junk in return.  For instance, the Olympics finished last weekend.  We watched every day, caught up on the highlights in the morning and saw some of the live action before going to bed at night.  Naturally advertisers regarded the Olympics as a golden opportunity.  The same commercials were repeated ad  nauseum, along with the same jingles, phrases and visuals.  My brain was saturated with it.  How is it possible to think an original thought when the thoughts have been put there for me?  It isn't.

Being 56 I am on the tail end of the digitial revolution.  I tried to Facebook again and could not (thankfully.  I listened to my inner agitation and got off).  I don't use a mobile phone, I don't Twitter, I'm not sure what a MP3 is and have no idea what FLAC means.  Even so, in so many ways I have given my thoughts, given my brain away to those who will gladly fill it up with their thoughts, opinions and ideas (none of which are original).  There is much good which comes from our digitial interconnectedness but I think we also need to be aware of the dangers.  Heard on the news that our swimmers would have done better at the Olympics if they hadn't been using their social media so much.  Where the Chinese were spending X amount of hours in the pool we were spending only Y because we were too busy chatting or tweeting. 

I've written before that I have become more sensitive rather than less with age.  I donated money to Animals Australia and yesterday, to my surprise, I got my member pack.  I couldn't read the documentation inside because I knew once I had those images in my head I would never be rid of them.  Watched Cops a few weeks ago and lay awake feeling dreadfully sorry for these people on crystal meth and heroin.  Entire families caught up in tragedies of alcohol, drugs and violence.   Last night watched Explore where Simon Reeve explores the Philippines, especially Manila where 60% of the population live below the poverty line.  So much so that people have lived for years in cemetary mausoleums.  20 million people in Manila and more coming in every day.  Breeding like rabbits because it's a poor third world CATHOLIC country.  So I lay awake, again.  I understand why people go and live on mountaintops.  The life of a recluse, sans all electronic media becomes more and more attractive. 

I understand now why when I start doing yoga there is this feeling of relief.  It's become a refuge.  While I do yoga I can only do yoga.  My mind is still busy but  if I really concentrate on my breath, I am so much more there.  And being there means I am closer to the Truth of the Eternal Now and less burdened with Stuff.