Post 49 of 92

Tried to be more open today.  What I read in Maria Popova's blog was an excerpt from Marion Milner's A Life of One's Own.  Milner spent 7 years experimenting with how to live.  It became a search for an authentic life.  We are so programmed to lead the lives required of us by others, including the ever pervasive media something Milner didn't have to contend with in the 1930's, that we lose sight of who and what we are.

What makes me happy? 

I'm not sure.  I think the first few steps out of the house in the afternoon or early morning when I leave the ceilings behind and come into (or out of) the great dome of sky.  Before I start to think, when the infinity of space first collapses the boundaries, I am free of self.  It might be for a nanosecond or long enough to take that obligatory deep clearing breath but it is there.  Then I fetter myself small with thoughts and half tos and plans and all the chains which take me away from the infinite now.

I think that's when I'm happiest.  Not attaining, not accumulating, not doing, just being. 

So yoga class.  Hard work.  She's a good instructor.  Knows her stuff.  At first her continuous commenting annoyed me.  Now I don't mind.  She is sharing what she knows and if she doesn't know it, what she should know she shares.  We're all on a journey of some sort or another.  Noticed today she conducts most of the class with her eyes closed.  I love that.  At home I do most of my practice with closed eyes.  Today she echoed what Milner wrote about, the opening up to the world, the being in the world, the happiness which comes from that. 

There are other kinds of happiness, certainly.  The giddy joy of falling in love, the quiet happiness of lives shared in complete trust, the happiness of danger averted (or sickness or loss, etc.).  There is also the happiness of creating.  Painting/drawing when the signposts are there and it is the bringing into being the complete pix within those hard fought parameters, being lost in that creation.  That is also joyful.

And there's the happiness of gratitude.  Gratitude which bubbles out from an excess of spirit.  Not the gratitude of rote.  I must be grateful for this and I must be grateful for that.  It's a gratitude of excessive life energy or love. 

My Reality, His Reality

What you put out is what you get back. I'm slow to learn this key and valuable lesson. Just wrote in Balthazar's training log how I instinctively slapped him when he started to mug with his muzzle on my breast. He pinned his ears and why wouldn't he? I'd just hit him. Not hard. I could've slapped the cats that hard and they'd think I was just showing them attention yet the intention behind it was not one of affection. So I received what I gave.

Richard can be of a dour disposition. In private smiles don't come readily to his face. Sometimes I feel like the court jester capering about in a vain attempt to make him laugh or at least crack a smile. This morning he came out while I was feeding the birds. 'Good morning,' with this cat's behind set to his mouth. I started to smile a greeting but then, being in a contrary mood, I returned his expression and his greeting. He grimaced. I grimaced. Then he came over and gave me a hug. I notice when I 'chase' him for a smile or a pleasing demeanour it seems to have the opposite affect but when he perceives my face as 'set' or grim he's after me, 'Are you all right? You look sad.' So who is to say?

I worry about Richard. Try not to, remind myself that in *this* moment, all is well yet the niggling voice of unease whispers in my ear. As I said, in frustration, when Helen was here, I believe him to be mildly depressed. Depression would account for or be a symptom of the underlying worrying he grapples with most of the time. It would account for his negative attitude. If I say the sun is shining, he says it's too hot. If I say we're going to get some welcome rain, he hopes we don't get floods. If I point out the beauty of a flowering tree, he reminds me that it needs pruning. Perhaps it's only the difference between the way men and women perceive the world. Perhaps I am nit picking. But I can say that I perceive *him* as not being happy, not even content. Sometimes, he is reminded of how fortunate we are to live how and where we do when he sees how most of the world struggles for food, freedom, shelter, the basic human necessities, but those times are rare.

I lost patience with him the other day. He'd gone to get his knees seen to by the doctor who sent him for xrays which showed nothing wrong. His knees don't hurt, they get tired. I believe what he feels is true. I'm not denying that. And I am very proud of him for walking as much as he does. But otherwise, like most men, he does little to preserve his own health. Sometimes I even think he has given up and decided he is an old man. He's only 65. When I see him shuffling his feet, bowed forward like an elderly decrepit I am overcome with sadness imbued with annoyance. When we walk our beautiful walk down a spectacular dirt road surrounded by hills and wildlife, Richard is walking while staring at the ground in front of his feet. We walk separately. I am *there* enjoying the scenery, the feel of the wind on my face, looking for what creatures may be visible that day and Richard is a million miles away thinking/worrying. I used to remind him where we were and didn't he want to look but saying anything just made him cranky and I quit. I quit looking at him too for seeing him staring at the ground as he walked ruined my walk. I was resenting him rather than enjoying what I was doing.

It is useless to try and get someone to live their lives as you see fit. It only makes for friction when they don't comply. I *know* that. I do. One can only set an example by the way one lives ones life and if it appeals to others then great, if not, fine. That is a hard thing to do when married and your life is tied in with another. I get mad when I see him give up. I see the difference when he's inspired. He comes alive. His being is imbued with energy and purpose. But I cannot find him his joy. He has to. When we walk I get ahead of him and then wait for him to catch up, then walk on again. Unfortunately, I cannot amble. I need to stride out. A failing on my part but when I have tried to walk with him our walk deteriorates to a saunter. A few weeks ago, however, Richard was animated about something we were talking about. I can't remember what it was but I had to stretch out to keep up with him. He was alert, energetic, ALIVE. How can I help him to feel alive all the time? How can I help him remove this cheesecloth curtain he has placed between himself and life?

When I lost patience with him, after his visit to the doctor, I told him what I thought, that he must take responsibility for his health, that a doctor isn't going to give him a pill to fix his knees. I know how crooked Richard is from years of compensating for a sore back (which troubles far less than it used to). I see the bottom of his shoes which are worn very differently. I see his left knee larger than his right because that's the knee he always uses when kneeling. I see the natural crookedness and one-sidedness of anyone multiplied and magnified in him. Of course, I see yoga as an answer to help him. I want to share the positive difference it has made to me with him. More, I want the mental aspect in learning how to meditate, the relaxation, the mindfulness, to be a part of his life too. Naturally, I don't have those things all the time. It's a process but I am aware of them and the benefits are more obvious in my life than they used to be. Most of all, however, I want him to find his joy. I guess the only answer is to love him. Just love him, no matter what. And if he chooses to believe the self-made myth that he is old and shuffling and bent over with care, then I must love that too.

What if instead of trying to impose rules and regulations on people to make for a better more peaceful world they were taught how to be happy.  I know some of my present peacefulness comes with age. With age comes the ability to be happy with what I am, where I am, what I've got right now.  Perhaps this is something that can't be taught but can only be gained by experience.  I just know that without being wildly happy with that feverishness which is half fueled by hormones, I am quietly peacefully serenely happy.  That could change tomorrow with the vagaries of fate - some horrible accident or disease or catastrophe and the proof of the depth of peace would come with my ability to cope with such a thing.  Still perhaps it is something that can be acquired.

Some of this new found happiness can be attributed to where I live (and of course to the fact that I have food, shelter, a companion, pets, etc.).  I was walking the dogs the other day and just marveling at the complexity and beauty of the world I live in.  Would I get that same 'oceanic feeling' that Jung writes of if I lived in the city or the suburbs?  I don't know.  One tree, one blade of grass, a patch of sky, all of it can instill that joy if it is seen for what it is; a true miracle.

I keep returning to this theme and I imagine anyone reading this would get a little bored (unless they were experiencing the same thing and comparing my poor words with the richness of their experience).  Yet it is important.  We take this earth we live on for granted.  We aspire for things (me included) which matter not one whit.  We project our energy and ourselves out there when the richness and the mystery is within.   Right here right now all the time forever.  It is our present experience in this moment.  The very act of breathing,  the fullness of our senses, of our thought.  The difference between life and death.  Life is majesty and magnificence.  Death is null and void. 

Now, for something different.  Was thinking about my poor abandoned book last night.  It's unfinished, it's not very good but worth trying to resurrect at least to finish it.  Saved it to this extension drive from the old computer and now I can't access it.  The thing with changing computers is you can save data but you can't save software.  Makes no sense to me.  So the book is written on yWriter, which is a great little program except I can't use it.  Wonder if I could download the yWriter software onto the extension drive and then get them to meld.

But then why not start another book?  Have just finished reading Philip Pullman's Dark Matter trilogy.  What an amazing writer.  Perhaps he's considered light writing, like Rimsky Korsakov compared to Mahler but I found his writing extraordinary.  The characters are alive.  They are human and foible but glow with the humanity of their being, the essential goodness which glows as an inner spark in each of us.  Some writers are uncomfortable to read.  I can see them toiling behind the scenes, grinding out plot, character, scenes to some recipe they've picked up somewhere which they take for gospel rather than writing from their hearts.  When I get the sense of that writer behind the curtain, like Oz in the Wizard of Oz, I can't read it.  It's just too cumbersome.  I feel I have to carry the weight of my failed suspension of belief.  Formula writing, that's what it is.  Others, like J.K. Rawling and Pullman and the best of Holly Lisle or what was her name, Sara Douglass, they get it right sometimes.  Found these writers, read a book each and was delighted.  Found other books by them and was disappointed.  Anyway, so I was thinking about Pullman's books.  There are other books, many books written into the trilogy.  Whole worlds to explore from a few casual observations.  But that is his territory and his treasure.  Still, it started me thinking about another book. 

I've just found my book, in MS Word format, on the extension drive.  I can't see any way of turning it back into yWriter format.  It seems I can't download yWriter onto the extension drive.  Perhaps I can download it onto the hard drive and then transfer each chapter onto it.  Guess I'll give it a go.

In the meantime the drawing is nearing completion.  There is a show open to local artists in November.  I'm going to get the information and enter at least one, perhaps two drawings to see if they'll be accepted.