(Written November 12).  Having trouble finding uninterrupted time to write - to follow a thought more deeply than just thinking it.

For days now I've wanted to investigate why I feel something may be lost by mindfulness.  If I'm always 'in the moment' I'm not thinking and if I'm not thinking I am not - or so it seems.  Isn't our whole reason for living to make use of this gigantic grey muscle, the brain?  So why then does it exhaust me with its constant chatter?

I've certainly become more aware of it and the mindlessness and fixations of its mindlessness.  The fires for instance.  Frequently I catch myself having reasoned arguments with the proponents of burning.  In doing this I'm not coming up with new insights, it's more an ego thing where I try and convince them of the uselessness and harm bush burning does.  So I stop and a few minutes later find myself doing the same thing again.

I've been quite surprised. 

This awareness, this mind observing the mind, is a new thing for me.  A bit mortifying but awareness is the first step to change.  When I become aware of being somewhere other than here and  now I try and focus on body and breath.  That focus lasts about a second, maybe two then I'm off again.  But it's a start.

Have also started doing yoga without the bird CDs.  Have several recordings of birds; in Turkey, India, Far North Queensland, Tibet, etc.  Always listened to them while doing my hour of yoga.  Now I do it in silence.

I've decided to try not to be distracted from the here and now.  Already understand that the rest of my life will be needed to even begin to get a handle on this.  Yoga is better although my mind still wanders - of course! - deeper, more correct, more calming, with less impatience to get this over with to move on to the next thing.

There's always neough time for everything in the here and now.

Right Now I'm Almost Mindful

"Right Now" - I've just finished yoga and meditation (if you can call that mishmash of htoughts and stillness meditating) and have made the dice list.  This - the blog - was number 4.  So for 10 minutes I will write and see if anything of note emerges. 

We went to an auction today.  I bought 6 wood frames with mats (and one plastic frame) for $30.  Not bad.  I have many frames now so no excuse not to draw or paint.  Just got another pen - what a difference a nice pen makes.  How must it have been for quills and ink - or cuniform in clay tablets.  Rather difficult to get a stream of consciousness going.  Maybe that was a good thing.  Now we, I, write any old thing without thinking it through and think it gold.

Think I'll write about speed.  The speed and sloppiness of thinking, of writing, of eating, of most everything.  There's a certain pride I take in doing everything quickly.  I walk quickly.  I think I probably talk quickly, when I do a job I do it quickly - but quickness kills mindfulness.  In the rush to move from this thing to the next thing I am not present for either.  (I'm finding it a real effort to slow my handwriting down but in doing so it is more legible and I make fewer mistakes).  Anyway, this rushing from one thing to another colours my entire life or perhaps I should say obscures it.  Without mindfulness, being fully present in the moment, I don't see it except through the veil of the next imagined (because I am already placing myself in that future) moment superimposed over the top.

It's quite clear when I stop - stopping and breathing being the key words here - to think about it.  Logically or intellectually 'getting' something doesn't make it true however.  And then there are distractions.  I feel the need of R, who just came in looking for me, wanting me to distract him from the enormity, infinity and finality of the present. 

Got the heater going in here. Love old Queenslanders but they are not built for cold weather. Too many gaps, no insulation and, in this house, no curtains. Three degrees this morning. Bitter. Fingers just starting to thaw.

Couldn't sleep last night. Fell into bed exhausted at 8:30. Nights of insominia outnumber good nights especially since quitting smokes. Woke up at 1am. Too cold to get up and read a book so tossed and turned until 4, the last time I looked at the clock before 6. Then, when the most delicious sleep is possible, it is time to get up and feed everyone. I can hear Mallory playing with his bell in the next room. Tachimedes begins to do his vocal warm up exercises. Dimitri shuffles from one end of the verandah to the other and the outside galahs have quiet conversations with the wild ones. So I can't lay there and pretend I don't know everyone is hungry and waiting for breakfast, that the lorikeets will appreciate the warm nectar mix on a cold morning. That the wild galahs, perched on the overhead wires, don't really begin their day until they've had their morning wake up muffin at Glen Ellen.

One excellent result of the insomnia was the flash of a drawing I could try. Spent much of yesterday in abortive attempts to come up with an idea for the next work. Sketches on typing paper which came to nothing and met their fate in the compost bin. Funny how the idea came. I was in that hypnagogic state between sleeping and waking (have you ever tried to follow your thought processes back when in that realm? For me, impossible, as though an invisible curtain is drawn between the logical mind of sun and the fog-wreathed world of imagination, where I suspect the mind roams truly free, unfettered by physical rules and laws and regulations). Anyway, this image came to mind fully formed with such a jolt it snapped me out of that dreamy state. A good thing too for I didn't want to doze off and forget it or to remember later that I thought of *something* and not be able to remember what it was I conjured up.

Almost a week without a cigarette. No more morning coughing fits. No stink of cigarettes on me or in me, not in the house, in the furnishings, clothes or cats (yes, they stunk too - not to mention the years of second hand smoke - poor things, animal cruelty really). Trying very hard not to overeat. Not a problem during the day, have even reduced portion size, but at night, much more difficult. Eating fruit and munching pistachios, almonds and peanuts in shell.

Beating myself up for doing this, not doing that, mind like a hamster wheel spinning off dirty streamers of negativity. Walking the dogs yesterday I said to myself just Stop It! Stop It! Big sigh of relief. God, we're hard on ourselves. I'm hard on myself. I know I'm not perfect, far from it. I don't use my time well. I'm lazy and selfish and vain and all thos other labels I slap so freely onto my wrinkled forehead but I'm also quite okay. The animals are looked after and loved, my husband is looked after and loved, the house ditto, I turn out quite alot of art work, I still have an open mind and want to learn how to be with Balthazar in a way which is easy and comfortable for both of us. I give thanks daily for the good things in my life. I'm not sure I deserve them but I do appreciate them. I try and not think bad thoughts about people or things. I try and be mindful. I try and watch my tongue so that I don't score cheap shots by being 'right'. I generally try and be a better person than I was the day before.

I wouldn't let anyone else speak to me as I speak to myself. That book I never read, 'How to be Your Own Best Friend' is aptly titled. We aren't very good at it.

Haven't written about Dimitry in a very long time. Something has changed in that little feathered head. He (or I suspect She) is still timid and wary and easily frightened but she is also bolder, calmer and braver than before. I've put a cocky cage on the floor and feed her seed inside it. It was there for a month or so than I took it out to keep Marvin in while Terry lived in Marvin's aviary. When I put it back Dimitri was less cautious about me being nearby. Previously she'd leave the cage when I was 4 or 5 feet away. Now I am close enough to close the door if I wish. I leave when she goes inside to eat. If I move and she comes out I tell her to go back in and then leave when she does so. Want to gradually accustom her to having the door closed and then opened again while she's inside but if need be I can just close the door and move her - which is the whole idea. I want to get her off the verandah and into an aviary.

So she was a bit more confident when the cocky cage was returned to the verandah. The confidence also shows in the way she takes food from my fingers. She used to snatch and run even if the running was only two or three feet away. Now she takes the treat gently and slowly. I sit on the floor and feed her millet. After the first couple of times she hardly moves away at all but stands just in front while she eats. Get the feeling that one day she'll lower her head for a scratch. That would be an achievement, a break out the champagne moment.

I reread this post and think it's not written well enough for anyone else to read. I mean look at that first sentence or two. How boring. Why would anyone continue reading. Maybe I should delete them and go straight to what meat there is but then I realize, no this post is for me. When I wrote in journals I didn't write for an audience, I wrote for me. I wrote because I had to and it didn't matter whether it was worthy of some invisible reader. The reader was me. Writing a journal on a blog changes things, like a physicist changes the results of his experiments by observing them. Or, perhaps, reality tv shows have nothing to do with reality because the participants are always aware at some level they are being filmed. So, in an endeavour to be true to myself I'll leave the boring bits.

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.

Going with the flow.  That's the theme for today.  Being fearless.  While talking to C last night I let slip that I blogged.  We'd been talking about keeping a journal after her trip to Africa.  C wanted the blog address and suddenly I was pacing the kitchen, feeling sweat on my palms.  Honoured but fearful too.  That fear (oh bloody naval watching!) of not being good enough, entertaining enough.  Well, Jeez!  It doesn't matter.  No one holds a gun to anyone's head to force them to read a blog or look at an artwork.  It's the doing of it that counts.  I've been consciously trying to go with the flow, trying to be mindful, to stay in the moment ... to be Open to Life rather than closing down.  Yoga's to blame for that too.  It makes me aware of when I'm holding my breath or breathing shallowly, of when I'm tightening my stomach - as though expecting a gut punch.  No way to live.   It's  terribly sad that I, who have no reason to fear, lives in fear. 

I'd forgotten to record a dream subsequent to the loss of control dream.  Had it the very next night in fact.  It was of a shiny stainless steel structure, huge and irregularly shaped, being built from the ground up.  It was only waist high but it was there, it was mine.  So, grabbing courage from the ether, I'll send C  blog directions and send photos to LVRC art gallery of two works I'd like to enter in the November show. 

When chatting with C last night I spoke of the access to creative people made possible by the internet.  I spoke with envy as well as admiration.  These people are doing things, making things, creating something out of nothing that was not there before.  In a way we are all little gods and goddesses (well, I believe we are all God but that's another post) in that we create every second of every day.  Whether it's a word spoken, a meal made or a hug given.  In the purest sense we are creating our existence moment to moment by the thoughts we think, the things we say and the things we do.  In the essence of that creation, although we may be buffeted by outward circumstance, by the appearance of things that are beyond our control, we remain inviolate, that pure small point of Conscious being.  In other words:  The Conscious Being being.