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.
Showing posts with label yoga. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yoga. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Post 35 of 92
Wow, two posts in two days.
Up early, well before dawn to do chores before attending an Iyengar class. My second. Went last week and didn't like it. It's referred to as Furniture Yoga with good reason; blocks, straps, cushions, bolsters, folded blankets, ropes attached to walls, chairs (for some). Got a little impatient and muttered, I hope inaudibly, under my breath adjusting the blocks for the umpteenth time so I could do shoulder stand, a pose I have no problem doing.
The reason I am going today is it seems to be helping my neck. For months now my neck has been getting progressively stiffer, so much so that I was having to turn my upper body to check for traffic while driving. Gave up headstands thinking that might help. It didn't. Didn't know what else to do save go to a doctor which I have managed to avoid for about 15 years now. So went to class, came home happy to have given it a try but knowing it wasn't for me. Except. Late that afternoon while walking suddenly realized I'd turned my head to look for a bird singing in the roadside and I had almost full range of motion back again. Still hurt to turn my neck but not nearly as much.
Might be coincidental or it might be Iyengar is popular for a reason. Even the woman who introduced me said she disliked it at first but adores it now. Has lots of books for me to read if I'm interested.
One of the many unlooked for side effects of yoga is introducing oneself to the extreme bias of the body. Never understood how crooked I was, even to how much weight I put on each leg, until doing yoga. I'd hoped consistent practice would help to make me more even-handed or footed, but although I think it has helped, it hasn't cured. Perhaps this form of yoga will help.
This is all part of me saying Yes to things rather than no. More on that in another post.
Up early, well before dawn to do chores before attending an Iyengar class. My second. Went last week and didn't like it. It's referred to as Furniture Yoga with good reason; blocks, straps, cushions, bolsters, folded blankets, ropes attached to walls, chairs (for some). Got a little impatient and muttered, I hope inaudibly, under my breath adjusting the blocks for the umpteenth time so I could do shoulder stand, a pose I have no problem doing.
The reason I am going today is it seems to be helping my neck. For months now my neck has been getting progressively stiffer, so much so that I was having to turn my upper body to check for traffic while driving. Gave up headstands thinking that might help. It didn't. Didn't know what else to do save go to a doctor which I have managed to avoid for about 15 years now. So went to class, came home happy to have given it a try but knowing it wasn't for me. Except. Late that afternoon while walking suddenly realized I'd turned my head to look for a bird singing in the roadside and I had almost full range of motion back again. Still hurt to turn my neck but not nearly as much.
Might be coincidental or it might be Iyengar is popular for a reason. Even the woman who introduced me said she disliked it at first but adores it now. Has lots of books for me to read if I'm interested.
One of the many unlooked for side effects of yoga is introducing oneself to the extreme bias of the body. Never understood how crooked I was, even to how much weight I put on each leg, until doing yoga. I'd hoped consistent practice would help to make me more even-handed or footed, but although I think it has helped, it hasn't cured. Perhaps this form of yoga will help.
This is all part of me saying Yes to things rather than no. More on that in another post.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Not bad for an old chick
Conquering fear. I am not afraid of heights but I am afraid of clambering over steep roofs, especially slippery iron roofs coated with dust that even rubber soled tennis shoes don't stick to.
We've been having problems with the fire, more smoke in the house than going up the chimney. Last year, because of the possums exploring the chimney as a new hidey hole, sliding down into the fire box (unlit of course!) and being unable to get out again, we placed a wire mesh over the top. Rather we had a strong young man experienced in roof walking, install it for us. Over winter the mesh became encrusted with creosote. Had to come off.
Rang a fellow that's done odd jobs for us before (like lifting huge rocks from the bottom of the goldfish pond - he'll have us to thank for his hemorrhoids in later life) but he couldn't come until next week. What to do.
Well, there's me.
So yesterday I got on the roof and realised I couldn't just climb straight up to the chimney and chisel the mesh free. I got to the chimney but every pore of my body had turned into a suction cup and even then I was sliding down the roof. Not a good feeling. Had to use exposed roofing nail heads to catch (and rip) my tennis shoes on.
Thought about it overnight. If I climbed up the ridge line and then slid down to the chimney I could brace myself either by wrapping my legs around it or propping myself with my feet, to free both hands to work the chisel. Which is exactly what I did.
And I'm very grateful to yoga for my strength and suppleness for of course I had to climb back to the ridge line to get down again. Hooked my hands over the rounded top, hauled myself up, swung a leg over and voila!
Not bad for an old chick.
We've been having problems with the fire, more smoke in the house than going up the chimney. Last year, because of the possums exploring the chimney as a new hidey hole, sliding down into the fire box (unlit of course!) and being unable to get out again, we placed a wire mesh over the top. Rather we had a strong young man experienced in roof walking, install it for us. Over winter the mesh became encrusted with creosote. Had to come off.
Rang a fellow that's done odd jobs for us before (like lifting huge rocks from the bottom of the goldfish pond - he'll have us to thank for his hemorrhoids in later life) but he couldn't come until next week. What to do.
Well, there's me.
So yesterday I got on the roof and realised I couldn't just climb straight up to the chimney and chisel the mesh free. I got to the chimney but every pore of my body had turned into a suction cup and even then I was sliding down the roof. Not a good feeling. Had to use exposed roofing nail heads to catch (and rip) my tennis shoes on.
Thought about it overnight. If I climbed up the ridge line and then slid down to the chimney I could brace myself either by wrapping my legs around it or propping myself with my feet, to free both hands to work the chisel. Which is exactly what I did.
And I'm very grateful to yoga for my strength and suppleness for of course I had to climb back to the ridge line to get down again. Hooked my hands over the rounded top, hauled myself up, swung a leg over and voila!
Not bad for an old chick.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Life and Death Decisions
Trying to learn to do 8 angle pose, probably the hardest pose I've tried. First have to wrap one leg behind my head and 'rock it into place like adjusting a backpack strap' as one instruction site said. Easier said than done. Anyway, not there yet by a long shot but know it's doable. Unlike some of the asanas I attempt. Don't like age preventing me from doing things but there are some poses that are just beyond me, usually having to do with extreme crunching of the spine. I can do The Wheel and The Mermaid but I can't do Dancers pose when one foot is captured by both hands. Maybe next lifetime.
I've become a killer over the past few days. It's not something I like doing but it's necessary to prevent suffering. Each day while walking the dogs I find large gravid praying mantis, equally large grasshoppers and dragonflies which have been the victims of cars. They are still alive but dying, sand and gravel adhering to their burst abdomens. Dying slowly is one thing but being devoured alive by black ants is quite another. So I step on them, grinding them into the road so that they are unrecognizable. This may seem a bit of ... overkill but after stepping firmly on the first praying mantis it was still waving it's legs around when I removed my shoe. Now I don't take any chances. Slam and slide.
One of the most delightful creatures commonly seen on these summer afternoon walks are mountain katydids. Their humped dusky black bodies, long spiky legs and mushy rabbit like profiles are unusual enough but the real prize is when they are gently stroked and they pop up their wing covers like mickey mouse ears to reveal an electric blue bordered by black bordered by deep red striped abdomen. The females are flightless and so at risk of being skittled by traffic. I always pick them up by one of their *ears* and remove them to the verge.
Some of them I can save. Many things I can't. There is a ditch which collects rainwater after a good storm. Season after season frogs lay eggs in this ephemeral pond. If it continues to rain it might hold water for weeks but in the end it always dries up before the tadpoles have a chance to turn into frogs. Past seasons we've gone down with buckets and scoops and rescued the tadpoles. Tadpole Rescue, almost as successful as our homegrown Gecko Rescue. Not sure whether we've rescued frogs or cane toads, we take them to our dam (also ephemeral but usually lasting through a season) and release them. This year we haven't done tadpole rescue. Our dam isn't full and putting the tadpoles in the creek is risky. The first lot would've drowned in the creek run we had after Cyclone Marcia dribbled her way past. The second lot, this lot, won't survive the drying dying of the creek. Nevertheless, on the way home yesterday I reached down and scooped as many as I could get from the mud and carried them to the creek. I think there were five. They were mottled like cane toads once the mud had washed off them. So they have a chance. The others will be dead by now.
As I walked home feeling guilty rather than exhilarated, my actions reminded me a little of the book, The Bridge Over San Luis Rey. In it a bridge collapses and the people on the bridge died. The whole premise of the book is why did those people die? What about the ones about to cross the bridge and the ones who had just crossed? Why not them? So from the tadpoles point of view, a gigantic hand comes down and scoops up a handful of clay mud. Tadpoles one through five survive, the others are doomed. Tadpole philosophy. Has no more answers than human philosophy.
I've become a killer over the past few days. It's not something I like doing but it's necessary to prevent suffering. Each day while walking the dogs I find large gravid praying mantis, equally large grasshoppers and dragonflies which have been the victims of cars. They are still alive but dying, sand and gravel adhering to their burst abdomens. Dying slowly is one thing but being devoured alive by black ants is quite another. So I step on them, grinding them into the road so that they are unrecognizable. This may seem a bit of ... overkill but after stepping firmly on the first praying mantis it was still waving it's legs around when I removed my shoe. Now I don't take any chances. Slam and slide.
One of the most delightful creatures commonly seen on these summer afternoon walks are mountain katydids. Their humped dusky black bodies, long spiky legs and mushy rabbit like profiles are unusual enough but the real prize is when they are gently stroked and they pop up their wing covers like mickey mouse ears to reveal an electric blue bordered by black bordered by deep red striped abdomen. The females are flightless and so at risk of being skittled by traffic. I always pick them up by one of their *ears* and remove them to the verge.
Some of them I can save. Many things I can't. There is a ditch which collects rainwater after a good storm. Season after season frogs lay eggs in this ephemeral pond. If it continues to rain it might hold water for weeks but in the end it always dries up before the tadpoles have a chance to turn into frogs. Past seasons we've gone down with buckets and scoops and rescued the tadpoles. Tadpole Rescue, almost as successful as our homegrown Gecko Rescue. Not sure whether we've rescued frogs or cane toads, we take them to our dam (also ephemeral but usually lasting through a season) and release them. This year we haven't done tadpole rescue. Our dam isn't full and putting the tadpoles in the creek is risky. The first lot would've drowned in the creek run we had after Cyclone Marcia dribbled her way past. The second lot, this lot, won't survive the drying dying of the creek. Nevertheless, on the way home yesterday I reached down and scooped as many as I could get from the mud and carried them to the creek. I think there were five. They were mottled like cane toads once the mud had washed off them. So they have a chance. The others will be dead by now.
As I walked home feeling guilty rather than exhilarated, my actions reminded me a little of the book, The Bridge Over San Luis Rey. In it a bridge collapses and the people on the bridge died. The whole premise of the book is why did those people die? What about the ones about to cross the bridge and the ones who had just crossed? Why not them? So from the tadpoles point of view, a gigantic hand comes down and scoops up a handful of clay mud. Tadpoles one through five survive, the others are doomed. Tadpole philosophy. Has no more answers than human philosophy.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Still Here
There's a tightening in my core, like I'm pulling in and concentrating my energy. We're going to get out of here. Have almost convinced Richard to drastically drop the price on the house, in total taking $76,000 off so we can sell up and move. In 7 months we've had exactly one inspection. One. Obviously we're not meeting the market. Dropped it $26,000 and still no joy - but that's by the buy (a typofreudian slip - so want someone to BUY this place).
Haven't written in ages - computer dramas of dire proportions (lost most everything). Still not 100%. Have been far more disciplined after getting sloppy, gluttonous and feeling the effects of less energy, less self esteem. Only put on a couple of kilos but always felt bloated. I have the willpower to quit smoking but have trouble controlling portion size. No problem in eating good, nay excellent food, just eat too much of it. Or did. Not too many slips now and the result is little short of amazing. No, not in suddenly being a size 6 but in how I feel. Much more energy. Think when one is bloated it's because food is lounging around in the gut taking energy for digestion that could go into living. Not advocating anorexia just common sense. My enthusiasm for everything sometimes goes awry and since I've learned to cook (still can't believe that I love to cook after a lifetime of believing it a most vile activity) I love what I create. And eat it too!
Still. Some other factors. Much more consistent with yoga. More like 7 days a week rather than 5. Went to Woodford to visit Gabi and attended a couple of yoga classes. Learned and practiced the 5 Tibetan Rites (http://www.lifeevents.org/5-tibetans-energy-rejuvenation-exercises.htm) at one of the classes and have incorporated them into my practice, more to encourage Richard who is also doing them, then because I need to add on another 10 minutes into a practice that already takes an hour. There are, however, two of the exercises, No. 2 and 4, which illustrate how weak I am in those areas.
The other thing is running. Thanks to yoga my nearly 60 year old joints can cope with the concussion without aching so much they keep me awake at night. Have attempted to take up running half a dozen (or more) times in the past 20 years and have always been defeated by the pain. There is still pain (I'm so unfit!) but it's a good pain which will lessen with time. Somewhat embarrassing however. I've got the two whippets, Jamaica and Radar, with me while I *run*. When I'm *running* up a steep hill, Jamaica keeps trotting but Radar gives a big sigh and walks. It's a fast walk but even so!
I ran for years and gave up because of a) the smoking finally taking its toll and b) the pain in my hips. So far so good and I'm so chuffed. I love the way running makes me feel and I want that fitness again. Now that I don't smoke (will be 3 years in May) I feel that I've earned the right to those running induced endorphins.
More consistent with the meditation attempts. After how many years? I should be an 'experienced meditator'. Ha. Still a flibbertygibbett but had a tiny experience which had me googling scary meditation (nothing really, a flush of energy through my body which was hard to contain).
There's another reason for this get fit regime. It's Richard. Things are good health wise. He's eating well, taking the Parkinson's medication, walking, and as mentioned, doing the Tibetan 5 Rites 4 or 5 times a week. But his mind isn't as it should be. Sometimes it's scary. We had to buy a television as the old one crapped itself. Took measurements for the cabinet so that the new tv would fit. He saw that televisions are measured diagonally so that a 32" is a diagonal measurement across the screen. He panicked, certain that our cabinet measurements, width and height, wouldn't work. He forgot how to put batteries in the remote, well not forgot but put them in wrong, something he never would have done before. I had to draw a diagram in the dirt yesterday to show him which yard gates would be open and which closed to let Balthazar out overnight but keep the other two in. He's been yarding and unyarding the horses for 20 years. He forgets names and places and it scares him. He is more loving than ever and although I know he loves me, part of it I think is needing reassurance. It must be frightening to know that things are not as they were. I can't save him from it but I can be there for him. At the same time, sometimes it is a little claustrophobic and the space allowed by yoga and walking is necessary for my peace of mind.
But it's all good. We are still blessed. Healthy and loved and loving, the animals good save for the untimely loss of Tony to an intruding brown tree snake (found the hold, bandicoot made and sealed it). So can't complain - except that we have no house buyers!
Haven't written in ages - computer dramas of dire proportions (lost most everything). Still not 100%. Have been far more disciplined after getting sloppy, gluttonous and feeling the effects of less energy, less self esteem. Only put on a couple of kilos but always felt bloated. I have the willpower to quit smoking but have trouble controlling portion size. No problem in eating good, nay excellent food, just eat too much of it. Or did. Not too many slips now and the result is little short of amazing. No, not in suddenly being a size 6 but in how I feel. Much more energy. Think when one is bloated it's because food is lounging around in the gut taking energy for digestion that could go into living. Not advocating anorexia just common sense. My enthusiasm for everything sometimes goes awry and since I've learned to cook (still can't believe that I love to cook after a lifetime of believing it a most vile activity) I love what I create. And eat it too!
Still. Some other factors. Much more consistent with yoga. More like 7 days a week rather than 5. Went to Woodford to visit Gabi and attended a couple of yoga classes. Learned and practiced the 5 Tibetan Rites (http://www.lifeevents.org/5-tibetans-energy-rejuvenation-exercises.htm) at one of the classes and have incorporated them into my practice, more to encourage Richard who is also doing them, then because I need to add on another 10 minutes into a practice that already takes an hour. There are, however, two of the exercises, No. 2 and 4, which illustrate how weak I am in those areas.
The other thing is running. Thanks to yoga my nearly 60 year old joints can cope with the concussion without aching so much they keep me awake at night. Have attempted to take up running half a dozen (or more) times in the past 20 years and have always been defeated by the pain. There is still pain (I'm so unfit!) but it's a good pain which will lessen with time. Somewhat embarrassing however. I've got the two whippets, Jamaica and Radar, with me while I *run*. When I'm *running* up a steep hill, Jamaica keeps trotting but Radar gives a big sigh and walks. It's a fast walk but even so!
I ran for years and gave up because of a) the smoking finally taking its toll and b) the pain in my hips. So far so good and I'm so chuffed. I love the way running makes me feel and I want that fitness again. Now that I don't smoke (will be 3 years in May) I feel that I've earned the right to those running induced endorphins.
More consistent with the meditation attempts. After how many years? I should be an 'experienced meditator'. Ha. Still a flibbertygibbett but had a tiny experience which had me googling scary meditation (nothing really, a flush of energy through my body which was hard to contain).
There's another reason for this get fit regime. It's Richard. Things are good health wise. He's eating well, taking the Parkinson's medication, walking, and as mentioned, doing the Tibetan 5 Rites 4 or 5 times a week. But his mind isn't as it should be. Sometimes it's scary. We had to buy a television as the old one crapped itself. Took measurements for the cabinet so that the new tv would fit. He saw that televisions are measured diagonally so that a 32" is a diagonal measurement across the screen. He panicked, certain that our cabinet measurements, width and height, wouldn't work. He forgot how to put batteries in the remote, well not forgot but put them in wrong, something he never would have done before. I had to draw a diagram in the dirt yesterday to show him which yard gates would be open and which closed to let Balthazar out overnight but keep the other two in. He's been yarding and unyarding the horses for 20 years. He forgets names and places and it scares him. He is more loving than ever and although I know he loves me, part of it I think is needing reassurance. It must be frightening to know that things are not as they were. I can't save him from it but I can be there for him. At the same time, sometimes it is a little claustrophobic and the space allowed by yoga and walking is necessary for my peace of mind.
But it's all good. We are still blessed. Healthy and loved and loving, the animals good save for the untimely loss of Tony to an intruding brown tree snake (found the hold, bandicoot made and sealed it). So can't complain - except that we have no house buyers!
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
(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.
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.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
.
A few days ago I noticed, when walking the dogs, a particular feeling in my groin, an irritation, as though a pubic hair had worked its way inside me and was digging in. Didn't think too much about it until having a wee upon my return and noticing frank blood. Haven't had a period for 15 years so this was abnormal. Did nothing, said nothing, thought alot.
Richard left the following day for an errand in town. I was ready. The irritation was now accompanied by a feeling of 'fullness'. Can't describe it any better than that. It was as though I'd put on a few pounds 'there'. Once he'd left I got the hand mirror and the standing lamp with the flexicord. Put the lamp on the floor, got the mirror, dropped my drawers and had a good look.
The problem was, of course, I'm not familiar with that terrain. What was I looking for? There was no errant pubic hair. There was nothing that I could see save for a slight bluish darkness at the furthest reaches. Was that supposed to be there? Or was it the visible manifestation of something far more sinister? None the wiser, I pulled my pants up and got the yoga mat out.
The mind is a wonderful thing. My mind, when frightened, is a wild banshee howling incoherently in the wind. Even yoga was difficult. Kept forgetting where I was in the sequence because of fear. Fear of cancer. All that sex, all those partners. It was bound to catch up with me. All those years of smoking. All those times I wasn't nice, thought bad thoughts, did bad things, I was going to pay for my sins now. My mind had got the bit in its teeth and was off. Every lurid horrible detail; doctors, hospitals, needles, fear fear fear. In downward dog I thought about putting my feet in stirrups while some entity in a lab coat tut tutted at the most intimate and vulnerable part of my body.
I started to cry.
So I stopped it. Lay back on those reins and pulled my mind up short. This has to stop. I have always believed that you create what you fear. If I was going to fear this, by god, I was going to make it true.
In a kind of breathless panic which masqueraded as meditation I tried to fill my body with light. Between Half Moon pose and Trikonasama I created a whirling ball of white light and pushed it into my pelvis. Throw everything at it, positive think it right into oblivion, crush that mother with the weight of nonbelief.
But that was just fear with makeup on.
When I finally sat to meditate, when I finally pulled the over-caffeinated hamster off the wheel and breathed, the words, 'Stay Calm, It's All Right' came into my mind. I seized them like the rope thrown to a drowning man. And hung on. And breathed. And made them my mantra. After a while, I was calm.
I made my mind up about a couple of things. My health was/is my responsibility. No doctors. The revulsion, total revulsion of my being, against doctors and their offices, would cause more harm than any illness. Doctors are best avoided if possible. The next thing was, I can change this, whatever it is. I'm made of energy, energy is malleable. This creation, while loved and accepted, (yes, my thinking changed that much!) had to go, had to be recycled elsewhere. So every time I sat down for a pee, I visualized peeing this thing away. Not with hatred but with love. I'm not ready to go yet. I'm never ready for a long drawn out illness. I will die peacefully in my sleep when my responsibilities are met. Right now, Richard needs me, the animals need me, and I need me.
Today, no funny feeling, no blood, no fear but alot of gratitude. And love. It came to teach.
A few days ago I noticed, when walking the dogs, a particular feeling in my groin, an irritation, as though a pubic hair had worked its way inside me and was digging in. Didn't think too much about it until having a wee upon my return and noticing frank blood. Haven't had a period for 15 years so this was abnormal. Did nothing, said nothing, thought alot.
Richard left the following day for an errand in town. I was ready. The irritation was now accompanied by a feeling of 'fullness'. Can't describe it any better than that. It was as though I'd put on a few pounds 'there'. Once he'd left I got the hand mirror and the standing lamp with the flexicord. Put the lamp on the floor, got the mirror, dropped my drawers and had a good look.
The problem was, of course, I'm not familiar with that terrain. What was I looking for? There was no errant pubic hair. There was nothing that I could see save for a slight bluish darkness at the furthest reaches. Was that supposed to be there? Or was it the visible manifestation of something far more sinister? None the wiser, I pulled my pants up and got the yoga mat out.
The mind is a wonderful thing. My mind, when frightened, is a wild banshee howling incoherently in the wind. Even yoga was difficult. Kept forgetting where I was in the sequence because of fear. Fear of cancer. All that sex, all those partners. It was bound to catch up with me. All those years of smoking. All those times I wasn't nice, thought bad thoughts, did bad things, I was going to pay for my sins now. My mind had got the bit in its teeth and was off. Every lurid horrible detail; doctors, hospitals, needles, fear fear fear. In downward dog I thought about putting my feet in stirrups while some entity in a lab coat tut tutted at the most intimate and vulnerable part of my body.
I started to cry.
So I stopped it. Lay back on those reins and pulled my mind up short. This has to stop. I have always believed that you create what you fear. If I was going to fear this, by god, I was going to make it true.
In a kind of breathless panic which masqueraded as meditation I tried to fill my body with light. Between Half Moon pose and Trikonasama I created a whirling ball of white light and pushed it into my pelvis. Throw everything at it, positive think it right into oblivion, crush that mother with the weight of nonbelief.
But that was just fear with makeup on.
When I finally sat to meditate, when I finally pulled the over-caffeinated hamster off the wheel and breathed, the words, 'Stay Calm, It's All Right' came into my mind. I seized them like the rope thrown to a drowning man. And hung on. And breathed. And made them my mantra. After a while, I was calm.
I made my mind up about a couple of things. My health was/is my responsibility. No doctors. The revulsion, total revulsion of my being, against doctors and their offices, would cause more harm than any illness. Doctors are best avoided if possible. The next thing was, I can change this, whatever it is. I'm made of energy, energy is malleable. This creation, while loved and accepted, (yes, my thinking changed that much!) had to go, had to be recycled elsewhere. So every time I sat down for a pee, I visualized peeing this thing away. Not with hatred but with love. I'm not ready to go yet. I'm never ready for a long drawn out illness. I will die peacefully in my sleep when my responsibilities are met. Right now, Richard needs me, the animals need me, and I need me.
Today, no funny feeling, no blood, no fear but alot of gratitude. And love. It came to teach.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
A Petty Post from a Petty Person
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Not the Oscar Wilde
How can one body create so much fluid? As a somewhat grosser reflection of the rain we're (finally!) getting, I am filling tissue after tissue with ... stuff. But I wear this head cold proudly. It's the first since I quit smoking 7 months ago. I'm whizzing through the stages like greased lightning (or like a phlegm slick greasy pole); sore throat, done, sinus and dripping nose, in progress, congestion and coughing, got it. If I was still smoking I'd be in real trouble. As it is I'll have this sucker licked in a few more days.
Was pleasantly surprised to find yoga helps alleviate symptoms. Maybe it's all the inversions that stir things up. Haven't practiced today as I tackled the weekly verandah clean so feel a bit grungier and gummed up than usual.
Must be easily bored in my old age. Just finished reading a mystery with Oscar Wilde as the detective and found it wanting. Stumbled on it in the library and thought, hey ho! This should be a ripper but it was as dull as the daily bed making. Managed to drag myself to within two pages of the end and then gave up. Expired of boredom.
So why? Why did I find this book so awful? The book is called Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile and the author is Gyles Brandreth. I think it was awful because I didn't believe it. They were like pawns being moved around the stage (and much of the action took place within the theatre) to advance the story but I didn't care. They didn't elicit empathy or sympathy. There were just there, moving here, moving there, saying this, doing that. Even references to incest, opium, laudanum, hashish, Sarah Bernhardt and self flagellation couldn't whip this dead horse to life.
Just looked up Mr. Brandreth and see he's very well known in the UK as an entertainer, politician, writer, broadcaster and one man show. Well, gee. I'm obviously out of step. The reviews of his Oscar Wilde books are Wildely complimentary. So pay no attention to me and my opinion. I'm in the minority.
As a contrast, I finished Stephen Fry's The Fry Chronicles and loved it. Funny, erudite, painfully honest (who admits publicly to picking their nose?) yet tinged with melancholia that his humour can't quite hide. I am prejudiced of course. I've had a crush on Stephen Fry since his Blackadder days, notwithstanding his homosexuality (he did say in the book he was only 90% gay so there's always hope). Last year the ABC ran Jeeves and Wooster, which predates Blackadder, and Fry as Jeeves was understated perfection. I was fated to love Jeeves and Wooster even without Fry as I discovered Wodehouse years ago. It's a love Fry and I share. Isn't that touching? Of course I'm happily married and he's (90%) gay so it won't happen but I still adored his book.
Was pleasantly surprised to find yoga helps alleviate symptoms. Maybe it's all the inversions that stir things up. Haven't practiced today as I tackled the weekly verandah clean so feel a bit grungier and gummed up than usual.
Must be easily bored in my old age. Just finished reading a mystery with Oscar Wilde as the detective and found it wanting. Stumbled on it in the library and thought, hey ho! This should be a ripper but it was as dull as the daily bed making. Managed to drag myself to within two pages of the end and then gave up. Expired of boredom.
So why? Why did I find this book so awful? The book is called Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile and the author is Gyles Brandreth. I think it was awful because I didn't believe it. They were like pawns being moved around the stage (and much of the action took place within the theatre) to advance the story but I didn't care. They didn't elicit empathy or sympathy. There were just there, moving here, moving there, saying this, doing that. Even references to incest, opium, laudanum, hashish, Sarah Bernhardt and self flagellation couldn't whip this dead horse to life.
Just looked up Mr. Brandreth and see he's very well known in the UK as an entertainer, politician, writer, broadcaster and one man show. Well, gee. I'm obviously out of step. The reviews of his Oscar Wilde books are Wildely complimentary. So pay no attention to me and my opinion. I'm in the minority.
As a contrast, I finished Stephen Fry's The Fry Chronicles and loved it. Funny, erudite, painfully honest (who admits publicly to picking their nose?) yet tinged with melancholia that his humour can't quite hide. I am prejudiced of course. I've had a crush on Stephen Fry since his Blackadder days, notwithstanding his homosexuality (he did say in the book he was only 90% gay so there's always hope). Last year the ABC ran Jeeves and Wooster, which predates Blackadder, and Fry as Jeeves was understated perfection. I was fated to love Jeeves and Wooster even without Fry as I discovered Wodehouse years ago. It's a love Fry and I share. Isn't that touching? Of course I'm happily married and he's (90%) gay so it won't happen but I still adored his book.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Found this website through wordpress called American Gallery, http://americangallery.wordpress.com. Suzay Lamb, the creator of AG, is passionate about finding and posting for all the world to enjoy, the works of artists from the 1700's up to the present day. There is such a wide sampling that there is something for everyone. I've been working my way through the artists alphabetically, starting with the letter H - just to be different.
Perhaps it's not entirely ethical but when I find a painting I like I use it as a desktop for a day or two so that I may study it. Don't save them for it is the unauthorized use of someone else's work but I don't think any artist would mind someone adimiring their creation for a few hours or a few days. The problem is I always find something more beautiful than the last which I must have as a desktop.
Since writing I've completed a pencil sketch of a galah and have amost finished a pastel drawing of a tiger cat leaping. It's drawn in such a way that it is as though one was lying on the grass looking at the sky when this cat jumped through your field of vision. There is nothing but cat, blue sky and a few clouds. I'm okay with the drawing but am disappointed with my use of colour. When I look at the Navajo Indian chief I drew back in the 70's I am amazed that I so obviously seemed to know what I was doing. The nap of his heavy winter coat looks real. His skin looks like skin. Granted I was copying from a photo (Natinal Geographic?) but I still had to have some skill in order to pull it off. This cat I'm drawing from memory and the help of Natalia who can't understand why I keep turning her over to have a look at her abdomen, although she graciously purrs and allows me a quick peek, it being too cold to remain stretched out for more than a minute. The problem is I've overloaded the paper with pastel. The real problem is, as usual, I changed my mind partway through. I painted a brilliant sky using the entire paper. Perfect gradation of shading from the darkest blue at the top to the paler blue at the bottom. Then I started to draw the cat on top of the blue thinking the blue would come in handy as shadows on the dark side of the cat. And it does but the tooth is already so full that any thought of drawing lifelike fur is out of the question. Even with sharp pastel pencils.
And that's another thing. I'm quite disappointed with the Faber Castel pastel pencils. Compared to the cheap Montmarte they are difficult to apply and the colours are insipid. Perhaps the Montmarte pastels show up their inferior quality by not staying fresh, by losing their colour over time. I don't know but I know when I want vivid true pigment that goes on even over pastel sticks, hard and soft, I reach for a Montmarte. I should send this blurb to their advertising department. I paid big bucks for the Faber Castel and don't like them. Paid $24 for 36 Montmarte colours and enjoy using them. Maybe I'm just a victim of artist snobbery.
Took the cat outside yesterday afternoon and 'fixed' hell out of it. I like the way fixative makes the colours darker. Haven't done anything to it today except look as I go past. If I'm very careful I may be able to salvage it. If not I've even thought of having another go. I never do a picture more than once. Succeed or fail, once I've had a go it's lost its allure. But the cat? I like the whimsy of it (isn't whimsy just a wonderful word?). To pull it off really well would be lovely.
In other news - haven't had a trace of dizziness or vertigo for over a week now. I breathed through it. Breath has become of vital importance since I quit smoking. I'm frequently filling my lungs as full as they can get and giving thanks for that breath. Sounds funky but there you go. Without breath, we're dead. Probably one of the most substantial gifts one can give thanks for. Naturally after 44 years of smoking my lungs are not instantly restored but I do notice a micromillimeter of improvemet week by week. And breathing through things, breathing to heal, breathing to calm, breathing to love. It's all one and the same. Breathing to remember who I am. I had reason to write to someone this week who is going through emotional hell. I asked that he remember who he was, who he really was. We teach best that which we most need to learn - or relearn. I need to remember who I am too. I get caught up in the trivia of day to day living and forget that I'm here because of a divine spark animating this collection of proteins - and that divine spark is renewed every time I breathe.
When I take that huge breath, especially during a section of my yoga practice which is devoted to breath, I sometimes feel that connection, that divinity. So what happens when we die? I think we take that final breath, which is both physical and metaphysical, and it feels that we keep taking it, that we become so imbued with breath that there is finally no separation between the inhale and exhale but the breath is All. Physically we take that final breath and the breath leaves the body taking the divine spark with it. Well, that's my guess for today. Tomorrow I may have another theory.
Perhaps it's not entirely ethical but when I find a painting I like I use it as a desktop for a day or two so that I may study it. Don't save them for it is the unauthorized use of someone else's work but I don't think any artist would mind someone adimiring their creation for a few hours or a few days. The problem is I always find something more beautiful than the last which I must have as a desktop.
Since writing I've completed a pencil sketch of a galah and have amost finished a pastel drawing of a tiger cat leaping. It's drawn in such a way that it is as though one was lying on the grass looking at the sky when this cat jumped through your field of vision. There is nothing but cat, blue sky and a few clouds. I'm okay with the drawing but am disappointed with my use of colour. When I look at the Navajo Indian chief I drew back in the 70's I am amazed that I so obviously seemed to know what I was doing. The nap of his heavy winter coat looks real. His skin looks like skin. Granted I was copying from a photo (Natinal Geographic?) but I still had to have some skill in order to pull it off. This cat I'm drawing from memory and the help of Natalia who can't understand why I keep turning her over to have a look at her abdomen, although she graciously purrs and allows me a quick peek, it being too cold to remain stretched out for more than a minute. The problem is I've overloaded the paper with pastel. The real problem is, as usual, I changed my mind partway through. I painted a brilliant sky using the entire paper. Perfect gradation of shading from the darkest blue at the top to the paler blue at the bottom. Then I started to draw the cat on top of the blue thinking the blue would come in handy as shadows on the dark side of the cat. And it does but the tooth is already so full that any thought of drawing lifelike fur is out of the question. Even with sharp pastel pencils.
And that's another thing. I'm quite disappointed with the Faber Castel pastel pencils. Compared to the cheap Montmarte they are difficult to apply and the colours are insipid. Perhaps the Montmarte pastels show up their inferior quality by not staying fresh, by losing their colour over time. I don't know but I know when I want vivid true pigment that goes on even over pastel sticks, hard and soft, I reach for a Montmarte. I should send this blurb to their advertising department. I paid big bucks for the Faber Castel and don't like them. Paid $24 for 36 Montmarte colours and enjoy using them. Maybe I'm just a victim of artist snobbery.
Took the cat outside yesterday afternoon and 'fixed' hell out of it. I like the way fixative makes the colours darker. Haven't done anything to it today except look as I go past. If I'm very careful I may be able to salvage it. If not I've even thought of having another go. I never do a picture more than once. Succeed or fail, once I've had a go it's lost its allure. But the cat? I like the whimsy of it (isn't whimsy just a wonderful word?). To pull it off really well would be lovely.
In other news - haven't had a trace of dizziness or vertigo for over a week now. I breathed through it. Breath has become of vital importance since I quit smoking. I'm frequently filling my lungs as full as they can get and giving thanks for that breath. Sounds funky but there you go. Without breath, we're dead. Probably one of the most substantial gifts one can give thanks for. Naturally after 44 years of smoking my lungs are not instantly restored but I do notice a micromillimeter of improvemet week by week. And breathing through things, breathing to heal, breathing to calm, breathing to love. It's all one and the same. Breathing to remember who I am. I had reason to write to someone this week who is going through emotional hell. I asked that he remember who he was, who he really was. We teach best that which we most need to learn - or relearn. I need to remember who I am too. I get caught up in the trivia of day to day living and forget that I'm here because of a divine spark animating this collection of proteins - and that divine spark is renewed every time I breathe.
When I take that huge breath, especially during a section of my yoga practice which is devoted to breath, I sometimes feel that connection, that divinity. So what happens when we die? I think we take that final breath, which is both physical and metaphysical, and it feels that we keep taking it, that we become so imbued with breath that there is finally no separation between the inhale and exhale but the breath is All. Physically we take that final breath and the breath leaves the body taking the divine spark with it. Well, that's my guess for today. Tomorrow I may have another theory.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Sunday morning of the Queen's birthday long weekend. I swear the local wallabies know when it's the weekend. They are more numerous on the road during the day. We've had five killed on our short 6km dead end street already this season. Have a suspicion who is the culprit but of course it can't be proven. Desire to erect a large billboard saying Humans 5, Wallabies 0. But that would only inflame those who didn't give a damn before into upping the score. In favour of humans.
We have a new bird hanging around. A scarlet robin. The first year we moved here we saw a rose robin. Once. Like the Regent's bowerbird. Don't know what changed in the environment to make them disappear but disappear they did. So it's a real buzz to see a brand new (for us) bird in the center round garden. And he's very beautiful. Scarlet and black. Bold too, not very shy of me and I was only 4 or 5 feet away from him.
Another snippet in our wildlife scene. It's winter here yet we have a very determined frog calling Tok Tok Tok through the night and sometimes through the day. He lives in the fernery. When it is very cold his call is slow. I counted 23 to 36 seconds between Toks. When it is warmer, it's anything from 2 to 6 seconds. His Tok sounds like a mallet gently tapped against a hollow log. Have no idea what kind of frog (or toad for that matter) he is but admire his tenacity - and am a little alarmed that he's working so hard at a time when he should be taking it easy.
My dizziness has not disappeared yet. Because I think that dis-ease can reflect what's going on subconsciously, I wondered what the spinning out represented. The description 'spinning out' describes it; a mind out of control. My attempts at meditation, while regular are sporadic. Might start and find that Richard has returned or is banging about inside. Was going to close the wooden external door as a message that I was meditating but just can't be that cruel to confine him to the cold while I'm in the (relative) warmth. And that's another problem. It's too cold in this house, even with the heater going, to sit still for any length of time without getting chilled. So at any rate, while I do try and meditate it's not as regular or as long a session as I'd like. But there is an unlooked for side effect of meditation, even if the meditation is unsuccessful: awareness of thought. What's come to my attention are the layers which operate at the same time. I've never noticed before that there is the topmost layer which is the layer I'm writing this blog with. Beneath that might be a snatch of a song on an endless repeating loop and beneath that is a word or phrase. The other day it was Sam Stosur the tennis player, her name repeating like a mantra beneath the few notes of some old song (which always comes to the fore during the white noise of vacuuming). I had no idea so much mindless activity was going on with my mind's desperate bid to be kept busy. Why? Why must the mind always be kept busy? What's so scary about silence?
So that was a revelation, that my mind could and did work on many levels. At the same time I realized I was having these flashes of silence, when all the layers were quiet and still. Perhaps that was always happening but I hadn't noticed it. Those brief respites from chatter stand out by their sheer peacefulness, so much so that I start thinking about what's happening and lose it!
What has that to do with dizziness? I'm not sure. It has improved. I've managed to do backbends during yoga again although I must do it in stages. I've also managed to look up towards my outstretched hand during half moon and triangle poses. I notice the dizziness is worse when I look up over my left shoulder. I cannot quite look at my hand, only toward it but figure I am retraining myself so that is only a matter of time. I do a lot of deep breathing, hoping to breathe through this little health hiccup. Having always had low blood pressure I don't believe it is high blood pressure nor do I think I have an inner ear infection or a tumour or some such thing. The vertigo is an anomaly which is a helpful guidepost to illustrate something I need to bring into awareness. At least that's what I tell myself and mostly believe. The alternative is not a pleasant prospect.
We have a new bird hanging around. A scarlet robin. The first year we moved here we saw a rose robin. Once. Like the Regent's bowerbird. Don't know what changed in the environment to make them disappear but disappear they did. So it's a real buzz to see a brand new (for us) bird in the center round garden. And he's very beautiful. Scarlet and black. Bold too, not very shy of me and I was only 4 or 5 feet away from him.
Another snippet in our wildlife scene. It's winter here yet we have a very determined frog calling Tok Tok Tok through the night and sometimes through the day. He lives in the fernery. When it is very cold his call is slow. I counted 23 to 36 seconds between Toks. When it is warmer, it's anything from 2 to 6 seconds. His Tok sounds like a mallet gently tapped against a hollow log. Have no idea what kind of frog (or toad for that matter) he is but admire his tenacity - and am a little alarmed that he's working so hard at a time when he should be taking it easy.
My dizziness has not disappeared yet. Because I think that dis-ease can reflect what's going on subconsciously, I wondered what the spinning out represented. The description 'spinning out' describes it; a mind out of control. My attempts at meditation, while regular are sporadic. Might start and find that Richard has returned or is banging about inside. Was going to close the wooden external door as a message that I was meditating but just can't be that cruel to confine him to the cold while I'm in the (relative) warmth. And that's another problem. It's too cold in this house, even with the heater going, to sit still for any length of time without getting chilled. So at any rate, while I do try and meditate it's not as regular or as long a session as I'd like. But there is an unlooked for side effect of meditation, even if the meditation is unsuccessful: awareness of thought. What's come to my attention are the layers which operate at the same time. I've never noticed before that there is the topmost layer which is the layer I'm writing this blog with. Beneath that might be a snatch of a song on an endless repeating loop and beneath that is a word or phrase. The other day it was Sam Stosur the tennis player, her name repeating like a mantra beneath the few notes of some old song (which always comes to the fore during the white noise of vacuuming). I had no idea so much mindless activity was going on with my mind's desperate bid to be kept busy. Why? Why must the mind always be kept busy? What's so scary about silence?
So that was a revelation, that my mind could and did work on many levels. At the same time I realized I was having these flashes of silence, when all the layers were quiet and still. Perhaps that was always happening but I hadn't noticed it. Those brief respites from chatter stand out by their sheer peacefulness, so much so that I start thinking about what's happening and lose it!
What has that to do with dizziness? I'm not sure. It has improved. I've managed to do backbends during yoga again although I must do it in stages. I've also managed to look up towards my outstretched hand during half moon and triangle poses. I notice the dizziness is worse when I look up over my left shoulder. I cannot quite look at my hand, only toward it but figure I am retraining myself so that is only a matter of time. I do a lot of deep breathing, hoping to breathe through this little health hiccup. Having always had low blood pressure I don't believe it is high blood pressure nor do I think I have an inner ear infection or a tumour or some such thing. The vertigo is an anomaly which is a helpful guidepost to illustrate something I need to bring into awareness. At least that's what I tell myself and mostly believe. The alternative is not a pleasant prospect.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
A naked woman with no legs riding a chestnut horse with no saddle or bridle. That was my dream. Or rather part of it. She was amazing to watch. They both were. She and the horse were so linked that thought seemed to unite them. How she even stayed on was a miracle. She was like a thalidomide victim as her legs were missing from the pelvis down so she was balancing on her groin. She did lean forward to ride, supporting some of her weight with her hands on the horse's neck but even so it was quite a feat.
I was riding too, in another part of the dream. Getting on Balthazar was a non-event. Obviously I decided to dismiss the 'invitation to ride' scenario. But we managed. The dream or series of dreams was, as always, long and complicated and I don't remember most of it. I do remember a huge black roiling storm that was coming from the wrong way. Lightning and thunder assailed the eyes and eardrums without surcease. It meant big trouble especially as it was heading east, out to sea and then changed it's mind (and it did seem to have a mind) to come back.
Jamaica hurt his toe on Monday. It might be broken. We weighed up the options and decided to do nothing. Jamaica is the wimpiest dog I've ever met and getting a foot splinted and bandaged and then having to wear an elizabethan collar as well would just about do him in. Because he is such a wuss he is very careful with the foot and is keeping it immobilized himself. He is tied up most of the time and only let off to do his business. Richard does walk him to the gate and back in the morning but it's all on three legs. The swelling is starting to go down a little so hopefully we're doing the right thing. As long as he appeared bright in himself and kept eating I was willing to give this a go. This is the same toe that was broken when he was a puppy (Richard stepped on it). Whippets have such fist-like upright clenched-toe sort of paws they are more susceptible to breakage than a more flat-pawed breed.
Almost two weeks since a cigarette and can definitely feel a difference. Have calmed down a little which is good although nervous energy does get chores done. No smokers cough in the morning and only cough when doing certain lung opening postures during yoga and even then very seldom. The right lung, which has had something going on with it for a long time, a *catch* and *itch*, feels more normal. I am still seeking that elusive fully satisfying inhale that I remember but it will come. I give thanks every day for my Breath and I am so happy that I have given this gift to myself. I can beat myself up in other ways if I wish but I don't have to commit slow suicide anymore.
I notice that Richard is not taking afternoon naps anymore either. I think he's had two in two weeks. He went to the doctor about his hip. The doctor suspects arthritis. Richard now admits that it was sore before he fell on it. He fell a month ago and has had problems with it since. Doctor says he can resume walking. Richard has a bit of a palsy now. It is especially noticeable in the morning. It's only slight but it's something that wasn't there before. It breaks my heart. I try not to be scared of old age. I'm not scared of mine, in some odd way I seem to be getting younger, perhaps only an illusion but an illusion that serves me well. But seeing Richard age is hard. Not the brown hair turning grey turning white. But the palsy and the shuffling his feet rather than picking them up and walking (I bite my tongue. I want to shout at him, WALK! DON'T SHUFFLE!), the sitting slouched over with rounded shoulders gazing at the floor looking like a little old man in an aged care home. Stand tall, I think to myself. Look up and Live to paraphrase an energy company safety commercial. When we walk he looks at the bitumen, I look at the world around me. Of course walking is great for mulling things over. I will look at the road when I am thinking but I am always brought back to the present by the presence of Nature. Not so, Richard. He will walk 6km staring at the three feet in front of him. I bite my tongue again. Usually. If I do say something he tells me not to pick on him. And what right do I have to tell him how to live his life? Except that I love him and I KNOW that it is better for him to stand tall rather than slouch, not only physically but mentally/emotionally/spiritually. There is a dulling of the mind that comes with a perspective that is so foreshortened.
So now I've had my complaint and voiced my fears. Richard will never use the yoga lessons I bought him. At least since his doctor's appointment he is starting to lengthen his walking distance. He's meeting me on the other side of the Pedersens now. I trust that gradually he will build back up to the entire distance. The other day a friend came down who is enduring the heartwrenching reality of a breakup. Because of that he brought champagne. So I drank it with him. When he left I was feeling distinctly buzzy. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Took Radar for his walk and under the alcoholic influence I ran up every hill and along every flat bit of land. Felt great and I was entirely sober and alcohol free by the time I returned home an hour later. That night I could hardly sit. Not muscle or joint soreness but sciatic in the groin. Bummer. Felt great to jog again and if I could get away with it I'd start running again. But I can't so there.
In the meantime I'll work on my asana, Bird of Paradise, or, as I wrote to Jen my yoga teacher, the Fractured Turkey. That's why I feel younger. Rather than giving up things because I'm getting older, I'm learning something new. Not French or calculus or Cordon Bleu cooking but yoga postures. When Jen first introduced us to Bird of Paradise at the workshop I couldn't even attempt it. At home it would take me 5 or 6 steps to get my feet parallel. As for standing upright on one leg, forget it. I could barely get my other foot off the ground. But perseverance pays off. I can stand up now. Slowly, with great effort, but stand I do. And I love it. There are many many postures that I cannot do nor will I ever be able to do. I can graciously admit to the impossibility of some things but there are many that I cannot do now that I could do in the future with practice. I like that. I want to add on to my life, not subtract.
I was riding too, in another part of the dream. Getting on Balthazar was a non-event. Obviously I decided to dismiss the 'invitation to ride' scenario. But we managed. The dream or series of dreams was, as always, long and complicated and I don't remember most of it. I do remember a huge black roiling storm that was coming from the wrong way. Lightning and thunder assailed the eyes and eardrums without surcease. It meant big trouble especially as it was heading east, out to sea and then changed it's mind (and it did seem to have a mind) to come back.
Jamaica hurt his toe on Monday. It might be broken. We weighed up the options and decided to do nothing. Jamaica is the wimpiest dog I've ever met and getting a foot splinted and bandaged and then having to wear an elizabethan collar as well would just about do him in. Because he is such a wuss he is very careful with the foot and is keeping it immobilized himself. He is tied up most of the time and only let off to do his business. Richard does walk him to the gate and back in the morning but it's all on three legs. The swelling is starting to go down a little so hopefully we're doing the right thing. As long as he appeared bright in himself and kept eating I was willing to give this a go. This is the same toe that was broken when he was a puppy (Richard stepped on it). Whippets have such fist-like upright clenched-toe sort of paws they are more susceptible to breakage than a more flat-pawed breed.
Almost two weeks since a cigarette and can definitely feel a difference. Have calmed down a little which is good although nervous energy does get chores done. No smokers cough in the morning and only cough when doing certain lung opening postures during yoga and even then very seldom. The right lung, which has had something going on with it for a long time, a *catch* and *itch*, feels more normal. I am still seeking that elusive fully satisfying inhale that I remember but it will come. I give thanks every day for my Breath and I am so happy that I have given this gift to myself. I can beat myself up in other ways if I wish but I don't have to commit slow suicide anymore.
I notice that Richard is not taking afternoon naps anymore either. I think he's had two in two weeks. He went to the doctor about his hip. The doctor suspects arthritis. Richard now admits that it was sore before he fell on it. He fell a month ago and has had problems with it since. Doctor says he can resume walking. Richard has a bit of a palsy now. It is especially noticeable in the morning. It's only slight but it's something that wasn't there before. It breaks my heart. I try not to be scared of old age. I'm not scared of mine, in some odd way I seem to be getting younger, perhaps only an illusion but an illusion that serves me well. But seeing Richard age is hard. Not the brown hair turning grey turning white. But the palsy and the shuffling his feet rather than picking them up and walking (I bite my tongue. I want to shout at him, WALK! DON'T SHUFFLE!), the sitting slouched over with rounded shoulders gazing at the floor looking like a little old man in an aged care home. Stand tall, I think to myself. Look up and Live to paraphrase an energy company safety commercial. When we walk he looks at the bitumen, I look at the world around me. Of course walking is great for mulling things over. I will look at the road when I am thinking but I am always brought back to the present by the presence of Nature. Not so, Richard. He will walk 6km staring at the three feet in front of him. I bite my tongue again. Usually. If I do say something he tells me not to pick on him. And what right do I have to tell him how to live his life? Except that I love him and I KNOW that it is better for him to stand tall rather than slouch, not only physically but mentally/emotionally/spiritually. There is a dulling of the mind that comes with a perspective that is so foreshortened.
So now I've had my complaint and voiced my fears. Richard will never use the yoga lessons I bought him. At least since his doctor's appointment he is starting to lengthen his walking distance. He's meeting me on the other side of the Pedersens now. I trust that gradually he will build back up to the entire distance. The other day a friend came down who is enduring the heartwrenching reality of a breakup. Because of that he brought champagne. So I drank it with him. When he left I was feeling distinctly buzzy. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. Took Radar for his walk and under the alcoholic influence I ran up every hill and along every flat bit of land. Felt great and I was entirely sober and alcohol free by the time I returned home an hour later. That night I could hardly sit. Not muscle or joint soreness but sciatic in the groin. Bummer. Felt great to jog again and if I could get away with it I'd start running again. But I can't so there.
In the meantime I'll work on my asana, Bird of Paradise, or, as I wrote to Jen my yoga teacher, the Fractured Turkey. That's why I feel younger. Rather than giving up things because I'm getting older, I'm learning something new. Not French or calculus or Cordon Bleu cooking but yoga postures. When Jen first introduced us to Bird of Paradise at the workshop I couldn't even attempt it. At home it would take me 5 or 6 steps to get my feet parallel. As for standing upright on one leg, forget it. I could barely get my other foot off the ground. But perseverance pays off. I can stand up now. Slowly, with great effort, but stand I do. And I love it. There are many many postures that I cannot do nor will I ever be able to do. I can graciously admit to the impossibility of some things but there are many that I cannot do now that I could do in the future with practice. I like that. I want to add on to my life, not subtract.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Today the first cigarette free day. It was harder yesterday stretching out those last few smokes so they lasted until bedtime. Even resorted to having a few puffs then putting the cigarette out until the next time I had a craving. Today is far easier in comparison. Hardest time around lunch. Lunch can take anything from an hour to two hours depending upon if there is a good midday movie on. Today it took 15 minutes. Usually if there's a movie on I work on a drawing. The movie is 'company' if it's not engrossing enough to warrant full attention. Too energetic today to do anything but get up, do the dishes and head out the door to reinflate bicycle tyres.
Took the bike for a half hour spin. Easier than I expected. I suspect yoga has just made me generally fitter than I used to be. The hardest part is a) sore 'nether regions' and b) pain in lower back from those horrible lowset handlebars. Might invest in upright handlebars. As for the groin, will just have to get 'calloused' up somehow. Don't think Richard plans to ride his bike so might nick his sheepskin seat cover. He went for a grand total of two rides and whinged all the way. Not his cup of tea.
We have been a tiny bit snappy with one another but realizing that we are in the throes, as it were, it doesn't escalate. Hardly worth mentioning really. Don't know why I did.
Had a, for me, really small lunch. Small helping of salad, two crackers instead of three. That's the only way I'll keep from gaining weight, smaller helpings and more exercise. I do have the leeway of portion size for I do Live Large as far as food goes but because of no dairy and the active lifestyle I've lost weight despite myself. Now I don't have the luxury of smoking as an appetite suppressant and metabolism accelerator so have to find other ways to remain steady. I know it's vain but it is so depressing to be chunky.
Took the bike for a half hour spin. Easier than I expected. I suspect yoga has just made me generally fitter than I used to be. The hardest part is a) sore 'nether regions' and b) pain in lower back from those horrible lowset handlebars. Might invest in upright handlebars. As for the groin, will just have to get 'calloused' up somehow. Don't think Richard plans to ride his bike so might nick his sheepskin seat cover. He went for a grand total of two rides and whinged all the way. Not his cup of tea.
We have been a tiny bit snappy with one another but realizing that we are in the throes, as it were, it doesn't escalate. Hardly worth mentioning really. Don't know why I did.
Had a, for me, really small lunch. Small helping of salad, two crackers instead of three. That's the only way I'll keep from gaining weight, smaller helpings and more exercise. I do have the leeway of portion size for I do Live Large as far as food goes but because of no dairy and the active lifestyle I've lost weight despite myself. Now I don't have the luxury of smoking as an appetite suppressant and metabolism accelerator so have to find other ways to remain steady. I know it's vain but it is so depressing to be chunky.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Countdown to Quitting
Day Three: Haven't stopped smoking yet but it is three days after making the decision to do so. Have one pack and a bit left so it's not too long before having to face those first three crucial days of doing without. But there is much to gain too (hopefully not weight!). Having my breath back, feeling true to myself, gain in energy and sense of smell, perhaps even whiter teeth.
So why have I chosen to quit after giving up attempting to give up for so many years? Of course there are the physical side effects; a smokers cough when I've never had a smoker's cough. Noticeable tingling in my hands and arms in bed from lack of circulation, not enjoying a smoke as much as I used to but the most important reason is how smoking is like having a huge hairy wart on the end of my nose. It doesn't fit with who I am, who I want to be. I blame yoga for this. Yoga and pranayama. It's not only that my lung capacity sucks, it is a Big Lie to continue smoking when yoga brings me closer, however, slowly, to the truth of my being.
And my Being doesn't smoke, does not treat herself with disrespect, does not intentionally and consistently harm herself. She does not pollute the air which is already so polluted with the effects of humanity. I gave up meat because I don't believe in the killing of animals to feed me something I don't need. I gave up dairy because of the pain it causes to cows and calves. So I can be compassionate to others. Why not myself?
So why have I chosen to quit after giving up attempting to give up for so many years? Of course there are the physical side effects; a smokers cough when I've never had a smoker's cough. Noticeable tingling in my hands and arms in bed from lack of circulation, not enjoying a smoke as much as I used to but the most important reason is how smoking is like having a huge hairy wart on the end of my nose. It doesn't fit with who I am, who I want to be. I blame yoga for this. Yoga and pranayama. It's not only that my lung capacity sucks, it is a Big Lie to continue smoking when yoga brings me closer, however, slowly, to the truth of my being.
And my Being doesn't smoke, does not treat herself with disrespect, does not intentionally and consistently harm herself. She does not pollute the air which is already so polluted with the effects of humanity. I gave up meat because I don't believe in the killing of animals to feed me something I don't need. I gave up dairy because of the pain it causes to cows and calves. So I can be compassionate to others. Why not myself?
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Quitting
Have just lit a cigarette in a post where I'm going to give myself a pep talk about giving them up. Have you ever seen someone nicely turned out, beautifully groomed, stylish clothes and wearing tennis shoes (like Cybil Shepherd on the Oscar red carpet once - good for her!) well, that's my life. Cigarettes strike such a false note, especially as yoga is such a big part of it now. I mean, pranayama is all about The Breath. And I have smoker's cough. Who am I kidding? I read of these luscious yoga retreats that I'll never go on because I couldn't go without a fag or if I did sneak a smoke, everyone would know.
And then there's Richard. If I quit, he will, without question. He tried a few months ago but I puffed away around him. What chance did he have? We both would be so much better off, feel much better, all those obvious things, if I just quit.
I'm scared of two things, that horrible sickness of last time when I vomited like a conveyer belt of toxins. Not to get too icky about it but usually when you vomit, it's called a heave for good reason. Not pleasant, pretty disgusting, but that time it was scary. My mouth was open and it just kept on coming without surcease. But I did survive. The second thing is derived from vanity. I don't want to put on weight. I'm down to 118, perhaps less as I haven't weighed myself in a month or more. I haven't been below 120 since 1987 (from a broken heart and fear, not the ideal way to lose weight).
A de-tox juice/vegetable fast might come in handy when I quit (have 2 or 3 packs in the pantry still). Get it all over with at once - of course that means giving up coffee and wine too, perhaps too much to ask for at one time. Giving up dairy products (except for the two tablespoons of powdered milk in the homemade bread) was easy. Thought I'd miss cheese but I don't. Yes, I have chocolate too but think I can give that a miss as well.
If I become a non-smoker I'll get my breath back. I know they say it takes ten years for it to return to normal but the increased lung capacity is noticed almost immediately. My mouth will taste better. I won't reek of cigarettes and won't feel self-conscious around non-smokers, which are legion. The house will smell better. The house will sell better if it doesn't have that nicotine residue. I will have more energy, especially initially when activity substitutes for smoking, but long term as well.
But most of all I will be true to myself. I try and kid myself about my smoking. It's lying. I know it's lying and that's the worst part. Being unkind to me. Lying to me. Doing damage to me, consciously, intentionally, continuously. Why be so mean to myself?
W
And then there's Richard. If I quit, he will, without question. He tried a few months ago but I puffed away around him. What chance did he have? We both would be so much better off, feel much better, all those obvious things, if I just quit.
I'm scared of two things, that horrible sickness of last time when I vomited like a conveyer belt of toxins. Not to get too icky about it but usually when you vomit, it's called a heave for good reason. Not pleasant, pretty disgusting, but that time it was scary. My mouth was open and it just kept on coming without surcease. But I did survive. The second thing is derived from vanity. I don't want to put on weight. I'm down to 118, perhaps less as I haven't weighed myself in a month or more. I haven't been below 120 since 1987 (from a broken heart and fear, not the ideal way to lose weight).
A de-tox juice/vegetable fast might come in handy when I quit (have 2 or 3 packs in the pantry still). Get it all over with at once - of course that means giving up coffee and wine too, perhaps too much to ask for at one time. Giving up dairy products (except for the two tablespoons of powdered milk in the homemade bread) was easy. Thought I'd miss cheese but I don't. Yes, I have chocolate too but think I can give that a miss as well.
If I become a non-smoker I'll get my breath back. I know they say it takes ten years for it to return to normal but the increased lung capacity is noticed almost immediately. My mouth will taste better. I won't reek of cigarettes and won't feel self-conscious around non-smokers, which are legion. The house will smell better. The house will sell better if it doesn't have that nicotine residue. I will have more energy, especially initially when activity substitutes for smoking, but long term as well.
But most of all I will be true to myself. I try and kid myself about my smoking. It's lying. I know it's lying and that's the worst part. Being unkind to me. Lying to me. Doing damage to me, consciously, intentionally, continuously. Why be so mean to myself?
W
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sulawesi Breath
I often listen to a CD of birdsong from Sulawesi while doing yoga. On the last track there is a recording of a bird singing near dusk or night as there is a frog chorus in the background. I suppose you couldn't really call is singing, more of a calling, in a breathy descending minor key, of two and then three notes. It is the loneliest sound I have ever heard. There is no answer to that yearning hello. Just this waiting for a reply that never comes. The bird finally stops, the frogs chirp on but the silence and the infinity of the night is deafening.
I don't know what kind of bird this is and knowing it's name would not make it any dearer to me. It's all tied in with 'if a sparow or a leaf falls, would God know'? This bird symbolizes, for me at leat, all that we've lost, all that we could lose, if we don't clean up our act. What sound did a Dodo make? A Carolina parakeet. It's wretched that we will never know, that those sounds are lost forever. And this bird sings in the wilderness for a mate that never replies. Is that how it feels to know yourself to be finally and forever alone?
While I was meditating today and concentrating on my breath I could hear Tony the budgie talking to himself on the verandah (I love you, The Regurgitator, pretty pretty PRETTY bird). In the poinciana outside this room Felicity was lamenting her (to my mind at least) on off again relationship with Suki. Her calls didn't sound like contact calls but more of a lament. Suki came home yesterday but is gone again today. As I hovered in the indescribably state which may be a percursor to mditating it occurred to me that the breath which was the focus of my concentration and which was starting to define that oceanic feeling I sometimes get while meditating, was the very same breath Tony and Felicity were using. We were united by breath. In and out, no matter the rate, the air flows from one through another.
Listening to Words of Peace the other day, Prem Rawat spoke of how this planet, this Earth, is as far as anybody knows the only place with life on it for millions and billions of miles. He spoke of the miracle of meeting another who is alive and breathing This Day, and how we should greet each other with that shared miracle in mind. No one from 150 years ago is alive. No one today will be alive 150 years hence (barring medical miracles). And this Earth? A teeming, violent, buzzing, symphonic, fragile, resilient, chaotic yet ultimately precious place is the only place like it anywhere. This tiny tiny little light, this soft soft little sound in an infinity of empty space yet we live as though there are billions of Earths just a footstep away.
I don't know what kind of bird this is and knowing it's name would not make it any dearer to me. It's all tied in with 'if a sparow or a leaf falls, would God know'? This bird symbolizes, for me at leat, all that we've lost, all that we could lose, if we don't clean up our act. What sound did a Dodo make? A Carolina parakeet. It's wretched that we will never know, that those sounds are lost forever. And this bird sings in the wilderness for a mate that never replies. Is that how it feels to know yourself to be finally and forever alone?
While I was meditating today and concentrating on my breath I could hear Tony the budgie talking to himself on the verandah (I love you, The Regurgitator, pretty pretty PRETTY bird). In the poinciana outside this room Felicity was lamenting her (to my mind at least) on off again relationship with Suki. Her calls didn't sound like contact calls but more of a lament. Suki came home yesterday but is gone again today. As I hovered in the indescribably state which may be a percursor to mditating it occurred to me that the breath which was the focus of my concentration and which was starting to define that oceanic feeling I sometimes get while meditating, was the very same breath Tony and Felicity were using. We were united by breath. In and out, no matter the rate, the air flows from one through another.
Listening to Words of Peace the other day, Prem Rawat spoke of how this planet, this Earth, is as far as anybody knows the only place with life on it for millions and billions of miles. He spoke of the miracle of meeting another who is alive and breathing This Day, and how we should greet each other with that shared miracle in mind. No one from 150 years ago is alive. No one today will be alive 150 years hence (barring medical miracles). And this Earth? A teeming, violent, buzzing, symphonic, fragile, resilient, chaotic yet ultimately precious place is the only place like it anywhere. This tiny tiny little light, this soft soft little sound in an infinity of empty space yet we live as though there are billions of Earths just a footstep away.
Friday, January 27, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A Meditation on Meditating
Meditation is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to learn. The other day there was a point where I think I can truly say I was meditating but it was difficult to maintain. Just goes to show how ferociously unfocussed my mind is. If I *try* I lose it but there is a level of effort involved. It's somewhat like balancing on a knife edge. Too much effort and I'm thinking about thinking. Not enough effort and I'm just thinking. Yet, in that infinite moment of now, when I am balanced it is, conversely, without effort. And it is a very peaceful place; quiet and still although I remain aware of everything around me, including myself meditating.
It is difficult to find the time. The best approach is just after doing yoga when I am energized yet relaxed. Rather than taking the classic meditation pose, I lay in shavasana (corpse pose). Figure if I can't meditate at least I can absorb the benefit of having practiced. The problem is and it's just one of space, is that I share the house. I can't very well ask Richard to bugger off for 20 minutes, especially when it's hot and miserable outside. If I shut myself in a room the cats would be pawing to get in and most rooms are too airless anyway. The living room is the only one with cross ventilation. But it seems Richard knows the time I should be about finished and comes in. I sit up and it's over for the day. As it is, the practice is getting longer and longer. I used to be satisfied with 20 minutes, then 30, 40 and now it's edging toward an hour and a half. I don't begrudge the time. Doing the practice is kind of timeless. It feels as though it takes much less time than it does and I'm always a little surprised when I look at my watch.
The more I practice yoga, the more I see and feel the need to try meditation afterwards. In a way, that's where the real benefit lies. Especially as I'm engaging my mind (or disengaging) in a new and significant way. It's like trying to flex a muscle that hasn't been flexed before. I remember when I tried to learn how to wiggle my ears. The muscles that control ear wiggling had never been used before. I was just a kid then, envious because Mom and Tam could both wiggle their ears. I'd sit and think about wiggling them and that somehow awakened those muscles so that I eventually could move my ears up and down. And still can. So, the *muscle* for meditation exists, it's just never been used before. I trust the more I attempt to meditate, the stronger it will become and the easier it will be to do it. I've even *felt* (oh, how flimsy words are in description!) that meditation space when walking the dogs. I've read of people who can meditate at will anytime anywhere. I know now that it can be done and that one day I'll be able to as well.
It is difficult to find the time. The best approach is just after doing yoga when I am energized yet relaxed. Rather than taking the classic meditation pose, I lay in shavasana (corpse pose). Figure if I can't meditate at least I can absorb the benefit of having practiced. The problem is and it's just one of space, is that I share the house. I can't very well ask Richard to bugger off for 20 minutes, especially when it's hot and miserable outside. If I shut myself in a room the cats would be pawing to get in and most rooms are too airless anyway. The living room is the only one with cross ventilation. But it seems Richard knows the time I should be about finished and comes in. I sit up and it's over for the day. As it is, the practice is getting longer and longer. I used to be satisfied with 20 minutes, then 30, 40 and now it's edging toward an hour and a half. I don't begrudge the time. Doing the practice is kind of timeless. It feels as though it takes much less time than it does and I'm always a little surprised when I look at my watch.
The more I practice yoga, the more I see and feel the need to try meditation afterwards. In a way, that's where the real benefit lies. Especially as I'm engaging my mind (or disengaging) in a new and significant way. It's like trying to flex a muscle that hasn't been flexed before. I remember when I tried to learn how to wiggle my ears. The muscles that control ear wiggling had never been used before. I was just a kid then, envious because Mom and Tam could both wiggle their ears. I'd sit and think about wiggling them and that somehow awakened those muscles so that I eventually could move my ears up and down. And still can. So, the *muscle* for meditation exists, it's just never been used before. I trust the more I attempt to meditate, the stronger it will become and the easier it will be to do it. I've even *felt* (oh, how flimsy words are in description!) that meditation space when walking the dogs. I've read of people who can meditate at will anytime anywhere. I know now that it can be done and that one day I'll be able to as well.
Monday, January 9, 2012
It's ten after five. I've been awake since 4. Mosquitoes. The hole uncovered in the corner of the bedroom, beneath the cat pee saturated carpet, is a portal for all the blood denied mozzies who sing at the screen door every night. My body was safe beneath the fan but my hands, dangling over the edge of the bed in the heat sprawled posture of insomnia, are pebbled with bites. Damn them. The cat pee? Never a problem until we had the termite men clomping around looking for damage. Since then someone has lost their map to the three kitty boxes. Not always but enough that I've removed two squares of carpet. The culprit remains a mystery. I am pretty sure it's not Nairobi. That leaves Natalia or Matisse.
Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,
Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.
Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).
Today it's supposed to get to 39 degress (104 Fahreinheit). Even now a fine sheen of sweat slicks my upper lip and forehead. I can take the heat, don't like it but it's okay. But I worry about the animals, especially the verandah birds. It gets very hot even with screening the full length and two doors into the house for airflow. The saving grace is that storms and showers are a possibility, especially welcome as we've not had good rain in nearly a month. Only 2.5 mm. The grass is parched and yellow. Of course the danger with this heat and the long summer drought is that the storms can be severe, hail being the most dangerous. I've watched storms dance toward us on the radar only to skip around at the last moment. Today might be our day,
Yoga has unlooked for side effects. Twice now I've stood on one foot while removing a shoe to free it of a stone. Taken the shoe off, shook it and ut it back on, tying laces and everything without ever overbalancing. Two years ago I couldn't have done that. Then there is the awareness of posture. Standing at the sink, one legged, feeling it and planting my legs in a soapy handed mountain pose. Or feeling myself slide down the couch or chair into a teenage posture of supreme ennui only to pull myself erect. The mental or spiritual benefits are less obvious. Getting off dairy foods (except those found in chocolate and the milk powder I use to make bread) because I don't want to take advantage of cows and their orphan calves is one. I do feel better about myself for that. Less guilty. Am I better person? I don't know. My spiritual side gets flattened beneath the weight of ego. At least I'm aware of it, sometimes. I get cranky with Richard and try to let go of resentment sooner, not easy for me who mulls and steeps and simmers in quiet anger that I, ME! should be thwarted, ignored, or worst of all, not be seen to be right. The curse of needing to be right. For instance, we go on our afternoon walks wth the dogs. Fresh air, sunshine, country beauty and Richard is stariing down at the road a million miles away. How dare he not be in the moment, be there with me! So I simmer. Then of course, I am not there in the moment either. I'm stewing. I'm better now at stopping that train of thought to nowhere but not free of it yet.
Found a new blog from which I've asked to get newsletters. Goins, Writer. There's a photo of him. He looks like an Irish pixie. Red hair, round face, looks about 12. But he writes well with fervour and feeling. About being a writer. I'm a toe in the water writer. One book, another half a book, lots of notebooks with stuttering story starts that peter out as soon as the buzz of something new falters. And this blog and the trunkful of journals that I'll reread someday when I'm really old. So really, I've written my entire adult life. But am I a writer? Or an artist for that matter with the dozens of drawings and paintings either on the walls or collecting in the dark folds of an oversized notebook. Or just someone who needs to write or draw when the mood is upon me but that hasn't the spark or drive to do anything about my output. Or to try to be good enough to do something about it? Writing and painting are crafts. I use them as self-indulgences. The urge to write and paint are akin to needing to love. The times in my life when I was between love affairs were times when I felt this overwhelming urge not to be loved but to love. Like I was swelling up and would burst if I couldn't find someone upon whom I could focus that feeling. It's the same with creativity. I get restless. There's the feeling of having to do something, make something, create something. Whether it's good or commercially viable doesn't enter into it. I just have to do it, without judgement (at least at at the time).
Friday, November 18, 2011
Hadn't worked with Balthazar for two days as it was just too hot. Those two days off must have given him time to assimilate the non-mugging sessions. Played around for 20 minutes yesterday and he didn't attempt to mug once. The session wasn't a scintillating success other than the non-mugging but that's all right. He was a little distracted by the other horses, specifically Dakota who kept nickering. Fortunately or unfortunately, they have all done c/t so would like to have a play too.
Despite that there is much to work on. One of the things I am trying to instill is staying out on the circle. To do that he needs to move away from me when asked. He has to learn a cue, the cue being my upraised hands going towards him. Eventually that should be refined to a finger point. Also, he needs to learn to walk on, back up and trot. I was pleased to see him break into a trot after he'd done his usual reluctant trot which subsided into a walk. I didn't c/t so he broke into a trot again. That's the first time he's offered something. Anyway, although the session was a little lacklustre he didn't mug and that's a huge step.
I've noticed practicing yoga at home that music is starting to bother me. I've some quite lovely CD's; Eastern Meditation, harp and bird song mixed, summer storms complete with thunder and rain, all very soothing and conducive to a calm and meditative practice. I thought. At first I thought it was because I was in a 'mood' and music was just irritating. Now I think I've finally come to a point where the asanas and pranayama have to be done by themselves. The music is a distraction. Can hardly believe I have reached a point where I voluntarily jettison a distraction. I will do almost anything to avoid having to finish something. When I worked it was easy to multi-task. I could do this and this and this and on the way to completing this and this and this, do this and this as well. Very busy. Works well in the work environment when there's much to be done and little time to do it in but isn't as successful at home.
Two days since writing the above. Worked with Balthazar yesterday. Because I've been unsure about whether to use pressure, ie a cue, and then build upon that or just wait for him to do something I've been a bit stuck. Yesterday I decided to just let him be, give no cues and try and shape any forward movement. It wasn't very successful. He gazed at the cattle on the ridge, he gazed at the horses over the road, he gazed at everything but me. When he did take a step I'd c/t but it was a long time between drinks. I couldn't heavily reinforce forward movement because there wasn't even a weight shift.
I realise there is a break in the chain of communication. He looks to me for orders and so hasn't learned to offer anything yet. Despite the treats, it's not a game for two yet. To try something different I decided to take the halter off to see what he did. That was more successful. He'd start to walk away toward the yards where the other horses were then decide that treats lay in the other direction, with me. He circled (using the word loosely, it was more a trapezoid) around me and was c/t'd like mad. Unfortunately he did try and mug a bit. Thought we were past that but guess not. Anyway, we played around with the circling, him choosing the direction and shape of the *circle* and I rewarded everything. When he walked away, seeming to lose interest (although he was on the point of changing his mind and coming back) I quit. It will be interesting to see what eventuates. For us to proceed Balthazar has to recognise that he is a free agent who can choose to play and offer behaviours.
Despite that there is much to work on. One of the things I am trying to instill is staying out on the circle. To do that he needs to move away from me when asked. He has to learn a cue, the cue being my upraised hands going towards him. Eventually that should be refined to a finger point. Also, he needs to learn to walk on, back up and trot. I was pleased to see him break into a trot after he'd done his usual reluctant trot which subsided into a walk. I didn't c/t so he broke into a trot again. That's the first time he's offered something. Anyway, although the session was a little lacklustre he didn't mug and that's a huge step.
I've noticed practicing yoga at home that music is starting to bother me. I've some quite lovely CD's; Eastern Meditation, harp and bird song mixed, summer storms complete with thunder and rain, all very soothing and conducive to a calm and meditative practice. I thought. At first I thought it was because I was in a 'mood' and music was just irritating. Now I think I've finally come to a point where the asanas and pranayama have to be done by themselves. The music is a distraction. Can hardly believe I have reached a point where I voluntarily jettison a distraction. I will do almost anything to avoid having to finish something. When I worked it was easy to multi-task. I could do this and this and this and on the way to completing this and this and this, do this and this as well. Very busy. Works well in the work environment when there's much to be done and little time to do it in but isn't as successful at home.
Two days since writing the above. Worked with Balthazar yesterday. Because I've been unsure about whether to use pressure, ie a cue, and then build upon that or just wait for him to do something I've been a bit stuck. Yesterday I decided to just let him be, give no cues and try and shape any forward movement. It wasn't very successful. He gazed at the cattle on the ridge, he gazed at the horses over the road, he gazed at everything but me. When he did take a step I'd c/t but it was a long time between drinks. I couldn't heavily reinforce forward movement because there wasn't even a weight shift.
I realise there is a break in the chain of communication. He looks to me for orders and so hasn't learned to offer anything yet. Despite the treats, it's not a game for two yet. To try something different I decided to take the halter off to see what he did. That was more successful. He'd start to walk away toward the yards where the other horses were then decide that treats lay in the other direction, with me. He circled (using the word loosely, it was more a trapezoid) around me and was c/t'd like mad. Unfortunately he did try and mug a bit. Thought we were past that but guess not. Anyway, we played around with the circling, him choosing the direction and shape of the *circle* and I rewarded everything. When he walked away, seeming to lose interest (although he was on the point of changing his mind and coming back) I quit. It will be interesting to see what eventuates. For us to proceed Balthazar has to recognise that he is a free agent who can choose to play and offer behaviours.
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