'Our' dream house has sold.  Last week, the stunning Burringbar house was sold to some lucky family.  Felt quite sad for a bit.  However, if we haven't got it than it's not meant to be.  Have found another property (6 acres) near Cobaki for $730,000.  Beautiful old refurbished place with a view, much better grazing for the horses (one of the few drawbacks of the Burringbar house), much closer to the kids, the coast, the amenities.  Not that it will last long.  It's such a nice little place in a prime location that someone will soon buy it.

But I am not dismayed!  Have decided not to look at any properties until we have a contract on this one.  Have also decided that we will drop the price in the New Year, perhaps hitting the psychologically significant below $400,000 mark, like $399,999 or some such silliness. 

At the moment we are enduring heat waves.  Was 40 on Saturday.  Will be 38 for the next two days.  Doesn't make the idea of showing the house very attractive.  And it's been so miserable that we've done little outside.  I need to do the whole sweep rake cobweb thing again.  The geckos, bless them, are prolific poopers so every sill is peppered with two tone poo, rather like bird poo, which is just another clue to indicate birds descended from reptiles. 

Still working on the same drawing.  Slowly slowly pulling it into shape.  Sometimes, looking at the stunning work on Pinterest, I wonder why I persevere.  But then, whether my work is good or not, I cannot NOT draw. 

My sister has started following me on Pinterest.  At least we are in touch, by one remove but better than nothing.  Was so satisfying when we were emailing nearly every day when she was in Charlevoix.  I'm my own worst enemy because I'm not social and social occasions are difficult for me, yet it is sometimes lonely.  Richard is my darling but the relationship has changed because of his illness and mentally we aren't covering the same ground anymore. 

But I'm not going to slide into complaining and sadness.  We are healthy, have everything (can almost feel the solid tug on my bootstraps) so shut up and get on with it. 

Will go do yoga, with all fans blazing.  That always helps. 

Paris and the Terrorist Toddler Tantrums

Feel the need to write about the tragedy unfolding in Paris but am somewhat lost for words.  Back to the same conundrum - the nature of evil, black because we have white, light and darkness, on and off?  Having to accept these opposites to know the existence of, well, existence? 

But I can't excuse it that easily.  The mind of someone who, despite being indoctrinated, brainwashed, trained and promised glory in the afterlife, can indiscriminately kill and then, without hesitation, blow themselves up, is beyond me.  It's like trying to understand the thought processes of a dung beetle.  And I like dung beetles.  They do a great job and they're fascinating to watch but still, they're dung beetles. 

It's an alien intelligence.  I suppose if you think the world is coming to an end, which isis apparently does, than anything goes.  But they aren't mercy killings.  Drowning men in cages, setting them alight, beheading, all acts in the Theatre of the Cruel - acts which proclaim the pure evil of isis' allah.   Killing the infidels, the *apostates*, seems an exercise in futility when the end of the world is nigh.  Why bother?  Why establish a caliphate?  Why do anything? 

I suspect these terrorists, hate filled as they are, are really frightened.  Becoming a jihadist  - isn't it really about belonging?  about being recognized?  If you die killing others in the name of allah, then you will be one of the beloved of the prophet, surrounded by your admiring (dead) family and friends.  You are part of the group.  You're not alone.  You have a purpose (of sorts) and the scared little boy (or girl) has a support system for eternity.  The extreme cowardice and selfishness of the needy baby. 

Nevertheless, they must be stopped.  I have no sympathy.  They have chosen their reality and it is one of death and destruction.  People should have the right to choose their destiny and when they've chosen to have a nice meal at a good Cambodian restaurant on a Friday night in Paris, they should do so without toddlers having tantrums with AK-47s.

A Small Tribute to a Small Black Insect

Rushing past the kitchen sink this morning, I glanced down and saw a small black insect, about the size of a tomato seed, drifting drowned and dead through the wash water caught in a plate.  I stopped, and bending, peered closer to see what kind of insect it was.  It had short legs and antennae, a round body and seemed uniformly black.  It might have been a baby cockroach.  I don't know.  But it stopped me, at least momentarily, in my tracks. 

Just a tiny death in a world of death and destruction.  Hardly worth a second look, much less a second thought.  Yet it looked so forlorn, this tiny black insect wafting through the tiny current of splashed water.  It had existed, now it did not.  A chord was struck.

How valuable is life?  I am almost vegan yet I vacuum daddy long legs and stable flies while tenderly removing baby praying mantis, moths and wasps outside.  In playing God, I feel a slight, very slight, shadow of guilt when an insect is condemned to the swirling death of the vacuum. 

But it doesn't keep me awake at night.

Isn't that fly or spider as worthy of life as the praying mantis?  A thumbs up or thumbs down is determined purely on how I perceive the insect.  Flies are pests,  black and hairy, connoisseurs of dung and carrion and therefore doomed.  Praying mantis, with their humanlike folded arms, and despite eating flies alive starting at the head, are *cute* and therefore allowed to live.

But all creatures are different.  In flocks of galahs, all the birds look exactly the same,  yet I know from experience they are not.  Why should it be any different for smaller creatures? 

Loren Eiseley, the author, if I recall correctly, once wrote about stumbling on a curb, falling and bloodying his nose.  Rather than lamenting the accident and the pain he endured, he lamented the red blood cells, spilling on the pavement, to die in the sun. Thousands, perhaps millions of red blood cells, all alike yet all individual.  All dead.

When I sometimes cut myself and bleed I remember that.  We are not what we think we are.  We are a community of creatures, working more or less harmoniously, so that we may have the illusion that we have an identity, the identity of a smallish singular god, absolute and independent and complete. 

But we are not.  Whether we like it or not.  We are connected to everything and everything is connected to us.  Even to a small drowned insect in a not too special sink in a not too special house on a not too special Saturday morning in the country. 

The Gym and Parkinsons Disease

Richard has been going to gym about twice a week for over a month.  It has made a difference but I noticed he was stuck on 3 machines, two machines which work the arms and the bike.  Stopped in one day with him, not dressed in gym gear, but had a go on lots of machines and got hi to try a machine which would really open up his chest.  (One of the effects of Parkinsons is the closing in, the physical curling up, rounding over of the body.  The other day while walking, his arm kept lifting until his fist was in his sternum.  That's the position he takes with both arms when at rest.  Parkinsons is a disease which requires vigilance and mindfulness - the very things it erodes). 

Discussed at length whether I should join or not as I didn't want to cramp his style or intrude in a place that was his own but he was pretty clear.  It would be nice if I joined.  So I did.  

The second time I went with him I got him to try the cross trainer.  What a perfect machine for Parkinsons!  The first time I realized something was wrong with Richard is when I heard him shuffling on the way to the loo one night.  Parkinsons causes shuffling.  On the cross trainer one must lift the weight and press down to make it go, even though the foot doesn't actually come off the plate.  Took Richard a bit of effort to get it going (there is also the benefit of having both sides of the body/brain exercised).

The follow on effect was noticeable.  Our afternoon walk was almost brisk and he walked with more authority in his stride. 

I think we're on the right track and it's all due to Wilma who told me about a woman with Parkinsons at her local gym (Wilma is in her 70's) who has been transformed with the help of exercise.

Richard is also getting some muscle tone back.   And it won't hurt me either.  I don't get any cardio with yoga and walking so getting on the bike or cross trainer and going like the clackers gets my heart rate up without hurting my joints.

I won't make the same mistake as before when I went to the gym by lifting too much and hurting my neck.  It's really quite exciting as it will benefit us both while giving us something we can do together.   Instead of twice a week I'll try for three times. 

The Dentist and a Lesson in Spirit

Went back to the dentist because of pain.  What a pain!  Knew being scared before the visit was in fact enduring it twice but the mind has a mind of its own (so back to meditating with a vengeance to try and tame it!).  Then, Oh Joy Oh Happiness, the dentist, after reading the write-up of previous visit, thought it might be better to try non-invasive techniques first.  Swelling has gone, as if in answer to reprieve and I can live with the nerve pinging with hot or cold (have had that in other teeth for a long time but this one is somewhat acute). 

Part of me stood back and was amazed at the transformation experienced physically, emotionally and mentally with that news.  Like someone flicked a switch.   Where before I was small and sad and frightened, I was large and light and bright with joy.

When I am frightened the world becomes very small because it is all centered on me and my fear.  A pinprick of fear, a pinprick of awareness.  What an illustration.  What a testament to trying to live big, like an ever expanding balloon of gaiety.       

Many years ago I fainted in a theatre during the movie, The Other Side of Midnight, some trashy soap opera whose memorable scene, the attempted (successful?  I don't know I was unconscious)  abortion in a bathtub with a wire hanger.  When I came to I had the profound sensation of being squeezed back into my body.  The I that had temporarily vacated the physical was limitless and bore as much relation to my person as a seed is to a sequoia.

Despite returning to this episode repeatedly I forget the significance of it.  We are more than our bodies, more than our minds, more than our sensations, more than our pedestrian awareness.  I don't know how much more.  Not even sure I am equipped to grasp it, nevertheless it should never be forgotten.

Sometimes it takes a trip to the dentist to be reminded.                  

Needle Phobia - It's Real and It's Not My Fault!

Last week I bit down on a date seed and part of a molar sheared off.  I, who go to great lengths to avoid doctors of any kind, had to go to the dentist to get it repaired.  The nerve was pinging. 

A very nice Indian? woman called coincidentally, Keziah, was my dentist.  I felt I was doing okay but did warn her that I had a 'thing with needles'.  Bear in mind that I haven't had an injection of any sort for at least 15, maybe 20 years. 

It didn't hurt much.  She had to inject several sites around the tooth.  Nevertheless, I was gutted by my reaction.  Tears continuously seeped from my eyes, I felt dizzy and if the chair hadn't been tilted so far back that my head was below my hips, I may have fainted.  I couldn't speak.  When it was over and the technician indicated that I could rinse out my mouth, my hand shook so much I could hardly pick up the cup

I was ashamed and embarrassed.  I will be 60 next month.  Why do I have such an infantile reaction to needles?  And why is it worse now than ever?  (The same reaction goes for gynecological exams.  The last one, over 20 years ago, traumatized me so much that I have not had another).

Thank god, Thank God! for Google!  Just typed in needle injection phobia (http://www.needlephobia.com/)  and found I am not an immature freak.  I haven't finished reading it yet because I am crying, partly in recognition, partly in relief, and partly because I can forgive myself.  

It seems I have two types of needle phobias. 
The first type is..." the vasovagal reflex reaction.  In ordinary language, they faint (or nearly faint) and occasionally go into convulsions before, during or after a needle procedure.  It is a part of what is known as blood-injury-injection phobia.  This is a purely biological reaction, probably genetic, and is completely distinct from all other kinds of phobia.  It is usually triggered, initially at least, by the sensation (which is not necessarily painful) of a needle entering the body. (That's what I told the dentist, when I could speak again.  It wasn't the pain, it was being punctured).

2. The second type of needle phobia is the classic phobia.  This results from a early traumatic experience during a medical needle procedure.  In the case of needle phobia, it is usually a medical event that occurs between the ages of roughly 3 and 6 years.  Due to the carelessness and general thoughtlessness of medical professionals toward young children, this type of needle phobic has recently been rising at an astronomical rate.  It has overtaken the first type in number of cases, and it now far exceeds vasovagal needle phobia.  The recent explosion in the percentage of the population with this type of needle phobia, as documented in a number of medical studies, is an indication that the medical profession is doing something very wrong in the way that it deals with young children, and that this situation has gotten considerably worse in recent years.

3. There is a sub-type of the "classic phobia" that some people have separated out as a separate type.  That is the combative/resistive type of needle phobia.   Some otherwise tranquil people can become quite combative with medical personnel when facing a needle procedure.   This probably results from the all-too-common practice of one or more large adults holding down a small child, often using great force, during needle procedures in childhood."

I don't have the third sub-type of the classic phobia as I don't become violent but I remember clearly, on more than one occasion, trying to outrun teachers and nurses, being cornered and forcibly given an injection when I was a child, the last instance was when I was in 5th grade.  My reputation was such that I was always left until last and all the other children were out of the room.  

I think I ran and fought because I always fainted and losing consciousness and the sensations experienced prior to losing consciousness were so frightening.  That poor little girl.  And I was always made to feel ashamed and BAD because of hating injections so much.  

Interestingly, "Vasovagal needle phobia is a genetic trait that had survival value for humans prior to the 20th century.   Before modern medicine, an individual with an inordinate fear of being stuck with a fang, a thorn or a knife was less likely to die in accidents or in encounters with hostile animals or men.   Prior to the 20th century, even an otherwise non-fatal puncture wound had a reasonable chance of causing a fatal infection.   This trait that had positive survival value prior to the 20th century now has a negative survival value since it shuts its victims off from many of the benefits of 21st-century medicine."

Hence, my choice of words, 'being punctured'.  Having the protective layer, my skin, breached.  It is such a strong image, keeping my skin inviolate and now I begin to understand why. So I could ask for:  topical anesthesia... to totally eliminate the sensation of being stuck by a needle.   It is necessary to temporarily block the site of the needle procedure from sending the needle puncture signals to the brain."

One strategy I employed when I had to have a needle before I could travel to PNG was to pay for the injection first, get all the paperwork out of the way, and warn the staff that after the injection I would be sprinting out of the building.  I got the shot in the fat pad above my hip, pulled my shorts over the site and bolted.  This was in Cairns.  I power walked until I knew I would not faint.  It took a while.  

Part of the shame of fainting is wetting myself while unconscious and when I wake up having to go to the toilet NOW.  For a number two.  It seems part and parcel of the same thing I notice when my horse Balthazar is upset.  When he's anxious he poops and keeps pooping until there's nothing left to poop.  Does he do this so he can run?  Is it the same reason for me?  I may have a veneer of civilization sitting atop this mammalian/reptilian brain but I'm still just a critter in the hostile jungle at heart. 

I also have a phobia about gynecological examinations, hearing or reading about detailed women 'stuff' so much so that when i googled the site - and there is one, I couldn't read it.
Another day, another blog. 

How does one exist in the moment while simultaneously thinking/planning/dreaming of the future?  Mindfulness is all very good.  Getting oneself back to the living breathing infinity of now to counteract the centrifugal pressures of information overload. 

Sometimes I think it would be better not to keep up with current affairs.  After all, it's always and again, 'wars and rumours of war'.  Humanity hasn't changed, we just wage our wars on a bigger scale and with better news coverage (with instantaneous real time video).  With the continuous onslaught of how horrible we are to each other, to the earth and to all living things, I need to bring myself back to here and now.

There's no better way to do that, for me anyway, than to be in nature.  I'm a lousy meditator and have pretty much given up trying to meditate.  Later on I'm sure, I'll drag out my pillow and set the clock and focus on my breath but after round after round after round of practice with little change I have had enough.

(as an aside:  One is instructed to just be aware of the coming and going of thoughts, like puffs of air on the surface of water, while not getting involved with them.  Even that is beyond me.  When I'm thinking a thought, I'm the thought.   I can't stand outside the thought to observe the thought wafting about on the surface on my mind   It may occur to me later that I'm thinking and I'll let that particular thought go, so I can sense the dichotomy of the thought and me as the thought.  Nevertheless, that little bit of meditation wisdom is beyond my ability).

But in Nature.  That is another thing entirely.  I become like a sponge.  I can almost feel the buzz of life; trees growing, grasses growing, insects munching, walking, flying, eating and being eaten, the continuous hum of life.  The very air seems alive.  My ears seem to expand until they are the size of dinner plates.  I look up and there is the sky.  The Sky!  A continuous look through infinity if we'll just raise our gaze.  And the clouds, like white schooners, solid yet amorphous, drifting over me, me looking up and making them real by seeing them.  How little we take in.  It is much easier for me to BE when in nature.  It is easy not to be defined by thought for all my thought is defined by the boundless Self in Nature. 

Sometimes when I've been inside for a long time and I step out under the sky, I can feel my spirit expand to match the limitlessness of it.  Until that moment I didn't realize I was constrained, constricted and made little by four walls and a ceiling.  It is those moments when planning or dreaming of a future is just a game to amuse the human element.  The spirit is always infinite.