Do It Again

I got myself into a bit of a '70s music funkadelia this weekend. My friend's yoga studio is closing down, which led me to consider a new iPod playlist that conveyed my sense of appreciation, sadness, and acknowledgement of impermanence to accompany my last session at Yoga Sun. Seems going retro fit the bill and my list looked a little like this:

Cat Stevens -- Moonshadow
Three Dog Night -- Shambala
ELO -- Strange Magic
REO Speedwagon -- Roll With the Changes
Supertramp -- Give a Little Bit
Styx -- The Grand Illusion
Boston -- Peace of Mind
Yes -- I've Seen All Good People
Echo & the Bunnyman cover of It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
Nancy Sinatra cover of Like a Rolling Stone
Fleetwood Mac  -- Songbird
Elton John -- Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Supertramp -- Even in the Quietest Moments
Kansas -- Dust in the Wind

The inclusion of Kansas was admittedly maudlin, but I had a moment where I realized this may be the very song that planted the seed for my current interest in Zen Buddhism. I remember, or have constructed a memory from many bits and pieces, sitting in the car as a young lass in the '70s becoming absorbed in the lyrics, "nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky," and wondering if even the earth and sky last forever. It felt so deep, true, and sufficiently melancholy to me then. Even today it's a nostalgic wake-up call.

Five yogis including myself showed up for this final Sunday practice. Instead of a regular class we placed our mats in a circle, facing each other, and each moved through our own sequence, united by sweet ujjayi breathing. At a point, we all seemed to make our way to the floor and Russ introduced some acro-yoga partner poses.  I noticed in myself that I have an easier time trusting my supporting partner when it is my time to fly. I doubt myself when it comes to supporting others in flight. Curious. A worthy point for self inquiry. Fortunately this did not translate into me dropping anyone, but as a human being and a teacher I would like to know if this is an area where I can change.

A tune that did not make it into the yoga list, but which captivated my attention for multiple playings is Steely Dan's Do It Again. Don't we all know the experience of doing again something we don't wanna? I'm sure I'm not the only human being with habits. The more time I spend in meditation the more I'm aware of these tracks of thought and action that play themselves out over and over again. To some degree I can step back and see these from a new perspective. I have the idea to explore during this upcoming summer break from teaching school whether I can free myself from a few of these balls and chains--give myself a little wiggle room, so to speak. I'm going public with probably the easiest, most tangible habit and I'll share with this blog the ins and outs of once again weaning myself from a pernicious addiction to sugar. I've been free before, but working in an elementary school and allowing myself to fall into over-activity has brought on a slow erosion of my resolve. Sugar is my crack. I know it does me no good. It doesn't even give me the pleasure reward it used to, but if I take a little, I'm mindlessly reaching for more. So back to square one. I've signed up to see if Spoonful of Sugar Free's 30-days of tips and camaraderie will support me in the attempt. Maybe you find yourself in the same sweet snare. Join in, if joining's your thing. Let me know how it goes for you. Mutual support could be a good thing--maybe I'll figure out how to be the acro-yoga base afterall.

The challenge begins Wednesday, June 1st, which means I'll probably order pancakes with syrup for brunch this morning. What can I say--knowing I'm intending to give it all up only makes me want it more now. Maybe I'll make another choice. Let's see.

Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. Robert Frost

I'll confess I had my share of jesting over the most recent apocalypse non-event, but not even nearly full-hearted jesting.  My Facebook nod in the doomsdayers' direction merely stated that it was a beautiful day in which to be left behind--and I meant it. After a week of rain and drizzle the sun made an appearance, even if the Son didn't.

I spent the morning of the last day that wasn't teaching a yoga class then ventured to my hometown to work a large garden plot with two of my sisters. My grandpa has gardened all his life yielding enormous bounties of tomatoes, corn, potatoes, turnips--all good things. This year he has offered up a section of land and access to his city water shares. My sisters and I decided to put all our agrarian local cooperative talk to the test. The soil was heavy from the recent rain, but with my brother-in-law at the helm of a rototiller we worked it into decent shape and planted  several long rows of potatoes and corn. We'll get beans, tomatoes, squash and greens in later this week. It was a lovely day. I had no desire to be lifted up from the earth, not when I could smell fresh loam under my fingernails and casually chat about what's wrong with the world with two people who share a similar perspective on account of our common upbringing.

Saturday evening, 7 PM MST, 6 PM PST, my daughter played multiple roles in a Hamlet parody. She stole the show with her Granny Polonius. I looked around to see if anyone was going to be lifted up but the only levitating was that of was human laughter, and isn't that just as it should be?

Don't get me wrong. I understand doomsdayers on a certain level. Something begins; something ends. That much seems to be true of just about everything. Whether the sun goes supernova or we humans consume ourselves out of house and home, banking on the end of the world as we know it is a safe bet.  I felt this personally on a field trip with my 2nd graders to a local museum. Standing in the paleontology room inspecting the length of a full-scope historical timeline I took in the reality of the blip human existence is in the big scheme of things. I can smile wryly with Billy Collins when I read:

It doesn't take much to remind me

what a mayfly I am,

what a soap bubble floating over the children's party.

Standing under the bones of a dinosaur

in a museum does the trick every time 

And still, there I was on Saturday, cutting seed potatoes into plantable segments as though there were plenty of tomorrows in which to enjoy a harvest.

Not the Post I Had in Mind

I'm feeling good right now. After a week of sinus congestion, itchy eyes, and activity overload I'm at ease at home, having spent a low-key Mother's Day out with my family. I love that my girls are old enough now to enjoy a movie like Jane Eyre and my husband willing enough to see it with us. If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.

Even more, it's been a week of encounters with failure which has interestingly enough lifted me out of a personal funk. The lift began with last week's post on being wrong. What a great find that TED clip was. Throughout the week references to failure and making mistakes serendipitously crossed my path, beginning with comments by fellow blogger Sabio Lanz. In response to the Kathryn Shulz TED lecture he wrote:

What we do when someone disagrees with us. We assume one of the following:

1. They are ignorant
2. They are idiots
3. They are evil

How about:

4. I wonder what delusions and joys we share in spite of our disagreement?

5. How can I let our differences positively effect me and maybe change me?

The last two items--Sabio's contributions--jarred me out of a habitual way of looking at the world. This habitual way is to assume hostility from those whose views differ from my own. I don't know if this is an evolutionary, instinctive trait. My storyline flows from an assumption that having left the faith of my childhood, my local community, family, friends, and most co-workers has put me in a precarious position. I assume they all think I'm hellbound for not believing what I don't believe. This religious departure has been a sticking point for me personally, a place to get hung up. I've interpreted my differences of perception with my faithful neighbors in ways that have left me feeling isolated. In varying degrees I've dealt with the feelings and managed to get along however awkwardly, sometimes biting my tongue, sometimes sticking my foot in my mouth. I have not made it a habit, however, to wonder what delusions and joys I might share with these folks in spite of our disagreement, let alone ask how I can let our differences positively affect me and perhaps, gulp, change me. I recognized right away that this is an ego thing--an attempt of my impermanent "I" to assert and define itself in fixed terms. My sinuses cleared at the same time I felt myself breathing easier about acknowledging impermanence. I felt myself let go of some of my wariness about making my secular way through a highly religious crowd.

The following day, Thursday, I sat in the faculty lunch room listening to a co-worker talk about how a suicide presented an opportunity to share with someone the "Lord's" plan. My gut reaction was to look away, try to eat a little faster, and find  a way to excuse myself. Instead, I looked up at this individual and tried to see the human being in front of me--complex, just as impermanent and difficult to define as myself. I did not share the particular delusion of which he spoke, but I wondered which other delusions we might share. (My tongue is in cheek here with the word 'delusions,' please know that) We both seemed to feel heavy over the thought of another individual calling it quits. We also have common concerns about the children we teach. Surely there is more to our common humanity. The rest of the afternoon I felt lighter, happier, more interested in the people around me.

Thursday night Glee Season 2 Disc one arrived from Netflix in my mailbox. I'm embarrassed to admit I watch this, but I'm only human, so there you go. The episode "Grilled Cheesus" was genius and touched all the right thematic buttons for this week. One character makes a grilled cheese on an old Foreman grill and sees the face of Jesus burned into the toast. He prays to the sandwich and three of his wishes are granted. The episode explores an array of spiritual options through cheesy show tunes and popular music while relying the heart attack of the casts' gay character's father to lend it the appropriate gravitas. Kurt, the gay character, doesn't believe in God and is put off by the offers of prayers by the other members of the Glee Club. I related. He gets to experience in this episode letting differences positively affect and change him. No, he is not converted, but he recognizes his need for these others, and comes to appreciate his friends' sincere efforts to comfort and support him. Lighter and lighter still.

The big questions--who are we? Why are we here? Why does any of this exist? How did life come to be? How should we live? What happens when we die?--these are bewildering conundrums. As the school counselor tells the disabused Cheesus dude, everyone has to deal with them. I feel a little less inclined to judge those around me who take comfort in the face of these questions by believing in a personal God who looks out for them. I find my meaning through other avenues, through attempting to live as honestly and consciously as I can. I know I fail to live up to this ideal daily. I appreciated reading this week the words of Yogi/Zen meditator Michael Stone

By committing to a practice of being quiet, waking up the intelligence of the body, and listening and communicating as best I can, I try to embody the teachings of the dharma in everything I do. This kind of commitment always gets me in trouble because I continually fail. Failing becomes the practice.

So I continually fail in reaching my ideals of compassion, health, yoga/meditation practice. My philosophy doesn't spare me from the day to day troubles of having to deal with people, some of whom I like and others who rub me the wrong way (and those who feel similarly about me). But failing becomes the practice, and I'm OK with that. I'm taking on a renewed sense of commitment to my practice, to waking up from my funks and delusions when I can, and to being happy in this puzzling but breathtaking universe and world of people, places and things.

Fallor Ergo Sum

Whatever precautions you take so the photograph will look like this or that, there comes a moment when the photograph surprises you. It is the other's gaze that wins out and decides.
Jacques Derrida

I've often said I reserve the right to be wrong, an escape hatch, perhaps, for being careless with my words at times. Recently I've had a lapse of faith in my reasons for writing. Why do I do this? I blog rather than keep a private journal because the possibility, not the requirement, of a reader, I hope, will keep me honest, willing to consider an alternative view--willing, in short, to be wrong. Jacques Derrida is credited for saying that every reading is a misreading--that is to say, whatever precaution I take so this blog will sound like this or that, there comes a moment when the words surprise me. It is the other's (mis)reading that wins out and decides. Well, that's an entirely new aspect of public writing that caught me off guard. It shouldn't have, probably, because on some level I know how difficult authentic communication is. I've participated in plenty of what I call "parallel universe" conversations with other people. We go along talking and it seems we either agree or disagree but know what it is we agree or disagree on, and then my partner in repartee makes a comment that reveals to me we, neither of us, have heard what the other was truly saying. SHOCK! Waste of time? Maybe not. Maybe the value is simply in the recognition and the reattempt.

Recognizing this recently in terms of blogging gave me a case of virtual laryngitis. I lost my voice. I began thinking about Zen Buddhists (other Buddhists, too, maybe) or philosophical yogis who take vows of silence. It's possible that keeping our mouths shut is truly the only way to be honest, to avoid misinterpretation. But where's the fun in that, right? Besides, someone is bound to take silence the wrong way, too. Yesterday an acquaintance of mine posted this TED Conference clip on Facebook and voila! I'm cured. Not without some trepidation, mind you, I return to clicking away my perceptions on this keyboard wondering who will read it and why. Kathryn Schulz says early on in this talk, "The single greatest moral, intellectual leap you can make is to admit you might be wrong." I agree. This single concept has been the seed center of my philosophical/spiritual/whatever perspective for more years than I can remember. I might be wrong. I don't know.

Believe me, this does not give me a sense of moral superiority. (Do I pity the fools who don't get it? Maybe. OK, so at times it does give me a sense of moral superiority. Don't worry, though, I also anticipate a moment in the near future when this rug will be pulled out from under me and I'll be sitting on the ground rubbing my bruised ass while watching stars and birds encircle my head. I won't be  feeling so damn morally superior then.)   In terms of this little blog project, this exercise in expression is more an endeavor at affective creativity than an intellectually rigorous invitation to debate. I really don't mind when someone disagrees with me philosophically, and I'm not too invested in winning a battle of right ideas. However, where I do get stuck is on feeling that when I attempt to strike a certain emotional chord that it will resonate with all people in all times exactly the way it resonated with me. There's my Achilles' heel. I can quote Ira Glass via Kathryn Shulz with ironic experience that my intention when writing was that "this one thing was going to happen, and something else happened instead."

I may be wrong here, but I think the crux of what Derrida says is that the artist or even mere instigator of the conversation is not the creator of the meaning. There is no such thing as intellectual property, despite copyright laws and patent offices. Now I'll be pulling in too many disparate sources with my next leap, but bear with me. This connects for me with the Buddhist idea of emptiness. No form. Even our perspectives of the tangible world are just perspectives--open to interpretation, seen differently from another angle. That's a daunting thought, isn't it, to recognize this illusion that we've been standing on solid ground, that the world may not be, in fact, probably is not what we thought it was? But it is only when I recognize this--never when I'm stuck in feeling safe and right--that "the world turns around and astonishes" me.

I'll end this post with a quote from Shulz, in case you've been pressed for time and couldn't listen to her entire talk, or alternatively were so enthralled with my writing you didn't want to interrupt it by clicking the hyperlink:

"If you really want to rediscover wonder, step outside of that tiny, terrified space of rightness and look around at each other, and look out at the vastness and complexity and mystery of the universe, and be able to say, 'Wow. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong.'"