It's two weeks since I proved I could pee and fart on my own and hence be trusted to take care of myself post-surgery. I'd say recovery is going about as well as one could hope after having a blessed surgeon paw and snip around in my belly to remove what I now call (thanks to a dear friend's contribution) the BFU (Big Effing Uterus). The fibroid had all but swallowed the organ and grew to six times its normal weight in grams. I'm down to one Ibuprofin at night, more as a security blanket than anything. I find I like to have a slight bit of pain so that I imagine I can be aware of what's happening on the healing front. I can't always read the twinges and throbs accurately, but I trust them to signal when I get restless and want to do more than is prudent. And what will I write on this side of that life-changing event? A gratitude list. Yup, a boring, reduntant old gratitude list. Everybody's doing them these days. They're all the rage. But why not acknowledge the things that give me pause, add richness and dimension, and boost the endorphins in my brain just thinking about them? It's a positive, maybe naive, gesture, and here goes:
1. A cancer-free pathology report. Needs no 'splainin'.
2. Having a PA for a friend and a surrogate big sister. She'd give me the straight poop when no one else could, and the straight poop--good, accurate, thorough information--is just what a gal like me needs in times like these.
3. A balmy Indian Summer. My daily outdoor excursion in my PJ's surrounded in warm sun, blue sky, and the brilliant fire of dying leaves.
4. A change in the air this morning. I walked around the neighborhood, still in my PJ's, and took a good look at the spindly cosmos, defiant zinnias, alyssum, fall crocus, marigolds blazing away their last bit of color. The crisp apple crunch kind of air around my face and a nice, functional robe letting in only just enough of the cold to let me in on the change of season at hand.
5. Cats. Quiet cats. I can't tell you how satisfying it is to recline back and watch the boys slink, lurk, snooze, wrestle, investigate, and just be.
6. Good books.
7. A competent substitute teacher holding down the fort until I return.
8. Funny get well cards from my students. One had a picture of me on a gurney, advising me not to roll away. Another, read when I was in a bit more pain, wishing me a fun time, a great time, and that no one would be mean to me.
9. Family. This really isn't in heirarchial order, by the way. These are people who love me and whom I love. That's good, isn't it?
10. Netflix. Let's not denigrate decent, or even occasionally trashy, entertainment.
11. Nourishing food. Carrot juice and hummus, amazing raw Thai lettuce wraps, brown rice, vegan chili, whole grain no sugar muffins. Let food by thy medicine says Hipocrates, and these gifts from friends and family were more effective healers than any chicken noodle soup I've ever tasted.
Aw, there's more, but I'll stop here. Me thinks this blog has run its natural course. It's been a fun exercise in expression and writing, but it's too personal for a public forum. So until I dream up something that would be worthy of acquiring a following of readers, I'll retire from the project. I'm happy to do so, because the last thing on my gratitude list is:
Simplicity. This recovery period has given me the gift of slowing down and paying attention. I like it. Life will get busier, but I'm intent on keeping it only just busy enough with things I find relevant and valuable. That's all. I have no desire to fritter away the minutes and hours of my life with anything less.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Starting Over
If my life had a soundtrack it would be Modest Mouse all the time these days. I've stumbled onto Ocean Breathes Salty, and Missed the Boat, both ditties capturing a sense of bewilderment at life and wondering what constitutes not wasting it. An approaching surgery date and my nasty habit of catastrophic thinking force me to consider what is truly important and how the hell is it I find myself rushing through my days and schedules. It's likely I'll live after going under general anesthesia, despite my exaggerated and self-absorbed worries to the contrary. Once the fog of pain meds lifts, I figure this unanticipated halt will give me time to assess what is essential and what is crap. It's a chance, really, to slow down. I'll have every excuse to say no to obligations. I'll have every opportunity to minimize and, I hope, find richness in less. That's about as much a positive spin as I can put on this thing, but it's enough. World at Large gets me thinking on how, though I've physically not moved around too much, life seems marked by starting over and starting over, moving from one phase to another. I stayed at home with my kids when they were little. I've worked simple jobs since. I threw pottery for a season, knitted scarves for everyone I knew another. I find myself in this teacher role lately. All the pleasure and insight from my past six years from yoga will now significantly change. I don't know which parts of me will hang around. I feel like I'm heading out to the porch to have a thought, but when I get to the door will I be able to stop? I don't know. Let's see. At any rate, the Dashboard is broken, but I've still got the radio.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Disease a Metaphor?
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
Walt Whitman
I loves me a little irony from time to time, I truly do. In fact, the very day I wrote and published my last post on floating on, not fighting the river, I went in for my routine summer physical. I do it every year, only apparently I missed last year. Sort of wish I hadn't done that (or had done that--which?). But no sense crying over spilled milk, right? Long story short, an ultrasound and MRI later I find myself looking at an October surgery date to remove what I've come to fondly call my BFT--Big Friendly Tumor. Friendly on account of the likelihood that this lovely companion is benign. Big because it extends a whopping 9.5 cm above my uterus and measures 8 cm front to back. Or, as the MRI tech let slip, "That thing's gotta be as big as my fist!" Ironic that I'd be needing my own advice so soon. As Elizabeth Bishop wrote:
I've been through the five stages of grief a few times, even while realizing that my simple affliction is nothing in comparison to what others are facing. I'm not sure what my post-surgery life will look like, how long it will take to build up my yoga practice, how my students will react to having a substitute teacher for a month, how my body will function minus an organ. I've been on an Internet research rampage, weighed my multiple options and accept the choices I've made. You have to take what you read on the Web with a grain of salt. You all know that. There are enough anecdotes out there to keep the toughest of us quivering in the dark for a lifetime. Fortunately I'm blessed with good friends who have been there, done that and gone on to LIVE tremendously satisfying lives. No guarantees, of course, but a girl's gotta have hope.
The threads of thought that rub me the wrongest are those that suggest these physical maladies are really metaphors for things like blocked creative energy, latent self-destructive tendencies, that sort of thing. My brain is as much a meaning-making mechanism as anyone's, but this kind of thinking only adds a layer of guilt to an already bothersome set of circumstances. I don't believe for a minute that if I could only somehow release pent up energy in my root chakra this delightsome growth will bid me adieu on its own. I'm not discounting a mind-body connection; I'm only saying this level of belief in it goes too far. Things arise and things disintegrate. That's an undeniable fact. I'm joining Walt Whitman's team and delighting more in a morning glory on my windowsill than in a theory of why things are they way they are.
Walt Whitman
I loves me a little irony from time to time, I truly do. In fact, the very day I wrote and published my last post on floating on, not fighting the river, I went in for my routine summer physical. I do it every year, only apparently I missed last year. Sort of wish I hadn't done that (or had done that--which?). But no sense crying over spilled milk, right? Long story short, an ultrasound and MRI later I find myself looking at an October surgery date to remove what I've come to fondly call my BFT--Big Friendly Tumor. Friendly on account of the likelihood that this lovely companion is benign. Big because it extends a whopping 9.5 cm above my uterus and measures 8 cm front to back. Or, as the MRI tech let slip, "That thing's gotta be as big as my fist!" Ironic that I'd be needing my own advice so soon. As Elizabeth Bishop wrote:
She goes on to recommend practice, practice, practice at this One Art, starting small then moving up to places, names, uteruses--things like that. Things like rental car keys sitting at the bottom of Flaming Gorge Reservoir and the few hours badly spent there are simply a warm-up for the inevitable biggies: relationships, identities, life. I get plenty of practice. In fact, last Monday I misplaced my keys after a yoga class and only just found them this morning. My usual strategy of resting assured that they will turn up eventually worked, only quite a bit more slowly than usual. Ah, well. So you'd think I'd be pretty good, maybe even stoic, about my latest adventure in losing.
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I've been through the five stages of grief a few times, even while realizing that my simple affliction is nothing in comparison to what others are facing. I'm not sure what my post-surgery life will look like, how long it will take to build up my yoga practice, how my students will react to having a substitute teacher for a month, how my body will function minus an organ. I've been on an Internet research rampage, weighed my multiple options and accept the choices I've made. You have to take what you read on the Web with a grain of salt. You all know that. There are enough anecdotes out there to keep the toughest of us quivering in the dark for a lifetime. Fortunately I'm blessed with good friends who have been there, done that and gone on to LIVE tremendously satisfying lives. No guarantees, of course, but a girl's gotta have hope.
The threads of thought that rub me the wrongest are those that suggest these physical maladies are really metaphors for things like blocked creative energy, latent self-destructive tendencies, that sort of thing. My brain is as much a meaning-making mechanism as anyone's, but this kind of thinking only adds a layer of guilt to an already bothersome set of circumstances. I don't believe for a minute that if I could only somehow release pent up energy in my root chakra this delightsome growth will bid me adieu on its own. I'm not discounting a mind-body connection; I'm only saying this level of belief in it goes too far. Things arise and things disintegrate. That's an undeniable fact. I'm joining Walt Whitman's team and delighting more in a morning glory on my windowsill than in a theory of why things are they way they are.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
The Flip Side of Serendipity
Well, there's serendipity and then there's serendipity. I've wondered this week about the flip side of the happy accident. What exactly would that look like? Random, it could not be. Intentional, planned misery. Or maybe the unintended crummy consequences of our deliberate plans. I've had plenty of those shipwrecks, but they're not my focus today. I'll sidestep that version of unserendipity and consider the converse of this pet term to mean a random happenstance that does not immediately make me feel good.
Consider: Last week I needed to take my car in for safety and emissions update. I drove to the Jiffy Lube just down the street and was informed their emissions computer crashed, but I could quickly motor my way to one of their other shops a few blocks away. I did this, only to be told again the emissions computer had gone down. What a coincidence, right? Twice in one day. Must mean something. Well, yeah, it meant I had my car checked out at Lube Doc instead. Still, my sci-fi fed imagination couldn't help but wonder how this diversion to my plan may have altered the trajectory of the universe (which revolves around me, in case you didn't know this). Was the chit chat with the man in the lobby somehow significant? We'll never know for sure, but I'll accept any tokens of gratitude for the fact the world as you know it did not come to an end that morning.
Now I'll give you a peek into my recent family vacation that was chock full of accidents, happy or otherwise, and we'll take a closer look at good/bad luck. A good friend hosts an annual tribal gathering at Flaming Gorge Reservoir each year. He is one of those people who knows everyone. Each year he single-handedly reserves a shit-load of campsites for about 60 - 80 people, give or take a kid or two. Most years he reserves the "good" site, the one with running water and showers that sits a hop, skip, and a jump away from the lake and good cliff jumping. This year he reserved late and we found ourselves pulling into an unfamiliar primitive ground. Can you say stinking outhouse shared by 60 - 80 people give or take a kid or two? We were unprepared and brought no water. OK, no worries. I drove to the crook-in-the-road convenience store/raft rental shop and bought some. How covenient. The place was dirty and hot, but we'd be rafting the Green River and hanging out at the lake during daylight hours. I could rustle up some flexibility and go with this flow.
Friday we rode to the lake with our good friend towing a couple of kayaks. The kids paddled around for awhile, learning to steer or not to steer, as they pleased. They jumped from cliffs and swam around while Significant Other and I kayaked around the wakes of speedier, flashier boats and explored a few nooks and crannies of the reservoir. Good way to kill time. I didn't want to be there, but I practiced this newfound optimistic flexibility and enjoyed the water if not the sun. Meanwhile, dusk approaches, we direct our boats and bodies back to the shore and rental car parked in the lot. Chris asks for keys which I had no recollection of having. He had taken them back to the car before our float to lock a few valuables in the trunk. I'll spare you any gruesome details and simply state that the keys were not found. Anywhere. We called the local sheriff--fortunately handy at the dam (Homeland Security and all) who unlocked the car. Did you know most rental car places don't stock spare keys? It's policy. We ended up having the car towed to the nearest town an hour away. Expensive accident. Not quite serendipity, but can I fill you in on a little secret? It didn't ruin the trip.
See, I'm thinking serendipity is little more than a placebo. Blogger Sabio Lantz commented on my last post "'Serendipity' is usually post hoc rationalization to make us feel good about the inevitable." Well said, dude. And I'm inclined to believe there's nothing wrong with that. Studies have shown that much of the benefit of pharmaceutical anti-depressants, for example, can be attributed to the placebo effect. This certainly isn't a scientific certainty, but I'd like to propose that serendipity is cheaper than Prozac, and all it requires is a little attention, flexibility, and openness to uncertainty and change. I am no shining beacon of equanimity, but I happily report that the rest of this doomed vacation was just fine. Though we were required to rely on the kindness of strangers for the duration, we enjoyed a happy float down the river the next day in kayaks and rafts. My kids made friends with folks they didn't know. Chris and I synched up our energies in a two-person kayak, and during the slow times on the river I had time to muse on how chock full of metaphors a few hours on a river can be. For example, the less you fight the river, the more you pay attention, read it, work with it, the more pleasant, exciting, adventurous the trip will be. I had a Modest Mouse soundtrack playing in the back of my thoughts: "We'll all float on OK." And we will.
There are tragedies greater than losing one's keys at the bottom of a deep lake. Upon returning I learned that the partner of a dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer and had an immediate double mastectomy scheduled. She's since had that operation, and latest report is that she's getting through with humor, trash TV, and loving support. The spouse of a colleague died of cancer that week as well. I won't make light of the loss or the pain, and I can't call it serendipity, but this is part of the flow as well. We can fight the river, turn our backs to it and fall off the raft, or we can watch it with attention and enjoy the ride. We may still fall off the raft, but that's part of the ride, too. All right already.
Consider: Last week I needed to take my car in for safety and emissions update. I drove to the Jiffy Lube just down the street and was informed their emissions computer crashed, but I could quickly motor my way to one of their other shops a few blocks away. I did this, only to be told again the emissions computer had gone down. What a coincidence, right? Twice in one day. Must mean something. Well, yeah, it meant I had my car checked out at Lube Doc instead. Still, my sci-fi fed imagination couldn't help but wonder how this diversion to my plan may have altered the trajectory of the universe (which revolves around me, in case you didn't know this). Was the chit chat with the man in the lobby somehow significant? We'll never know for sure, but I'll accept any tokens of gratitude for the fact the world as you know it did not come to an end that morning.
Now I'll give you a peek into my recent family vacation that was chock full of accidents, happy or otherwise, and we'll take a closer look at good/bad luck. A good friend hosts an annual tribal gathering at Flaming Gorge Reservoir each year. He is one of those people who knows everyone. Each year he single-handedly reserves a shit-load of campsites for about 60 - 80 people, give or take a kid or two. Most years he reserves the "good" site, the one with running water and showers that sits a hop, skip, and a jump away from the lake and good cliff jumping. This year he reserved late and we found ourselves pulling into an unfamiliar primitive ground. Can you say stinking outhouse shared by 60 - 80 people give or take a kid or two? We were unprepared and brought no water. OK, no worries. I drove to the crook-in-the-road convenience store/raft rental shop and bought some. How covenient. The place was dirty and hot, but we'd be rafting the Green River and hanging out at the lake during daylight hours. I could rustle up some flexibility and go with this flow.
Friday we rode to the lake with our good friend towing a couple of kayaks. The kids paddled around for awhile, learning to steer or not to steer, as they pleased. They jumped from cliffs and swam around while Significant Other and I kayaked around the wakes of speedier, flashier boats and explored a few nooks and crannies of the reservoir. Good way to kill time. I didn't want to be there, but I practiced this newfound optimistic flexibility and enjoyed the water if not the sun. Meanwhile, dusk approaches, we direct our boats and bodies back to the shore and rental car parked in the lot. Chris asks for keys which I had no recollection of having. He had taken them back to the car before our float to lock a few valuables in the trunk. I'll spare you any gruesome details and simply state that the keys were not found. Anywhere. We called the local sheriff--fortunately handy at the dam (Homeland Security and all) who unlocked the car. Did you know most rental car places don't stock spare keys? It's policy. We ended up having the car towed to the nearest town an hour away. Expensive accident. Not quite serendipity, but can I fill you in on a little secret? It didn't ruin the trip.
See, I'm thinking serendipity is little more than a placebo. Blogger Sabio Lantz commented on my last post "'Serendipity' is usually post hoc rationalization to make us feel good about the inevitable." Well said, dude. And I'm inclined to believe there's nothing wrong with that. Studies have shown that much of the benefit of pharmaceutical anti-depressants, for example, can be attributed to the placebo effect. This certainly isn't a scientific certainty, but I'd like to propose that serendipity is cheaper than Prozac, and all it requires is a little attention, flexibility, and openness to uncertainty and change. I am no shining beacon of equanimity, but I happily report that the rest of this doomed vacation was just fine. Though we were required to rely on the kindness of strangers for the duration, we enjoyed a happy float down the river the next day in kayaks and rafts. My kids made friends with folks they didn't know. Chris and I synched up our energies in a two-person kayak, and during the slow times on the river I had time to muse on how chock full of metaphors a few hours on a river can be. For example, the less you fight the river, the more you pay attention, read it, work with it, the more pleasant, exciting, adventurous the trip will be. I had a Modest Mouse soundtrack playing in the back of my thoughts: "We'll all float on OK." And we will.
There are tragedies greater than losing one's keys at the bottom of a deep lake. Upon returning I learned that the partner of a dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer and had an immediate double mastectomy scheduled. She's since had that operation, and latest report is that she's getting through with humor, trash TV, and loving support. The spouse of a colleague died of cancer that week as well. I won't make light of the loss or the pain, and I can't call it serendipity, but this is part of the flow as well. We can fight the river, turn our backs to it and fall off the raft, or we can watch it with attention and enjoy the ride. We may still fall off the raft, but that's part of the ride, too. All right already.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Serendipity
Ah, aptitude for stumbling upon a happy discovery quite by accident. My sister and I have been using this word frequently of late, an inside joke that was born from a moment when an esteemed professor used it with boyish giddiness to describe a chance encounter he had experienced. It's a bright, cheery concept and as long as I'm open and flexible I begin to have more of these uncanny near misses, chance meetings, and pleasant surprises. Now, I'm a skeptic. Really. OK, prone to fits of magical thinking from time to time, but usually I try to step back to take a more naturalistic view of events and coincidences. So I don't know what to make of serendipity except to laugh with delight and enjoy the little joke without expecting much more from it.
On Sunday my sis and I had plans to drive to Metropolis with friends. We would visit a Zen center there, then head to a local pub before making our way up a hillside to catch some soundwaves of a concert that rise up the slope above the heads of the ticket-buying crowd below. D was late making it to my house and we were picking up a friend on the way. I got chatting and missed the exit, had to turn around to pick up friend S before we could really get moving toward our destination. I noticed a not-so-subtle current of anxiety rise: would we be on time? I didn't want to enter the center after everyone had begun to sit. My eyes would flit from the road in front of me to the clock on the dash. I'd make mental calculations. My clock is six minutes fast, so subtract that, guess how many miles we had to go, figure in miles per minute. We might just make it in the nick of time. Meanwhile, D's friend L calls while we're on the road. She thinks she's made it to the center, which in reality is hard to tell because it's tucked inside a renovated Art Space building. She'll wait outside until we arrive. I take the offramp into the city with five minutes before the Buddhists will begin meditating. I hang a left, then a left, then a right, hoping it's the right street, discover I've undershot by a block. No worries, I can just hang a left ahead and we're right there. Nope. It's right turn only, so I make a U-turn and drive back to the previous street. As we're driving back, S, from the backseat, says, "Isn't that L?" We look back, and there sits L, texting away in the shade in front of the wrong building--the building that is exactly one block east of the Zen center. We stop, holler at her to get in, then get to the center, a little late, but there. It's quiet. A handful of meditators sit. I'm sheepish as I gingerly lift the velcro strap of my Tevas, but we tiptoe our barefoot way to some cushions and settle in barely detected.
What's the big deal, you say? No big deal, but there I was thinking I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, only to find out I was right were I was. Had we gone straight to the Zen center and not found L there the time spent tracking her down would have thrown us embarrassingly behind schedule and we might have simply slunk off to the pub with our tails between our legs earlier than planned to wash down our veggie burgers with a 25 oz. Hefeweizen, and we would have missed one of the most beneficial Dharma talks I've had the pleasure to hear.
On Sunday my sis and I had plans to drive to Metropolis with friends. We would visit a Zen center there, then head to a local pub before making our way up a hillside to catch some soundwaves of a concert that rise up the slope above the heads of the ticket-buying crowd below. D was late making it to my house and we were picking up a friend on the way. I got chatting and missed the exit, had to turn around to pick up friend S before we could really get moving toward our destination. I noticed a not-so-subtle current of anxiety rise: would we be on time? I didn't want to enter the center after everyone had begun to sit. My eyes would flit from the road in front of me to the clock on the dash. I'd make mental calculations. My clock is six minutes fast, so subtract that, guess how many miles we had to go, figure in miles per minute. We might just make it in the nick of time. Meanwhile, D's friend L calls while we're on the road. She thinks she's made it to the center, which in reality is hard to tell because it's tucked inside a renovated Art Space building. She'll wait outside until we arrive. I take the offramp into the city with five minutes before the Buddhists will begin meditating. I hang a left, then a left, then a right, hoping it's the right street, discover I've undershot by a block. No worries, I can just hang a left ahead and we're right there. Nope. It's right turn only, so I make a U-turn and drive back to the previous street. As we're driving back, S, from the backseat, says, "Isn't that L?" We look back, and there sits L, texting away in the shade in front of the wrong building--the building that is exactly one block east of the Zen center. We stop, holler at her to get in, then get to the center, a little late, but there. It's quiet. A handful of meditators sit. I'm sheepish as I gingerly lift the velcro strap of my Tevas, but we tiptoe our barefoot way to some cushions and settle in barely detected.
What's the big deal, you say? No big deal, but there I was thinking I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, only to find out I was right were I was. Had we gone straight to the Zen center and not found L there the time spent tracking her down would have thrown us embarrassingly behind schedule and we might have simply slunk off to the pub with our tails between our legs earlier than planned to wash down our veggie burgers with a 25 oz. Hefeweizen, and we would have missed one of the most beneficial Dharma talks I've had the pleasure to hear.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
New Day
Watched the Harry Potter grand finale with my Bellatrix LeStrange daughter last night. It was OK. Gave me, how you say, closure? Anyway, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet. Makes me wanna move my dancing feet, only I'm going to a teacher's conference instead. Two days of listening to the same speaker. Better be good. No, better be spectacular. Well, it could be, right?
Things look bright this morning. Feel right, you know? I'm in a good place. Hope you all are, too.
Things look bright this morning. Feel right, you know? I'm in a good place. Hope you all are, too.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
White Blank Page
Stealing the title from a song by my newest musical fascination Mumford and Sons feels right enough now a full month since my last blog post. The computer screen presents its own version of a white, blank page as does my mind, all but for a bit of longing I feel for a quiet, clean slate with no intrusive words or thoughts. Now what would Mr. Freud have to say about that? But the words they do intrude and I'm here again on a slow July afternoon ticking away at the keys with nothing more exciting on my mind than the thought of weeding a garden.
The large plot my sisters and I have cultivated is growing. The potatoes, squash, beans and corn are thriving, as are their fiercest competitors, weeds. Now in the thick of the season I go to the garden to commit a slew of murders on the bindweeds (we called them morning glory when I was a kid) and the red roots my grandpa says can be used to fatten pigs. It's tedious, but only as tedious as meditation. Once I'm there and in a groove, I rather enjoy it. I've unintentionally chased mother spiders carrying egg sacks into nearby holes and left beetles scurrying for the next patch of overgrowth, only to be disrupted again my my pink gloved hands of the goddess. If the earth is soft, the roots slide out with satisfying ease. Similarly to beginning a bike ride or working through sun salutations, I start out with my mind chatter racing on an on about pretty much nothing: imaginary conversations I'll never have, plans, lists, sentences I think I might write. Chit, chit, chit, chit. I can get pretty worked up emotionally. It's a hoot, really. So I'm constantly reeling my attention back in to my breath, the the next stem I'll pinch just below the soil, the feel of a bead of sweat making its way down the funnel of my spine. After 20 minutes or so I can look back and see the cleared space behind me with only the foliage of potato plants. Mmm. That's nice. On a good day I can slow the monkey mind down, too, or at least recognize it for the biological functioning of the organ we call a brain and not Ultimate Reality. That's nice, too. I get a little less worked up then.
Yesterday I spent two and a half hours in that weeding dynamic, feeling good about clearing, erasing, creating some white blank page. I began to see myself there on the edge between cleared space on the left hand and rampant jungle on the right, sensing the next generation of jungle was waiting to burst into the empty spaces the moment I turned my back. As nice as the quiet is, I also saw in me something that likes noise, disturbance, passion. I wrote before about this thick, comforting, human mess that is life and poetry. A part of me wouldn't trade in the mess for all the equanimity in China, and I have to be honest about that. Well, that is until I see the wreckage left in the wake of passion fueled by fantasy and mis-viewing the world as it is. Maybe there's right passion, a fierce kind of love that's based in reality. Where would be the fault in loving life, as it is, with one's whole heart? (Even if life doesn't appear to return the affection.) But right view first, I think. You have to really see it to love it. I doubt I do, at least fully. So I turn to the right and start picking at the unnecessary grasses and vines that would choke the life out of plants that will nourish me later. And so it goes.
Like I said, nothing more exciting than just this. My summer break has been all about weeding. This morning I ravaged my bookshelves and let go of most titles crowding the space on my shelves. I also turned in a letter of resignation to the fitness center where I teach yoga, opening the space for my own practice. I need more room to breathe when I get back to the daily ins and outs of teaching school. I've weeded most TV out of my system, too. I watched a few shows at the beginning of summer, but now I like not watching someone else's drama or hearing someone else tell me how the world is. I'm functioning on minimal plans which keeps me from feeling disappointed when they don't work out anyway. I've been frequently, pleasantly surprised by serendipity and have relished the company of the living, breathing people around me more. Summer vacations are a luxury, a perk of my job, I guess. Can I maintain some white blank page when I'm back in the thick of the game playing my role in this fast, modern culture? Time will tell.
The large plot my sisters and I have cultivated is growing. The potatoes, squash, beans and corn are thriving, as are their fiercest competitors, weeds. Now in the thick of the season I go to the garden to commit a slew of murders on the bindweeds (we called them morning glory when I was a kid) and the red roots my grandpa says can be used to fatten pigs. It's tedious, but only as tedious as meditation. Once I'm there and in a groove, I rather enjoy it. I've unintentionally chased mother spiders carrying egg sacks into nearby holes and left beetles scurrying for the next patch of overgrowth, only to be disrupted again my my pink gloved hands of the goddess. If the earth is soft, the roots slide out with satisfying ease. Similarly to beginning a bike ride or working through sun salutations, I start out with my mind chatter racing on an on about pretty much nothing: imaginary conversations I'll never have, plans, lists, sentences I think I might write. Chit, chit, chit, chit. I can get pretty worked up emotionally. It's a hoot, really. So I'm constantly reeling my attention back in to my breath, the the next stem I'll pinch just below the soil, the feel of a bead of sweat making its way down the funnel of my spine. After 20 minutes or so I can look back and see the cleared space behind me with only the foliage of potato plants. Mmm. That's nice. On a good day I can slow the monkey mind down, too, or at least recognize it for the biological functioning of the organ we call a brain and not Ultimate Reality. That's nice, too. I get a little less worked up then.
Yesterday I spent two and a half hours in that weeding dynamic, feeling good about clearing, erasing, creating some white blank page. I began to see myself there on the edge between cleared space on the left hand and rampant jungle on the right, sensing the next generation of jungle was waiting to burst into the empty spaces the moment I turned my back. As nice as the quiet is, I also saw in me something that likes noise, disturbance, passion. I wrote before about this thick, comforting, human mess that is life and poetry. A part of me wouldn't trade in the mess for all the equanimity in China, and I have to be honest about that. Well, that is until I see the wreckage left in the wake of passion fueled by fantasy and mis-viewing the world as it is. Maybe there's right passion, a fierce kind of love that's based in reality. Where would be the fault in loving life, as it is, with one's whole heart? (Even if life doesn't appear to return the affection.) But right view first, I think. You have to really see it to love it. I doubt I do, at least fully. So I turn to the right and start picking at the unnecessary grasses and vines that would choke the life out of plants that will nourish me later. And so it goes.
Like I said, nothing more exciting than just this. My summer break has been all about weeding. This morning I ravaged my bookshelves and let go of most titles crowding the space on my shelves. I also turned in a letter of resignation to the fitness center where I teach yoga, opening the space for my own practice. I need more room to breathe when I get back to the daily ins and outs of teaching school. I've weeded most TV out of my system, too. I watched a few shows at the beginning of summer, but now I like not watching someone else's drama or hearing someone else tell me how the world is. I'm functioning on minimal plans which keeps me from feeling disappointed when they don't work out anyway. I've been frequently, pleasantly surprised by serendipity and have relished the company of the living, breathing people around me more. Summer vacations are a luxury, a perk of my job, I guess. Can I maintain some white blank page when I'm back in the thick of the game playing my role in this fast, modern culture? Time will tell.
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