After I filled up my motorcycle with gas yesterday, I took off my helmet and walked to the station to pay. A young woman in the car behind my motorcycle, waiting to fill, said, "hey, can you move your bike ahead so I can fill?"
I had my helmet off, I was closer to the gas station than my bike, and her tone was a little demanding, so I said no.
Her instant (anticipated?) response was, "fuck-you asshole!"
I felt my heart race. Fight or flight streaming from my animal brain. But I acted like I didn't hear her and went in to pay.
She followed me in and continued her salty comments about how it only would have taken a couple seconds to move my bike. She followed me in! Early 20's, bleached platinum hair with pink highlights, very girly in a princess pretty kind of way.
"Have a nice day," I replied after paying and second guessing my gas-getting routine. It was hard to concentrate. Did I get my card back? Did I write the mileage on the receipt? Was she going to try to punch me? Was I ready to let my karate training do the talking? Did she do anything to my precious Honda!?
I drove off without incident, and as soon as I hit the freeway I cranked her open. 130. 140. 150. Leaving everyone in my dust. Thinking about all the things I should have said, but didn't. And I felt pretty bad when I got home. Tense shoulders from holding my head up in the wind. Sore forearms from gripping the handlebar. I was pretending it didn't bother me, but it did. A stranger! Why should I give her an ounce of thought?
Criticism hurts. It doesn't matter who it comes from. Especially out of the blue. An art critique is a totally different thing. I'm a long way -- a long fucking way -- from having my heart so full of Wayne Dyer's love that I can suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and still be a good person.
The sad thing is that I had just finished being thoroughly entertained and creatively inspired by the light-hearted and hilarious Midsummer Night's Dream at Hawlrelak Park and I didn't think a thought about how great it was until this morning when I woke up. Maybe I can get the feeling back later...
I agree it's OK to have flaws, especially other people, but I still feel like I should be better. The starting point to a lot of healing has to be this unconditional love for self, but I ain't there. Not even close. I can't even bear to meditate anymore. I wonder what it's like to accept one's self to the core? What does it feel like to go on from there? It seems remote and impossible to imagine these days.
-----
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
The sky is red
Talked to my boys today about time. One asked, why does time seem to go so fast?
I responded with an age-appropriate lecture about relativity and how time only exists as our perception.
What about clocks?
A way to measure our perception.
What's perception?, the younger one asked.
It's what your senses tell your brain. The sky is blue. Dust makes you sneeze.
My older boy is starting to think big. He asked, What about the way the planets rotate and spin around the sun?
Well, that seems real, but is it time or movement?
Hmmm.
We didn't talk the rest of the way. I dropped them off, watched them open the big school doors, and I drove away.
And another day passed.
I don't remember the last time I posted. Time flies. Five years ago I had hours to sit in front of this screen and write. Hours and hours of belly-aching. Where did that time go? I just don't see it any more. Perception or reality?
What am I supposed to do with this blog? Shut the doors. Burn my bridges. Disappear into the buzzing and humming of the net?
Maybe it's a good thing I have nothing to talk about and I simply need to be quiet for a while. Am I starting to feel satisfied with this life? Maybe.
Maybe I'm tired of these contrived, time-delayed conversations. Perhaps it's time to talk to real people in real time. Tim Horton's. Walks along the river. Scotch at the kitchen table. Campfire evenings. Listening. No time to consider my response. Edit. Make it sound smart.
Or maybe I need to put that writing energy into something tangible. Like a book. About what, I haven't the faintest. The energy is there. I can feel it waiting. For what? Time? A topic? An audience?
That scarcity of time is real. Work. Children. Mowing the bloody lawn. Catching up on my favourite shows, collecting on the PVR. Time is short. Or. Is. It? Could I not change my perception from one of lack to one of abundance? I'm skeptical. I can say the sky is red, but will I believe it against all evidence? How does one perceive abundance? Maybe it is more of a belief than a perception. Fuzzy lines here.
Movement is change. Change is universal. Can I stop measuring tme like watching the grains of sand drain from the top of an hour glass? That is a hard belief to let go of. Frightening. What if I stopped believing there is an end to life? That time is abundant. Endless even. That my limited days in this life are not a race that I have to rush and fill with experience and achievement. Am I calling sky red or am I relieving myself of conditioning that holds me back. Maybe perception isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe the sky is red.
-----
I responded with an age-appropriate lecture about relativity and how time only exists as our perception.
What about clocks?
A way to measure our perception.
What's perception?, the younger one asked.
It's what your senses tell your brain. The sky is blue. Dust makes you sneeze.
My older boy is starting to think big. He asked, What about the way the planets rotate and spin around the sun?
Well, that seems real, but is it time or movement?
Hmmm.
We didn't talk the rest of the way. I dropped them off, watched them open the big school doors, and I drove away.
And another day passed.
I don't remember the last time I posted. Time flies. Five years ago I had hours to sit in front of this screen and write. Hours and hours of belly-aching. Where did that time go? I just don't see it any more. Perception or reality?
What am I supposed to do with this blog? Shut the doors. Burn my bridges. Disappear into the buzzing and humming of the net?
Maybe it's a good thing I have nothing to talk about and I simply need to be quiet for a while. Am I starting to feel satisfied with this life? Maybe.
Maybe I'm tired of these contrived, time-delayed conversations. Perhaps it's time to talk to real people in real time. Tim Horton's. Walks along the river. Scotch at the kitchen table. Campfire evenings. Listening. No time to consider my response. Edit. Make it sound smart.
Or maybe I need to put that writing energy into something tangible. Like a book. About what, I haven't the faintest. The energy is there. I can feel it waiting. For what? Time? A topic? An audience?
That scarcity of time is real. Work. Children. Mowing the bloody lawn. Catching up on my favourite shows, collecting on the PVR. Time is short. Or. Is. It? Could I not change my perception from one of lack to one of abundance? I'm skeptical. I can say the sky is red, but will I believe it against all evidence? How does one perceive abundance? Maybe it is more of a belief than a perception. Fuzzy lines here.
Movement is change. Change is universal. Can I stop measuring tme like watching the grains of sand drain from the top of an hour glass? That is a hard belief to let go of. Frightening. What if I stopped believing there is an end to life? That time is abundant. Endless even. That my limited days in this life are not a race that I have to rush and fill with experience and achievement. Am I calling sky red or am I relieving myself of conditioning that holds me back. Maybe perception isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe the sky is red.
-----
Saturday, March 16, 2013
The robin and the roaring engine
Why don't my kids need naps? Once they are up for the day they stay up until they are forced/coerced/bribed to go to bed. Not me. I love a good Saturday afternoon nap. Today, I slept so deeply in my big brown chair, that I woke up drooling. I dreamt I was walking around with my eyes closed, that is I couldn't open them, but no one around me seemed to notice or care. I was carrying on my daily routine with my eyes closed (Hello metaphor!). Next in my dream I was trying to rinse my mouth out with water because my tongue had stopped working and of course, I woke up drooling.
While I was unconscious, my children told me that they watched old Scooby Doo episodes on a retro cartoon station (Really? We need to keep seeing them?), they played Jenga (I remember crashing blocks), they read comics, and they scorffed down one of the baguettes I had made for supper (I'm glad they like my baking).
What could I have done in two hours? Did I really need all that sleep? Could I have finished the boring book I have on improving learning by incorporating body movement and moved on to the novel I'd much rather be reading? Could I have written this blog and then started fixing a short story that's been sitting around for months? Could I have taken worn the belts off my snow blower and run down to Canadian Tire to buy new ones? There are 10,000 things I could have done!
When I finally woke and wiped the spit from my beard, the boys were watching mud bogging on TV. In this "sport," a redneck man or woman buys a truck, puts a tall suspension on it, fat tires, a snorkel for the air intake, and then takes turns racing full throttle through a mud bog to see who will make it through fastest. Tires spin, mud flies, drunks slip on muddy inclines as they walk into the bush for a pee (yes, that part was televised), and those unmuffled engines roar like, like ... well, like unrestrained 8-cylinder American engines -- there is no simile for that! It's like trying to say what a robin is like. A robin is like a robin.
My inner 12-year old still loves the sound of a loud engine roaring fossil fuels through narrow, unbaffled pipes into the atmosphere. I wish I still had the energy and will to stay awake like my 12-year old self did when all that mattered was growing up so I could have my own jacked-up pickup truck. I want to spin my tires, pee in the bush, and drive home with so much mud on my metaphysical car that you can't tell what colour it is. And I want to shout and roar like a souped-up American V8, sending my voice up into the endless, blue empty sky.
Yeah, that's what I want.
-----
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Supported communication
Supported communication is a method of helping a person with aphasia better understand what they here and have a chance at expressing what they want. (Aphasia is a loss of ability to understand and/or express oneself because of damage to the language centers of the the brain.)
One way we can support someone with aphasia is by writing keywords for them to read as they listen to us talk. Sometimes if you can see what you hear (the important bits anyway) you can understand better. I've experienced this watching French movies with French subtitles. I can't understand by listening alone, but if I can read and listen, my comprehension soars.
I was explaining this to Barb the other day. Her husband, 51, had a doozy of a stroke last month and now has trouble with talking and listening. He'll ramble on endlessly in a somewhat non-nonsensical way without knowing what he is saying does not make sense. He can't hear himself so he can't fix it.
As an interesting aside, this man has damage to the part of brain that coordinates body movement (cerebellum). Only he has no motor difficulties. His hands, arms, legs all work fine. I'm starting to appreciate how much the cerebellum does to help us coordinate our thinking and language through sub-conscious self-monitoring.
The example I used to explain supported communication to Barb was telling someone about how their CAT had to go to the VET because it was SICK. Writing those keywords can help them focus on what you are saying. Then I went on with a spontaneous story about how the cat was too sick to save without expensive treatment and had to be put to sleep. I'm not sure why that story came at that time.
15 minutes later, Barb came to my office to tell me she was freaking out because her husband's dog got sick two days before and had to go to the vet. Just like my fictional cat, the dog (Trinity) was too sick to be kept alive without suffering so she was put to sleep.
Barb and I paused for a moment wondering how I came up with that story at that time and then she told me how she was so afraid to tell her husband, poor man stuck in the hospital recovering from a stroke, that his dog had died without him. She didn't know how he would react and was caught between wanting to spare him the news and thinking that he would want to know.
I went with her to tell her husband the bad news. I was supporting her communication with my presence I suppose. He had no trouble understanding everything she said, speaking volumes about the hidden layers of communication that we share without words. She told him the sad news, he responded calmly and ended up soothing her because the telling upset her so much. And it was all accomplished with touch, eye contact, and the look of a saint on his face.
There's so much more than just words when we allow ourselves to connect to each other, when we see through the illusion of isolation. Even through the distance of time and space as in a novel, words are just the surface of something much deeper.
One way we can support someone with aphasia is by writing keywords for them to read as they listen to us talk. Sometimes if you can see what you hear (the important bits anyway) you can understand better. I've experienced this watching French movies with French subtitles. I can't understand by listening alone, but if I can read and listen, my comprehension soars.
I was explaining this to Barb the other day. Her husband, 51, had a doozy of a stroke last month and now has trouble with talking and listening. He'll ramble on endlessly in a somewhat non-nonsensical way without knowing what he is saying does not make sense. He can't hear himself so he can't fix it.
As an interesting aside, this man has damage to the part of brain that coordinates body movement (cerebellum). Only he has no motor difficulties. His hands, arms, legs all work fine. I'm starting to appreciate how much the cerebellum does to help us coordinate our thinking and language through sub-conscious self-monitoring.
The example I used to explain supported communication to Barb was telling someone about how their CAT had to go to the VET because it was SICK. Writing those keywords can help them focus on what you are saying. Then I went on with a spontaneous story about how the cat was too sick to save without expensive treatment and had to be put to sleep. I'm not sure why that story came at that time.
15 minutes later, Barb came to my office to tell me she was freaking out because her husband's dog got sick two days before and had to go to the vet. Just like my fictional cat, the dog (Trinity) was too sick to be kept alive without suffering so she was put to sleep.
Barb and I paused for a moment wondering how I came up with that story at that time and then she told me how she was so afraid to tell her husband, poor man stuck in the hospital recovering from a stroke, that his dog had died without him. She didn't know how he would react and was caught between wanting to spare him the news and thinking that he would want to know.
I went with her to tell her husband the bad news. I was supporting her communication with my presence I suppose. He had no trouble understanding everything she said, speaking volumes about the hidden layers of communication that we share without words. She told him the sad news, he responded calmly and ended up soothing her because the telling upset her so much. And it was all accomplished with touch, eye contact, and the look of a saint on his face.
There's so much more than just words when we allow ourselves to connect to each other, when we see through the illusion of isolation. Even through the distance of time and space as in a novel, words are just the surface of something much deeper.
"we are so, so much more than this physical body and mind, so much more than the limited perceptions of our senses, that we are something much greater than the separate isolated, vulnerable being that we deem ourselves to be." - Rev. Alicia, Field of Merit Blog.-----
Sunday, March 03, 2013
Golden calf for sale
The void isn't all that scary. It is filled with compassion.
In church today we discussed (others discussed, I listened) how the Israelites in Exodus got into trouble because they wanted a golden calf to worship while they were waiting for Moses to come back. They were tired of waiting and wanted something to worship. They wanted to feel like they were doing something instead of feeling like they were suffering for no good reason.
The first commandment is "thou shalt have no other gods." Here's my take: false idols are beliefs that take you away from the truth. The truth? I'm trying to define this for myself. God? Nirvana? My true self? I'm getting caught up in language and well over my head in this area of comparative theology.
Leaving definition of "truth" aside, what takes me away from it? My beliefs: if only I had enough money I would be happy. If only I could buy the things I want RIGHT NOW I would have peace. If only I didn't have debt I would be happy. The void I fear threatens me and I must escape it. These are some of my major idols. I have minor idols too: that bag of chips I have when I watch TV, the whisky I crave after a hard day at work, a nice pair of shoes, ... all of these (there are many more) make me feel good. Hurt + comfort (minor idol) = peace, but it's only a temporary peace. That is what I'm learning from this money crisis I've created for myself. I can't buy the things that make me feel better, these false idols, so I have no choice but to face the void that I've been using material pleasure to avoid. It's natural to want to avoid discomfort and chase after pleasure. It's human. It's also the cycle that keeps us trapped (according to the Buddha) in this life of suffering.
I'm starting to find out what happens when I don't have my comforts. When I face the void, this thing, this state I can't define. I may be getting to a point where I can choose not to avoid my fears (the void) and instead find a way to accept them. Live life as it is.
The void isn't all that scary. It is filled with compassion.
Today's church conversation feels as if it was organized just for me. It gave me what I needed today and helped me make a connection between Christian theology and my Buddhist faith. DBS, you are the kind of friend I'm so grateful for. I want to be like you! You are a Bodhisattva today. I love the concept that my ego is crumbling. It hurts, but it means I'm getting somewhere that is beyond this self-induced suffering. Sometimes a wound has to be roughed up a little to let light and air into where it's festering. Pixie, it means a lot to know you experience everyday life the way I do, yet you still find reasons to laugh and make me laugh.
With this support and the endless patience I'm learning from my dear wife, I'm starting to feel like this suffering is worth it. Like it's marking a transition to a different phase of life.
-----
In church today we discussed (others discussed, I listened) how the Israelites in Exodus got into trouble because they wanted a golden calf to worship while they were waiting for Moses to come back. They were tired of waiting and wanted something to worship. They wanted to feel like they were doing something instead of feeling like they were suffering for no good reason.
The first commandment is "thou shalt have no other gods." Here's my take: false idols are beliefs that take you away from the truth. The truth? I'm trying to define this for myself. God? Nirvana? My true self? I'm getting caught up in language and well over my head in this area of comparative theology.
Leaving definition of "truth" aside, what takes me away from it? My beliefs: if only I had enough money I would be happy. If only I could buy the things I want RIGHT NOW I would have peace. If only I didn't have debt I would be happy. The void I fear threatens me and I must escape it. These are some of my major idols. I have minor idols too: that bag of chips I have when I watch TV, the whisky I crave after a hard day at work, a nice pair of shoes, ... all of these (there are many more) make me feel good. Hurt + comfort (minor idol) = peace, but it's only a temporary peace. That is what I'm learning from this money crisis I've created for myself. I can't buy the things that make me feel better, these false idols, so I have no choice but to face the void that I've been using material pleasure to avoid. It's natural to want to avoid discomfort and chase after pleasure. It's human. It's also the cycle that keeps us trapped (according to the Buddha) in this life of suffering.
I'm starting to find out what happens when I don't have my comforts. When I face the void, this thing, this state I can't define. I may be getting to a point where I can choose not to avoid my fears (the void) and instead find a way to accept them. Live life as it is.
The void isn't all that scary. It is filled with compassion.
Today's church conversation feels as if it was organized just for me. It gave me what I needed today and helped me make a connection between Christian theology and my Buddhist faith. DBS, you are the kind of friend I'm so grateful for. I want to be like you! You are a Bodhisattva today. I love the concept that my ego is crumbling. It hurts, but it means I'm getting somewhere that is beyond this self-induced suffering. Sometimes a wound has to be roughed up a little to let light and air into where it's festering. Pixie, it means a lot to know you experience everyday life the way I do, yet you still find reasons to laugh and make me laugh.
With this support and the endless patience I'm learning from my dear wife, I'm starting to feel like this suffering is worth it. Like it's marking a transition to a different phase of life.
-----
If you've got the money, honey, I've got the time
How come the things that are most interesting to me are not things I can bring up in cafeteria conversation?
More than 20 years ago, I was steaming wallpaper off the walls of my new apartment. I had just dropped off my lover a block away from her house so that her boyfriend wouldn't see us together. She told me then, that she couldn't see me anymore. She still loved her boyfriend and I was a mistake. I don't remember how long I stumbled around willing myself not to feel any pain, but when I ran the steam nozzle up and down the walls of that crumby old apartment, I cried. Not the kind of tears you wipe away when you hear a story like the boy who burned 80 percent of his body when he returned to his inferno house to save his baby sister. Tears for a story like that are sweet and they don't last. You wipe them away and then you go on to the next story or the commercial about the new Subaru.
The tears I cried in that empty apartment were wrenching. Involuntary. They came from an unknown place that felt like dying. I was afraid of them and tried to resist their flow, but I soon gave in and let them come with howling sobs until they were done. Then I got up off the floor and finished removing the wallpaper. The wall under the tattered dusty rose paper was the colour of robin eggs crushed at the bottom of a birdhouse. It was shiny, polished, and stained like an old tea cup. It was impervious to my grief and my longing. My failure. My future felt empty. I was a driver in a highway car racing up an incline on a moonless night. As I approached the crest, I had a primal kind of fear of not knowing what was on the other side in the dark. My headlights were pointing up and the road ahead of me disappeared into nothing but darkness. Was there a cliff? A sudden sharp curve? I hated the feeling of travelling alone into the unknown when all I want was to be loved by the one I loved.
My pain tonight feels like that. Like my heart is broken. Not by love, noble love, but by banal boring money.
I paid all my bills. I made the extra payment on my motorcycle loan. I socked away some cash for next summer's camping trip and next December's gift giving and there was nothing left. No money for a jaunt to the city or a movie or a burger. My boys played at home, watched TV, fingered their video games, and saw nothing new. Learned nothing new. I kept busy with chores and avoided them because I didn't like the feeling of watching them waste their time. We made it through the day. They are sleeping and I am trying to write. There will be church tomorrow morning. Then lunch. A book to read. A nap. More TV and then back to work.
Sacrificing my immediate spending desires is like facing the void over the crest of the hill. It does not return any echo of what I want. It is black nothing. My eyes ache from gazing into it as if the darkness sucks the sights I have already seen from my brain like an occipital lobe stroke. It is taking my life from me second by second as I try to see what I want to see instead of the black nothing. Wanting is the problem said the Buddha. His first noble truth says that all humans suffer in this life and the second noble truth says that we cause our own suffering because we crave. I suffer tonight because I want what I cannot have. It is the wanting that causes my suffering, not the object of my wanting or the story I create about something outside my control that causes me to want. When I offered my love those many years ago and received rejection in return, I suffered. Now I only want to rent a movie or drive into the city for some shopping or buy a new bottle of scotch but I can't. My pay cheque and my past choices to buy expensive toys (to satisfy my craving) are rejecting me. Add to this the pressure to pay for piano lessons, replace worn out shoes, the school ski trip, the karate tournament next month, and my sweet son's eighth birthday next month and the pain, the frustration, feels the same. I can't satisfy my craving to consume and to be entertained and to avoid facing the void because I have to support my growing family. I have to be responsible and pay back the money I borrowed. I am caught without my armour. My armour protects me. It makes me feel better. My armour is escape (movies & theatre). It is soothing (whisky and music). It takes me anywhere but here facing the unknown alone.
My dear wife of 18 years just sent me a note on my phone to tell me that she is bringing me bubble tea. Her uncomplicated love for me reminds me that I don't think about the woman who broke my heart way back when. Somewhere along the path, I've accepted my loss and found another love, a lasting one. If I can do that, then maybe I can embrace my craving heart and give up my fear of the void. Maybe I can learn to live on this strict budget, not give in to indulgences, pay my debts, and support my family with a free and balanced heart. If I do that, then maybe I can give up this unwholesome, yet natural desire the Buddha talked about
-----
"How's your day?"The topic of money is banal and easy to avoid. Do we all worry about money? Some of us are born with the ability to save (you are the types who leave the marshmallow on the table). Do these delayed gratificationers worry about money? Or is it the grasshoppers like myself who tend to live and spend spontaneously that worry most. Why did I buy that RV? How in the hell am I going to pay for it now?
"Not so good. I'm having a metaphysical crisis -- a crisis of identity. It seems to be over my largely unconscious beliefs about spending. Money drives me crazy."
"Interesting. Well. Look, I think I'll eat at my desk today. I've got a pile of email to sort through."
More than 20 years ago, I was steaming wallpaper off the walls of my new apartment. I had just dropped off my lover a block away from her house so that her boyfriend wouldn't see us together. She told me then, that she couldn't see me anymore. She still loved her boyfriend and I was a mistake. I don't remember how long I stumbled around willing myself not to feel any pain, but when I ran the steam nozzle up and down the walls of that crumby old apartment, I cried. Not the kind of tears you wipe away when you hear a story like the boy who burned 80 percent of his body when he returned to his inferno house to save his baby sister. Tears for a story like that are sweet and they don't last. You wipe them away and then you go on to the next story or the commercial about the new Subaru.
The tears I cried in that empty apartment were wrenching. Involuntary. They came from an unknown place that felt like dying. I was afraid of them and tried to resist their flow, but I soon gave in and let them come with howling sobs until they were done. Then I got up off the floor and finished removing the wallpaper. The wall under the tattered dusty rose paper was the colour of robin eggs crushed at the bottom of a birdhouse. It was shiny, polished, and stained like an old tea cup. It was impervious to my grief and my longing. My failure. My future felt empty. I was a driver in a highway car racing up an incline on a moonless night. As I approached the crest, I had a primal kind of fear of not knowing what was on the other side in the dark. My headlights were pointing up and the road ahead of me disappeared into nothing but darkness. Was there a cliff? A sudden sharp curve? I hated the feeling of travelling alone into the unknown when all I want was to be loved by the one I loved.
My pain tonight feels like that. Like my heart is broken. Not by love, noble love, but by banal boring money.
I paid all my bills. I made the extra payment on my motorcycle loan. I socked away some cash for next summer's camping trip and next December's gift giving and there was nothing left. No money for a jaunt to the city or a movie or a burger. My boys played at home, watched TV, fingered their video games, and saw nothing new. Learned nothing new. I kept busy with chores and avoided them because I didn't like the feeling of watching them waste their time. We made it through the day. They are sleeping and I am trying to write. There will be church tomorrow morning. Then lunch. A book to read. A nap. More TV and then back to work.
Sacrificing my immediate spending desires is like facing the void over the crest of the hill. It does not return any echo of what I want. It is black nothing. My eyes ache from gazing into it as if the darkness sucks the sights I have already seen from my brain like an occipital lobe stroke. It is taking my life from me second by second as I try to see what I want to see instead of the black nothing. Wanting is the problem said the Buddha. His first noble truth says that all humans suffer in this life and the second noble truth says that we cause our own suffering because we crave. I suffer tonight because I want what I cannot have. It is the wanting that causes my suffering, not the object of my wanting or the story I create about something outside my control that causes me to want. When I offered my love those many years ago and received rejection in return, I suffered. Now I only want to rent a movie or drive into the city for some shopping or buy a new bottle of scotch but I can't. My pay cheque and my past choices to buy expensive toys (to satisfy my craving) are rejecting me. Add to this the pressure to pay for piano lessons, replace worn out shoes, the school ski trip, the karate tournament next month, and my sweet son's eighth birthday next month and the pain, the frustration, feels the same. I can't satisfy my craving to consume and to be entertained and to avoid facing the void because I have to support my growing family. I have to be responsible and pay back the money I borrowed. I am caught without my armour. My armour protects me. It makes me feel better. My armour is escape (movies & theatre). It is soothing (whisky and music). It takes me anywhere but here facing the unknown alone.
My dear wife of 18 years just sent me a note on my phone to tell me that she is bringing me bubble tea. Her uncomplicated love for me reminds me that I don't think about the woman who broke my heart way back when. Somewhere along the path, I've accepted my loss and found another love, a lasting one. If I can do that, then maybe I can embrace my craving heart and give up my fear of the void. Maybe I can learn to live on this strict budget, not give in to indulgences, pay my debts, and support my family with a free and balanced heart. If I do that, then maybe I can give up this unwholesome, yet natural desire the Buddha talked about
-----
Monday, February 18, 2013
All the meditation is driving me crazy
My meditation has taken a turn for the worse. I was hoping for theta-wave bliss, understanding, and maybe some self-control, but it turns out my daily zazen is fraught with visits from devils. Anger. Confusion. Doubt. Fear. All have become my sitting partners. I welcome them most to the time and occasionally I see that they are my old friends. We've been through a lot together.
So together we sit and try not to try too hard. Let's see what happens next.
So together we sit and try not to try too hard. Let's see what happens next.
 |
| Self-portrait with crazy straw, February 2013 |
This is who they say I am
 |
| Gachil, December 2012 |
Sunday, January 13, 2013
A Buddhist goes to a Christian church
 |
| Go back to the beginning you will. |
As I aged, I felt the need for something more in
my life. Work, pay bills, eat, sleep, weren’t enough for me. Perhaps my early
church years primed me for metaphysical thinking or maybe I’m just wired this way.
I started reading about Buddhism in the 80’s, but didn’t understand it. I
attended a Buddhist gathering once, but the way they honoured the image of
Buddha turned me off (scarring from my Pentacostal brain-washing days). Not
much happened after that, but spiritual seeds had been planted. I felt like something wasn’t right and that maybe I didn’t have to feel helpless to the whims of fate
and my family's predisposition to depression and anxiety disorder.
Eight years ago, I gave Buddhism another try. I had been reading
more books and I appreciated how they believe that we are responsible
for our own suffering and that we have all that we need inside us to be happy.
It’s just a matter of shifting perception and making different choices about
how we live our lives. I found a Buddhist group. I found a teacher. And I came to
appreciate the idea of ritual and religious community again. I was old enough to understand the teaching too.
It all ended when I moved to the middle of nowhere. Not many Buddhists or vegetarians out here. I like where I live, but attending a Buddhist
meditation session means a two-hour drive to the big city. Too much for me and it takes me away from a community I feel comfortable in. That and I wanted to introduce my kids to the idea of religious life.
Then here (in the middle of nowhere), I met some terrific
people. Church-goers, but not pushy and genuinely easy to be
around. Smart, friendly, raising children like my dear wife and I, and going through the same midlife experiences.
Today we gave Sunday church service a try. Same nice people. Easy-going service
shy on ornate rituals and rich in music. And the sermon was ... OK. I learned something. The
teaching was about sacrifice, hard-core and dark: Abraham was
prepared to slit his own son’s throat to prove his faith to God (I guess there
weren’t any sheep around) and at the last second his hand was
stayed and God gave him a ram to kill instead. Sheesh. That’s a high price to pay for faith.
Even killing a poor sheep is over the top.
How do you get a lesson for modern life from that?! Simple
really. You convert the metaphorical music from this death-metal old testament composition to a modern
pop ballad and you talk about the sacrifice we need to practice a religion (to practice anything).
Buddhism is all about giving up your self so that you can live life free from
suffering. Christians talk about being born again. It’s the same thing. I do prefer the quiet, private nature of Zen practice as opposed to the do everything in front of everyone practices you find in a Christian church (e.g., passing around the offering bowl so everyone can see how much you give).
For me, it means if I really want something (something
worthwhile like inner peace), I need to give up my old ways of doing things. They don't work! It will take some sacrifice. I want to meditate more often. I
know that it will give me insight into my habits and delusions, but
damned if I can find the time to sit. It seems, I would much rather sleep an extra 30
minutes on a cold winter morning than get up and sit on my cushion. Can I give up the comfort of my bed, let go of some of my well-worn
ideas and develop a regular meditation practice. I would never harm a hair on
my son’s head, but maybe I could give up some of my night-time habits so that I
could go to bed earlier and then get up early to meditate.
And I can go to church on Sunday morning. I never thought I would ever say
that, but it's just down the street, the people are great, and the message is the same.
I'll be a Buddhist in a Christian church who is working towards living a better
life in the best way he can.
-----
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
Friday, March 16, 2012
Get on with it
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| Power tie, March 2012 |
I put my day off from work today to put in a good day of work. Huh? No hospital today. I spent the sunshine hours at home polishing a story that has already be rubbed too thin, but had to be finished once and for all. Enough. I've been running it through Scribophile.com and received a pile of constructive feedback. It's pretty good now. Well, I think it's decent. I'm not sure. (Doubt rears its ugly head.)
Doesn't matter, I pushed through the doubt, wallowing along the way, and sent it off to four competitions. I'm not exactly glowing with confidence, but I feel like I have to get busy and finish the day with something creative. So I'll quit wasting time here and open something new. I can only get better by doing more right?
The tie. My boy put one on today for a school concert and I think he liked it. He looks terrific in a tie. Maybe I need to get my jeans and t-shirt self down to the thrift shop and look for some dead-man ties. It might be good to look like I give a shit for once.
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Sunday, March 11, 2012
A self-help novel
In the grand perspective of this wonderful novel, there are sinister and empowering overtones to these words. It is important to remember that in North Korea people are manufactured like cars or cattle or iPads. If you heard that I dropped and broke my iPad, you probably wouldn't feel anything unless you had one too and felt some materialistic sympathy. A car crushed under a storm-toppled tree doesn't even register (unless it belongs to you). And cattle only exist to be slaughtered and consumed. Not too much consideration for the life of the cow going on there. So to is the life of the North Korean citizen according to this novel.
"... For us [North Koreans], the story is more important that the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change.... But in America [i.e., the western world], people's stories change all the time. In America, it is the man who matters."
- "The Orphan Master's Son" by Adam Johnson
I don't feel smug when I compare myself to the people of North Korea. We have the potential to be free in our world, but it is natural to follow along with our cultural story and be a different kind of slave. I know all too well how easy it is to attach to "The American Dream" of success, wealth, and attention. (You know how that one goes.) When I consider myself in the context of this story, I end up feeling like I'm not trying hard enough, like I'm a failure. So, I should try harder. For example, I could believe the small detail of "The American Dream" that the clothes make the man and spend money I don't have to buy some nicer duds. I could dress like the man I think this story calls for: English shoes, a suit from Holt Renfrew, a watch from Birks, and I could pretend to be the man the story says I should be. Fake it until you make it. I could at least look like a character who wins instead being one of the many who disappear into the economic machine, a slave to the lenders.
I may have to answer to the banks as I pay off the loans for the objects I thought I needed before I had the money to pay for them, but at least I don't have to worry about displeasing someone above me in status and being tossed in the back of a truck for a trip to a prison mine. A prison that doesn't need more than a few guards because the prisoners are easy to lock behind the mine entrance and live underground. They must survive by themselves in the dark. Bring up some iron (or better yet some uranium!) and you will get a bit of millet to eat. Not enough to live on but enough to slow down the rate at which you will die. Don't worry about your work for the state, there are plenty more people to take your place. The prisons described in this novel are horrible. Lobotomy camps. Blood collection camps (when you are too sick to work anymore, your blood is drained for use elsewhere). The forced labor farm camps the author describes sound lovely in comparison.
I have it pretty good here in my cozy Alberta home. If I say that our politicians are lackeys to the banks, no one will drag me up to Fort McMurray and force me to shovel tar sand into a burbling refinery while my wife is given another husband. Right? I have a great deal of freedom to do what I want and be happy. The ways I have given up my freedom are by choosing to be a financial prisoner, always working to pay off debts, and more significantly by choosing to be a class prisoner, always envying the material status of others wishing I was different. Wishing I was better. Now I see tools of freedom all around me. I can vote. I can read whatever I want. (I believe the freedom to learn is the greatest of all our privileges.) I can talk about what I read and find friends who believe what I believe. I can look into myself and change my story. I have choice.
The hero in The Orphan Master's Son killed a powerful ruling class villain and assumed his life. He put on the dead man's uniform and walked out of his prison to a life just below the level of the Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il (who was a divine being after all). He got away with it because he said it was true and in North Korea, no one questions the truth from a man with the markings of power. He used this daring courage to give himself the life of a man who was not only free on the outside (a fragile illusion for everyone in North Korea), but more importantly free on the inside. This allowed him to develop our most powerful human capability, to feel and offer compassion. To love. This is the only quality outside the god-like control of the supreme leader of the worker's paradise that is North Korea.
This novel is my self-help book. I feel more able to change my story after reading it. I owe it to those who do not have this freedom to not waste this gift of being born in a society that allows choice where it matters.
This month for the first time, I am going to live within my income. I'm only going to spend what I have and I am going to focus on paying off my debts. It will take months, but I relish the idea of being free from of the lenders and taming the delusions that pushed me to then in the first place. It's time to let go of my greed and appreciate that I already have what I need. And start doing something with it.
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Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tintinnabulation (or why I meditate)
Or "what is art."
"Tintinnabulation is an area I sometimes wander into when I am searching for answers -- in my life, my music, my work. In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity. What is it, this one thing, and how do I find my way to it? Traces of this perfect thing appear in many guises -- and everything that is unimportant falls away." Arvo Part, http://www.arvopart.org/tintinnabulation.html
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"Tintinnabulation is an area I sometimes wander into when I am searching for answers -- in my life, my music, my work. In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity. What is it, this one thing, and how do I find my way to it? Traces of this perfect thing appear in many guises -- and everything that is unimportant falls away." Arvo Part, http://www.arvopart.org/tintinnabulation.html
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Wednesday, February 22, 2012
No demons in sight
My head has been down these past few weeks. Working mostly, but also meditating, cuddling under blankets, eating moderately (a challenge), and yoga. I'm into the first of two weeks off and as usual when I'm on vacation, I'm anxious. It seems that work is my anchor in life (no time to face my demons) and whenever I have a chance to stop, I start my existential squirming. I'm faced with a small block of time and my mind freaks out because it doesn't know what to do. Install the new dishwasher, re-install it because it has to be perfect, put new tires on my motorcycle, shovel snow, finish reading this book so I can start that one, catch up on my movie wish list, sleep, do the taxes, meditate, exercise, take my vitamins, visit friends, finish and submit that story, arrgh! Time off is stressful! Why? Why can't I just relax and enjoy the time? Not sure about that one, but I think I'm getting closer. It has something to do with wanting to make the right choice and do the right things with the time I have. When I'm working, I don't have to make those choices. I just show up, do my best, and forget.
How's it going? It's been a while since I've said hi to my virtual friends. Here are some photos from this past Monday. We took the boys to the big city to spend their Christmas gift cards, hiked in Edmonton's gorgeous river valley, enjoyed some yummy Vietnamese food, and grabbed a bubble tea for the drive home. It was fun to be moving, laughing, seeing, consuming. No demons in sight.
How's it going? It's been a while since I've said hi to my virtual friends. Here are some photos from this past Monday. We took the boys to the big city to spend their Christmas gift cards, hiked in Edmonton's gorgeous river valley, enjoyed some yummy Vietnamese food, and grabbed a bubble tea for the drive home. It was fun to be moving, laughing, seeing, consuming. No demons in sight.
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| Tires? Yes. Roads? Not even close, February 2012 |
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| Big dreams, February 2012 |
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| North Saskatchewan River: it flows underneath, February 2012 |
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| Leaking pipes = winter fun, February 2012 |
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| Rosehip tea, February 2012 |
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| University of Alberta, February 2012 |
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| Patient, February 2012 |
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| Take my hand, February 2012 |
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| Listen to them rustle in the wind, February 2012 |
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| Lost, unwanted, February 2012 |
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| Red wedge, February 2012 |
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| May peace prevail on earth, February 2012 |
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| Fleeing peace, February 2012 |
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| Mask of light, February 2012 |
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| The glowing mansion on the hill, February 2012 |
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| I don't need a knife, February 2012 |
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| Bubble tea holds us together, February 2012 |
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The man must change
If a man and his story are in conflict ... it is the man who must change.
- from a review for "The Orphan Master's Son" by Adam Johnson
I can't wait to read this book. Not only for the story (a novel about life inside North Korea) but because this quote hits me deep. I bet in the intended context the quote isn't meant to be inspiring: in North Korea, you adapt to the story of the state or you die. The individual isn’t permitted to have a story. It's so fascinating that the North Korean leaders have been able to "make totalitarianism work." It seems impossible that the people would accept it when the model of human social development seems to be suffer repression and then rebel for the cause of freedom whatever the cost. A desire for freedom is part of our nature isn’t it? How do they do it? How does the state maintain itself and why do the people continue to accept?
This fascination with North Korea is part of the story I've made for myself. I have one or two friends who share it. It's part of their story too. What is the rest of my story? It is complex and epic. It is also never ending when I think about how I have picked it up from my ancestors and will pass some of it on to my children. The part I focus on now is this: my motivation in life has been about obtaining pleasure and avoiding discomfort. Those are the values I've inherited and are reinforced by my culture. I didn't sit down one day and choose them, I just became them because I'm a human in a culture of self-focus. I’ve learned to make my life about ME just like everyone else.
How do these values play out? Pleasure seeking: I love music, so I am continually listening to something. At work, when I drive, when I walk, when I eat, when I do dishes, often. I've got 13 days of non-stop music on my computer (according to iTunes). I buy new music at least once a month and I add my old tapes and records whenever I sit down at my computer. Music gives me pleasure so I seek it out. Ihoard collect it and I feel ill-at-ease when I don't have it. (Like last night when I walked home from work without my earphones for my iPhone. It was weird to just walk. My mind kept recycling the chorus of the last song I listened to at work.)
That is one example of pleasure seeking. A mild one. Another is the idea that I will continue to work, I will gain respect, and I will earn more money. My reinforcement must come from the outside (money in the bank and the respect of my colleagues). That is what I believe determines my worth compared to the next person. I would love to be at the top of the hospital totem pole and if I didn’t have a family to support, I would probably be back in school, studying to become a physician. What I think about my day-to-day work is mostly meaningless. Who cares if Berta learns to use a text-to-speech computer to talk because her disease is relentlessly dragging paralysis from her distal muscles to the very source of her physical life? She will die no matter what I do, but perhaps I can help her stay connected to the outside world a little longer through the slow Morse code of her computer. I do care for her. I do. But at the end of the day, I would leave my job--leave her--if I found a way to earn more money. That is the depth of my pleasure seeking and discomfort avoidance. I hate budgeting. I hate doing the books. I hate it when we have to spend the weekend at home because we've used up all our gas money for the month. I hate opening my pay cheque and seeing the same numbers every month. I just want to be free of that worry and stress. I want more money.
I have lived my life as if I was in a car travelling here and there on empty roads. No one else is on the road. It's just me. I’ve been told that I can do whatever I set my mind to. Any dream is achievable. So, I consult my map and do my best to end up in the fancy mansion with all the wealth I could ever need, but the mansion never ever appears. The map said MANSION THIS WAY but I can never find it. Do I half-heartedly re-check my map (it hasn't been helpful so far) or do I just keep on the road I've chosen and hope for the best? In any case it doesn’t matter which I choose. I must keep on driving. I can’t stop. When I pull my head out of my ass I see that there's a lot of traffic on the road. Countless people surround me, all driving and searching for “the mansion.” I listen to the radio and I hear stories of people who have found the mansion. They love it and can't stop talking about it. It sounds so lovely! When will I find my own mansion?!
This has been my story. I don't like it. It’s the kind of story that sucks you in to wanting to know what happens next, but then when you get to the “next” it leads to another “what happens next.” There is no way to be satisfied with a story like this. It’s breeds agitation, greed, and self-loathing. Sure, I have my moments of peace, but these come most often when I distract myself. The perfect song will blow at the smoke of my fire and spread it around as if it never existed, but when the song stops, the smoke begins it's relentless writhing trip into the empty sky. And this smoke is foul. It’s like the time I stuck my head over my Grandma’s old garbage barrel and got a good whiff of burning plastic.
"If a man and his story are in conflict ... it is the man who must change."
I must let my story die. This sounds extreme. Is it the only answer? Must I stop my car, get out, and tear up my map? What will I do without that story? Who will I be? Part of the answer is I have to create my own story (not the one of greed and disappointment I’ve grown up with). I am not living in an inevitable tragedy. I’m not. I would like my story to be one of a man who burdened by too many weighty beliefs, decides one day to put them all down and walk away with peace and joy. Sounds lame. Part of me still wants the mansion. (I’m the guy who watched every episode of Lost and was sad when it ended.)
This week in yoga, we spent some time noticing our heartbeats. I had never done that before: stopped and sensed the slow rhythm of my heart. I felt a little release, like saying to myself, "it's good, everything is good just the way it is." My heart was whispering this and it added that it would be there for me for as long as I needed it. Watching out for me. Protecting me. "You will be fine," it said, "if you stop from time to time and put down your map."
When I left that focus. I found myself back in my car, my map open in front of me. I wondered how I got there and then remembered the story of my heart. I put the map on the seat beside me and eased up on the gas pedal a little. This story I'm in has a momentum that needs to unwind. To stop it cold would probably send me through the windshield. I can keep going. I will be fine. I can stop my car from time to time, get out, stretch my legs, and take a look around. In this way I will change and I will find harmony with the story. Not the story I think I should be in, but the story I AM IN. The bigger story. I will slowly let go of my expectation of what my life should be and settle in to the way it is. I will be fine.
-----
- from a review for "The Orphan Master's Son" by Adam Johnson
I can't wait to read this book. Not only for the story (a novel about life inside North Korea) but because this quote hits me deep. I bet in the intended context the quote isn't meant to be inspiring: in North Korea, you adapt to the story of the state or you die. The individual isn’t permitted to have a story. It's so fascinating that the North Korean leaders have been able to "make totalitarianism work." It seems impossible that the people would accept it when the model of human social development seems to be suffer repression and then rebel for the cause of freedom whatever the cost. A desire for freedom is part of our nature isn’t it? How do they do it? How does the state maintain itself and why do the people continue to accept?
This fascination with North Korea is part of the story I've made for myself. I have one or two friends who share it. It's part of their story too. What is the rest of my story? It is complex and epic. It is also never ending when I think about how I have picked it up from my ancestors and will pass some of it on to my children. The part I focus on now is this: my motivation in life has been about obtaining pleasure and avoiding discomfort. Those are the values I've inherited and are reinforced by my culture. I didn't sit down one day and choose them, I just became them because I'm a human in a culture of self-focus. I’ve learned to make my life about ME just like everyone else.
How do these values play out? Pleasure seeking: I love music, so I am continually listening to something. At work, when I drive, when I walk, when I eat, when I do dishes, often. I've got 13 days of non-stop music on my computer (according to iTunes). I buy new music at least once a month and I add my old tapes and records whenever I sit down at my computer. Music gives me pleasure so I seek it out. I
That is one example of pleasure seeking. A mild one. Another is the idea that I will continue to work, I will gain respect, and I will earn more money. My reinforcement must come from the outside (money in the bank and the respect of my colleagues). That is what I believe determines my worth compared to the next person. I would love to be at the top of the hospital totem pole and if I didn’t have a family to support, I would probably be back in school, studying to become a physician. What I think about my day-to-day work is mostly meaningless. Who cares if Berta learns to use a text-to-speech computer to talk because her disease is relentlessly dragging paralysis from her distal muscles to the very source of her physical life? She will die no matter what I do, but perhaps I can help her stay connected to the outside world a little longer through the slow Morse code of her computer. I do care for her. I do. But at the end of the day, I would leave my job--leave her--if I found a way to earn more money. That is the depth of my pleasure seeking and discomfort avoidance. I hate budgeting. I hate doing the books. I hate it when we have to spend the weekend at home because we've used up all our gas money for the month. I hate opening my pay cheque and seeing the same numbers every month. I just want to be free of that worry and stress. I want more money.
I have lived my life as if I was in a car travelling here and there on empty roads. No one else is on the road. It's just me. I’ve been told that I can do whatever I set my mind to. Any dream is achievable. So, I consult my map and do my best to end up in the fancy mansion with all the wealth I could ever need, but the mansion never ever appears. The map said MANSION THIS WAY but I can never find it. Do I half-heartedly re-check my map (it hasn't been helpful so far) or do I just keep on the road I've chosen and hope for the best? In any case it doesn’t matter which I choose. I must keep on driving. I can’t stop. When I pull my head out of my ass I see that there's a lot of traffic on the road. Countless people surround me, all driving and searching for “the mansion.” I listen to the radio and I hear stories of people who have found the mansion. They love it and can't stop talking about it. It sounds so lovely! When will I find my own mansion?!
This has been my story. I don't like it. It’s the kind of story that sucks you in to wanting to know what happens next, but then when you get to the “next” it leads to another “what happens next.” There is no way to be satisfied with a story like this. It’s breeds agitation, greed, and self-loathing. Sure, I have my moments of peace, but these come most often when I distract myself. The perfect song will blow at the smoke of my fire and spread it around as if it never existed, but when the song stops, the smoke begins it's relentless writhing trip into the empty sky. And this smoke is foul. It’s like the time I stuck my head over my Grandma’s old garbage barrel and got a good whiff of burning plastic.
"If a man and his story are in conflict ... it is the man who must change."
I must let my story die. This sounds extreme. Is it the only answer? Must I stop my car, get out, and tear up my map? What will I do without that story? Who will I be? Part of the answer is I have to create my own story (not the one of greed and disappointment I’ve grown up with). I am not living in an inevitable tragedy. I’m not. I would like my story to be one of a man who burdened by too many weighty beliefs, decides one day to put them all down and walk away with peace and joy. Sounds lame. Part of me still wants the mansion. (I’m the guy who watched every episode of Lost and was sad when it ended.)
This week in yoga, we spent some time noticing our heartbeats. I had never done that before: stopped and sensed the slow rhythm of my heart. I felt a little release, like saying to myself, "it's good, everything is good just the way it is." My heart was whispering this and it added that it would be there for me for as long as I needed it. Watching out for me. Protecting me. "You will be fine," it said, "if you stop from time to time and put down your map."
When I left that focus. I found myself back in my car, my map open in front of me. I wondered how I got there and then remembered the story of my heart. I put the map on the seat beside me and eased up on the gas pedal a little. This story I'm in has a momentum that needs to unwind. To stop it cold would probably send me through the windshield. I can keep going. I will be fine. I can stop my car from time to time, get out, stretch my legs, and take a look around. In this way I will change and I will find harmony with the story. Not the story I think I should be in, but the story I AM IN. The bigger story. I will slowly let go of my expectation of what my life should be and settle in to the way it is. I will be fine.
-----
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Mirror mirror
 |
| Come on, I'm ready, December 2011 |
Mirrors. Amazing tools. I have a client who has an involuntary spasm around the right side of her mouth whenever she speaks. It curls into a not-quite sneer with lots of invisible fish hooks pulling and tugging her face in all sorts of directions. We've come to the point in therapy where she can, if she wants and is very careful, speak without the spasms, but it's effortful and not really functional for spontaneous conversation. The most difficult task I had her do was speak to me while looking at herself in the mirror. I hate it when I make my clients cry. It was brutal. And cathartic. And she survived."Most people just skirt the edges of their dysfunction. I say get dirty with it. Embrace it. Then, when you're ready, let it go." - Tinsenpup
I did this exercise in another way when I set myself the task of voluntary stuttering after I had well learned not to stutter. I walked up to the receptionist, someone who had only known me as a non-stutterer, and I asked her a simple question while stuttering my damn head off. Just like I used to when it was out of my control. It was earth-shattering. My ears ignited into blue flame, my eyes dimmed to blindness, my tongue turned to sand. And I survived. I came face to face with myself just like my client did literally with her mirror work. I discovered how ashamed I was of my stuttering which really means I was ashamed of myself because I was (I am) a stutterer. To despise my stutter is to despise myself.
I let go a little that day and now I am comfortable whether I stutter on purpose or not. I can honestly say that I am at peace with my stuttering.
Wouldn't it be nice to just look in the metaphorical mirror, face all the demons, and get it ALL over with like that? Forever. Just do it once and be done? Yes, it sure would. But that's not what it's like is it? We have to keep looking in the mirror. Sometimes it's literally a mirror (or a photo or a video). Sometimes it's something much more frightening.
My mirror these days is my meditation cushion. I sit on it every night for 15 minutes and notice what's going on inside my mind. I don't try to do anything, no mantras or chants, I just observe. And I squirm. Some nights it's like that terrific horror film, Paranormal Activity. I feel like I'm calling to the demons and then, of course they answer, the bastards are pissed off and ready to beat the shit out of me. If I only kept quiet, distracted myself with whiskey and TV and reading and motorcycles and sleeping and family and and and ... then they wouldn't bother me so much. Right? We all do this and sometimes we make it to the finish line without ever stopping to ask "is this really the best way to live this short life?" Maybe. I'm thinking maybe not. Once you know the demons are there, there's nothing for it--some scabs need to be scratched if they are going to heal. So each night I sit and sometimes I do battle. Fiercely! Most nights not. Most nights I sit there and trip to the past or create stories for tomorrow. I let myself escape, but I call it what it is and remind myself that I am here. Now. I am breathing and I am alive. This time I will not turn away. I will continue to sit and stand up to my bullies. I will take whatever they can dish out and I will offer love in return.
---
The mirror-work is easy for my client now and even though her mouth still spasms a little, she is more accepting of it. She has given me plenty of signals that she is ready to stop therapy. That's fine. My goals for her have been exceeded. Once you stop trying to stop something it doesn't need to be stopped. It's no fun teasing someone who only reacts with compassion.
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Saturday, December 31, 2011
A step, then another
I'm doing some crazy shit this week. As I slowly crawl away from the clutches of the evil Rhino virus, I feel my mojo rising. I've written two things for myself this week: a value statement that details what I think is important and a vision statement where I dare to commit to 1's and 0's the way I would like my life to be. I know, I know, it reeks of self-help, but these two things have not come at the suggestion of a well-paid self-help author. I came up with these on my own. Yep. Mostly.
And tonight, I've done something else. I'm going to a party. I generally hate parties. Especially the ones where I don't know anyone and arrive alone. I'm good at small talk and shmoozing, but it's all an act. My true self prefers to be in a little booth behind one-way glass where I can observe the world without notice. I have those in my work so I can watch kids interact with their parents and make observations on their language skills. Yeah, that's my idea of perfect. I would be great invisible man, nothing perverted, just some benevolent witnessing and recording. So what is this party deal? I joined Scribophile in hopes of getting some of my writing read and critiqued. Hiding out in my invisibility suit is not good for learning and improving. Writing isn't writing unless it is read (à la tree falling in the forest). It's time to drag my sorry ass into the world of the living shed my invisibility.
Hi, my name is Michael. You look like someone I'd like to know.
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And tonight, I've done something else. I'm going to a party. I generally hate parties. Especially the ones where I don't know anyone and arrive alone. I'm good at small talk and shmoozing, but it's all an act. My true self prefers to be in a little booth behind one-way glass where I can observe the world without notice. I have those in my work so I can watch kids interact with their parents and make observations on their language skills. Yeah, that's my idea of perfect. I would be great invisible man, nothing perverted, just some benevolent witnessing and recording. So what is this party deal? I joined Scribophile in hopes of getting some of my writing read and critiqued. Hiding out in my invisibility suit is not good for learning and improving. Writing isn't writing unless it is read (à la tree falling in the forest). It's time to drag my sorry ass into the world of the living shed my invisibility.
Hi, my name is Michael. You look like someone I'd like to know.
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Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Reason to create #787
I'm grateful to our artists. David Mitchell and his writing carried me through 7 days of virus-infested misery and as soon as I feel a little better, I'm going to do my bit to fight back the jaw-snapping wolves and the blizzards that whistle through the cracks.
"One writes music because winter is eternal and because if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner."- David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
Friday, December 09, 2011
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy
I keep writing posts as comments on this blog: THE CHEEK OF GOD. That's what I call efficient.
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Re: Dissatisfaction with the results of the 50,000-word writing challenge that many of my fellow bloggers have participated in.
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50,000 words is an imposed ideal that isn't quite right for me (or you), but we think we should try anyway because WE CAN ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING we put our minds too. 50,000 is a number. It can teach you (or me) about discipline, but what do you (we) want to write? "All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy." Why do we want to pull together the discipline to write a crap-load of pages just because? I've already got a crap load of pages on my computer, slowly gathering dust as the software I wrote them on eventually becomes obsolete thus leaving those words lost forever. (I started writing when my computer ran off of a floppy disk.)
We love writing so why don't we just shut up and do it? What is the shadow of granite that keeps us on the ground. Whining. Suffering. I know how to work hard. I have the discipline to get up everyday, go to work, and fill my day to overflowing with tasks big and small. Speech Therapist. Writer. Those are just words. What is underneath? How can I (we) free myself (ourselves) from the shadow? I don't understand what I am holding on to that keeps me feeling like I could be doing more, like I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Like spitting out 50,000 words of fine creative prose. I bet I've written a quarter million words of clinical reports in the past 10 years. I attach very little personal value to them. They are part of the job. Documentation.
Can we just stop being dissatisfied? Just like that. Let go of the emotion rather than focus on the target of our dissatisfaction? Or rather, look at the emotion, the thoughts behind it and then just leave them be; see through the shadows. Or better yet, accept the shadows as a necessary product of light flowing over a life.
I heard a story on CBC this week about the woman who "invented" multiple personality disorder. Sybil Exposed. Turns out she was mentally ill, but the whole dissociation thing was primed by a suggestion from her psychiatrist and then fueled with some strong hallucinogens. The result was a book that made the psychiatrist famous and (I presume) when the drugs stopped, Sybil (not her real name) became a whole person once more.
I'm not sure why this anecdote came to mind just now. Sorting out the thoughts of the week? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the idea of dissociation is just that. An idea. Just like 50,000 words that don't exist now, but would if I only applied myself.
I'm going to step off that train. I'd rather apply myself to being whole. If I feel like writing 50,000 words after that, then that's what I'll do.
Addendum: The universe is throwing me bones left and right tonight. Here's the juiciest:
http://www.ted.com/talks/alain_de_botton_a_kinder_gentler_philosophy_of_success.html.
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Re: Dissatisfaction with the results of the 50,000-word writing challenge that many of my fellow bloggers have participated in.
---
50,000 words is an imposed ideal that isn't quite right for me (or you), but we think we should try anyway because WE CAN ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING we put our minds too. 50,000 is a number. It can teach you (or me) about discipline, but what do you (we) want to write? "All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy." Why do we want to pull together the discipline to write a crap-load of pages just because? I've already got a crap load of pages on my computer, slowly gathering dust as the software I wrote them on eventually becomes obsolete thus leaving those words lost forever. (I started writing when my computer ran off of a floppy disk.)
We love writing so why don't we just shut up and do it? What is the shadow of granite that keeps us on the ground. Whining. Suffering. I know how to work hard. I have the discipline to get up everyday, go to work, and fill my day to overflowing with tasks big and small. Speech Therapist. Writer. Those are just words. What is underneath? How can I (we) free myself (ourselves) from the shadow? I don't understand what I am holding on to that keeps me feeling like I could be doing more, like I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Like spitting out 50,000 words of fine creative prose. I bet I've written a quarter million words of clinical reports in the past 10 years. I attach very little personal value to them. They are part of the job. Documentation.
Can we just stop being dissatisfied? Just like that. Let go of the emotion rather than focus on the target of our dissatisfaction? Or rather, look at the emotion, the thoughts behind it and then just leave them be; see through the shadows. Or better yet, accept the shadows as a necessary product of light flowing over a life.
I heard a story on CBC this week about the woman who "invented" multiple personality disorder. Sybil Exposed. Turns out she was mentally ill, but the whole dissociation thing was primed by a suggestion from her psychiatrist and then fueled with some strong hallucinogens. The result was a book that made the psychiatrist famous and (I presume) when the drugs stopped, Sybil (not her real name) became a whole person once more.
I'm not sure why this anecdote came to mind just now. Sorting out the thoughts of the week? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe the idea of dissociation is just that. An idea. Just like 50,000 words that don't exist now, but would if I only applied myself.
I'm going to step off that train. I'd rather apply myself to being whole. If I feel like writing 50,000 words after that, then that's what I'll do.
Addendum: The universe is throwing me bones left and right tonight. Here's the juiciest:
http://www.ted.com/talks/alain_de_botton_a_kinder_gentler_philosophy_of_success.html.
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Sunday, November 27, 2011
The will to belong
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| Self-portrait from within, November 2011 |
Isn't it ironic how we are together in our loneliness? I'm lonely when I'm have something I'd like to talk about, but no one to talk with. Usually on topics of art, literature, or Buddhism. I'm around people all the time, so I must be choosing who I say what to (back to the theme of wearing different hats for different people). Big generalization time: we feel lonely because we don't seek out the company of others. What holds us back? Why don't we try? Do we prejudge what our communication partners will want to hear from us? Do we put them before ourselves? Do we think on some level that we don't deserve friends? Is it a lack of compassion towards ourselves? I don't know the answer, but I'm testing the poor self-esteem hypothesis. What I have to say is important. It is. I don't expect it to be important to everyone, but it is something that matters to me now.
I took a measure of myself this weekend. I found an old friend on FB and arranged to go for dinner. I discovered the wonders of Ethiopian food and I got to compare my memories from 20 years ago with things as they are now. I found my friend relatively unchanged (all the good things remain) and in my perception, I feel like I've come miles since those old days of art school. Good miles.
Most important! We are not who we think we are. We are not who we were 20 years ago and we are not who we think we want to be. We are much more, but we are like newborn puppies, blind to everything but our need for comfort. And yet slowly our eyes open. We have a choice whether we will SEE the world around us or remain connected to our comforts.
There is an end to loneliness, an end to our self-imposed exile. We have what we need inside ourselves (the mystical third eye?) and the search for belonging begins within. No easy task, but there is a "tribe" of people like us out there. People who are willing to face the dark in order to find the light.
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I’ve tried taking Facebook off my phone and I can last a week or two before I re-install it. Easier has been unliking all the George Takei type sites and then filtering the people who post Facebook-game crap (that means blocking my mother). All this helps cut down on the quantity I look at.
Is this what a smoker feels like? Facebook is there when my alarm goes off, then again before I sleep. I don't like that.
My current thinking is that this struggle we are sharing points to a type of loneliness. Facebook makes me feel like I belong to something. Community? The question is can I address this “need” so that Facebook loses its allure. I can live without what I read there so it’s not really a question of content. It’s the delusion of feeling disconnected that I would like to address. Perhaps we are not suffering from lack of contact with others, but instead from a gap in our connection with ourselves? Self-alienation.
I don’t know what the answer is. Cold turkey? Probably not. Heal myself instead? Maybe. At least Facebook has helped me see this inner work that needs attention. I feel some urgency also as my kids approach an age where they can do what I do on the computer. Gulp.
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