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The Toyota commercial suddenly made sense. The corn was actually waving at us as we sped along the interstate. I couldn't hold back, and somehow felt compelled to wave back. The wide corn leaves undulated, and a small inner-voice could not hold back and waved back to the land, the plants that seemed so friendly. A long straight road that could have seemed interminable, mind-numbing, and instead warm and hopeful. It was as if the townspeople had suddenly run out of their houses to greet this weary traveller. We ate from our stores.
On this day, I walk a narrow pathway, uncomfortable with appropriated history and appropriated heros, finding myself one of many a white person gazing reverently at the pale white face of a native man, carved by a white man and his family into the face of a sacred rock on south dakota soil. Is everyone OK with us cutting up this rock? Will they speak of the Crazy Horse memorial the way they do Mt. Rushmore? What is Teddy Roosevelt doing at Mt. Rushmore anyway? And then, what are all these cowboy-hatted white people doing?
After the absurdity of white men taking over the memory of a Lakota Warrior who is said to have said that his home is where his dead lie buried. We slink off to spend time with nature. We wait until invited by two birds and a chipmunk. We sat, eating in something of an emotional funk. Soothed from the experience. Little more than white guilt, and the time of day, indicated that we should be eating. Soothing myself into believing I am better than that, that I wouldn't let someone kill in my name.
I wish I wasn't so fearful. I wish I had mastery over my fear, and there it is, an irrational fear that sometimes washes over me even when I am at my most relaxed and peaceful. There is always the out-breath, and the resetting of the amygdala so it knows not to leap into fight and flight and then there is just the reptilian brain that doesn't really know much from cheap thrills, or even sensual delights, it just knows that there is something here. Then we listen carefully and watch the spider crawling; can't help.
The hummingbirds know the answer. They flit & pop & buzz. They are filled with father's sugary concoction and know the path they will soon take. For now they simply need to bulk up. A path back to the family, a path back where we belong.
A visit to the family where the only bond is one of blood, and the only common point is the one of curiosity around what we might have in common. It is less engaging than it might be really, and more than it could be as well.
too much meets not enough. This is the dynamic of the generation. Cat tails meet the big easy and the cat tails in their over abundance are taking the lead. Who knew that we would end up on top after all?
How many ways can a cute fireman impress? What is the number one way to tease apart the dressings or the facia of a pig? A book of questions not really so hard when it comes down to it. Who ate the cherry pie on the veranda near aunt mildred's prize petunias?
What is it to be suspended 36,000 feet above the land, hurtling forward at breathtaking velocity? The body takes time to regain equilibrium, to find itself back as if for the first time, feet on the ground.
If you were running from certain death at every turn, only making it through the desert by sheer luck, and the power of your continued footsteps, one in front of the other, avoiding conscription into anyone's army. How would anything else seem meaningful? How could you possibly settle into the hum drum existence of working at a health club?
Return home, much accomplished for a 'do nothing' day. The rosy fingered dawn, always makes her appearance here. Nothing like a little joycean reference to make the batch seem complete.
The element of surprise is lost, perhaps, but otherwise, we're a-okay. If dinner were far behind, we'd be lost. Elements of a day of house-holding. We must tend to our surroundings, to the fading window, the buckling floor, the inappropriate charge. Each of these tasks is one unto itself and holds space among the people.
We will know the place here again.
The count is thirty and two. No more, well, maybe more, there seems to be a raging controversy. How raging can the controversy be? We're talking life saving, we're talking mass education of the population to be able to extend lives in the field so that first responders can get there second. How vehement can the controversy be? The trouble was that the numbers kept changing, and we, lay people couldn't figure it out. Class was fun. Enjoyed myself immensely. Now not for another two years -- I got my card.
What do we hold sacred? I have been noticing my meals, and recognizing them with gratitude. I cannot exist without the many labors of other creatures and people playing their roles in the cycle of life. We exist together, interconnected in an inseparable web, where your limbs wash over mine, and your breath weaves with mine. You are me, I am you, we are connected. Your life and my life cannot exist without eachother. How can you exist separately and alone? Yes, this is what it should be, and we are together in this.
Here we are, a little after the day has begun. actually, it's almost noon, but maybe we like it that way. my day is just getting started. can we look at what the two spaces between the period and the next sentence does to our productivity? if there were only one space instead of two, how much faster would we type? how much more room would there be on our thumbs -- we no longer have calluses on our fingers from writing, no, these days, there's the tiny subtle callous on our poor beleaguered thumbs. it's a preventable tragedy.
The early morning sun shines down, pours down gently and warmly as the heat begins to rise for the day. Here beyond the tweet, and the heat of the day and the rising sun. Yesterday's moon seemed too large for its britches. We should be on the waning moon, but yesterday looked bigger than full. Low on the horizon, full, and beautiful. Rising above the not-so-sleepy city. Everyone in their houses, all of the houses illuminated from within. It was 8:30, and everyone was home except for me, and you could see them at home.
Sometimes there is nothing for it, but to smash the bug because we don't know what else to do. We don't know where it comes from or why it's here, or what happened the other night when the captives found their way through the fence to freedom. You know what your freedom will look like, when we saw the doorway and what the doorway looks like, where it is, and who helped us get there. If the way through were easy, we'd already be there, but it's not always, and so we make our way there slowly.
I'd like to eat a bit of anxious salad, or a little bit of excited melon, or a little bit of happy, relaxed, well-adjusted beef. You know the way they are these days, the ones who listen to rap music and drip rain goo from some where else? If you knew what it was about, you'd be OK, you'd be just fine, and maybe a little bit happier or maybe not as happy, it's hard to know sometimes what will make you or someone else a little queerer or a little bit more unprecidentedly contented. It's like a pot.
A hot pot, or a shore on the other side. I have to leave soon, and lock the doors before I go. I think the class is at 6:45, and then I have a whole hour to go, but I'm really not sure, and think I should leave to check it, but this little thing is just checking to see if I'm writing or if I stopped or if the drums are playing or the sirens blaring or if the windows are open (they are) or if the cat has settled (she has) or if the radio is blaring.
Today with books and sleep and little else, I wash a dish, thinking about broken dishes and watch my hand drop a glass on the floor. I am barefoot and want to know what has motivated me and what is in the subconscious. This window into another experience of the same thing. She will step away from her work, find a new home perhaps, and land in another new home. Her home will be something new and focused and that will be the thing that will carry her forward, dropping her shoulders, exhaling again finding home.
Tickle me haughtily. Let me know it naughtily. The sense of entitlement in that parking lot, the pit-bull mix puppy knows I'm nervous around him, and so he jumps and hops and leaps on me, and the people who own him, don't really seem to care that he's all over a stranger. they come out to help, but the owner doesn't really seem to care. there is just a little bit of nothing around here. Take care of your dog, keep him safe. Let me have breakfast without concern for my safety or food.
A little more beyond this, the first paragraph was slow, writing and then there was a little more, and then a little less. my nose itches, and the robin or was it a cow bird on the shed is there again, unafraid of the ferocious feline on the prowl. there might be a little bit more to this. sore muscles, latissimus dorsi, speaking to you and to me by their sheer volume. This one from vashistasana. gluteus minimus, awake, alive and well from many too many ardha chandrasanas. YOU are the master of what drives it all forward.
(it's not) or if the kids are still jumping on the trampoline (what?) or where they are or whose children they are,why oh why are they sitting in my backyard anyway? I wonder. I would like to know if you have a little bit more than less, and if the fire that they put out is wider or wilder than the waves of peace and ease we might feel if we'd just breathe in, and just breathe out with a little more ferocity. It's like night and day, when we breathe and remember that one breath counts like last.
Three hundred words before the middle of that paragraph, three hundred now beginning, and then a little bit more. I'm shivering, or would be, if I thought about it. Cramps have settled just below the drum beat. I need to remember what time my class starts to know when to leave. HOw many times will I recalculate? How many times will I look at the page & look and calculate and remember that the out breath is what holds the center. If you look at the center of the circle, you will find that that is what you once wanted.
Just a few more, just a couple more, it looks like a lot, but really it's not much. It's not a bad way to spend a few moments, or a few little ways that you and your head bobbing a little before the dawn or a little after your mom called you to dinner or just before the coach called the laps to be run on your toes and backwards. A little nervewracking, but otherwise, just like you like it or maybe not. It's famous, or not, it's wise, or not, it's open to the window and open to exploration.
Just a drumbeat, driving, needing socks and maybe a shirt, remember to fold the clothes if you like, clean the livingroom, list one thing then the other. Follow your lists, Listen to the way the waves crawl, over and over and over, there is just a little bit of hair caught on your lip. Between your lips, a crossed hair, a caught in the cross-hairs, of this or that focused or unfocused experience. Or and if become grand friends, as well as what and why and who. Who left us watching, while we were weeping or while we ate.
pig face here, just a few words before the storm. I'm hungry. achey tummy and the stories i've been reading make me smile sometimes, or other times they are less than that, but that doesn't make sense, cuz the stories are inspiring sometimes, and usually a 'good story' at the very least. there isn't much else here but the drooping sanitary smile of the last mingled mangled frog. I found frogs on the front line. they are here to hop and breed and maybe something else, but I haven't figured that out yet. just hop and eat flies for them.
Here I am, just a few minutes from running off to my first yoga class. There is will, a little bit of time here before I must be gone. Exploratory rubbing happens between me & my cat and the clay pot on the shelf. Truly wildly dangerously empty of meaning, I am here and there, and just below the window of your loneliness. If you had a little bit more before the beef, you'd be the mod's squad. You'd know the bees knees and you'd be the apple of somebody's eye. If you had just a little bit more meat.
Exhale. The way to begin each and every activity is with an exhale. It makes sense from this perspective that in Islaam, each activity begins with "bismillah, ar-rahmaan ar-raheem". This is the moment to remember that we are connected to each other, and connected to something higher. This also forces all of us to begin on the out-breath. It is ingenious, really. We construct our religions to support ourselves. We support ourselves, by creating practices that will keep us grounded and centered in the now. Sometimes people are really smarter than we might otherwise expect. I am momentarily in awe.
I wish I liked the show, but I can't really take the smugness or the bostonian-ness of it. We're all from somewhere else, and happy really that we're somewhere else, I see my inner censor is sleepy too, unaware that there's a thing we'll say, and then there are the things we won't say because we don't want other people to hear them outside of our sleepy little heads. A callous or cautious driving forward, I can't really tell which, but I know that it's not for me. A little bit of the walls falling off, don't think much.
Filling my lungs all the way up to the top, my belly expands, my legs are hot under the heat of the computer. Belly, middle rib cage, top of the lungs, right near the collar bones. The rib cage expands outward. I like the image of springs, and resonate with the french-door imagery. There is something here, there is something bigger than today. The body knows how to heal itself. My skepticism goes beyond this or that, or the other thing. I love the statistics, the pretty graphs, the distillation, the seeing, perhaps, over time. I love the clean graphics.
And then, with flying colors, and one fell swoop of the imagination, the experts watched you wash your dreams into a big swirling bucket of yuck. I like the -
candles lit, prayers were said. A hassle before the dawn. In breath, exhale. Hold. The class went OK. I felt like I might have phoned it in a little, worried when i dread even those moments, when I cannot find myself ready and enthusiastic. I think I did OK in the class, but maybe it's the time of day, maybe something else, but there.
A day, I forgot my glasses and my tea. Stuffy nose, and the things that come with that. I have a hangnail, and my hear is, what? what's that you say? you say today is Saturday? Goodbye, I'm going out to play. The end of my month, which was not really a month unless you add this week too and then still. A time of reflection and deep practice, priority setting and all, coming to a close as the next one begins. Nothing like having a synchronous month ending just before the asynchronous one ends.
That class has challenges. I wish there were a use for the train that makes squeaky noises in my class. We might find a new way at humor. Dance, lift up the way to the truth. So why is there less humor, or less response to humor, and wow, the way it seemed to lighten the room - yes. It is here, in the rolling on the floor like 8 year olds that we find our true selves. Laughter, delight, belly laugh, truth. It's in between the serious moments that truth finds itself. Expand
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