Pay No Mind

As I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I am not making the same one again this year. I am not promising to write more. I do not resolve to clear my mind and let the Muse do her thing; I will not try harder to be creative and I do not promise to finish any of the projects that have sat half done for the past xxx years.

Xxx years? Really? Augh. And I call myself a writer?

Well, yeah. I do. I just don’t call myself a prolific one.

In keeping with my ritual of non-resolution, I don’t plan to change my status and become more prolific. I haven’t spent any time perusing incomplete stories with an eye to changing their status, either. Yet one has begun to resume forward motion. I had stalled, as usual, when my head got, well, ahead of me ... and the quote above this post came at the best possible time.

Now I have something new to practice: cultivating no mind. Thinking is okay, but doing too much of it is not my friend. It’s not conducive to art of any ilk. Or to life, when it comes to that. How often do you change your mind before choosing something at random off a menu? How many playlists do you agonize over before picking one just to make it stop? Do you ever wear what you planned to wear? I admit to a perverse pleasure in anticipating my drink for Thursday cafe with wee sis and boy sister, but even then, I’ve been known to toss my plan out the window when I get to the counter. (Okay, that’s mostly to throw the barista, who prides himself on knowing his customers’ “usual”.)

One week into the new year and my non-resolution is already in danger of being broken. The story I mentioned is almost done. Once I gave it some serious attention (not thought), it started to write itself and now I know how it ends. I just have to write myself there.

Never mind.

Over and Under

We might as well face it: we’re doomed. This mortality gig is designed to try our strength of spirit, and when I really think about it, I get suspicious that being human has set me up to fail. I can’t always hear my little voice, and when I do hear something, I question whether it’s my connection to spirit or my own duplicitous intellect pretending to be spirit. I am distracted by noise, overcome by sensation, drawn into drama, goaded by fear, and occasionally wonder if no one is listening when I speak to my imaginary friends.

In short, I think too much. This despite my best efforts not to employ what the Japanese warriors in The Last Samurai refer to as “too much mind”. I try not to overthink my life, but when I want something to materialize and it ain’t happening on my timetable, it’s easy to forget my Jedi training and start wondering if I have been duped by my New Age gurus.

I watched a podcast of Professor Ekkles some months ago, in which he warned against the perils of overthinking. He suggested that one’s aim should be to underthink, which will result in greater trust of life’s process and the universe’s grand plan for each of us. More importantly, the stilling of one’s mind, the silencing of the chatter, is the way to inner peace. Inner peace opens the channel to the higher vibrational energies beyond this realm. It brings us closer to the collective force of creation and thus more in tune with our true (spirit) selves.

But how to accomplish this, when everything about our compostable container is confounding? As recently as yesterday morning, I thought, How can I possibly succeed when I’m foiled by being a carbon-based unit? Never mind that pretty much everything in my life is miraculous. I might be grateful, but I still have these annoyingly human moments.

Time for a metaphor.

Consider the mortal coil as a suit of armour. Its purpose is to house and protect you during your deployment to this alien country. At first, it’s a novelty—it has all these cool features like sensory perception and a logic processor—but the longer you wear it, the heavier it becomes. If you don’t maintain it, the showroom shine tarnishes and the joints rust out. The surface gets pockmarked and parts need replacing. It gets bogged down by the things you added to make it more impressive: plumage for the helmet, nipples on the breastplate, gold-encrusted greaves and talons on the gauntlets. For better protection, a newer, bigger shield. A longer sword. A snazzy dagger with a jewelled hilt. A newer, even bigger, shield. Yup, it looks good, but man, it weighs a ton and is harder than ever to humph around. And there’s no earpiece in the helmet, so you’re pretty much deaf to anything that isn’t right in your face—which is also all you can see because of the nifty-but-impractical visor you put on in your twenties. How did this happen? How did this thing get so cumbersome?

It’s not too late to simplify. You need the armour, but you don’t need the accoutrements. They were only acquired to impress all the other knights anyway, and the other knights were too busy trying to impress you. Lighten the burden by shedding what you don’t need—including the mental baggage that fooled you into believing the additions were what mattered. (They weren’t.) Sand off the rust and polish up your helmet; if you keep it clean and shiny, you’ll hear better when your little voice says something. And get rid of that stupid visor. Broaden your perspective. Open yourself to the true miracle of this existence. Don’t worry so much about how long it’s taking to get where you’re going; just enjoy this moment on the journey. You’ll get there when the time is right. Besides, being present helps to quiet the frantic chatter in your head. Mind is good, but too much of it—like too little—can be harmful to your sanity.

I quit overthinking as soon as I realized I was doing it. It won’t stop me from doing it again, but that’s the joy—and perhaps the point—of being human.

I’m off to polish my tinfoil suit now.

With love,

Humdrum and Humble

You know the old saying, “Pride cometh before a fall”?

Well, this extraordinary being put her underpants on inside out this morning.

Methinks it’s time to talk about humility. I don’t mean self-effacing comments or putdowns. I mean humility as defined in Webster’s Dictionary, specifically “the absence of pride or self-assertion.”

I think it was Professor Ekkles who said that someone who declares herself to be enlightened is probably not. This comes as something of a relief, as I don’t consider myself to be enlightened. I’m just waking up and trying to stay conscious. Blogging about it is part of my process, kind of like bouncing an idea off a friend to get a better grip on it, myself.

When I began to wake up, I was confronted with an unsettling truth. The world was still the same. My life was still the same. I was – and am – changing, but the daily grind remained more of a grind than I thought it would be once I regained consciousness.

Rats.

Then, Zen wisdom was brought to my attention:

“Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.”

I love this saying. It’s a reminder that, no matter how extraordinary I may be, the humdrum beats on and I must march to it. I can view it through a cleaner lens, but at its base, life is still a series of challenges—and just as I may excel at chopping wood, many folks are better at carrying water, enlightened or no.

It’s the same trap that snares higher-educated people. Those letters that pop up after your name when you’ve gotten your degree do not make you smarter than a high-school graduate or someone who had to quit school early to support the family. They just mean that a) you were lucky enough to go to university and b) you know more about your chosen field of study and may be entitled to more money assuming you can find a job in that field. Masters degrees or doctorates don’t make you worthier than anyone else of love or acceptance or kindness or patience except in the egotistically conditional sense, and that has little to do with why we’re really here.

We are all worthy of love and acceptance and kindness and patience, regardless of education or social status—or in spite of it, for that matter. We are all extraordinary. Yet, as I discovered while getting dressed this morning, the ordinary is designed to keep us humble.

With greater love,

* * *

Tears For Fears released a song back in 1995, the title of which I borrowed for this post. It’s an awesome song – hear it here and enjoy!

Know Your Mind

“If you really want to know your mind, the body will always give you a truthful reflection, so look at the emotion, or rather feel it in your body. If there is an apparent conflict between them, the thought will be the lie, the emotion will be the truth.” – Eckhart Tolle

Further to the tiny poem I posted on Saturday …

What do you want to write today, Ru?

Oh, boy! An urban fantasy!

You haven’t finished the novel yet.

The novel’s too big. I want to have fun.

“Black in Back” is half-done. You should finish it.

I will, but I’m stuck right now.

You’ll stay stuck if you don’t try to get un-stuck.

Did you not hear me? I said I want to have fun!

You’ll have fun once you get it rolling again.

I’m not having fun now, that’s for sure. I’m going to do something else …

What about the blog? You’re behind on your posts …

… something not writing!

*contemplative pause as Ru stomps off in a frustrated snit*

Well, no wonder you’ll never be successful.

During the course of this inner dialogue, my enthusiasm for my art was badgered from the joy of widespread potential to a poisonous knot of despair jammed under my ribs. By the time I was done, I was done. I didn’t even want to consider what I truly wanted to write because I felt like I’d be a failure if I didn’t finish something else. It wasn’t enough for my mind that I write for play. It wanted me to work. And even my bliss can be a turnoff when it becomes work.

I observed this odd conversation with the awareness that my compostable container houses two distinct entities: my mind and my spirit. And the two are the most contentious partners since George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Boy, is my mind bossy. It’s such a control freak that, even when it’s so tired that it’s banging into the boards like a hockey player in third period OT, it still strives to beat down my spirit. And my spirit, the little wimp, lets it.

That’s what intellect thinks of spirit.

Actually, spirit is smarter than that. It doesn’t give up; it just concedes the moment. Eventually it comes back. It’s as relentless as intellect, if not as prone to pumping up the volume. I kind of wish it was, but I’ve also learned that spirit burns at a higher intensity and will not lower itself to the level favoured by the mind. Let’s face it: the mind is pushy, aggressive, derogatory, critical, judgemental, self-righteous, argumentative – all the things we look for in the perfect mate.

Spirit, on the other hand, can afford to wait. Spirit doesn’t adhere to the concept of time as interpreted by the mind, so if I storm off in a fit of pique and refuse to write on Sunday, it neither judges nor ridicules. It simply lets me be. My mind is the thing that will hunt me down and kill my will. Why it fears my writing so much is a mystery. You’d think it would appreciate a break, especially when it’s as tired as it was when I started my vacation, but no, if it lets up for a second, it will be overcome. Worse, it may be cast completely aside, forgotten, reviled, ignored. Oh, that’s the worst fate it can imagine, that it might be ignored. 

It thinks it’s the less favoured child when in fact there is no competition. I appreciate my intellect. When I need it, it’s there. I just wish it would shut up when I don’t. No, not shut up. Relax. Yeah, relax, old mind o’ mine. Take five and let spirit drive for a while. You’ll kill us all if you don’t loosen up, and if that’s not counter-productive to your purpose of keeping us alive, then who’s the big picture failure?

The third party in this dilemma – and this brings me back to Professor Ekkles’ point – is the compostable container. Emotion is reflected in our physical condition. When I’m angry, my stomach knots. When I’m sad, I cry. When I’m hurt, my chest aches. When I’m happy, I smile. When I’m in love, I am weightless. When I ask myself a question, as I did at the start of this diatribe, my immediate answer is the truth. Any hesitation and my will mind slip in there with its niggly naggy nonsense, effectively confusing me with coulda/shoulda/woulda. If I doubt my response, however quickly it comes, all I need do is note how my body feels. How I feel is always true. What I think, not so much. When the two collide, what feels better is the way to go.

So go there.

No Fear

“When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently.” – Eckhart Tolle

Is the world a scary place?

Sure.

Is the world a scarier place than the one we remember as kids?

No. We just know more about it.

Fear is a terrific tool for keeping control of the masses; if properly applied, it can be deadlier than any weapon of mass destruction. How many of us were terrified we were going to die for pinching a cookie off the cooling rack when we were kids? Ever wonder why there’s so much bad news on the nightly broadcast? It’s not because there’s more bad stuff out there; it’s just that bad stuff is “more interesting”, it garners more ratings, and ultimately makes the commercial purveyors of paranoia rich beyond our wildest dreams.

One of those annoyingly ubiquitous telemarketers whose technology has nullified the point of having an unlisted number recently managed to snare me into hearing the spiel—she was hawking an internet security service that would monitor my personal information and alert me to anyone attempting to steal my identity. This service wouldn’t stop the theft; it would only warn me that my info had been compromised. All I had to do was pay a monthly fee and regularly check my email for any notification of nefarious doings. To get off the phone, I agreed to the 30 day free trial and the brochure arrived by mail a few days later.

I looked it over as a matter of interest, certainly not with any real intent to sign up. As I read, I realized (duh) that a company cleverly associated with my financial institution was hoping to incite a paranoia of something that, yes, is happening elsewhere and may happen to me … but is it likely? Am I going to live in fear of a possibility? Heck, I live in an earthquake zone that’s 100 years overdue for the Big One!

I didn’t wait for 30 days before calling to say that I wouldn’t be buying the service. When I was asked why, I politely replied that I refuse to live in fear of my own email account. Imagine, checking every day for a notification, not seeing one, breathing a sigh of relief for the stay of execution, then having a heart attack when one day I open the inbox and …

I do admit to a slightly paranoid regret after the call. I imagined being red-flagged and thus given preferential treatment for a security breach.

See how clever they are? Be more clever. Don’t buy in. Live your life without fear. See the world for the wonderful, beautiful, magical place it is. When scary things happen, trust that all will end well because it will. You’ll get through it and somehow, even if it seems unlikely or impossible, you’ll be all right.

We all will.

With love,

Mindfulness

Whenever you become anxious or stressed, outer purpose has taken over and you have lost sight of your inner purpose. You have forgotten that your state of consciousness is primary, all else secondary. – Eckhart Tolle

This happened to me on Monday. Back at work after a three day weekend and I was a wreck by dinnertime. Admittedly, the cat-herding part of my job has lately been nuttier than usual, but in trying to stay ahead of the nuttery, I lost my mind.

By that I mean I lost my state of awareness, falling prey to the Demon of Mindless Munching and consuming enough sugar to cause a combustible crash at the checkered flag. By sundown, my inner purpose had been trumped by outer purpose and my world felt dark, cold and hollow. Pointles. Joyless. Never hopeless, but certainly less hopeful.

Yes, my diet that day was a factor, but I let the frenzied pace of the office drive me off track. Anxious to stay ahead of the stress (and failing, I may add), I paid no attention to what sort of fuel I put into my coping mechanism. When I start a day fully intending to focus on each moment and that day ends in a smoking pile of rubble, I know I’ve lost consciousness along the way.

The trick is how to get it back.

My good fortune lies in Ter, who, even in her bleakest moments, has the smarts to identify what’s happening. When she is unavailable, however, I have to do the work myself.

Breathe in (calm)

Breathe out (smile)

Breathe in (present moment)

Breathe out (wonderful moment).

Rinse and repeat.

My little voice has also begun asking me what the Sam Hill is going on, whereupon I sit back and go, “Yeah, what is going on?” Since learning the difference between mind and spirit, ego and heart, it’s becoming easier for me to look objectively at my reaction to a situation and figure out where said response originates. If I’m stressed and spooked, then “outer purpose” has invariably out-muscled “inner”. Managing the monster will be a significant challenge until being mindful becomes a habit and so far it’s taken conscious, ongoing effort.

It’s also been worth it.

In My Own Way

Despite my recent decision to focus exclusively on writing Reijo’s romance, I’ve been unable to proceed. Yes, I’ve been sick, the Olympics were on, work continues to interfere with everything etc., but those are all excuses and pathetic ones at that (okay, maybe not the being sick one; nothing in life got done while I was down with the cold/flu). Plus, I had written the romance into a corner and writing out of it was tedious, time consuming, and not altogether satisfying. It’s a weak link, but I can fix it in revisions and at least the story is back on the road again.

Next obstacle? I write a scene in my head first, then I transcribe it. In this instance, I know where the character is going, just not how he’s going to get there ... or, rather, what happens to him before he gets there. Truly, I don’t want anything to happen to him because he’s been through enough, thanks very much, and the journey in this scene this is supposed to be a happy one. I really, truly, deeply, do not want to write a scene that delays his path to his beloved ... so I have written nothing. Nothing. Nada. I got sick, I watched the Olympics, I went to work, and when my thoughts turned toward Reijo’s ride through the woods, I almost felt the wall go up. I was not going there, no way, no how. I even manipulated Professor Ekkles and told myself that “writing just isn’t meant to happen right now”. I had no interest, no inclination, nothing. Not a block, per se, just ... nothing.

Then Sting enlightened me.

Ter and I caught him on Great Performances, playing songs from The Last Ship before the show opens on stage next summer. I particularly enjoy his little stories about how songs come about, and the experience of building a Broadway musical from scratch. He told one tale about a character named Arthur, who is partly autobiographical and therefore one of his favourites. Turns out the rest of the team didn’t share his affection for the old guy. They suggested that Arthur be replaced by a younger rival for the female lead’s affections. Well, Sting was crushed. He accepted the decision, but he was deeply unhappy about it. He talked about moping around for a bit, wrestling with his ego and so forth, then he—and I quote—“got out of my own way”. He decided to create a song for the new character. He didn’t want to, he admitted he hated the guy, but he gave it a shot and the song was born.

On hearing that story, I thought about my “problem” with Reijo and realized I was doing the same darned thing! I want him to arrive on cue at his beloved’s side, his progress unimpeded by drama or disaster, yet knowing that ain’t gonna happen has rendered me unable to write anything at all. I’ve been my own obstacle.

I have been in my own way.

Since that little revelation (thank you, der Stinglehoefer), I have stepped aside and let Reijo know that I’m listening—and he’s coming through! Neither is the delay as heinous as I feared it might be; yes, he’ll be late for dinner with his prospective in-laws, but at least he’ll arrive safe and in one piece. Gee, if only I’d relaxed and let him tell me before I shot head first into a writer’s block, I could have saved myself a little extra grief.

It’s a good life lesson. Get out of your way and watch what happens!

Writer Without a Cause

Being stuck between projects is like being stuck in an airlock. I’ve returned from one world and am awaiting entry to the next, but the doors are jammed on either side so all I can do is wait for inspiration to rescue me.

Time spent not writing seems wasted, but is it? I’ve wasted equally precious Sundays writing complete crap, emerging grouchy and frustrated from my room with x-number of substandard paragraphs to fuel my ire. Better to admit I’ve got nuttin’ at the start than force the Muse and end up with worse than nuttin’. Is it writer’s block? Could be—though I prefer to take the advice of Professor Ekkles and accept that writing is simply not meant to happen at this moment. It’s a Zen challenge because Sunday is pretty much the only day of the week when I can write from dawn ’til dusk, but if you don’t like the way something looks, change the way you look at it.

I may not be writing, but I can still be creative. Being creative doesn’t mean having a measurable output at the end of the day, either. I read more when I’m not writing. I listen to more music, take more walks, and do more pondering. (I don’t call it meditating because pondering doesn’t put me to sleep.) I nurture the Muse by poring over poems and paintings, by watching movies and concert videos, and, I confess, by revisiting my own work. It’s remarkably helpful to read something you wrote a year ago (or more); you can either see how much you’ve improved or be amazed at how much better you were than you thought. I usually see room for improvement because I am still evolving. What I wrote then I would write differently now, as what I write now will be written differently in the future. One thing is certain: the day I reach my potential is the day I quit writing forever.

Acceptance

This moment sucks. So how do I find joy in it? How do I drum up enthusiasm for the relentless pounding behind my left eye?

I don’t. I take Tylenol and a nap, and hope that it’s better when I wake.

It isn’t. In fact, it might be worse. It’s one of those hormonally-based migraines that last thirty-six hours and peak at 5 on the Richter scale. Not enough to make me barf, but enough to make being awake unpleasant. It also gets me to thinking about the downside of being present. There are some moments where I’d rather be anywhere else but where I am, when hearing a cheerful “be here now” is less likely to make me grateful than it is to make me a murder suspect.

One of the principles admonished by spiritual guru/philosopher/consciously-aware smart guy Eckhart Tolle is a threefold number that can be applied to every crappy moment/event/situation in life:

If you can change it, do so.

If you can remove yourself from it, do so.

If you can do neither of the first two things, accept it. Accept that the moment sucks and accept that it will pass. Good, bad or indifferent, no moment lasts forever. Perhaps the most helpful thing you can do in a so-called helpless situation is allow yourself to feel ripped off – denying fear of a root canal or anger with an executive decision will only make it worse. Don’t dwell on it, but don’t deny it, either. Accept how you feel and move on. You may feel better for it – I certainly do. I cannot change when the Flyers are losing a game. I can quit watching, or I can accept it and be happy that I’m watching them at all. That’s the other thing Professor Ekkles has done. He’s broken acceptance into further opportunities for presence. Once you accept the moment. you can:

Be enthusiastic; and/or

Find joy; and/or

If you can do neither of these things, then acceptance will have to do. Ironically, it takes more strength to stop resisting than it does to resist, but accepting what you cannot change can actually empower you. Letting go is liberating.

Back to the thirty-six hour migraine. When the Tylenol/nap attack fails, I do what I can to live with it. My ridiculously-priced green tea is always comforting, so I brew a tumbler and cradle it in my hands, sipping slowly and savouring the sweet grassy flavour. I compose this post, squinting at the computer screen as I collect my thoughts. I talk at Ter, who is having a day herself; we don’t complain, but we bolster each other through our respective sucky moments, finally admitting out loud that “it is what it is” and moving on despite the lure of continuing to whine.

And then, as it always does, the thirty-seventh hour arrives.