Think What You Believe

 

I woke up with monkey mind the other day. You know, the incessant internal chattering that starts ahead of the alarm going off? Or, on a weekend, when you’re trying to sleep in but can’t because you’re suddenly stressing about your next dental appointment ... in eight weeks?

It’s no wonder I’m not a morning person. My mind knows it can catch me in the dream space before I’m fully awake. So much for those magical seventeen seconds when everything is neutral! If I’m not with it right out of the gate—and I’m generally not—poor Ter is invariably clubbed with a grouchy Ru at morning tea.

That bugs me more than it bugs me. Ter doesn’t deserve to have me rain on her peaceful morning routine. She’s usually (always) up before me, and her welcoming smile is easily dimmed when she asks how I’m doing and I growl at her.

So when it happened the other day, I did not blame her for escaping into the shower as soon as she felt was polite. She assured me later that she’d just wanted to get her day started, and maybe that’s true, but I also know she was giving me space to get my act together.

Which I did. I had to. I was driving myself nuts, too. I’m unhappy being unhappy, especially when there’s no cause for it. I mean, really. Stressing first thing about a dental appointment that won’t happen for another two months? Clearly, I had no immediate reason to be upset that morning, so monkey mind went looking for something. First I growled at Ter, then I told her why I was crabby—she probably bolted for the shower to keep me from seeing her eye roll.

Anyway, as I sat there stewing, my little voice said quite clearly: “Think what you believe.”

What?

“You know that saying, ‘you don’t have to believe everything you think’? Well, flip it. Think what you believe.”

I actually blanked out for a minute. Then I considered what I believe. Starting with gratitude, of course. Yeah, gratitude: for Ter, for my loving, friendly and generous Universe, who always wants the best for me and ensures I have everything I need plus a million dollars more (still waiting on that million, incidentally) for miracles and magic and ... you get the idea.

And darned if monkey mind didn’t go, “Sod this; I’m outta here.”

Simply trying to ignore my mind is often like trying to calm a toddler in full tan-tan mode: it just cranks up the volume on the screaming. If, however, I focus on something else, something of my conscious choosing, the toddler sees me walking away and consequently shuts up. I’m fortunate in believing the glass is half-full, so it’s easy to think what I believe ... once I am reminded to do it!

Even then, if I don’t like what I believe, I have the power to change that as well. Monkey mind is relentless; it might be quiet for now, but it’s not gone by any means. It’s lying in the weeds, waiting to pounce before I’m fully awake.

When it does, I’ll be ready.

Whose Bench Is It Anyway?

 

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable everyone is on the first morning of a two-day course? How awkward the first half-day is as we all get settled and suss out our classmates? The next morning, we each make a beeline for the exact spot we claimed the day before – and panic when the instructor spontaneously rearranges the seating.

Humans are apparently territorial. Every time I visit the park, I sit on the same bench. I even refer to it as “my bench.” Last week, I spied cherry stones scattered in the grass near my feet and immediately wondered, somewhat resentfully, who had been sitting on my bench. Today I arrived to find a paperback novel had been left on the seat – a James Patterson, though I don’t recall the title. Seeing it gave me pause; I actually hesitated before reminding myself this is my bench, goldarnit, so I’m a-sittin’ on it.

So I did.

As I sat there, I wondered how many other people consider the bench to be theirs. It is public property. Anyone can sit on it and for as long as they like, to boot. No one can claim it for their very own. I’ve been lucky having it to myself on a Sunday morning. I won’t mind sharing if I’m there first, but if someone else is there when I round the corner, I’ll keep walking. I go there to meditate, after all, so why disrupt someone else on a principle that won’t stand up in court?

There’s a plaque on this particular bench. It’s placed in memory of a fellow named Timothy, who perished before his time as a victim of foul play (so says the marker). Whether the bench is occupied or not, the plaque is always there. Maybe whoever ate the cherries thinks of the bench as theirs. Same for whoever forgot to take their book when they left. I don’t think of it as mine, anymore.

It belongs to Timothy.

Elements

the view from my bench

One of the many magical things I’ve discovered about Esquimalt is the wilder side of Victoria’s Inner Harbour – this lovely little part of the Capital Regional District features a coastline of tiny mountaintops poking up through the ocean, gusty winds at unexpected intervals, and an up-hill/down-dale topography that provides a better workout than anything I could probably get in a gym. And the same stunning view of the Olympic mountains is as readily available here as it was from the Ocean Room.

A recent flânerie took me, with my Canon, down to Saxe Point Park, the “over the bridge” version of Beacon Hill that features far fewer flower beds and a slightly less cultivated atmosphere than my former stomping ground. I walked the park’s perimeter with the ocean on my right and the urban forest on my left, until I rounded the point and came upon a wooden bench situated with a rock rise at its back and a stunning view of the water out front. By then a rest was welcome, so I sat down on the bench and took a minute to absorb the environment. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out, and noted:

The sun’s warmth on my face;

The air stirring in my lungs;

The rock solid beneath my feet;

The sound of water gently lapping the shore.

In short, it was a perfectly pure mindful moment in which I was acutely aware of the four main elements that makes this world so beautiful. Wood and metal were also present in the bench beneath me, but this Virgo counts them with rock in the “earth” category.

This dimension is fraught with contrast. Life is not designed to be easy, but our loving, friendly and generous Universe has provided a glorious venue in which to find respite from the human experience. All we have to do is pay attention to it, and to ourselves. We are connected to the earth in ways we don’t fully comprehend, yet that moment on the bench at Saxe Point defined my connection more keenly than any book or documentary ever could.

It must have done, because I’ve remembered it.

Cruising Altitude

How do you feel today, Ru?

Almost immediately, I answered. Misaligned.

Maybe it’s the encroaching full moon. Maybe it’s the mittful of black currant jelly babies I ate yesterday afternoon. Maybe I’m exhausted from slogging through last week’s work and weather. Maybe I’m preoccupied by The Blooding of Jack Absolute. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been lazy about my practice.

Instead of maintaining my nightly prayer and daily meditation, I let it slip to every other day and every second night. From there, it was easy to drop to a couple of times a week, and then to whenever I remember. It’s hard to be diligent for an extended period, not because I believe any less in the greater power of universal consciousness (or God, to keep it simple), but because I fall prey to the pitfalls of this mortal coil. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I’ve consumed too much sugar. Whatever the case, having achieved cruising altitude with prior due diligence, I coast while the coasting is clear.

Life, however, is meant to be turbulent. It sucks, but it’s true. Smooth sailing is a state of mind, certainly attainable but not sustainable without course correction when things get rough. The waves don’t have to be of epic proportion, either. Little ripples wear me down as easily as resuming my practice builds me up; it takes a few days for the cracks to show, but here’s the miracle:

I can regain my altitude almost immediately.

My mind is a terrible child. She lies in the weeds and waits to pounce when my back is turned. I can’t silence her completely, but I can, as one Middle Eastern sage suggests, know myself to be “the changeless witness of a changeful mind”.

Have you ever watched yourself flip out? You know it’s you pitching that fit, yet you’re remotely surprised at the same time. You may ask yourself later what that was all about – but do you ever answer the question? I confess to being mystified by my own behaviour, and there are often valid reasons for it, but my preferred state is to be that changeless witness, that objective observer who understands what’s happening but who also has the antidote.

This morning, I recognized my dip toward the cloud and caught myself before descent into mental chaos. I knew exactly what to do. Yoga, meditation, gratitude, in that order. My mind is still working, but she doesn’t own me as she tried to do on waking. In fact, she’s almost dopey, thus freeing me up to write this post and perhaps finish another story this afternoon. I wish I could say I nail it every time (even better if I remained at 30,000 feet without effort), but I’m only human ... some of the time.

With love,

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.

Much Ado About Nothing

Sometimes it’s okay to be inert. Sometime it’s necessary. It helps to recharge your batteries and get you centered to tackle the next challenge in running life’s gauntlet.

Back in my own personal Dark Ages, I was gifted at Christmas with a desk calendar of daily affirmations. I’m pretty sure that the motive behind the offering was purely tongue-in-cheek, but I placed the new agey object prominently among the stuffies and Star Wars toys that cluttered up my cubicle. Each day, I’d read the affirmation, and if it was particularly laughable, I’d share it with the person who’d given me the calendar. She was as bitterly cynical as I was (though born in July, she should have been a Virgo), so her response would be similarly derisive to mine and we’d have a good malevolent snicker about it.

One was so ridiculously airy-fairy that I pinned it to my cubicle wall and highlighted this line:

“Even when I appear to be doing nothing, the Universe is working through me.”

The perfect excuse for a disgruntled civil servant to become less motivated, wouldn’t you say?

I realize now what that line truly means. I have since learned that doing nothing is actually doing something. It’s resting. It’s healing. It’s stabilizing jangled energy after a particularly unsettling event or series of events. It’s regrouping to enable my outwardly extroverted helping complex. The tricky part is choosing to do “nothing” over “something else”.

Once again, Ter is my greatest gift. She gets it. She recognizes the signs before I do and is often the first to suggest that maybe we should skip our Saturday lunch-and-shopping routine to leave me at home where I can do a few hours of nothing. I’ll sometimes fight because I don’t want to disappoint her or I think that doing something different will fix my mood, but in truth I suspect she’s more relieved than disappointed when I acquiesce. Who wants to tow a whiny fifty-two year old preschooler all over town in the guise of spending quality time together? Truly, we both benefit from my acceptance that nothing is preferable to something—at least for one weekend.

That silly affirmation clearly struck a chord all those years ago because I’ve remembered it—just as I remember Mr. Spock saying that expending energy running up and down a stretch of green grass and calling it a rest is illogical.

Therefore, do nothing once in a while. The Universe may appreciate being able to work without having to chase you around all the time.

And on the Seventh Day …

… they meditate.

The bears are adorable, but they’re also rowdy. On a given day, Moon Pie is liable to hang himself (by accident) on a purse strap or a bauble chain, Burl and Elliot are scrapping over the football, Rufus is in a snit about something, and Pumpkin is trying to survive amid the chaos by punching a hole in it. Gingersnap, Spirit Bear, and Gorden are milder in temperament than their feistier fellows, but even one of them will lose patience over the ongoing shenanigans once in a while. Either their energy was getting hairier or my aura has grown more sensitive to dissention because a few Sundays ago, I took away the football and gave them a group time out. I sat them in a circle, gave them a gazing ball, and told them they’d get to play tomorrow.

At first they were like, What is this? Definite grumbling and some puzzlement ensued. Moonie thought the gazing ball was a toy and tried to bat it over to Burl, but it’s an amethyst crystal that weighs more than he does, so it didn’t go very far. Not surprisingly, Spirit Bear was the first to grasp what I was trying to teach them, and in his quiet way, he got them to fall in line. When I checked on them a few hours later, they had settled into a peaceful groove and were far more relaxed at bedtime than if they’d been left to wreak their usual havoc throughout the day.

Now he’s the group guru. It’s taken some time, but since they’ve been spending Sundays in mindful and collaborative quiet, they seem calmer and less contrary during the rest of the week. Of course they still have their moments—you can’t alter their personalities completely and I wouldn’t want to—but I think they actually look forward to Sundays and their weekly “bear sangha”.

I know I do.

Present Moment, Wonderful Moment

Finally! I’ve wanted a morning picture of the Olympic Mountains for weeks, but the weather has only cooperated on workdays when I’m dashing to the car. The sun sharpens the snowy peaks and shadowy hollows in a way unmatched by any other time of day, and this morning—my day off—I seized the moment.

I am not a morning person. Being forced to rise before my preferred time, however, has taught me to appreciate the glory of a sunrise and the quiet moments before the rest of the world awakens. Now that spring/summer is here, my treasured morning meanderings are about to resume. Sometimes I sit by the water, other times I stroll through the neighbourhood with all senses attuned. I smell the salty tang of the sea, watch the sun pull colour from the gardens, listen to the music of birdsong and the whispering breeze in the leaves. I lose myself in the moment, walking and marvelling until my big joints start to whine. Then it’s time for home and tea in the Ocean Room, where I can sit and watch the world cruise by outside my window.

Or, as in today’s case, do some blogging, listen to some smooth jazz, and decide where the day will take me from here. Writing figures prominently, of course. As I expected, Cristal’s angel story is coming to the surface—I’ve already written a ton of stuff for her, so right now I’m pondering what I can use and what I must dump. I’d rather not dump any of it, since every word represents a flash of inspiration and a bucket of sweat. That said, what I don’t use with her may be useful in another story. It happens, sometimes. Because I write without a definite plan, sometimes two tales begin as one and eventually I have to determine what piece belongs where. It’s as much a puzzle as it is a conjuring and if I relax and go with it, I have more fun. It’s magical when the pieces fall into place and a story emerges. The ending often comes halfway through the project; until then, I am quietly freaking out as I wonder where I’m going. Again, relax and go with it, Ru. Geez. It’s not like I’m defusing a bomb or anything.

I’m just playin’.

Zen and the Art of Playoff Hockey

That’s better, boys! Philly now has home ice advantage, having taken game 2 away from the Rangers. It was close—they won 3-2—but they played more like themselves than in game one. And it only cost me a dollar in poor language penalties! Game three is in Philadelphia on Tuesday. I’ll be leaving work early to catch the opening face off.

Ter observed that I was awfully quiet during the game. Aside from not wanting to incur further financial infractions, I was practicing mindfulness. No easy task when one’s heart is pumping panicked adrenalin: when NY went up 2-0 halfway through the first period, I blew my cool, tossed a loonie in the swear jar, and decided I’d better get control of myself. After all, there were still 50 minutes of game left to play. Too early to go off the rails in despair. Stupid penalties notwithstanding, our PK was way better and one of my favourites, Jakub Voracek, popped one past Henrik Lundqvist before the buzzer rang at the end of twenty minutes. That helped to steady my resolve. The third goal can make or break a game, depending on who pots it. I was immensely grateful that it belonged to the Flyers. Gratitude is a good place to start in the mindfulness department.

So, rather than leap ahead in terror that, if they’re down by 2 in the first, they could blow the game, go down 2-0 in the series and be punted in the first round, I breathed in (calm), breathed out (smile), breathed in (present moment), breathed o—and screamed with glee as the puck sailed past the NY goalie. Once they were on the board, it became a matter of one more, just one more, hold them off, just one more, what the ^&%$, “chink” into the jar, reframe, one more boys, just one more … The officials were relatively fair—the Flyers will always be nabbed for trifles, but the Rangers took their share of penalty minutes, too. A couple of them were cited for embellishment, and while I disagree with the existence of the rule in principle, a) it stood the Flyers in good stead today, and b) it reminded me that the NY coach was too recently in charge of the Vancouver Canucks, who, while under his tutelage, doubled as a dive team depending on the importance of the match.

For years I have heard hockey players say that you must play one shift at a time and focus on getting one goal at a time. I’ve never fully understood the message until lately. Athletes of any ilk must be present in the moment; if one is fully mindful, one can achieve flow and make magic happen. I know, I know—hockey is just a game, but I also wonder if the team that wins is also the team that’s fully “present”.

Of course, being bigger, stronger and meaner helps, too. Just ask the %$&$# Bruins.

*chink*