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.

Hear Me Roar!

There was never any doubt, just a little internal reluctance to commit myself entirely, but as of yesterday, I’ve thrown in completely with House Lannister.

A charming family, as you can see by the write up accompanying my latest acquisition. A Vancouver jeweler called Pyrrha got permission to create a line of sigil bling for the Game of Thrones houses and, well, I just had to scoop the Lannister lion.

Declaring for the Dark Side a) takes more courage than you’d think, and b) prompted me to ponder precisely what has attracted me to this particular family. It started with the Kingslayer, and in truth, after five books and three TV seasons, he and his literally little brother remain the sole objects of my, er, admiration. The rest of the family live by a code that directly opposes my own. If moral values count for anything, I should have signed with Team Stark—they’re the heroes of the piece, but the direwolf in their sigil just doesn’t do it for me. So after much thought, I’ve deduced that the Lannisters have called to me from a previous life. Or lives.

Seriously. It’s not a stretch for someone whose current clan sigil is also a lion, with a motto stating “Royal is My Race”, to accept that, some other place at some other time, I was, or was closely associated with, royalty. Ter razzes me about it all the time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined that I was stolen from the royal nursery to be raised by a lovely middle-class Scottish family, which was to my benefit because I’d not have it any other way.

While wealth alone means little to me, the trappings of royalty seem distantly familiar—crimsons and golds, cavernous halls and luxurious coaches, rich food and fizzy wine, aimless socializing and a stream of servants fussing with hair and clothes and domestic maintenance. Some of these things I’ve replicated in this life, though I resent having to do some of the domestic maintenance myself, and I recognize now, from my middle-class point of view, that wealthy ruling families become wealthy ruling families by being ruthless rat bastards. That’s how kings were made. That’s why the MacGregors ruled the Scottish Highlands until Robert the Bruce listened to our arch rivals and made us into outlaws. Proof that being royal is not the same as being rich, sniff sniff.

I was not spoiled as a child, so my attitude of entitlement must have come from somewhere. And when I reclaim my former majesterial status, I will remember where I came from and try harder to alleviate the common man’s plight. In the meantime, I will wear my lion with pride.

Just don’t call me “princess”.

“The Laird of These Lands”

I am the laird of these lands

he says—and I smile

a patchwork prince

in threadbare clothes

barefoot in the grass

crooked staff in hand

he flings out his arms

to claim his dominion

grinning wider than the sky

he basks in his liberty

beholding to none

and I think

he is the richest lord of all

Happy birthday, Joelique.

With love,

Jocund Day

No misty mountaintops, though – I was lucky to get sun shining on the clouds obscuring them this morning. All week, sunlight on the snowy Olympics has been stunning at 7:30 a.m., but wouldn’t you know, the one morning when I’m not leaving for work … However, sun on cloud can be as stunning, and my day is still a jocund one.

Mostly because it’s a day off (woo hoo) and while sipping my morning tea, I was slam-dunked by a story idea so exciting that I forgot to brew Ter’s second cup. The original plan to contemplate my novel while reverently dusting the furniture morphed into a crazed dust-bunny-bashing session punctuated by blazing bits of witty dialogue, vivid imagery and general creative mayhem. It’s a perfect storm: a good title, a familiar character who fits my new peaches-and-cream tea, David Usher providing musical motivation, and a full day in which to unleash the first draft. Naturally, there are lurking pitfalls but I am determined to make the absolute most of my time today.

On the heels of a crazy-busy fortnight at work, this weekend is merely busy so not much time for writing: three hours in the chair with my hairdresser tomorrow, plus shopping with Ter and afternoon wet-sock-sorting;  a coffee date with friends on Sunday morning; an open house both days for the downstairs condo (Ter cheekily suggested that she wear one of her Def Leppard t-shirts and I wear my Flyers jersey to impress potential buyers); and perhaps the most thrilling of all … Game of Thrones season 4 starts on Sunday night!!!

Life is good.

Sock It To Me

Summer means a lot of things to a lot of people. Two months of school holidays. Road trips. Campfire s’mores. Sailing. Being awakened at 3:30 a.m. by annoyingly cheerful birdsong. A quieter pace at the office. Fresh fruit and outdoor markets. Buskers on street corners. Music festivals and baseball games. Mindless romance over meaty high fantasy. Top 40 radio over CBC 2. Comic book superheroes over true life adaptations at the movies. Long sunny days and short starry nights.

Ice cream.

I decided last laundry day that my favourite summer thing is no socks in the wash. Hand-fluffing those suckers between the washer and dryer is time-consuming, occasionally frustrating and, on a cold rainy afternoon, finger-bone-numbing. It’s worse in winter to be sure, but now that spring has arrived, my hankering for a sock-free summer is as acute as a parched throat anticipating lemonade.

Perhaps I should explain.

In gleeful defiance of my envisioning power, the laundry facility is located downstairs from our suite, in its own room off the back deck, ergo the “cold rainy” … er … I want to say complaint, but Ter spent a year of Sunday mornings at a laundromat because things hadn’t worked to plan where we were, so having a washer/dryer on the property where we are is a bonus by comparison, so let’s just call it an minor inconvenience. In summer, it’s great. I visit with the neighbours and play with the house dog, and catch the sun through the open door while I’m sorting the whites from the colours, but in dodgy weather, it’s a tad more challenging because of the gosh-darned socks. They won’t dry properly if I don’t fluff ’em en route from the washer, so precious time is spent handling each cold and clammy item when I’m sure a wiser individual would simply toss them as is into the drum and add an extra dime to the drying time.

Yes, I’m whining. For some reason, sock-fluffing was a pain last week and I began to think fondly of my sandals. Summer won’t be here for another three months, but I see socks becoming toys for the wee bears in the very near future …

“Nightfall”

It hangs on the clouds at the edge of the world: a town called Nightfall, where the houses have brick roofs and thatched walls, with corkscrew windows and mullioned stairs. No one will find it who doesn’t know where it is, and no one who lives there ever wants to leave. In daylight, nothing makes much sense, but when the locals of Nightfall close their eyes, they are not going to sleep.

They are waking up.

* * *

Another extremely short writing exercise. “Nightfall” is one of my favourite words. It evokes both the mist and mystery that defines my brand of romance. The imagery came to me before I fell asleep the other night and the picture was taken on a particularly odd-weather day last fall. This piece asks a question that has plagued me for some years: when you close your eyes at the end of the day, are you going to sleep or are you waking up?

The townsfolk of Nightfall have the answer.

Pretty Maids

A girl needn’t be a bride to walk beneath a floral canopy in April. A wedding gown would only clash with the lacy froth adorning the trees along the street—garbed in spring finery, they preen in the sun like pretty maids all in a row.

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter. I love stodgy food, long nights, hockey season, Christmas lights and copious cups of sweet milky black tea; however, by the time spring rolls around, I am ready for the break. Though much of the country is still buried in snow while Victoria is counting flowers in February, I never feel like we’re completely free of winter until April arrives. The winter theme on the blog has needed updating, but I had to wait for sun to coax the trees into bloom. They exploded practically overnight! So last weekend, I took the Canon on a photographic flânerie and was captivated by the apple blossoms bursting on most every branch. They look like they’re covered in whipped cream and the fragrance is nothing short of intoxicating.

The effect won’t last long. April tends to bring gusty winds and sideways showers, often while the sun beams between the cotton clouds, so within a few weeks, pink-and-white snow will collect on the street and be sprinkled over fresh-cut lawns—but that just makes the brief spell of candy-scented glory all the more precious.