Meditation – focus on listening, 20 minutes.
What a beautiful day – so warm, I could sit outside wearing my Tanzanian wrap dress, feeling the warm, humid evening air, with the sun still shining brightly on the roof tops opposite.
I took four deep breaths, hands on knees, palms up and open, felt my feet flat on the sunwarmed stone, my seat supporting me, spine straight but not tense.
I first focussed on breaths, allowing the mind to calm and centre, but quite quickly, sounds presented themselves… the buzz and whine of insects around me, the sussurus of distant traffic, a child crying somewhere, tired and fed-up, the chitter-chatter of birds, squeals of seagulls, a whooping rise-fall whistle, the pitter patter of feet of children running past the house, followed by the slow steps of a tired parent, the wind through our tree fern, and rustling the leaves of the blooming tree overhead… thoughts intruded, from work, from a conversation on the walk home, planning tomorrow, recalling this morning, thinking about all kinds of things… noting that really, since I started this journey – nothing has really changed in my mind – only in how I relate to them, and notice now how I can distinguish them, when awareness is active…. a car grumbles past, looking for a parking space, someone tells their dog off… the rustle of rubbish bags, distant sounds of slamming doors… more thoughts intrude… and I find myself establishing awareness, having absent-mindedly polished off the glass of water in front of me! I think it’s because I’m outside… it seems to scatter the awareness a bit… especially in the urban area… there’s so much going on… in nature, I don’t feel so scattered… and I’m tired as it is the end of the day…. more thinking! A plane hiss-growls its way overhead, first rising… then gradually falling into a low grumble… more twittering… a flutter of leaves…
I’m finally lost in a haze of thought, though not unpleasant, not the point of this practice, but remind myself of Sharon’s dictum: that is getting the bum on the seat, not the content itself, which is important – spending the time doing it. I feel calmer, more focussed, and ready.
I gleefully fetch my netbook, delighted that I’m going to be able to type my blog in our small townhouse paved garden. I fiddle with all the settings, getting the right pages up. But as I start to type, a small tragedy happens… a bumble bee gets stuck in a spider’s web. The hair on the back of my neck goes up as I realise that in its frantic buzzing, its trying to fend off the advance of the spider, crawling out from under the thick vines rapidly. I am torn between naturalist education from having lived in Africa and learned about the law of the wild and the awareness of the suffering. I’m gagging, and my nerve breaks, I rush inside to find an implement to fend of the spider… but by the time I’m back, the spider has clearly won and the struggles are the poor bumble bee succumbing to the poison which will paralyse it. There in my back garden, the struggle for life and the suffering… the spider will live for days off the feast, gruesomely kept fresh by the poison. Death: the inevitable end of us all… and all I can do is offer prayers for the bumble bee – that it find quick release. But I can’t endure the whole spectacle, so retreat into the living room where I’m now typing.
It is a chance to contemplate that big, scary, inevitable theme. At some point, we will all face that. In our modern, cushy lives, everything pre-packaged and shrink wrapped, we are not often called to dwell on it, but rather fall into consumption as if having the perfect everything will protect us from annihilation. In that moment, what is important? The grades you got? The things you have? Popularity? … time and again the masters and those that have faced death say one thing: loving and caring for others very well, is the only thing that counts.
RIP bumble bee. Hope you find happy honey heaven.
Spider: enjoy the feast whilst it lasts… one day you will face your own end…
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Day 141
Housework meditation: changing the winter wardrobe to summer.
So this was a bizarre form of moving meditation. Sorting out my closet. The weather has finally turned, and we’re in for a spell of warmth.
I settled all the things on the bed, and started to sort. Like with the housework meditation of the dishes, I found my mind split into several roles. First the project planner: what first? Get the bags, swap out the warm stuff, and check if anything needs mending. Then into the task… a lot of twisting and bending… my back ached a little as I would turn from the bed spread with a rainbow of spring and summer options, where does this go… what should I do with this? Is this too warm? Can it still work for nippy evenings… the problem-solver mind kicks in… sorting the colours… and then I find a favourite soft, black top, and stop a moment and like a cat, rub my cheek against it, enjoying the sensation of soft, fine wool… and slowing down and breathing… heavy dense fabrics and thin thermal vests are being swapped out for thin cottons and cool linens … I love the waxy feel of the flax… manager kicks in and suggests a few options for recycling… I bag them… as I discover old favourites, I notice the unfurling of memory as each garment triggers associations… one top triggers more negative thoughts… and I decide I’ve carried that long enough… recycle… I then sit down to sew on a button, repair a maxi-dress strap. I focus right onto the feel of the thread as I wet it to thread the fine, delicate, deadly needle. I carefully position the strap… push the needle through the cloth… feeling resistance… glide… resistance… glide… it becomes a relationship… this tool and my mind working the fabric and recreating something… about a dozen stitches… resist… give… pull the thread…. resist… give… pull the thread… I marvel at how my hands do recall my primary school cross-stitch practice … and for the first time I can remember… find myself thoroughly absorbed in the sewing… without any sense of anything else… no self-mocking, guilt that I’m undoing (as I sew – how ironic) 100 years of suffrage for women… betraying the sisters cause… but actually really enjoying the feel of ‘honest work’. It’s done. With great satisfaction, I return it to the hanger, and briefly imagine the summer occasions I will wear it… sensing a bit of triumph over being so careful and frugal with my resources. I do the same with a button on a favourite cardigan… work out how the loop of wool holding the button snapped, and then carefully sewing it back together, with the button, and a few extra loops to hold it in place. This is less rhythmic than the backstitch … trying to find ways to repair takes more figuring out, and less time for just experiencing the craft. It too is done, and with great pride, I gently return it to its hanger in the cupboard. the rest of the clothes are replaced… I notice now that I’m getting tired, and a bit fed up, and also realise that as the clothes have been put away for six months, are in need of a wash… I sigh with the sense of the job ahead… how quickly a pleasure becomes a pain! … the constant rising and falling of expectation and disillusion… but the next morning, it will bring satisfaction as I prepare for work…
I sit, savour the stillness after the chore, and deeply feel, again, the appreciation coming from myself, of having looked after myself. No discouragement there at all.
Inner critic … silenced?
