Prana

 It is no burden for me to be in silence, as readers of this online journal would already know. To the contrary, it is required, if I am to find my bliss. 

I am fortunate beyond words to have a home close to the ocean to which I can sometimes travel and live in silence for a few days at a time. Yesterday on the highway whilst travelling here I passed a sign that said that the road where I would pass was closed. I rang my husband in the car, and he rang the local store who confirmed there had been an incident three hours earlier. 

Google Maps told me to take a diversion, away from the coastal road and up to the high country, so to speak, along gorgeous countryside and eventually through a forest.

The incident was of course, most unfortunate, but it provided me with the delight of new terrain; beautiful green verdant land and then the wonder of driving through a forest almost alone. I couldn't make out why there were so few cars, but it was almost as if God looked down and said, 'No, no, it's fine, I knew you needed this.'

With maybe half an hour to the house, I saw a glimmer of the ocean, and my heart skipped a beat. I have been travelling to this part of the world all my life and yet it felt for the first time. The ocean was still and the softest blue. 

Once descended, I came to the Great Ocean Road, turned left and was reminded that in this stretch of the Road, it hugged the ocean, the beach, reminding me of stretches of road that led to the Coromandel Peninsula in New Zealand, where I went for a meditation retreat.

I am not sure if the world had gone quiet with so few people on a weekend out and about, or if it was I who had gone quiet. What I want to convey is that my mind had become 'a beginner's mind' and it was as if I was seeing everything for the first time.

I stopped off at the General Store for a few necessities and then to the house. When I arrive, I can never resist walking first around the garden. I said out loud, 'I love it here so much'.

Last night, I didn't want television. Instead, I went through the many CDs in the house, boxing the vast majority of them to give to charity. As much as I might pine for a John Denver tune every now and then, I can find that on Spotify. So, instead, I turned onto my saved tunes on Spotify and danced and danced.

Although I had bought food, I wasn't in the mood for it and instead drank red wine, some goat cheese on dried rice crackers, and an apple.

Every last thing I did was to savour my soul. It almost wasn't a decision. It was innate; intuitive. 

This morning I unpacked some books I had brought down and discovered I had brought a book about readings for yoga teachers, so I took it to back to bed and read the following:

'What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.' Crowfoot, Northern American.

And this, by Osho, the person by whom I entered the world of meditation and quiet contemplation:

"You can enter yoga, or the path of yoga only when you are totally frustrated with your own mind as it is. If you are still hoping that you can gain something through your mind, yoga isn't for you."

And how about this by Deepak Chopra:

In this short life, 'we have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring lightheartedness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other and then this moment will have been worthwhile.'

Later today, my husband will undergo hypnosis and I have confidence that he will eventually be unburdened from a worried mind. He takes his responsibilities seriously, and of course as adults we must take our responsibilities seriously, but there must also be regular time for the unburdening of the mind. 

He's a good and kind man at the core. You can put down your burdens in nature, and he can put down his burdens in nature, but it's exciting to think that he could, quite simply, put down his burdened mind and rest more completely in wonder and a state of peace. This is how you heal.

Stories

Christopher Koch remarked in an interview that there was a natural order to things that meant that the number three was important: beginning, middle and end; childhood, middle age and old age. When writing a novel, it was important, he felt, to keep that thought firmly in mind to enable the reader to feel connected with the rhythm of life; the natural order of life. He didn't use those words exactly but loving being in nature as he did, I think he'd be all right with them.

My first thought was about the age thing. If I am middle aged, at what point am I classified as 'old'?  Then, I thought about how his comment related to the craft of writing. I thought about my own 'story' as told on this blog and I realized that I had been in the middle of something. Lately, I've felt that I've moved out of the middle stage and have moved onto resolution and conclusion; conceivably 'the end'.

Well then, what was the 'climax' of the story? At what point did we leave the 'old world' forever, making room for the new one to form? If the 'crisis' was that I was losing my sense of belief in an ongoing 'forever type' union was there a 'climax' of some sort? (Well, actually, yes there was but I won't be writing about that here. Let's just say that was a deeply revelatory moment brought on by a piece of literature that prompted a union with my 'best self'. And, just to make it more complicated, what if the climax was that he had a revelatory moment of his own unbeknownst to me where he elected to be his 'best self'??)

How does the new world look, feel and function differently to the way it did before? And, how exactly did I move from the middle, through the crisis (you can't go back, under or around a crisis; you can only go through it) towards 'the end'/denouement of the story? It's a little hard to say and that is why novelists take 'life' and massage it, much like a plasterer works with putty to make some form and shape.

For many, many months there I felt that I was going through something very profound; something challenging and potentially crippling; that I was stuck in some sort of holding pattern much like a captive is held hostage and awaits the next move, never at all sure if there will be a next move. Much like anyone who faces a crisis, whether it be an external or internal crisis (or both), there is an immense sense of struggle, confusion, angst and dismay, to the point where there are moments when it feels that something has to 'give'; something has to change; someone has to change. Whatever. It can't stay this way for too much longer. That's the thought one has. You see characters reach this point in movies all the time until...something gives.

I watched The Upside of Anger last night and looked forward to my favorite moment. Costner, until now angelically patient with the woman who he has befriended (at the point where her husband has gone missing, presumably with his Swedish secretary), kicks down the bathroom door and tells her that he is sick of being her "bitch". It's a great moment. It's the moment when things change. He leaves and he refuses to take her calls. The boot is suddenly on the other foot and she's the one making the advances. She's the one making the calls to him; calls that he refuses to take. When he returns finally it is on his terms; a new sense of respect for his place in her life has evolved. It's enabled her to soften a little. She's still angry and sad at this point of the movie, but she's learning to take control of her emotions, step by step - a step critical to her progress.

In the process of coming to terms with my husband's illness the first instinct was simply to survive. I needed to find a way to stay as whole as I could whilst he was absent from me; absent in the sense that it was clear that I needed to take care of my self. As I learned to do this, I was angry sometimes for sure. Except towards the beginning when I was so confused I had to emote several times, the anger was silent. I didn't talk to him about it, since it was clear he wasn't in a position to hear my pain.

So, I talked a little with others and ultimately I talked to myself - in the shower, on paper, in diaries; here. I did what I knew to do to aid myself, not in the least sure how long I might need to do that, but knowing that I could do only what I could do. I put one foot in front of the other and trusted in the great unknown that there would one day come a 'peace'. In what form that 'peace' would come, I did not know for sure.

The honest truth is that I considered a path alone, if need be. My pain was immense and the thought of remaining in this 'middle' troubled me a great deal. I doubted my fortitude to remain in the middle endlessly. Many 'characters' do you may notice, because the alternative to some sort of 'change' or resolution is to continue to climb to higher and higher levels of crisis management, and no-one can sustain that sort of activity forever.

I read, and then I read some more. I figured by immersing myself in ideas of philosophy and psychology, and by reading novels, some 'truth' would help me. It seemed a better idea than giving up. Somewhere in there, things started to shift. My husband began to come closer to me. I started to become closer to him. We had wonderful conversations; conversations that opened us up to one another and left the vulnerability exposed, in a good way. As silly as it sounds, we 'found' one another; noticed that we were still, in fact, 'there'.

I read in the past few days that in some grief/crises type processes, the behavior of someone can almost insist that others remove themselves. It's not a choice thing on the part of a person but rather a reaction to the other. This happened. Who moved back to the other first? It's almost impossible to say at this juncture. I can't necessarily see it that clearly. I think I learned how to be empathic to him and he began to understand/'see' that I needed him in a particular way. We learned to dance smoothly again and to accept one another for the people that we are. Perhaps, he healed, too. Perhaps he learned to look at life in a new way and to choose life. Perhaps the rest from the rigors of his life invigorated him and he simply did what he needed to do for himself before he could go about healing me. Perhaps, in the interim, I learned skills that enabled me to work on my own for a time. It's all entirely plausible.

 Now, are we still 'in the middle'? I don't believe that we are. 'The end' relates, I suppose, to the end of the novel or the movie, or the story or the end of a life. So, in real life we're not at the end. Yet, we have moved from the middle of the crisis, for sure. For there to be an end to a story, either there is a reversal or a recognition; that is, either there is a new status quo or somebody learns something. In real life, we're sweet together again; accommodating, kind and loving. Not all the time, mind you, thank goodness. He's begun to be quite the top again now and I just love it. It suits me dandy to give up control; to do as told. It arouses him to throw me about the bed, to mitigate my senses; to roar in my ear. It's a life force for me.

How, indeed, do you tell the story when the story has not reached its end? If I were writing the script I could write up scenes of my life, of this 'crisis', and there would be a suitable, satisfying and sustaining conclusion. The changes in the status quo would be subtle for sure, but the changes in the characters would be more profound. You don't go through the eye of the storm and not learn important lessons. Stories demand this sort of reversal and/or recognition. In real life, of course, the story continues, which is why this web journal goes on and on and on...

Meditation

Fortunately, a short drive away from my house is a place where I may go, twice a week if I like, to be with other like minded people and meditate. Today, I meditated. My writing lately has been about being aware of the writing process, tapping into the mechanism of that, and I found that during the meditation I noticed everything about the process. This is my attempt to put it down in words.

I was the last person to enter the room and I immediately found a meditation cushion. It's round and higher than a regular cushion which means that I can kneel down with my knees in front and my legs to either side of the cushion for the entire hour. I quickly scanned the room looking to get a sense of the energy of the room and took in that they were all strangers, but kind looking people. I felt perfectly at home.

I moved my body slightly so that I was in direct line with the thick white candle glowing on the floor in the middle of the room. It sits in a wide, shallow glass container. The reason why I like to be in direct line is that even though my eyes are closed, I can sense the glow, and perhaps I might open my eyes ever so slightly during the meditation to look at the candle. My eyes were closed and my hands on my thighs even before we were invited to do so. I needed this quiet time with myself today.

For some time I simply luxuriated in being there, so still and quiet. I wasn't troubled, although my mind did go to a troubling thought several times. I breathed through the thought. I located quite easily the black "screen" in front of my closed eyes; the void.

I spoke to myself. "You are safe here."

I became aware of the hands resting on my thighs and registered them as belonging to me. I remembered the moment in yoga class late last night when we were given the instruction (lying on our backs) to bring our arms up over our heads several times. Each time fingers from one hand found the fingers of the other. I remembered how comforting that felt.

I felt an urgent desire for one of my hands to touch the other. I brought my hands together and placed my right thumb over my left thumb and let it sit there.

"I am here with you. There's no need to worry. I'm your friend and I'll be there for you."

One thumb comforted the other thumb. One thumb reminded the other that cindi was her own best friend; that she could rely on herself; always.

I was completely comfortable in this quiet place of rest and peace when warm air was blasted into the room (it's winter here now) and from where I sat I could feel the heat on my cheeks. Some random hairs on my head caressed my face. The sensation was that of the lightest touch of a person's fingers and I sat and radiated in that pleasure.

Perhaps it was this pleasure (I am not sure since the chronology of events is so difficult to reconstruct) that had my mind focused on my bimbo nature. I squeezed the muscles between my legs tight and was aware of my holes tightening. It was a fleeting thought that my holes are such an important part of me; that I crave for them to be filled and used. The thought surfaced that this truth is undeniable; that I like to sit on the cushion for reasons other than peace and calm; that the cushion arouses the holes; arouses the bimbo.

There came a time 30-40 minutes into the meditation wherein my mind determined to use the experience to heal. I've done this before, two years ago now almost to the day, with enormous benefit and I hoped for some visualization that might aid me.

I waited in the stillness and the void for something, anything, to occur. I breathed slowly in and out and focused on my breath. I was aware of flapping. I was a bird with big wings, so big that I couldn't get off the ground. Flapping, flapping away, I was going nowhere. The presence of someone was keeping me on the ground and I got the sense that I didn't want to leave because of him. I was frightened to fly on my own. It was as if I was glued to the earth and all the flapping in the world was doing nothing.

I waited. I didn't force it. I just remained hopeful that something good would happen. I began to lift off, and I was a little above the ground now but still in the one spot. I looked back at the man on the ground and he was still as well, simply watching the bird. I moved a little higher and now the man was more distant from me. I looked down on him. I looked toward the vast sky ahead of me. I looked back. Reluctant. Unsure. Perhaps I could turn around...go down.

He raised his hand. He was waving. I took a tentative look back at the vast horizon. I was gathering my courage. I was beginning to think I might be able to take this journey all on my own. I looked back at him and now he had both hands raised high, waving to me vigorously, encouraging me on; ensuring me that it was all right to go on.

Fly, bird. Fly. Fly. Away. You. will. be. all. right.

My wings were flapping fast. My mind was focused on the job at hand. I began to fly and as I gained momentum it started to feel freeing. It felt right and good to be soaring above the earth, to be flapping my wings and flying; to feel the wind at my back. As I flew further up and further away the clouds enveloped me and hid the speck of the man from me. He was entirely gone. I was alone. I was flying into the abyss. Onward. Upward. It was a new life. There was no going back. I flew on, aware that I could not retreat now from this journey. I was like a plane on a path towards a destination. Planes rarely turn back and I, too, would fly onwards. This was my destiny. There was no choice and I accepted my fate.

But, the price of this sort of visualization is that my closed eyes will form tears from the emotions experienced, whether they are good or bad, and now I waited for them to inevitably fall. I felt the tears race down my cheeks and I didn't check them for several minutes, until the chimes were rung (reminding people to bring their thoughts back into focus if they have strayed) and at this moment I raised my hand and wiped the left check with my left hand and the right cheek with my right hand.

In essence, the meditation was over for me, although there were at least ten minutes to go until it would be brought to a close. I opened my eyes a tiny crack to reveal shards of light formed from looking at the candle; Star Wars light sabre lines of light. I focused on them until my mind stilled again. I was now aware of my body; of some discomfort in my legs, of the weight of the places I'd been; of the upheaval of thought and the calming down of thought. I felt a little tired, a little hungry. I'm not sure what I thought after that except a willingness to stay deep down to the very end; not to give up.

Now, I heard the final chimes alerting us to the end of the meditation and as we stretched and returned our energies to our moving bodies I felt happy to be returned to good people in the room with me; to a sense of comradeship and good intention. Unusually, we even shared some laughter this day. No-one really wanted to leave, least of all me. But, I did leave and I did return to my life; rested, calmed; certain that I had the ability to face the challenges ahead of me.

(P.S. It was while I went searching for the photograph of a bird after writing this that it came to my consciousness that for the past week I have been unable to get a song out of my mind.

Blackbird singing in the dead of the night,
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

How extraordinary the mind is!)