Twice a year
once for Yin
and once for Yang
We pass the Balancing Point
and hover there for just a moment
hanging in the Black
perfectly perpendicular
aligned with Our Star
Day lasts as long as Night
and Night no longer than Day
We pass this point
and balance on this edge
just as We begin to explode with verdant Life
and then again We balance here
at the other side of Our Revolution
just as We begin to grow cold and die
These Equal Nights are the doorways to Our Two Worlds
light and dark
Life and Death
Yin and Yang
back and forth from one extreme to the other
in Our Endless Revolutions
but always passing through the same
points of Perfect Balance
in one door and out the other
We live and die all the while
swaying to this Eternal Rhythm
and it shapes us
molds us into Who We Are
What We Have Become
And so We hold these Equal Nights as Sacred
Special
Holy
or Magickal
examples of those brief ineffable moments
of Alignment
and Balance
and Perfection
these Equal Nights guide us to seek those moments
within Ourselves
and without
We feel this rhythm
and We see this balance
return again and again
We see it in Our World
and We feel it within Our Selves
and We strive to achieve that perfection
And so do We accomplish
all Our many
Great Things
Showing posts with label Tao. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tao. Show all posts
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Equal Night...
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
A Meadow In March...
Early Spring snowfall
dusts late Winter bloom
crystalline fractals piling gently
all around
to rest upon vibrant petal
leaf
stem
and ground
The field now
a riot of pixelated color
struggling to be seen under
blank canvas tarp of
Winter's last throes
Portrait of Nature's perfect balance
Yin meeting Yang
flowing together
each becoming the other
flower melts snow into water flowing into flower
demonstration of Tao
in this limbo-time between the seasons
that is no longer Winter
and not yet Spring
when the Universe gives lessons
to remind us that
there is no such thing as
"impossible"
Monday, February 4, 2013
Seoul Bath...
I went to a Korean Spa for the first time this weekend.
My friend had invited everyone to spend the day at the spa with him for his birthday, before the party he was throwing that night. A few of my friends showed up, but most people were waiting for the party. I'd been wanting to check out this spa for awhile, so I jumped at the chance.
Now, when I say "spa," think more, "communal bathhouse" rather than "salon/day spa." You pay $20 to get in, and stay as long as you want. (They're open 24 hours-a-day on the weekends, and they even have a "Nap Room" to sleep in when you want.) There's a restaurant (awesome Korean food); a PC room with computers, video games, and internet; and a gym. But the real attraction is the bathhouse.
As soon as you walk into the place, before you even get to the front desk, you encounter signs indicating "No Shoes Allowed Beyond This Point." So, you have to carry your shoes up to the front desk, where they give you a key to fit a locker there by the entrance, just big enough to hold a pair of shoes. Once you get your shoes off, you can feel that the dark wood floor is actually heated; feels so lovely. Once you pay your entrance fee, they give you another key to a bathhouse locker, and a uniform of simple cotton t-shirt and shorts; men get robin's egg blue, and women get prison orange.
Inside the locker room (men and women each have their own locker rooms, and their own bathhouses, naturally), you can change into your uniform and head out into the communal area if you want. But inside the locker room is the entrance to the bathhouse, and I headed straight for it. Inside were showers (regular and Asian style - a little stool on the ground in front of a mirror, with a handheld showerhead and a large bowl); two large, tiled, bubbling hot "tubs" (they were more like small pools), one of them herbal; two saunas (one wet and one dry); and a cold water pool (only about knee deep and three feet wide, but running the length of the room; obviously meant for bathing, not swimming). In one corner was a massage table, with a naked man getting scrubbed down by an attendant.
In fact, except for the attendant, everybody in the place was completely naked, and making no attempt to cover themselves up, which I found very comforting. I'm used to puritanical American gym locker-rooms, where everyone gets dressed and undressed either with a towel wrapped around them, or in a shower or toilet stall, out of some ridiculous sense of homophobia or something. That environment always leaves me feeling very uncomfortable. It freaks me out to be surrounded by people who are clearly all very afraid of something, and not really have any understanding of what it is that they are so clearly afraid of, exactly. Are they afraid that some "faggot" will see their penis and somehow become aroused? (And if so, why does that frighten them? What does it matter to them at all? And how would they even know that it had happened?) Are they worried that if they get naked the other men will think they, themselves, are a "faggot," trying to show off their penis? (That seems more likely.) Or are American men just incredibly modest and shy? (Haha! Yeah, right!) So I found it incredibly refreshing to be in an environment where nobody had these ridiculous hang-ups that I couldn't understand, and everybody could just relax and enjoy themselves, without getting all squirrely and nervous about something so completely innocuous as being naked in the same room with other men. I think it helped that all the men there were either Asian or Russian. (Apparently, this spa gets a lot of Russians, because it is the closest thing to the traditional Russian bathhouse in the area. They even had one set of their pamplets listing their services up at the front desk printed all in Russian.)
The larger, regular hot bath was empty (presumably out-of-order), so I headed to the herbal hot bath, which probably would've been my first choice, anyways, now that I think about it. This bath has a large cloth sack filled with various herbs hanging off of the faucet so that the water is running down through the bag and into the bath; the bag is also hanging about half into the water, steeping like a tea bag. (They had a sign listing all of the herbs they used, but I don't remember them all at this point; several of them I had never heard of before.) In fact, it felt very much like taking a bath in tea - the water was brown, had little bits of plant matter swirling around in it, and was incredibly aromatic. After about ten minutes in this tub, my skin felt softer and smoother than it has since I was a teenager. In fact, even now, it still feels much softer than usual.
After the herbal bath, I took a quick rinse-off dip in the cold pool (and when they say "cold" they are not lying - it was like ice water!) and then tried out the dry sauna. It was just over 200 degrees in there, and so it wasn't long before I couldn't take it anymore, and headed back out to cool off in the cold pool. Going from the hot to the cold like that is the Russian style, and I find it unbelievably refreshing and invigorating and sensually satisfying. (Maybe it's genetic.) The hot opens up my pores and loosens my skin, and then the cold tightens it all back up again. The heat brings all my blood out to my extremities and into my skin, and then the cold sends it all flying away from the surface and down into my core. And the simple juxtaposition between the two sensations is very-nearly overwhelming. It leaves me light-headed, but pleasantly so.
After that I tried out the wet sauna, but I couldn't take it for more than a minute. The air is so thick with moisture that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Whenever I would breathe in, I would feel like there was more water in the inhalation than oxygen, and since I was already a little light-headed, it wasn't long before I felt like I couldn't breathe and had to get out before I passed out. It's a shame, because, other than that, I liked the room. It wasn't as hot as the dry sauna (only about 150 degrees), and the wet air made it feel more like a bath or shower than the dry sauna, which felt more like an oven. And the water that they used to produce the steam was apparently infused with some herb, as well, because it was, like the herbal bath, incredibly and pleasantly aromatic. (The dry sauna actually had a small wicker basket full of cinnamon sticks in the corner, as well, producing a pleasant aroma as they baked in the heat.) I think next time I'll have to try this steam room first, before I do anything else, and see if that works out better for me.
I spent the next hour just going around between the dry sauna, the herbal bath, and the cold bath. It felt amazing. We had agreed to meet in the communal room at that point, so I dried off, dressed in my powder-blue uniform, and headed out into the communal room, which is between, and connected to, the two locker rooms/bathhouses. The communal room is a large, central room, lined with thick tatami mats on the floor, and little tables to go with them. (At least, they're called "tatami" in Japanese; I have no idea what they are called in Korean, but they are the same object.) There were also large piles of these small, traditional head-cushions used for lying down on the mats. There was a TV on one wall, playing Korean television. There were Korean newspapers and magazines lying around the room. There were boards for playing Go, Chess/Checkers, Backgammon, etc. scattered all around. At one end was a line of massaging recliners, and beyond that was the "Napping Room" - a small, dark room lined with more tatami mats for sleeping. I tried out one of the massaging recliner chairs, expecting a vibrating massage chair. What I got instead was ten minutes of, essentially, being pummeled in the back by a robot at high speed. It was more percussion than vibration. It hurt like hell at first, but by the end it felt fantastic.
Along the walls of the communal room are smaller rooms of varying temperatures, all dry rooms. The hot rooms were each lined with different materials all over the floor, walls, and ceiling. The Himalayan Salt room was lined with pink rock salt, presumably Himalayan judging by the name, and kept at 130 degrees. The Jewel Room was 150 degrees, and lined with smooth cut slabs of green amethyst. And the Charcoal Room was lined with small cylinders of charcoal, and heated to 170 degrees. (I didn't go into the last, hottest room, and don't remember what it was lined with.) There are also two cold rooms. The Cold Room is about 40 degrees, and then inside the Cold Room is the Ice Room, which is well below freezing, and lined with, predictably, ice. (The sign said it was -21 degrees Fahrenheit, but it had to be Celsius; -21 degrees Fahrenheit would be dangerous in just a t-shirt and shorts, and while this room was definitely cold, it wasn't painful or distressing. It felt more like about 25-30 degrees Fahrenheit.) Again, I spent a bunch of time going back and forth from the hot rooms to the cold rooms and back again.
We ate lunch in the restaurant, sitting cross-legged on pillows at low Asian-style tables, eating delicious, cheap Korean food. I reflected on the fact that the place was full of families. I could tell that this was a regular family event; you bring the wife and kids and spend the day. It was a like the Korean version of a community center or a YMCA. There was a father and son in the bathhouse while I was in there, the son maybe six years-old. They sat together, naked, at one of the little Asian-style showerheads, the son laying over the father's knee, as he washed and scrubbed his son's whole body over and over for what seemed like at least half an hour. To my Western eyes, this looked decidedly creepy, and I couldn't imagine an American father and son doing this. But at one point I happened to notice the father try to put the son down on the floor next to him and attend to his own washing, but the boy began to pout and plead until the father agreed to pick him back up and wash him again, which made the boy incredibly happy. I tried to look at it through their eyes. This was a bonding moment between a boy and his father. In our culture, we're taught to sexualize nudity in any form regardless of context, and so something like this instinctively seems gross to us. But this wasn't sexual at all. It was loving. And when I stopped myself from seeing it as sexual, and started trying to see it for what it actually was to them (non-sexual, familial nudity) it became a touching display of affection between a father and son.
I lost track of the hours I spent there, and didn't want to leave. I could easily see how someone could spend all day there. I can't wait to go back. They offer massage services as well (foot massage, body massage, Thai massage, body scrub, etc.) for very reasonable prices, and next time I'm going to book one of those and make a day of it.
My friend had invited everyone to spend the day at the spa with him for his birthday, before the party he was throwing that night. A few of my friends showed up, but most people were waiting for the party. I'd been wanting to check out this spa for awhile, so I jumped at the chance.
Now, when I say "spa," think more, "communal bathhouse" rather than "salon/day spa." You pay $20 to get in, and stay as long as you want. (They're open 24 hours-a-day on the weekends, and they even have a "Nap Room" to sleep in when you want.) There's a restaurant (awesome Korean food); a PC room with computers, video games, and internet; and a gym. But the real attraction is the bathhouse.
As soon as you walk into the place, before you even get to the front desk, you encounter signs indicating "No Shoes Allowed Beyond This Point." So, you have to carry your shoes up to the front desk, where they give you a key to fit a locker there by the entrance, just big enough to hold a pair of shoes. Once you get your shoes off, you can feel that the dark wood floor is actually heated; feels so lovely. Once you pay your entrance fee, they give you another key to a bathhouse locker, and a uniform of simple cotton t-shirt and shorts; men get robin's egg blue, and women get prison orange.
Inside the locker room (men and women each have their own locker rooms, and their own bathhouses, naturally), you can change into your uniform and head out into the communal area if you want. But inside the locker room is the entrance to the bathhouse, and I headed straight for it. Inside were showers (regular and Asian style - a little stool on the ground in front of a mirror, with a handheld showerhead and a large bowl); two large, tiled, bubbling hot "tubs" (they were more like small pools), one of them herbal; two saunas (one wet and one dry); and a cold water pool (only about knee deep and three feet wide, but running the length of the room; obviously meant for bathing, not swimming). In one corner was a massage table, with a naked man getting scrubbed down by an attendant.
In fact, except for the attendant, everybody in the place was completely naked, and making no attempt to cover themselves up, which I found very comforting. I'm used to puritanical American gym locker-rooms, where everyone gets dressed and undressed either with a towel wrapped around them, or in a shower or toilet stall, out of some ridiculous sense of homophobia or something. That environment always leaves me feeling very uncomfortable. It freaks me out to be surrounded by people who are clearly all very afraid of something, and not really have any understanding of what it is that they are so clearly afraid of, exactly. Are they afraid that some "faggot" will see their penis and somehow become aroused? (And if so, why does that frighten them? What does it matter to them at all? And how would they even know that it had happened?) Are they worried that if they get naked the other men will think they, themselves, are a "faggot," trying to show off their penis? (That seems more likely.) Or are American men just incredibly modest and shy? (Haha! Yeah, right!) So I found it incredibly refreshing to be in an environment where nobody had these ridiculous hang-ups that I couldn't understand, and everybody could just relax and enjoy themselves, without getting all squirrely and nervous about something so completely innocuous as being naked in the same room with other men. I think it helped that all the men there were either Asian or Russian. (Apparently, this spa gets a lot of Russians, because it is the closest thing to the traditional Russian bathhouse in the area. They even had one set of their pamplets listing their services up at the front desk printed all in Russian.)
The larger, regular hot bath was empty (presumably out-of-order), so I headed to the herbal hot bath, which probably would've been my first choice, anyways, now that I think about it. This bath has a large cloth sack filled with various herbs hanging off of the faucet so that the water is running down through the bag and into the bath; the bag is also hanging about half into the water, steeping like a tea bag. (They had a sign listing all of the herbs they used, but I don't remember them all at this point; several of them I had never heard of before.) In fact, it felt very much like taking a bath in tea - the water was brown, had little bits of plant matter swirling around in it, and was incredibly aromatic. After about ten minutes in this tub, my skin felt softer and smoother than it has since I was a teenager. In fact, even now, it still feels much softer than usual.
After the herbal bath, I took a quick rinse-off dip in the cold pool (and when they say "cold" they are not lying - it was like ice water!) and then tried out the dry sauna. It was just over 200 degrees in there, and so it wasn't long before I couldn't take it anymore, and headed back out to cool off in the cold pool. Going from the hot to the cold like that is the Russian style, and I find it unbelievably refreshing and invigorating and sensually satisfying. (Maybe it's genetic.) The hot opens up my pores and loosens my skin, and then the cold tightens it all back up again. The heat brings all my blood out to my extremities and into my skin, and then the cold sends it all flying away from the surface and down into my core. And the simple juxtaposition between the two sensations is very-nearly overwhelming. It leaves me light-headed, but pleasantly so.
After that I tried out the wet sauna, but I couldn't take it for more than a minute. The air is so thick with moisture that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Whenever I would breathe in, I would feel like there was more water in the inhalation than oxygen, and since I was already a little light-headed, it wasn't long before I felt like I couldn't breathe and had to get out before I passed out. It's a shame, because, other than that, I liked the room. It wasn't as hot as the dry sauna (only about 150 degrees), and the wet air made it feel more like a bath or shower than the dry sauna, which felt more like an oven. And the water that they used to produce the steam was apparently infused with some herb, as well, because it was, like the herbal bath, incredibly and pleasantly aromatic. (The dry sauna actually had a small wicker basket full of cinnamon sticks in the corner, as well, producing a pleasant aroma as they baked in the heat.) I think next time I'll have to try this steam room first, before I do anything else, and see if that works out better for me.
I spent the next hour just going around between the dry sauna, the herbal bath, and the cold bath. It felt amazing. We had agreed to meet in the communal room at that point, so I dried off, dressed in my powder-blue uniform, and headed out into the communal room, which is between, and connected to, the two locker rooms/bathhouses. The communal room is a large, central room, lined with thick tatami mats on the floor, and little tables to go with them. (At least, they're called "tatami" in Japanese; I have no idea what they are called in Korean, but they are the same object.) There were also large piles of these small, traditional head-cushions used for lying down on the mats. There was a TV on one wall, playing Korean television. There were Korean newspapers and magazines lying around the room. There were boards for playing Go, Chess/Checkers, Backgammon, etc. scattered all around. At one end was a line of massaging recliners, and beyond that was the "Napping Room" - a small, dark room lined with more tatami mats for sleeping. I tried out one of the massaging recliner chairs, expecting a vibrating massage chair. What I got instead was ten minutes of, essentially, being pummeled in the back by a robot at high speed. It was more percussion than vibration. It hurt like hell at first, but by the end it felt fantastic.
Along the walls of the communal room are smaller rooms of varying temperatures, all dry rooms. The hot rooms were each lined with different materials all over the floor, walls, and ceiling. The Himalayan Salt room was lined with pink rock salt, presumably Himalayan judging by the name, and kept at 130 degrees. The Jewel Room was 150 degrees, and lined with smooth cut slabs of green amethyst. And the Charcoal Room was lined with small cylinders of charcoal, and heated to 170 degrees. (I didn't go into the last, hottest room, and don't remember what it was lined with.) There are also two cold rooms. The Cold Room is about 40 degrees, and then inside the Cold Room is the Ice Room, which is well below freezing, and lined with, predictably, ice. (The sign said it was -21 degrees Fahrenheit, but it had to be Celsius; -21 degrees Fahrenheit would be dangerous in just a t-shirt and shorts, and while this room was definitely cold, it wasn't painful or distressing. It felt more like about 25-30 degrees Fahrenheit.) Again, I spent a bunch of time going back and forth from the hot rooms to the cold rooms and back again.
We ate lunch in the restaurant, sitting cross-legged on pillows at low Asian-style tables, eating delicious, cheap Korean food. I reflected on the fact that the place was full of families. I could tell that this was a regular family event; you bring the wife and kids and spend the day. It was a like the Korean version of a community center or a YMCA. There was a father and son in the bathhouse while I was in there, the son maybe six years-old. They sat together, naked, at one of the little Asian-style showerheads, the son laying over the father's knee, as he washed and scrubbed his son's whole body over and over for what seemed like at least half an hour. To my Western eyes, this looked decidedly creepy, and I couldn't imagine an American father and son doing this. But at one point I happened to notice the father try to put the son down on the floor next to him and attend to his own washing, but the boy began to pout and plead until the father agreed to pick him back up and wash him again, which made the boy incredibly happy. I tried to look at it through their eyes. This was a bonding moment between a boy and his father. In our culture, we're taught to sexualize nudity in any form regardless of context, and so something like this instinctively seems gross to us. But this wasn't sexual at all. It was loving. And when I stopped myself from seeing it as sexual, and started trying to see it for what it actually was to them (non-sexual, familial nudity) it became a touching display of affection between a father and son.
I lost track of the hours I spent there, and didn't want to leave. I could easily see how someone could spend all day there. I can't wait to go back. They offer massage services as well (foot massage, body massage, Thai massage, body scrub, etc.) for very reasonable prices, and next time I'm going to book one of those and make a day of it.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Sniff...
Standing at the sink, in the office kitchenette, washing the dried and crusted remnants of my workday's coffee from my mug, I had a moment.
I'm fascinated by those moments, when the most banal and mundane aspects of daily life suddenly collide with the profound, the mystical, and the transcendent. They have an instant and unmistakable sense of Tao. And this was one of those moments. Standing at the sink, in the office kitchenette, washing a day's worth of old, dried coffee out of my mug, just like I do at the end of every day. And as I stood there washing, the cleaning lady walked in. An older, round-ish hispanic woman; really nothing remarkable about her at all, and normally the only emotional response I would've had to her presence would have been my usual feeling of white, liberal guilt at this reminder of my station, and my privilege. But something else happened this time. Something new and different. Something I never could've expected. Something simple, and ordinary, and yet utterly magickal.
Just a second or so after she entered the room, the gust of air raised by her entrance carried her scent to me, and I was instantly a child.
Ten years-old.
The beach.
A perfect Summer's day.
The sound of distant waves, crashing. And gulls crying. And children screaming in joy.
And a feeling I had forgotten. A feeling of freedom and exhilaration and excitement and happiness that was so overwhelming as to border on the manic. A feeling of certainty that these glorious moments of delirium were all that mattered. There was absolutely nothing else to think about, or do, or say; there was but one single, solitary purpose to all existence, and that was to enjoy these moments, as much as we were physically able, for as long as our parents would leave us to it. These were the best moments of our lives. And even better, we were completely unaware of that fact. Freed in the glory of our naivete, we swam away in the joy of "it can only get better from here."
Death and old-age were only abstract ideas, and things that happen to other people, or on TV. Sex was still an exhilarating mystery, only just beginning to punctuate our daily lives with little electric sparks of sensation. Work was something grown-ups forced us to do, and was to be avoided at all costs. Playing was all that mattered.
Playing was the meaning of life.
And then I was back at the sink, in the office kitchenette, still washing the crusted stains of my amphetamine potion off of my mug. In just a half-second, I had experienced my entire childhood, and then aged twenty-five years. I wanted to cry.
I have no idea what that scent was. Presumably, it was the cleaning lady's perfume. Even now, as I write this, I can't recall the scent to memory; can't remember the sensation of it at all, but only the effect it had on me. It's faded back into whatever dark corner of my mind in which it has slept for the past twenty-five years. I don't know where I remembered it from, nor do I have any idea why it reminded me of my childhood, or the beach, or Summer, or the exhilarating freedom of having no responsibility. And I guess I don't care at this point.
I can't ever go back. None of us can. I will never, ever experience those feelings again. So I have absolutely no choice at this point but to feel incredibly grateful to have been able to experience them again, at all, for even a moment, as I washed my mug in the sink of the office kitchenette.
I'm fascinated by those moments, when the most banal and mundane aspects of daily life suddenly collide with the profound, the mystical, and the transcendent. They have an instant and unmistakable sense of Tao. And this was one of those moments. Standing at the sink, in the office kitchenette, washing a day's worth of old, dried coffee out of my mug, just like I do at the end of every day. And as I stood there washing, the cleaning lady walked in. An older, round-ish hispanic woman; really nothing remarkable about her at all, and normally the only emotional response I would've had to her presence would have been my usual feeling of white, liberal guilt at this reminder of my station, and my privilege. But something else happened this time. Something new and different. Something I never could've expected. Something simple, and ordinary, and yet utterly magickal.
Just a second or so after she entered the room, the gust of air raised by her entrance carried her scent to me, and I was instantly a child.
Ten years-old.
The beach.
A perfect Summer's day.
The sound of distant waves, crashing. And gulls crying. And children screaming in joy.
And a feeling I had forgotten. A feeling of freedom and exhilaration and excitement and happiness that was so overwhelming as to border on the manic. A feeling of certainty that these glorious moments of delirium were all that mattered. There was absolutely nothing else to think about, or do, or say; there was but one single, solitary purpose to all existence, and that was to enjoy these moments, as much as we were physically able, for as long as our parents would leave us to it. These were the best moments of our lives. And even better, we were completely unaware of that fact. Freed in the glory of our naivete, we swam away in the joy of "it can only get better from here."
Death and old-age were only abstract ideas, and things that happen to other people, or on TV. Sex was still an exhilarating mystery, only just beginning to punctuate our daily lives with little electric sparks of sensation. Work was something grown-ups forced us to do, and was to be avoided at all costs. Playing was all that mattered.
Playing was the meaning of life.
And then I was back at the sink, in the office kitchenette, still washing the crusted stains of my amphetamine potion off of my mug. In just a half-second, I had experienced my entire childhood, and then aged twenty-five years. I wanted to cry.
I have no idea what that scent was. Presumably, it was the cleaning lady's perfume. Even now, as I write this, I can't recall the scent to memory; can't remember the sensation of it at all, but only the effect it had on me. It's faded back into whatever dark corner of my mind in which it has slept for the past twenty-five years. I don't know where I remembered it from, nor do I have any idea why it reminded me of my childhood, or the beach, or Summer, or the exhilarating freedom of having no responsibility. And I guess I don't care at this point.
I can't ever go back. None of us can. I will never, ever experience those feelings again. So I have absolutely no choice at this point but to feel incredibly grateful to have been able to experience them again, at all, for even a moment, as I washed my mug in the sink of the office kitchenette.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Stroke Of Insight...
As an addendum to yesterday's post, please take a few minutes out of your day and watch this video presentation on the neuro-biochemical experience of "I am you."
Monday, July 23, 2012
Fifteen Minutes...
Another last minute post.
Fifteen minutes before I have to start getting ready to leave. Fifteen minutes to write, edit, revise, and post. Can I do it? And what will the pressure inspire me to spit out this time?
Clock's ticking, boy-o. Better come up with something quick.
Oh, great, I'm talking to myself. Again. A sign of mental illness. And, worse, unoriginal.
Blah, blah, blahbitty-blah. This is how I cure my writer's block. I just type out whatever comes into my head, as unfiltered as possible, until I start to feel the creative energy flowing. Then I tap that vein, and run with it.
My concern is that this time, the energy will start to flow right about the time I run out of time to do anything with it.
But, if so, then oh, well. At least I did the exercise, and posted something for the day that wasn't just "did X recently; doing Y tomorrow," or, "oh, woe iz me, for I am ze alcoholiqué."
Five minutes. You're running out of time.
But that's all time ever does, isn't it? Run out? That is Time's purpose. To run away, until it's all gone, and everything is nothing. Until every thing is no-thing.
Four minutes. Is that all you got, kid?
That was an existential query on the end of all things! What else is there? (And why do you always talk to me like a noir detective? Does my alter ego think he's in a Raymond Chandler novel or something?)
Three minutes. "It's a Raymond Chandler evening / At the end of someone's day / And I'm standing in my pocket / And I'm slowly turning grey..."
Oh, fucking great. You're quoting Robyn Hitchcock lyrics from "The Crow" at me? Who's the hack now?
Two minutes. And the answer would be you, since that is who I am.
Which reminds me of something I'd forgotten. I think one of the most powerful phrases in all of humanity is, "I am you." It cuts through the facade of our separate realities and points directly to the essential truth that we are all interconnected, and ultimately, all one organism, one tribe, one species, made of the same stuff, sharing the same planet, the same history, the same fate. We are not individuals, we only perceive ourselves as individuals because of the biological accident of our evolution. In fact, we are all one; undifferentiated, undivided, inseparable.
One minute left, hot shot. That what you're going to end with?
No. I'm going to end with this: if you're reading this, then please, do me this favor. For the rest of the day, for every person you see, try to remember to think to yourself, "I am you." Your child. "I am you." Your lover/spouse. "I am you." The barista at the coffeehouse. The guy who flicked you off in traffic. Your boss. "I am you, and I am you, and I am you, as well." Note how this affects you.
Report.
Well, no time to edit, so I guess this'll have to do.
Good luck, kid.
Fifteen minutes before I have to start getting ready to leave. Fifteen minutes to write, edit, revise, and post. Can I do it? And what will the pressure inspire me to spit out this time?
Clock's ticking, boy-o. Better come up with something quick.
Oh, great, I'm talking to myself. Again. A sign of mental illness. And, worse, unoriginal.
Blah, blah, blahbitty-blah. This is how I cure my writer's block. I just type out whatever comes into my head, as unfiltered as possible, until I start to feel the creative energy flowing. Then I tap that vein, and run with it.
My concern is that this time, the energy will start to flow right about the time I run out of time to do anything with it.
But, if so, then oh, well. At least I did the exercise, and posted something for the day that wasn't just "did X recently; doing Y tomorrow," or, "oh, woe iz me, for I am ze alcoholiqué."
Five minutes. You're running out of time.
But that's all time ever does, isn't it? Run out? That is Time's purpose. To run away, until it's all gone, and everything is nothing. Until every thing is no-thing.
Four minutes. Is that all you got, kid?
That was an existential query on the end of all things! What else is there? (And why do you always talk to me like a noir detective? Does my alter ego think he's in a Raymond Chandler novel or something?)
Three minutes. "It's a Raymond Chandler evening / At the end of someone's day / And I'm standing in my pocket / And I'm slowly turning grey..."
Oh, fucking great. You're quoting Robyn Hitchcock lyrics from "The Crow" at me? Who's the hack now?
Two minutes. And the answer would be you, since that is who I am.
Which reminds me of something I'd forgotten. I think one of the most powerful phrases in all of humanity is, "I am you." It cuts through the facade of our separate realities and points directly to the essential truth that we are all interconnected, and ultimately, all one organism, one tribe, one species, made of the same stuff, sharing the same planet, the same history, the same fate. We are not individuals, we only perceive ourselves as individuals because of the biological accident of our evolution. In fact, we are all one; undifferentiated, undivided, inseparable.
One minute left, hot shot. That what you're going to end with?
No. I'm going to end with this: if you're reading this, then please, do me this favor. For the rest of the day, for every person you see, try to remember to think to yourself, "I am you." Your child. "I am you." Your lover/spouse. "I am you." The barista at the coffeehouse. The guy who flicked you off in traffic. Your boss. "I am you, and I am you, and I am you, as well." Note how this affects you.
Report.
Well, no time to edit, so I guess this'll have to do.
Good luck, kid.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The Junkie And The Monk...
This is one of my absolute favorite Moth stories ever, and I'm so glad they finally posted it to their YouTube channel.
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
The Tao Of Cliché...
Welcome to Bad Poetry Week! Along with the one story, I also wrote a few shitty poems at the cabin in the woods last weekend, and now I feel the need to share them with both of you. As the saying goes, "Misery loves company."
It's hot
and it's humid.
But it's the perfect temperature,
and the best climate.
The bugs are all over me,
a distraction.
A thousand tender caresses
from The Mother.
I am wearing too much clothing.
But I am completely naked,
open,
and exposed
to the air
and the light.
On opposite ends of the wood,
I am too close to you.
But I want so badly
to be inside of you.
There is no sound here.
And it is defeaning.
I am completely sober.
And out of my fucking skull.
I feel like shit,
and have never felt better.
Here,
with you,
I am all alone.
My books
all define the Infinite,
while void
of any meaning.
I Want so fiercely,
like a sucking hole in my chest.
And I am content.
I miss you all,
now that you are here with me.
The wind swirls around us,
and nothing moves.
My belly,
my heart,
and my head
are all empty,
so I nourish the insects
with my skin,
and my sweat,
and my breath.
And when the storm
finally breaks,
and the rain
finally comes,
I will
finally
be dry.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Witness...
As the weeks have turned into months, I've been discovering even more reasons to love my new commute.
When I describe it as a "backroad through farm country," that is not poetic exaggeration. The road snakes past dozens of farms of every variety. Dairy farms, horse farms, plow-plant-harvest farms, even more than one llama farm. And as the season has slowly turned, I've been able to glimpse the changes occurring on some of the farms as I make my way past them every day. I've started noticing that several of the cowherds now include a calf or two. And I've watched the fields progress from dirt, to rows of dirt piles, to green lawns, to fields of waving shoots. I'm enjoying the game of trying to guess what each of the plants in the various fields are from their early sproutings. Most of them look like wheat to my uneducated eyes, but it's definitely possible that they could be some other grain, and it's even conceivable that some of them could be corn. I'll find out soon enough. I'm looking forward to that more that I'd like to admit, honestly.
I'm struck by how much I'm enjoying the opportunity to be a silent witness to this progress of biology. And I'm reminded of the swallows from last Spring.
We really don't want birds nesting around our building, but because of the beautiful garden with its variety of trees and bushes and flowers and its never-ending source of water in the form of a bubbling fountain, wild animals of every variety are naturally attracted to it. So, every year we come up with new remedies to stop birds from nesting in the places they nested the year before, and every year they find ever more ingenious ways to outwit us. Last Spring, when they couldn't find any place else to do it, a pair of swallows simply built a nest directly onto a vertical brick wall in our building's entryway, eight feet above the ground. Just to be clear, the nest was not resting on anything - it was simply glued directly onto a brick wall, by means of some unknown adhesive. I was so delighted by the sheer audacious tenacity of this, that I didn't even mind being outwitted by a bird. (And honestly, I wouldn't have minded, regardless. I love it when nature reminds me that we don't know half as much as we think we do.)
But even better than this, was that every day I got to walk past these nesting birds at least twice. And so I was given regular glimpses into their lives. I noticed when one of them (presumably the mother) was in the nest every time I walked by, where before it had usually been empty. I remember the day shortly thereafter when I first heard the cacophony of tweets echoing from the nest, and looked up to see the horrendously ugly faces of several new-born chicks squawking at me hungrily. After that, I was fortunate enough to get to see their parents feeding them a time or two. And over the course of the next several weeks, I watched those chicks grow faster than I ever thought possible, until suddenly they were full-grown birds, indistinguishable from their parents.
I remember the day I came home from work, and passing out of the entryway and into our garden, one of the birds flew directly at me, veering off what seemed mere inches from my face. At first I was upset, wondering why this parent-bird was attacking me. What could I possibly have done to threaten them, just walking by as I've done so many times before? Following the flight of the bird up above the garden, I saw several of them swooping and diving in odd arcs, occasionally diving right at each other, often narrowly missing other objects in their path. And they weren't going very high, either, tending to stay within the confines of the courtyard. It was all very odd behavior that I hadn't seen before. But then I noticed that the nest was empty. And with that, I finally realized that these were the new birds, not their parents. They must've just learned to fly! Probably that very day. When that bird flew at my face it wasn't attacking me, it was a near-miss on toddler-wings. It was probably just as freaked out by the experience as I was! And now they were playing in the air above me, testing their new power and freedom, feeling the wind in their feathers for the very first time. You could see they were still trying to figure it all out - still hadn't quite got the hang of it all, still afraid of going too high, or too far from home. I had to just stop and watch for a while. It was so beautiful.
Then, as Spring turned into Summer, I watched as the parents flew off, leaving their adolescents behind forever. I watched the remaining birds grow until they could no longer fit in the nest. Once they were too big, they perched on a nearby video camera on the opposite wall of the entryway. The sibling-birds stayed there for weeks, too timid to leave home just yet, wanting to stay together, in the only world they'd ever known, for as long they could. But, eventually, they disappeared. First one, then another, then the rest all at once. Looking for food, perhaps? Or maybe a mate? Or maybe they were just driven by an innate need to explore, or to start flying North as the season wore on. I'll never know exactly. But I remember experiencing a very peculiar melancholy when I first noticed they had gone. I was sad to see them go, I would honestly miss them - but I was also so excited and amazed at the cycle they were a part of, and that I had been so unbelievably fortunate to have been able to witness so much of it, from start to finish.
I remember those swallows, every time some old codger on the condo board complains about all the bird shit in the entryway, and suggests some new way to drive out the "nuisance." All I can think is, what's a little bird poop, compared to an experience like that? Getting to be a direct witness to the cycle of our biology? Being reminded of how alike we all are, how similar all of Life is? Being given a direct insight into your place in our World? Being fortunate enough to catch a glimpse, just for a moment, of a microcosm of the grand pattern on display throughout the entire Universe? Being able to remember, for a time, just how absolutely fucking amazing Life is? In the face of all that, who cares about something as trivial as a little bird shit?
I can feel the beginnings of something similar to my experience with the swallows in these peaceful moments on my commute. I can feel the swallows, every time I see the fields have grown a little more, every time I notice a new calf I've never seen before, bounding after its mother on spindle-legs. But this cycle is slower, and will last longer. It will last until I see the fields barren and covered in snow, and until the snow thaws, and the fields are plowed again. I catch these glimpses every day, and I string them all together in my memory, like an old flip-book penny arcade, and I feel as if I'm watching the cycle of Life on Earth in time-lapse, like Nature's breath - inhale, cold and lifeless - exhale, warm, vibrant growth - and on and on and on - as if I'm watching the planets spin round and around our star, as if I can feel the rotation of the Milky Way itself spinning off into the void, as if that longing in my heart is the tugging weight from the black hole at its center, around which we are all spinning, spinning, spinning...
And I am suddenly so still.
When I describe it as a "backroad through farm country," that is not poetic exaggeration. The road snakes past dozens of farms of every variety. Dairy farms, horse farms, plow-plant-harvest farms, even more than one llama farm. And as the season has slowly turned, I've been able to glimpse the changes occurring on some of the farms as I make my way past them every day. I've started noticing that several of the cowherds now include a calf or two. And I've watched the fields progress from dirt, to rows of dirt piles, to green lawns, to fields of waving shoots. I'm enjoying the game of trying to guess what each of the plants in the various fields are from their early sproutings. Most of them look like wheat to my uneducated eyes, but it's definitely possible that they could be some other grain, and it's even conceivable that some of them could be corn. I'll find out soon enough. I'm looking forward to that more that I'd like to admit, honestly.
I'm struck by how much I'm enjoying the opportunity to be a silent witness to this progress of biology. And I'm reminded of the swallows from last Spring.
We really don't want birds nesting around our building, but because of the beautiful garden with its variety of trees and bushes and flowers and its never-ending source of water in the form of a bubbling fountain, wild animals of every variety are naturally attracted to it. So, every year we come up with new remedies to stop birds from nesting in the places they nested the year before, and every year they find ever more ingenious ways to outwit us. Last Spring, when they couldn't find any place else to do it, a pair of swallows simply built a nest directly onto a vertical brick wall in our building's entryway, eight feet above the ground. Just to be clear, the nest was not resting on anything - it was simply glued directly onto a brick wall, by means of some unknown adhesive. I was so delighted by the sheer audacious tenacity of this, that I didn't even mind being outwitted by a bird. (And honestly, I wouldn't have minded, regardless. I love it when nature reminds me that we don't know half as much as we think we do.)
But even better than this, was that every day I got to walk past these nesting birds at least twice. And so I was given regular glimpses into their lives. I noticed when one of them (presumably the mother) was in the nest every time I walked by, where before it had usually been empty. I remember the day shortly thereafter when I first heard the cacophony of tweets echoing from the nest, and looked up to see the horrendously ugly faces of several new-born chicks squawking at me hungrily. After that, I was fortunate enough to get to see their parents feeding them a time or two. And over the course of the next several weeks, I watched those chicks grow faster than I ever thought possible, until suddenly they were full-grown birds, indistinguishable from their parents.
I remember the day I came home from work, and passing out of the entryway and into our garden, one of the birds flew directly at me, veering off what seemed mere inches from my face. At first I was upset, wondering why this parent-bird was attacking me. What could I possibly have done to threaten them, just walking by as I've done so many times before? Following the flight of the bird up above the garden, I saw several of them swooping and diving in odd arcs, occasionally diving right at each other, often narrowly missing other objects in their path. And they weren't going very high, either, tending to stay within the confines of the courtyard. It was all very odd behavior that I hadn't seen before. But then I noticed that the nest was empty. And with that, I finally realized that these were the new birds, not their parents. They must've just learned to fly! Probably that very day. When that bird flew at my face it wasn't attacking me, it was a near-miss on toddler-wings. It was probably just as freaked out by the experience as I was! And now they were playing in the air above me, testing their new power and freedom, feeling the wind in their feathers for the very first time. You could see they were still trying to figure it all out - still hadn't quite got the hang of it all, still afraid of going too high, or too far from home. I had to just stop and watch for a while. It was so beautiful.
Then, as Spring turned into Summer, I watched as the parents flew off, leaving their adolescents behind forever. I watched the remaining birds grow until they could no longer fit in the nest. Once they were too big, they perched on a nearby video camera on the opposite wall of the entryway. The sibling-birds stayed there for weeks, too timid to leave home just yet, wanting to stay together, in the only world they'd ever known, for as long they could. But, eventually, they disappeared. First one, then another, then the rest all at once. Looking for food, perhaps? Or maybe a mate? Or maybe they were just driven by an innate need to explore, or to start flying North as the season wore on. I'll never know exactly. But I remember experiencing a very peculiar melancholy when I first noticed they had gone. I was sad to see them go, I would honestly miss them - but I was also so excited and amazed at the cycle they were a part of, and that I had been so unbelievably fortunate to have been able to witness so much of it, from start to finish.
I remember those swallows, every time some old codger on the condo board complains about all the bird shit in the entryway, and suggests some new way to drive out the "nuisance." All I can think is, what's a little bird poop, compared to an experience like that? Getting to be a direct witness to the cycle of our biology? Being reminded of how alike we all are, how similar all of Life is? Being given a direct insight into your place in our World? Being fortunate enough to catch a glimpse, just for a moment, of a microcosm of the grand pattern on display throughout the entire Universe? Being able to remember, for a time, just how absolutely fucking amazing Life is? In the face of all that, who cares about something as trivial as a little bird shit?
I can feel the beginnings of something similar to my experience with the swallows in these peaceful moments on my commute. I can feel the swallows, every time I see the fields have grown a little more, every time I notice a new calf I've never seen before, bounding after its mother on spindle-legs. But this cycle is slower, and will last longer. It will last until I see the fields barren and covered in snow, and until the snow thaws, and the fields are plowed again. I catch these glimpses every day, and I string them all together in my memory, like an old flip-book penny arcade, and I feel as if I'm watching the cycle of Life on Earth in time-lapse, like Nature's breath - inhale, cold and lifeless - exhale, warm, vibrant growth - and on and on and on - as if I'm watching the planets spin round and around our star, as if I can feel the rotation of the Milky Way itself spinning off into the void, as if that longing in my heart is the tugging weight from the black hole at its center, around which we are all spinning, spinning, spinning...
And I am suddenly so still.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Hope and Regret, part 3...
On the heels of all of these thoughts on my addiction and
recovery and sobriety, I started thinking about how I feel about my
history of using. And I feel a need to state here, strongly and
clearly, and in no uncertain terms, that I have no regrets
about my past behavior. None. If I could do it all over again, I
wouldn't do it any differently. Even the very worst moments, where I
hurt myself badly or scared myself half-to-death or nearly died, I'm
still grateful for. Because each and every one of them taught me
valuable lessons that I wouldn't have learned any other way, and I have
in each instance become a better person for having learned them.
And those scary moments were few and far between. The vast majority of the years I spent drunk and high, I laughed my ass off and just had a wonderful time. I learned a lot about myself through those experiences, and I feel lucky and privileged to have had the chance to spend so much of my life feeling happy and stimulated and satisfied. I've had a great run of it up to this point. But it's just becoming a little old, a little stale, a little tired. And so am I. After all these years, it's taking more and more of a toll on me than it ever has before, right as I'm getting less and less out of it than I used to. And as I get older, and my priorities for what I want out of life shift from more immediate pleasures to bigger-and-better things, it's just becoming less and less worth it for me to keep going like this.
And I always knew that it would have to end one day. And I always knew there would be a price to pay for all those years of self-indulgence. And I always knew that this was that price. And I always knew that one day I would pay it. And now that this day seems to finally be coming around, I am paying it. Gladly.
But I'm still glad I did it, too.
And I wouldn't change a thing.
And those scary moments were few and far between. The vast majority of the years I spent drunk and high, I laughed my ass off and just had a wonderful time. I learned a lot about myself through those experiences, and I feel lucky and privileged to have had the chance to spend so much of my life feeling happy and stimulated and satisfied. I've had a great run of it up to this point. But it's just becoming a little old, a little stale, a little tired. And so am I. After all these years, it's taking more and more of a toll on me than it ever has before, right as I'm getting less and less out of it than I used to. And as I get older, and my priorities for what I want out of life shift from more immediate pleasures to bigger-and-better things, it's just becoming less and less worth it for me to keep going like this.
And I always knew that it would have to end one day. And I always knew there would be a price to pay for all those years of self-indulgence. And I always knew that this was that price. And I always knew that one day I would pay it. And now that this day seems to finally be coming around, I am paying it. Gladly.
But I'm still glad I did it, too.
And I wouldn't change a thing.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Hope and Regret, part 2...
And speaking of breaking the cycle, the 2nd, and possibly most, important thing
I learned in my session this week, was the existence of an organization
called SMART Recovery.
I've considered going to AA or NA meetings before, but having some past experience with them and knowing the gist of what they're like and how they work, I've never really felt like they would be a good fit for me. The central core of the X-Anonymous twelve-step programs starts with two things: 1) submit your will to a Higher Power, and 2) admit that you are powerless over your addiction. The rest of the program builds off of those two ideas, so if you can't do those, then the rest of the program isn't going to be much help for you, either. And neither of those ideas really work for me. More to the point, they're basically the exact opposite of what I feel I need in order to get and stay sober.
I don't believe in a sentient being that controls the Universe, so the entire concept of "Higher Power" would be difficult for me right from the start. I could use Tao, but that wouldn't really work, either. Because Tao is not a sentient force, it's just a pattern. It's the pattern of Nature seen throughout the Universe. It is the Set of All Things. It is the Universe, and everything it in, and everything outside of it (if there is anything outside of it) and the motion of all things that repeats in the same way from the spinning of galaxies down to the spinning of electrons. It is the cyclical pattern of motion that is all creations, that spurs all nothings to become some-things. So, it's not really a Power, and it's not really Higher, either, since there is nothing that is not Tao. And how would I "submit my will" to it, exactly? How can I submit to something that I'm already a part of, merely by virtue of my existence? And then there's just the whole idea of submitting my Will, at all, which I'm not real keen on.
Which actually ties in with the 2nd step, admitting that you're powerless over your addiction. Submitting my Will, admitting I am powerless... these are not things that I've ever been good at. In fact, I have spent the majority of my adult life strengthening my Will, to the point that I was able to convince myself that I can actually bend Reality to it. "Powerless" is not something I ever want to feel, or believe I should ever have to feel. And more to the point, it's not something I believe I am.
I'm not powerless over my addiction. That fact is self-evident. If I were powerless, then I would've ended up deranged and out-of-control, like my mother, or her mother before her. Or like one of those poor, pathetic people on Intervention, who are incapable of caring about anything beyond their drug use. I have never been like that. Throughout my entire history of using, I have always carefully monitored myself, my cravings, the amount of my intake; constantly limiting the amount I use to "just enough;" never letting myself use as much as I really want; dialing back my use whenever the cravings started to become more intense; etc. I used always knowing that I was an addict, and that I was walking a fine line between having fun and losing it all, and always on the lookout for signs that it was getting out-of-hand. (That's one of the reasons I'm actually feeling kind of done with all of it at this point. That kind of constant self-intervention takes a lot out of you, and it's getting to the point that getting high is no longer worth the effort it takes to maintain anymore.) In my entire history, I've only ever let myself use with abandon, to my heart's content, a couple of times. And every one of those times, things quickly got out of hand, and I scared the shit out myself, and ended up getting my shit together in a new and better way as a result. And even at my worst, even when I've hurt myself badly with liver damage and ulcers and near-overdoses, I've still never been even half as bad as my mother, or my grandmother, or the sick souls on TV, or any of the people whose stories I heard in those church basements as a child. So, if I have to start that program by admitting that I am powerless over my addiction, then I have to base that entire program on a lie. And what is the point in that?
And, honestly, if we're really "powerless," then what are we even doing in recovery? If we were truly powerless over our addictions, then wouldn't we be out getting drunk and high right now? For me, my sense of my own power, my sense of my internal strength, my strength of Will, is exactly what I've used to keep from going off the deep end my whole life, and exactly what I've relied on to get sober. So why on Earth would I want to just abandon that?? The whole idea just seems completely counter-productive to me.
And adding to all that the fact that my mother used to take me with her to AA and NA meetings when I was a kid, and that she left one of those meetings and went straight to the hotel room where she took her life, it would be a significant understatement to say that I have some emotional baggage associated with those programs. And if I went, the only reason I'd be going would be to try to get and stay sober. I really wouldn't want to also have to work through a bunch of my childhood mommy-issues at the same time. So, for all of these reasons, I've never really considered the X-Anonymous twelve-step groups to be a valid option for me in my recovery.
So I always assumed I would just have to do this on my own. I thought that the X-A groups were the only ones out there, and since those wouldn't work for me, then it must be up to just me doing the work, and the best help I could hope for would be the occasional 1-on-1 counseling session. And I was ok with that, honestly. But then my counselor tells me about this other recovery group called SMART Recovery.
They're basically an alternative to the twelve-steppers, that emphasizes scientific methods of recovery (constantly evolving as the science of recovery evolves; none of that watered-down, psuedo-JudeoChristian psychology "Higher Power" bullshit), self-empowerment as the main recovery tool (as opposed to submitting your Will and pretending to be powerless - more pseudo-JudeoChristian nonsense; and none of this Will-undermining "my addiction is a disease and I am sick and I will always be sick" crap, either), and recognizing that there is no one right way to become sober that will work for everyone - that everyone is unique and different and that each individual has their own best method of recovery - and so the key to recovery is finding your personal method and working it (which is completely in-line with the way I have lived the entire rest of my life; SMART Recovery is to traditional recovery what Chaos Magick is to traditional Western occultism - find what works best for you, and use it). They try to get at the root of addictive behavior itself and deal with that, using modern Cognitive Behavior Therapy methods, rather than focusing on the particular substance or thing one is addicted to. (SMART stands for "Self-Management And Recovery Training".) As such, they aren't just for alcoholics or drug-users, but accept any kind of addict at all. A meeting could include people ranging from alcoholics, to drug-users, to sex addicts, or gambling addicts, or hoarders, or anyone else who would fall under the category of "I'm exhibiting compulsive behavior that I would like to stop."
I was astounded that I'd never heard of this before. They sound perfectly tailored for me. I found out there's a meeting in my area, and I'm going to attend my first one next week. I'm going to try to reserve judgement, though. In my experience, things that sound too-good-to-be-true usually are. And while the base description sounds fantastic, some of the material I've found on their website absolutely screams "MOTIVATIONAL SEMINAR," and that could be a big turn-off for me. So, I'm going to keep my expectations low, attend a few of the meetings, and get a sense of what they're really like. It'd be nice if they turned out to be even half as great as they sound, and it'd be nice if I could actually get some extra help from them. But it would be just that - extra. So if they turn out to be not-quite-right for me, then oh, well. I still have no problem doing all of this on my own.
And no reason to believe that I can't.
concluded in part three tomorrow...
I've considered going to AA or NA meetings before, but having some past experience with them and knowing the gist of what they're like and how they work, I've never really felt like they would be a good fit for me. The central core of the X-Anonymous twelve-step programs starts with two things: 1) submit your will to a Higher Power, and 2) admit that you are powerless over your addiction. The rest of the program builds off of those two ideas, so if you can't do those, then the rest of the program isn't going to be much help for you, either. And neither of those ideas really work for me. More to the point, they're basically the exact opposite of what I feel I need in order to get and stay sober.
I don't believe in a sentient being that controls the Universe, so the entire concept of "Higher Power" would be difficult for me right from the start. I could use Tao, but that wouldn't really work, either. Because Tao is not a sentient force, it's just a pattern. It's the pattern of Nature seen throughout the Universe. It is the Set of All Things. It is the Universe, and everything it in, and everything outside of it (if there is anything outside of it) and the motion of all things that repeats in the same way from the spinning of galaxies down to the spinning of electrons. It is the cyclical pattern of motion that is all creations, that spurs all nothings to become some-things. So, it's not really a Power, and it's not really Higher, either, since there is nothing that is not Tao. And how would I "submit my will" to it, exactly? How can I submit to something that I'm already a part of, merely by virtue of my existence? And then there's just the whole idea of submitting my Will, at all, which I'm not real keen on.
Which actually ties in with the 2nd step, admitting that you're powerless over your addiction. Submitting my Will, admitting I am powerless... these are not things that I've ever been good at. In fact, I have spent the majority of my adult life strengthening my Will, to the point that I was able to convince myself that I can actually bend Reality to it. "Powerless" is not something I ever want to feel, or believe I should ever have to feel. And more to the point, it's not something I believe I am.
I'm not powerless over my addiction. That fact is self-evident. If I were powerless, then I would've ended up deranged and out-of-control, like my mother, or her mother before her. Or like one of those poor, pathetic people on Intervention, who are incapable of caring about anything beyond their drug use. I have never been like that. Throughout my entire history of using, I have always carefully monitored myself, my cravings, the amount of my intake; constantly limiting the amount I use to "just enough;" never letting myself use as much as I really want; dialing back my use whenever the cravings started to become more intense; etc. I used always knowing that I was an addict, and that I was walking a fine line between having fun and losing it all, and always on the lookout for signs that it was getting out-of-hand. (That's one of the reasons I'm actually feeling kind of done with all of it at this point. That kind of constant self-intervention takes a lot out of you, and it's getting to the point that getting high is no longer worth the effort it takes to maintain anymore.) In my entire history, I've only ever let myself use with abandon, to my heart's content, a couple of times. And every one of those times, things quickly got out of hand, and I scared the shit out myself, and ended up getting my shit together in a new and better way as a result. And even at my worst, even when I've hurt myself badly with liver damage and ulcers and near-overdoses, I've still never been even half as bad as my mother, or my grandmother, or the sick souls on TV, or any of the people whose stories I heard in those church basements as a child. So, if I have to start that program by admitting that I am powerless over my addiction, then I have to base that entire program on a lie. And what is the point in that?
And, honestly, if we're really "powerless," then what are we even doing in recovery? If we were truly powerless over our addictions, then wouldn't we be out getting drunk and high right now? For me, my sense of my own power, my sense of my internal strength, my strength of Will, is exactly what I've used to keep from going off the deep end my whole life, and exactly what I've relied on to get sober. So why on Earth would I want to just abandon that?? The whole idea just seems completely counter-productive to me.
And adding to all that the fact that my mother used to take me with her to AA and NA meetings when I was a kid, and that she left one of those meetings and went straight to the hotel room where she took her life, it would be a significant understatement to say that I have some emotional baggage associated with those programs. And if I went, the only reason I'd be going would be to try to get and stay sober. I really wouldn't want to also have to work through a bunch of my childhood mommy-issues at the same time. So, for all of these reasons, I've never really considered the X-Anonymous twelve-step groups to be a valid option for me in my recovery.
So I always assumed I would just have to do this on my own. I thought that the X-A groups were the only ones out there, and since those wouldn't work for me, then it must be up to just me doing the work, and the best help I could hope for would be the occasional 1-on-1 counseling session. And I was ok with that, honestly. But then my counselor tells me about this other recovery group called SMART Recovery.
They're basically an alternative to the twelve-steppers, that emphasizes scientific methods of recovery (constantly evolving as the science of recovery evolves; none of that watered-down, psuedo-JudeoChristian psychology "Higher Power" bullshit), self-empowerment as the main recovery tool (as opposed to submitting your Will and pretending to be powerless - more pseudo-JudeoChristian nonsense; and none of this Will-undermining "my addiction is a disease and I am sick and I will always be sick" crap, either), and recognizing that there is no one right way to become sober that will work for everyone - that everyone is unique and different and that each individual has their own best method of recovery - and so the key to recovery is finding your personal method and working it (which is completely in-line with the way I have lived the entire rest of my life; SMART Recovery is to traditional recovery what Chaos Magick is to traditional Western occultism - find what works best for you, and use it). They try to get at the root of addictive behavior itself and deal with that, using modern Cognitive Behavior Therapy methods, rather than focusing on the particular substance or thing one is addicted to. (SMART stands for "Self-Management And Recovery Training".) As such, they aren't just for alcoholics or drug-users, but accept any kind of addict at all. A meeting could include people ranging from alcoholics, to drug-users, to sex addicts, or gambling addicts, or hoarders, or anyone else who would fall under the category of "I'm exhibiting compulsive behavior that I would like to stop."
I was astounded that I'd never heard of this before. They sound perfectly tailored for me. I found out there's a meeting in my area, and I'm going to attend my first one next week. I'm going to try to reserve judgement, though. In my experience, things that sound too-good-to-be-true usually are. And while the base description sounds fantastic, some of the material I've found on their website absolutely screams "MOTIVATIONAL SEMINAR," and that could be a big turn-off for me. So, I'm going to keep my expectations low, attend a few of the meetings, and get a sense of what they're really like. It'd be nice if they turned out to be even half as great as they sound, and it'd be nice if I could actually get some extra help from them. But it would be just that - extra. So if they turn out to be not-quite-right for me, then oh, well. I still have no problem doing all of this on my own.
And no reason to believe that I can't.
concluded in part three tomorrow...
Friday, May 11, 2012
Hope and Regret, part 1...
(When I originally wrote this piece, it turned out to be a lot longer than I'd anticipated, and it just seemed like way too much to include in one posting. So, I've decided to break it up into three parts.)
I learned at least two really important things at my counseling session this week.
First of all, I was reminded of something that I had previously known, but apparently forgotten. That this thing I'm going through right now, this period of depression and low-energy/motivation, is a really common psycho-emotional/bio-chemical reaction in addicts, in response to a relapse. It's almost textbook. Basically, once you've sobered up a bit, then the crash from even just a little bit of use is much more pronounced, and much more noticeable. (It's always there, really - it's just that when you're getting high all the time, it's a lot harder to notice it.) And so that's what's happening with me right now.
I've learned that lesson before. I used to know this. So I kind of felt like an idiot for somehow managing to forget it. But I was also very glad to be made aware of it again. Oddly, it made me feel better somehow to know that this was a common phenomena, that many other people have gone, and are going, through it, that it's been studied and cataloged. Made me less sad about giving up what I'd lost.
Speaking of which, I was reminded of something about that, as well. That period of time in early sobriety, where life is beautiful and being clean just feels so good and everything comes so easily and naturally - that period that just ended for me after Walpurgisnacht, what I've been calling my "state of grace" - in recovery-speak, that period is called "the pink cloud." Also common, also well-studied and cataloged by men in white coats.
And also another trap. At least for me, anyways. Because, when I think about it, I realize that the pink cloud is just another high. I can see the pattern in my behavior so clearly now. I use until I get bored with it, or until it becomes so much less fun than it once was that it's no longer worth the price I'm paying for it in terms of health, energy, etc. Then I sober up and ride the pink cloud for all it's worth for as long as I can. And then as soon as that wears off, as soon as that becomes so much less fun than it once was that it's no longer worth the price I'm paying for it in terms of effort and sacrifice, then I start using again. And round and round we go on the merry-go-round of rotating knives. Basically, I've been cycling back and forth between being high on drugs, and being high on life. But no matter what, I've always been high.
So, that's what I'm trying to work on now. Breaking that cycle. And not just learning how to live a life without using, but learning how to live my life, truly sober - meaning not high on anything at all, completely regardless of whether that thing is seen as a positive or negative influence. Figuring out how to live my life completely down to earth. (And figuring out what "down to earth" even means for me.)
Takin' it back to formula.
continued in part two tomorrow...
I learned at least two really important things at my counseling session this week.
First of all, I was reminded of something that I had previously known, but apparently forgotten. That this thing I'm going through right now, this period of depression and low-energy/motivation, is a really common psycho-emotional/bio-chemical reaction in addicts, in response to a relapse. It's almost textbook. Basically, once you've sobered up a bit, then the crash from even just a little bit of use is much more pronounced, and much more noticeable. (It's always there, really - it's just that when you're getting high all the time, it's a lot harder to notice it.) And so that's what's happening with me right now.
I've learned that lesson before. I used to know this. So I kind of felt like an idiot for somehow managing to forget it. But I was also very glad to be made aware of it again. Oddly, it made me feel better somehow to know that this was a common phenomena, that many other people have gone, and are going, through it, that it's been studied and cataloged. Made me less sad about giving up what I'd lost.
Speaking of which, I was reminded of something about that, as well. That period of time in early sobriety, where life is beautiful and being clean just feels so good and everything comes so easily and naturally - that period that just ended for me after Walpurgisnacht, what I've been calling my "state of grace" - in recovery-speak, that period is called "the pink cloud." Also common, also well-studied and cataloged by men in white coats.
And also another trap. At least for me, anyways. Because, when I think about it, I realize that the pink cloud is just another high. I can see the pattern in my behavior so clearly now. I use until I get bored with it, or until it becomes so much less fun than it once was that it's no longer worth the price I'm paying for it in terms of health, energy, etc. Then I sober up and ride the pink cloud for all it's worth for as long as I can. And then as soon as that wears off, as soon as that becomes so much less fun than it once was that it's no longer worth the price I'm paying for it in terms of effort and sacrifice, then I start using again. And round and round we go on the merry-go-round of rotating knives. Basically, I've been cycling back and forth between being high on drugs, and being high on life. But no matter what, I've always been high.
So, that's what I'm trying to work on now. Breaking that cycle. And not just learning how to live a life without using, but learning how to live my life, truly sober - meaning not high on anything at all, completely regardless of whether that thing is seen as a positive or negative influence. Figuring out how to live my life completely down to earth. (And figuring out what "down to earth" even means for me.)
Takin' it back to formula.
continued in part two tomorrow...
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday Meditation...
Been real busy this week, for so many different reasons, so haven't had a lot of time to meditate.
The one time I did, it didn't go well. And then I was out running errands all day yesterday and barely had any time at home at all. So I definitely wanted to take advantage of the opportunity today. It's beautiful outside, and we have all of our windows open, letting in the sunlight, and a crisp, fragrant Spring breeze. Just being home is almost meditative right now.
But, still, I felt myself getting lazy. I just wanted to watch TV. Maybe play some video games, or take a bath and read. I didn't get a chance to do my mathematics lesson this morning like I usually do, and part of me was telling myself that my time would be better spent on that, or some other more stimulating activity than simply sitting and breathing. But nonetheless, I pushed all of those thoughts aside. I could feel inside of myself, a sense of being out of balance. I've been busy doing and thinking a lot lately, really getting lost in my head. Somewhere inside, I could tell that what I needed right now was to give that part of me a break, and let my heart and my gut take over for a while. I could feel that sense of flow inside of me, pulling me towards my cushions, and my altar, and a brief period of peace.
As always, I'm glad I followed my Tao. It was just what I needed.
What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Listening Inside.
In every situation, we already know what to do. Even when we don't. The answer to every question is already inside of us. When we don't know what to do, it is only because there is too much noise in the way. If we can only learn to be quiet, and listen, then we will hear - and we will know.
In stillness and peace, the Path becomes clear. And so we can choose to follow it.
The one time I did, it didn't go well. And then I was out running errands all day yesterday and barely had any time at home at all. So I definitely wanted to take advantage of the opportunity today. It's beautiful outside, and we have all of our windows open, letting in the sunlight, and a crisp, fragrant Spring breeze. Just being home is almost meditative right now.
But, still, I felt myself getting lazy. I just wanted to watch TV. Maybe play some video games, or take a bath and read. I didn't get a chance to do my mathematics lesson this morning like I usually do, and part of me was telling myself that my time would be better spent on that, or some other more stimulating activity than simply sitting and breathing. But nonetheless, I pushed all of those thoughts aside. I could feel inside of myself, a sense of being out of balance. I've been busy doing and thinking a lot lately, really getting lost in my head. Somewhere inside, I could tell that what I needed right now was to give that part of me a break, and let my heart and my gut take over for a while. I could feel that sense of flow inside of me, pulling me towards my cushions, and my altar, and a brief period of peace.
As always, I'm glad I followed my Tao. It was just what I needed.
What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Listening Inside.
In every situation, we already know what to do. Even when we don't. The answer to every question is already inside of us. When we don't know what to do, it is only because there is too much noise in the way. If we can only learn to be quiet, and listen, then we will hear - and we will know.
In stillness and peace, the Path becomes clear. And so we can choose to follow it.
Friday, April 20, 2012
The Night of Walpurgis...
Believe it or not, meditation isn't always relaxing.
Sometimes, there is no void. Sometimes, there is instead a flood of creative energy. Sometimes, meditation can be almost overwhelmingly stimulating.
And today was one of those times.
The rush of ideas was so intense that I could barely concentrate on my breathing, and frequently lost focus. And count - I counted to 108 breaths, but I'm sure I actually breathed twice that many. And the inspiration was as varied as it was relentless. I had ideas for stories I want to write, people I want to contact and the reasons why and the things I want to say to them, projects I want to work on and how I want to go about them, reminders, notes, insights and realizations of every sort. For a while, try as I might to ignore it and focus on counting my breaths, I was even aware of this very post writing itself out in my head. But the biggest and most immediate idea that occurred to me during this creative blitzkrieg, and the subject of this entry, is how I'm going to handle the Walpurgisnacht.
So, I had my last drink this past Sunday, and I had my last toke the Sunday before that (that's a story for another post), though it's been many months since I've smoked on a regular basis. The plan was/is to spend a full year completely sober for the first time in my adult life. This is something I've known I needed to do for a long time. I'm a particular kind of addict (I'm sure there's a word for it, but I don't know what it is) - I can be addicted to this for awhile and then put it down, and then be addicted to that for awhile and then put it down, and so on. I don't really have a drug of choice, per se, though I do have preferences, and there's some drugs I absolutely can't stand. But what I'm actually addicted to, is getting high, however that happens. When I quit smoking cigarettes, I compensated by smoking more pot. When I quit smoking pot, I compensated by drinking more. And I always knew I was robbing Peter to pay Paul, but at the time Paul was the one threatening to break my kneecaps, so I just told myself I'd deal with Peter later. But I'm getting older now, and feeling more mortal by the day, and it's time to finally deal with my addictive behavior at the root, rather than dealing with any given addiction to a particular substance one at a time.
But there are some other reasons to do it, as well. Purely from a health perspective, it'd just be good to give my body a bit of a rest from all the punishment I've put it through the last twenty years or so, now that I'm getting older. It's also partly an experiment - I just want to see what will happen if I stay completely sober for a year. It's partly to give my brain chemistry a chance to return to some semblance of normal, and then to re-evaluate and see how I feel, and who I feel I am. And in part it's also a test - I want to see if I can do this.
Ok, so what does all that have to do with Walpurgisnacht? The night of April 30th*, aka Walpurgisnacht, or Hexennacht, or Witches' Night, or May Eve, is a very important holy day on the Heathen calendar. It is the counterpart to Yule, the holiest season of the year, and marks the other pole of the ancient pagan year (the two holidays being approximately six months apart). As during Yule, it is believed that the barriers between the material world and the spirit world are more permeable on the Night of Walpurgis. The Eddas (ancient Heathen holy epic lore-poems that comprise much of our knowledge of their religion and culture) tell us that it was on Walpurgisnacht that Odin earned the knowledge and power of the Runes. He stabbed himself through the chest with his spear, pinning himself upside-down to the World Tree, Yggdrasil, and hung there for nine nights. On the ninth night, May Eve, he "died" as much as a god-creator can, his consciousness leaving his body and descending to the three wells at the root of the World Tree, wherein he found and took up the Runes.
The Havamal
It is also the night before May Day (hence "May Eve"), which is, of course, the generative fertility holiday of Spring that gives us Easter and Beltane and all of the other "sex and babies" holidays associated with this time of year in the West. And so for all of these reasons, Walpurgisnacht is traditionally associated with magick and sorcery (magick, like sex, being another form of creation).
For almost ten years now, I have celebrated Walpurgisnacht in the same way: enjoying a specific psychedelic sacrament, and performing all manner of sorcery and divination and psycho-spiritual exploration until the Sun comes up on May Day. So that's put me in a bit of a dilemma regarding how to celebrate this year. Because I don't want to break this spiritual tradition that I have kept for so long now, but I also don't want to fail at staying sober almost immediately after I've started. And it's further complicated by the fact that, though I realize it is technically a drug, and would affect my neurochemistry in the exact way I'm trying not to do right now, I really do not view this particular experience to be at all related to what I'm currently attempting to avoid. What I'm struggling with right now is regular, recreational drug-use, and this is neither of those things. This is not a fun, pleasurable drug that makes me feel good so that I want to do it all the time. This drug is an intense, exhausting, highly spiritual experience for me, and more often than not Walpurgisnacht is the one and only time I'll do it all year. It is impossible to get addicted to it, and I have never craved it. So, while treating it the same as booze and pot might not be comparing apples and oranges exactly, it certainly doesn't feel like comparing oranges to oranges, either. More like oranges to tangerines, perhaps.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and it's been weighing on my mind heavily. My gut, my sense of flow, my sense of my Tao was telling me to go through with it, but when it comes to my instincts telling me to use drugs, it's hard to tell whether it's really my Tao or my addiction masquerading as such. And I've spent so long training myself to ignore that voice inside me telling me to get high, and I'm focused so much on doing that right now, that even though I felt so strongly in my heart and my gut that it was the right thing to do, in my mind it's seemed like a death-sentence. But when I examine my feelings, I really do not want to drink or get high right now, which leads me to believe that my desire to do this must be about something more than that. But then again, "Denial is how it kills you," and I've learned to never let myself accept even the possibility of living in denial. And so lately I've been leaning towards a compromise, wherein I celebrate the holiday as normal, only minus the sacrament. It seemed like the only way to do it, really, but it left me feeling very sad for the loss of this unbroken chain of tradition (almost ten years!) and I just could not shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong.
But now I know what to do. In that lightening storm of ideas that assaulted me during my meditation, it hit me. And, as so often seems to happen with those "Eureka!" moments, the solution seems so obvious now that I cannot believe I couldn't see it earlier.
I will stay sober from now until Walpurgisnacht, as planned. And I will celebrate that night, as usual, as I have so many years before. And then I will start counting my one year of sobriety from the next day, May Day, the day of birth and re-birth and life and renewal. I'm not really losing anything by restarting my year-countdown on May Day (oh, woe is me, I had to stay sober one year and two weeks minus one day, instead of just one straight year - waah), and I'm gaining a lot more in return. And the spiritual meaning of it all lines up so nicely: my year of sobriety, a year of monasticism and self-sacrifice, will span from Walpurgis to Walpurgis, the holy day celebrating self-sacrifice for the acquisition of power and wisdom; and it will begin on May Day, the holy day celebrating life and love and creation. And having this period of sobriety line up with my spiritual model so well will give me another powerful incentive to see it through, and will significantly increase my chances of success.
It's perfect. And in my heart, I feel it's true. I feel it in my gut. And I feel it too, in my head. It all lines up. It all feels right. It flows, finally.
To sacrifice Self to my Self, with no drink from a horn, until screaming, I fall back from there.
This is my Tao.
...
*corrected from 31st - duh - 4/23/12
Sometimes, there is no void. Sometimes, there is instead a flood of creative energy. Sometimes, meditation can be almost overwhelmingly stimulating.
And today was one of those times.
The rush of ideas was so intense that I could barely concentrate on my breathing, and frequently lost focus. And count - I counted to 108 breaths, but I'm sure I actually breathed twice that many. And the inspiration was as varied as it was relentless. I had ideas for stories I want to write, people I want to contact and the reasons why and the things I want to say to them, projects I want to work on and how I want to go about them, reminders, notes, insights and realizations of every sort. For a while, try as I might to ignore it and focus on counting my breaths, I was even aware of this very post writing itself out in my head. But the biggest and most immediate idea that occurred to me during this creative blitzkrieg, and the subject of this entry, is how I'm going to handle the Walpurgisnacht.
So, I had my last drink this past Sunday, and I had my last toke the Sunday before that (that's a story for another post), though it's been many months since I've smoked on a regular basis. The plan was/is to spend a full year completely sober for the first time in my adult life. This is something I've known I needed to do for a long time. I'm a particular kind of addict (I'm sure there's a word for it, but I don't know what it is) - I can be addicted to this for awhile and then put it down, and then be addicted to that for awhile and then put it down, and so on. I don't really have a drug of choice, per se, though I do have preferences, and there's some drugs I absolutely can't stand. But what I'm actually addicted to, is getting high, however that happens. When I quit smoking cigarettes, I compensated by smoking more pot. When I quit smoking pot, I compensated by drinking more. And I always knew I was robbing Peter to pay Paul, but at the time Paul was the one threatening to break my kneecaps, so I just told myself I'd deal with Peter later. But I'm getting older now, and feeling more mortal by the day, and it's time to finally deal with my addictive behavior at the root, rather than dealing with any given addiction to a particular substance one at a time.
But there are some other reasons to do it, as well. Purely from a health perspective, it'd just be good to give my body a bit of a rest from all the punishment I've put it through the last twenty years or so, now that I'm getting older. It's also partly an experiment - I just want to see what will happen if I stay completely sober for a year. It's partly to give my brain chemistry a chance to return to some semblance of normal, and then to re-evaluate and see how I feel, and who I feel I am. And in part it's also a test - I want to see if I can do this.
Ok, so what does all that have to do with Walpurgisnacht? The night of April 30th*, aka Walpurgisnacht, or Hexennacht, or Witches' Night, or May Eve, is a very important holy day on the Heathen calendar. It is the counterpart to Yule, the holiest season of the year, and marks the other pole of the ancient pagan year (the two holidays being approximately six months apart). As during Yule, it is believed that the barriers between the material world and the spirit world are more permeable on the Night of Walpurgis. The Eddas (ancient Heathen holy epic lore-poems that comprise much of our knowledge of their religion and culture) tell us that it was on Walpurgisnacht that Odin earned the knowledge and power of the Runes. He stabbed himself through the chest with his spear, pinning himself upside-down to the World Tree, Yggdrasil, and hung there for nine nights. On the ninth night, May Eve, he "died" as much as a god-creator can, his consciousness leaving his body and descending to the three wells at the root of the World Tree, wherein he found and took up the Runes.
- I know that I hung on a windy tree
- nine long nights,
- wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,
- sacrifice self to myself,
- on that tree of which no man knows
- from where its roots run.
-Runatal ("Odin's Rune Song")
- No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn,
- downwards I peered;
- I took up the runes, screaming I took them,
- then I fell back from there.
The Havamal
It is also the night before May Day (hence "May Eve"), which is, of course, the generative fertility holiday of Spring that gives us Easter and Beltane and all of the other "sex and babies" holidays associated with this time of year in the West. And so for all of these reasons, Walpurgisnacht is traditionally associated with magick and sorcery (magick, like sex, being another form of creation).
For almost ten years now, I have celebrated Walpurgisnacht in the same way: enjoying a specific psychedelic sacrament, and performing all manner of sorcery and divination and psycho-spiritual exploration until the Sun comes up on May Day. So that's put me in a bit of a dilemma regarding how to celebrate this year. Because I don't want to break this spiritual tradition that I have kept for so long now, but I also don't want to fail at staying sober almost immediately after I've started. And it's further complicated by the fact that, though I realize it is technically a drug, and would affect my neurochemistry in the exact way I'm trying not to do right now, I really do not view this particular experience to be at all related to what I'm currently attempting to avoid. What I'm struggling with right now is regular, recreational drug-use, and this is neither of those things. This is not a fun, pleasurable drug that makes me feel good so that I want to do it all the time. This drug is an intense, exhausting, highly spiritual experience for me, and more often than not Walpurgisnacht is the one and only time I'll do it all year. It is impossible to get addicted to it, and I have never craved it. So, while treating it the same as booze and pot might not be comparing apples and oranges exactly, it certainly doesn't feel like comparing oranges to oranges, either. More like oranges to tangerines, perhaps.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and it's been weighing on my mind heavily. My gut, my sense of flow, my sense of my Tao was telling me to go through with it, but when it comes to my instincts telling me to use drugs, it's hard to tell whether it's really my Tao or my addiction masquerading as such. And I've spent so long training myself to ignore that voice inside me telling me to get high, and I'm focused so much on doing that right now, that even though I felt so strongly in my heart and my gut that it was the right thing to do, in my mind it's seemed like a death-sentence. But when I examine my feelings, I really do not want to drink or get high right now, which leads me to believe that my desire to do this must be about something more than that. But then again, "Denial is how it kills you," and I've learned to never let myself accept even the possibility of living in denial. And so lately I've been leaning towards a compromise, wherein I celebrate the holiday as normal, only minus the sacrament. It seemed like the only way to do it, really, but it left me feeling very sad for the loss of this unbroken chain of tradition (almost ten years!) and I just could not shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong.
But now I know what to do. In that lightening storm of ideas that assaulted me during my meditation, it hit me. And, as so often seems to happen with those "Eureka!" moments, the solution seems so obvious now that I cannot believe I couldn't see it earlier.
I will stay sober from now until Walpurgisnacht, as planned. And I will celebrate that night, as usual, as I have so many years before. And then I will start counting my one year of sobriety from the next day, May Day, the day of birth and re-birth and life and renewal. I'm not really losing anything by restarting my year-countdown on May Day (oh, woe is me, I had to stay sober one year and two weeks minus one day, instead of just one straight year - waah), and I'm gaining a lot more in return. And the spiritual meaning of it all lines up so nicely: my year of sobriety, a year of monasticism and self-sacrifice, will span from Walpurgis to Walpurgis, the holy day celebrating self-sacrifice for the acquisition of power and wisdom; and it will begin on May Day, the holy day celebrating life and love and creation. And having this period of sobriety line up with my spiritual model so well will give me another powerful incentive to see it through, and will significantly increase my chances of success.
It's perfect. And in my heart, I feel it's true. I feel it in my gut. And I feel it too, in my head. It all lines up. It all feels right. It flows, finally.
To sacrifice Self to my Self, with no drink from a horn, until screaming, I fall back from there.
This is my Tao.
...
*corrected from 31st - duh - 4/23/12
Sunday, April 15, 2012
April in the Park...
Today is the warmest day of the year so far.
High was a lovely 83 degrees. We spent our afternoon in the park. They had a ribbon-cutting ceremony for some cherry trees they planted, to complement the ones given to us as a gift by the people of Japan in the early 1900's. Afterwards, we watched a taiko drum performance by an amazingly talented group of middle-schoolers from Fukushima. She took a short video with her camera phone. Maybe I'll post it at some point. Oh, and in a just a little while here, I'm going to have my last beer in who knows how long. It's really been a wonderful day.
What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Living Contentedly.
And I think that's all I have to say about that for now.
Please enjoy yourselves this week.
High was a lovely 83 degrees. We spent our afternoon in the park. They had a ribbon-cutting ceremony for some cherry trees they planted, to complement the ones given to us as a gift by the people of Japan in the early 1900's. Afterwards, we watched a taiko drum performance by an amazingly talented group of middle-schoolers from Fukushima. She took a short video with her camera phone. Maybe I'll post it at some point. Oh, and in a just a little while here, I'm going to have my last beer in who knows how long. It's really been a wonderful day.
What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Living Contentedly.
And I think that's all I have to say about that for now.
Please enjoy yourselves this week.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The Itch...
I haven't found any inspiration today.
I got a lot accomplished, ticked a lot of items off of my to-do list, laughed and cried at various Moth stories that I listened to all day long, and in just about every way had a wonderful day. But the whole time, there was this nagging voice in the back of my brain reminding me, "You have to come up with something to write about." And, I just never did.
It was very frustrating. But, at the same time, I know that creativity and insight can't be forced. We can encourage them, but not make them happen.
When I got home, still with no ideas, and the pressure to post mounting, I decided to meditate. Truthfully, I would've done that anyways, because I had both the time and the desire just then, but I couldn't help but hope that possibly, as an added bonus, the meditation might help spur something creative in me. Not necessarily give me an idea for something to write about, but maybe make me more receptive to ideas, so that one would be more likely to arise spontaneously. Or, at the very least, I could write about my meditation; might be kinda boring, but at least it's something to post.
But my attempt to meditate was a complete failure. I was plagued by physical problems the entire time. My back started hurting almost immediately, I couldn't find a comfortable position for my legs, and to top it off, there was something irritating my eye that I just could not seem to fix. I couldn't concentrate at all, and on my fifth attempt of not getting past twenty breaths, I just gave up. (This is a pattern. I always have a session like this one - failure due to physical issues - within my first handful of sessions after I start meditating again.)
I could've forced myself to continue if I'd wanted, but there's really no point. Meditating isn't like exercising, it's not about working through the pain. It's about relaxing and letting go. And so if there's some issue that's preventing you from doing that, then it's best to simply stop, and try again later. I remember my teacher telling me, "If you have an itch while meditating, scratch it. Do not try to simply ignore it. That will only make the itch grow and grow until you are entirely focused on it, and are unable to concentrate on anything else. And then you are not meditating. It is much better to stop for a moment and scratch the itch. Then it will go away, and you can return to meditation."
What I realize as I observe all of this, is the Tao of Scratching the Itch.
Sometimes, I'm not going to be able to meditate successfully for one reason or another. And this is inherent in the practice of meditating - I will not always succeed, anymore than I will always fail, and that is just the Way of Things. And so when that happens, the best thing to do is not waste any more time or energy than is absolutely necessary trying to do something that isn't working. As soon as I realize that it isn't working, it is best for me to simply stop, and try again some other time.
Similarly, sometimes I'm not going to be inspired to write anything. And this is inherent in the practice of writing. Sometimes I will have something I feel a need to write about, and sometimes I will not, and that is just the Way of Things. And so when I have nothing to write about, it is best not to waste any more time or energy worrying about it than is absolutely necessary. Pressuring myself to come up with something meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring to write every day, when I'm not having any meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring ideas, is like trying to resist scratching an itch - soon the pressure to write becomes all I can feel, and being inspired then becomes impossible. So it is best to simply let it go, and walk away, and try again later.
Go with the Flow. Take what you get. Remain open and receptive. Do not want. Do not force. Do not expect. Let it come as it will, and it will come.
That is The Way.
...
Addendum: when I read that, it sounds like I'm saying I don't feel the need to post here every day. That's not what I'm trying to say, but I didn't want to rewrite the above to try and make that clear. I like the way what I wrote above stands, and so I want to leave it at that. But please understand that I still intend to try to post something every day. All I'm trying to change is the way I respond to the pressure inherent in that situation, and to my feeling that anything I post here needs to be somehow insightful or meaningful to a certain degree in order to be worth posting. Sometimes, my posts might need to be mundane, and I should learn to accept that and be ok with that, because it is an absolutely necessary part of the process.
I do apologize in advance, however, to all three of my readers, for any future posts that might be less than thrilling.
I got a lot accomplished, ticked a lot of items off of my to-do list, laughed and cried at various Moth stories that I listened to all day long, and in just about every way had a wonderful day. But the whole time, there was this nagging voice in the back of my brain reminding me, "You have to come up with something to write about." And, I just never did.
It was very frustrating. But, at the same time, I know that creativity and insight can't be forced. We can encourage them, but not make them happen.
When I got home, still with no ideas, and the pressure to post mounting, I decided to meditate. Truthfully, I would've done that anyways, because I had both the time and the desire just then, but I couldn't help but hope that possibly, as an added bonus, the meditation might help spur something creative in me. Not necessarily give me an idea for something to write about, but maybe make me more receptive to ideas, so that one would be more likely to arise spontaneously. Or, at the very least, I could write about my meditation; might be kinda boring, but at least it's something to post.
But my attempt to meditate was a complete failure. I was plagued by physical problems the entire time. My back started hurting almost immediately, I couldn't find a comfortable position for my legs, and to top it off, there was something irritating my eye that I just could not seem to fix. I couldn't concentrate at all, and on my fifth attempt of not getting past twenty breaths, I just gave up. (This is a pattern. I always have a session like this one - failure due to physical issues - within my first handful of sessions after I start meditating again.)
I could've forced myself to continue if I'd wanted, but there's really no point. Meditating isn't like exercising, it's not about working through the pain. It's about relaxing and letting go. And so if there's some issue that's preventing you from doing that, then it's best to simply stop, and try again later. I remember my teacher telling me, "If you have an itch while meditating, scratch it. Do not try to simply ignore it. That will only make the itch grow and grow until you are entirely focused on it, and are unable to concentrate on anything else. And then you are not meditating. It is much better to stop for a moment and scratch the itch. Then it will go away, and you can return to meditation."
What I realize as I observe all of this, is the Tao of Scratching the Itch.
Sometimes, I'm not going to be able to meditate successfully for one reason or another. And this is inherent in the practice of meditating - I will not always succeed, anymore than I will always fail, and that is just the Way of Things. And so when that happens, the best thing to do is not waste any more time or energy than is absolutely necessary trying to do something that isn't working. As soon as I realize that it isn't working, it is best for me to simply stop, and try again some other time.
Similarly, sometimes I'm not going to be inspired to write anything. And this is inherent in the practice of writing. Sometimes I will have something I feel a need to write about, and sometimes I will not, and that is just the Way of Things. And so when I have nothing to write about, it is best not to waste any more time or energy worrying about it than is absolutely necessary. Pressuring myself to come up with something meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring to write every day, when I'm not having any meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring ideas, is like trying to resist scratching an itch - soon the pressure to write becomes all I can feel, and being inspired then becomes impossible. So it is best to simply let it go, and walk away, and try again later.
Go with the Flow. Take what you get. Remain open and receptive. Do not want. Do not force. Do not expect. Let it come as it will, and it will come.
That is The Way.
...
Addendum: when I read that, it sounds like I'm saying I don't feel the need to post here every day. That's not what I'm trying to say, but I didn't want to rewrite the above to try and make that clear. I like the way what I wrote above stands, and so I want to leave it at that. But please understand that I still intend to try to post something every day. All I'm trying to change is the way I respond to the pressure inherent in that situation, and to my feeling that anything I post here needs to be somehow insightful or meaningful to a certain degree in order to be worth posting. Sometimes, my posts might need to be mundane, and I should learn to accept that and be ok with that, because it is an absolutely necessary part of the process.
I do apologize in advance, however, to all three of my readers, for any future posts that might be less than thrilling.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Rocks From Outer Space...
I've purchased two meteorite fragments in the past week.
I've never bought a meteorite before, and until recently, hadn't given them much thought. But as my interest in astronomy and astrophysics has grown, so has my fascination with meteorites. The idea of being able to touch, to hold in my hand, a piece of material that was formed in outer space, has thrilled me in a way that I find hard to describe.
Somewhere in the Milky Way, billions of years ago, a gigantic star a million times larger than our Sun ran out of fuel. It had burned through all of its helium and hydrogen, producing heavier elements in the fusion process: nitrogen and oxygen, then silicon and carbon. Then it had burned through all of those elements, as well, producing yet heavier elements such as neon and magnesium. This process continued for billions of years, creating heavier and heavier elements, until finally, the nuclear core of that giant star produced an element that it could no longer fuse for fuel: iron. And this infinitesimal speck of iron upset the delicate balance between gravity and atomic explosion that had been that star, causing it to explode in the most violent and catastrophic event in the known universe: a supernova.
That explosion sent elemental material careening out through space, all throughout that local area of the galaxy, where it eventually cooled, and mixed with other material from other exploded stars, to form enormous clouds of dust and debris. Pieces of this debris clumped together, attracted by their gravitational pull in the vacuum - the bigger the clumps got, the more mass they had, so the stronger their gravity, so the more debris they pulled into them, so the bigger they got. Every planet was produced in this way, including our own. But this particular clump of debris - iron and nickel and stone by this point, among other things - never became a planet. It was simply a large asteroid.
Approximately 700,000 years ago, that asteroid came just a hair too close to Earth, and fell down our planet's gravity well, becoming a meteoroid as it hit our atmosphere, and exploding into fragments as the force of our gravity and the heat of re-entry combined to tear it apart. The fragments slammed into the planet north of the Arctic Circle, near what is now Norbbotten, Sweden, making it a meteorite. Over the next 700 millenia, those fragments were pushed and pulled this way and that again and again by glaciers, and tectonic shifts, and an Ice Age or two. Then, in 1906, two children tending cattle in a field discovered the first fragment of this gigantic rock from outer space.
And in a few days, I will be able to hold a slice of it in my hand.
Isn't it beautiful?
It's now known as the Muonionalusta meteorite, and it's the oldest meteorite ever discovered. The pattern of lines visible on the slice in the image above is known as a Widmanstätten Pattern. It's produced by bathing the slice of meteorite in nitric acid, to oxidize the metals it is composed of. The nickel and iron oxidize at different rates, creating the pattern, which outlines the nickel-iron crystals that formed as the asteroid grew in that dust cloud so long ago.
I don't know what exactly it is that fascinates me so much about this. It's almost as if this tiny piece of metal and stone is a tangible piece of the forces of creation. That vast majority of Nature, of Tao, that dominates the rest of the universe outside of our microscopic little blue bubble of air and water. And I want to know that Nature, to understand it, to be able to visualize it, to feel it. And this solid evidence, this proof of that Nature, somehow takes it out of the realm of abstract contemplations, and makes it real for me. It's like faith becoming fact. It seems almost impossible somehow, and yet there it is, undeniably real. Iron crystals, from a long dead star, touching my skin.
Like a kiss from Creation.
I've never bought a meteorite before, and until recently, hadn't given them much thought. But as my interest in astronomy and astrophysics has grown, so has my fascination with meteorites. The idea of being able to touch, to hold in my hand, a piece of material that was formed in outer space, has thrilled me in a way that I find hard to describe.
Somewhere in the Milky Way, billions of years ago, a gigantic star a million times larger than our Sun ran out of fuel. It had burned through all of its helium and hydrogen, producing heavier elements in the fusion process: nitrogen and oxygen, then silicon and carbon. Then it had burned through all of those elements, as well, producing yet heavier elements such as neon and magnesium. This process continued for billions of years, creating heavier and heavier elements, until finally, the nuclear core of that giant star produced an element that it could no longer fuse for fuel: iron. And this infinitesimal speck of iron upset the delicate balance between gravity and atomic explosion that had been that star, causing it to explode in the most violent and catastrophic event in the known universe: a supernova.
That explosion sent elemental material careening out through space, all throughout that local area of the galaxy, where it eventually cooled, and mixed with other material from other exploded stars, to form enormous clouds of dust and debris. Pieces of this debris clumped together, attracted by their gravitational pull in the vacuum - the bigger the clumps got, the more mass they had, so the stronger their gravity, so the more debris they pulled into them, so the bigger they got. Every planet was produced in this way, including our own. But this particular clump of debris - iron and nickel and stone by this point, among other things - never became a planet. It was simply a large asteroid.
Approximately 700,000 years ago, that asteroid came just a hair too close to Earth, and fell down our planet's gravity well, becoming a meteoroid as it hit our atmosphere, and exploding into fragments as the force of our gravity and the heat of re-entry combined to tear it apart. The fragments slammed into the planet north of the Arctic Circle, near what is now Norbbotten, Sweden, making it a meteorite. Over the next 700 millenia, those fragments were pushed and pulled this way and that again and again by glaciers, and tectonic shifts, and an Ice Age or two. Then, in 1906, two children tending cattle in a field discovered the first fragment of this gigantic rock from outer space.
And in a few days, I will be able to hold a slice of it in my hand.
Isn't it beautiful?
It's now known as the Muonionalusta meteorite, and it's the oldest meteorite ever discovered. The pattern of lines visible on the slice in the image above is known as a Widmanstätten Pattern. It's produced by bathing the slice of meteorite in nitric acid, to oxidize the metals it is composed of. The nickel and iron oxidize at different rates, creating the pattern, which outlines the nickel-iron crystals that formed as the asteroid grew in that dust cloud so long ago.
I don't know what exactly it is that fascinates me so much about this. It's almost as if this tiny piece of metal and stone is a tangible piece of the forces of creation. That vast majority of Nature, of Tao, that dominates the rest of the universe outside of our microscopic little blue bubble of air and water. And I want to know that Nature, to understand it, to be able to visualize it, to feel it. And this solid evidence, this proof of that Nature, somehow takes it out of the realm of abstract contemplations, and makes it real for me. It's like faith becoming fact. It seems almost impossible somehow, and yet there it is, undeniably real. Iron crystals, from a long dead star, touching my skin.
Like a kiss from Creation.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
The Old Cherry Tree By The Lake...
Dead tree, blossoming
Twisted trunk, pink flower buds
Like a corpse breathing
Ancient and rotten
Split and stunted, bent and burnt
This is surely death
Yet blossoms burst forth
Pink and fragrant, life from death
Impossible bloom
This, here, is the Tao
From dead Yin flowers Yang life
Fire roars from ashes
I see this, and know
I am this tree; my Tao flows
From root to petal
...
Just posted this yesterday, and I'm already editing it. I posted it too quickly, and almost immediately saw changes I wanted to make. Doesn't help that haiku is about the most immature, Creative Writing 101 style of poetry, either. But, I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be. The thing I like about haiku, is that it isn't necessarily about being pretty or poignant or profound. A lot of the power is inherent in the form itself; anyone can do it. It lends this almost zen-like quality to whatever you say. So, I find it's perfect for expressing zen-like thoughts and emotions.
I found this tree on my way back from my old high school during my St. Patrick's Day drift, after sitting for a while under the tree where She and I first fell in love a couple of decades ago. I was stunned, at first, to see something so blatantly impossible. Then I was attracted to it, because I found it so amazing. Then I felt an intense kinship with this tree, as though we'd shared similar lives, and were both going through the same experience just then. I would've taken a picture of it, so that I could share this amazing sight with others, but my phone had just died the day before, so I didn't have a working camera on me for once. Seems oddly like provenance, now, that this mystical vision should only exist in my memory. I have this strange feeling that if I went back to that spot, the tree wouldn't be there anymore.
I'd been planning to write a full entry about the experience at some point, but during meditation yesterday afternoon, the seeds of this haiku began to form inside of me, and by the time I was finished meditation, I knew I had to express them.
Twisted trunk, pink flower buds
Like a corpse breathing
Ancient and rotten
Split and stunted, bent and burnt
This is surely death
Yet blossoms burst forth
Pink and fragrant, life from death
Impossible bloom
This, here, is the Tao
From dead Yin flowers Yang life
Fire roars from ashes
I see this, and know
I am this tree; my Tao flows
From root to petal
...
Just posted this yesterday, and I'm already editing it. I posted it too quickly, and almost immediately saw changes I wanted to make. Doesn't help that haiku is about the most immature, Creative Writing 101 style of poetry, either. But, I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be. The thing I like about haiku, is that it isn't necessarily about being pretty or poignant or profound. A lot of the power is inherent in the form itself; anyone can do it. It lends this almost zen-like quality to whatever you say. So, I find it's perfect for expressing zen-like thoughts and emotions.
I found this tree on my way back from my old high school during my St. Patrick's Day drift, after sitting for a while under the tree where She and I first fell in love a couple of decades ago. I was stunned, at first, to see something so blatantly impossible. Then I was attracted to it, because I found it so amazing. Then I felt an intense kinship with this tree, as though we'd shared similar lives, and were both going through the same experience just then. I would've taken a picture of it, so that I could share this amazing sight with others, but my phone had just died the day before, so I didn't have a working camera on me for once. Seems oddly like provenance, now, that this mystical vision should only exist in my memory. I have this strange feeling that if I went back to that spot, the tree wouldn't be there anymore.
I'd been planning to write a full entry about the experience at some point, but during meditation yesterday afternoon, the seeds of this haiku began to form inside of me, and by the time I was finished meditation, I knew I had to express them.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Contemplations of Liu I-Ming...
Dead Trees, Cold Ashes
When a tree is dead there is no flame when you burn it; when ashes are cold there is no warmth when you stir them. What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of transformation of temperament.
When people become temperamental, the harm is very great; the slightest offense sets them off into a rage. It damages nature and inures reason, so that they are unaware of their own greed and passion, they do not understand their own narrowness, they do not care about essential life, they are not mindful of life and death. The troubles this causes are not simple.
If one can master oneself and exercise restraint, turn back from inflexibility and become yielding, sweep away all anger, resentment, and annoyance, get rid of all contentiousness, change the aggressive and violent nature back into a gentle taciturn nature, concentrate the energy and make it flexible, empty the mind and nutrure the spirit, be selfless and impersonal, not discriminate between self and others, view one's own body as having no such body, view one's mind as having no such mind, have no discrimination and no knowledge, and be empty and open, this like dead wood not flaming when burnt, like cold ashes yielding no warmth when stirred.
One can thereby be in the midst of Creation without being influenced by Creation, be in the midst of yin and yang without being constrained by yin and yang.
...
Drawing Water with a Well Sweep
When a well sweep draws water, the bucket goes down empty and comes up full, drawing water in a continuous cycle to water the fields.
What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of the twin functions of emptying and filling.
If people can empty their hearts and be humble towards others, they will receive benefits that will fill them within and elevate them beyond others. The more they become empty and humble, the more they are fulfilled and elevated.
Continually becoming empty, continually being fulfilled, continually becoming humble, continually being elevated, so that one is empty yet full, full yet empty, low yet high, high yet low, one attains to a state in which above and below are in communion, emptiness and fulfillment correspond.
Filled with the qualities of the Tao, those who reach this state never fail to ascend to lofty and clear perception.
When a tree is dead there is no flame when you burn it; when ashes are cold there is no warmth when you stir them. What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of transformation of temperament.
When people become temperamental, the harm is very great; the slightest offense sets them off into a rage. It damages nature and inures reason, so that they are unaware of their own greed and passion, they do not understand their own narrowness, they do not care about essential life, they are not mindful of life and death. The troubles this causes are not simple.
If one can master oneself and exercise restraint, turn back from inflexibility and become yielding, sweep away all anger, resentment, and annoyance, get rid of all contentiousness, change the aggressive and violent nature back into a gentle taciturn nature, concentrate the energy and make it flexible, empty the mind and nutrure the spirit, be selfless and impersonal, not discriminate between self and others, view one's own body as having no such body, view one's mind as having no such mind, have no discrimination and no knowledge, and be empty and open, this like dead wood not flaming when burnt, like cold ashes yielding no warmth when stirred.
One can thereby be in the midst of Creation without being influenced by Creation, be in the midst of yin and yang without being constrained by yin and yang.
...
Drawing Water with a Well Sweep
When a well sweep draws water, the bucket goes down empty and comes up full, drawing water in a continuous cycle to water the fields.
What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of the twin functions of emptying and filling.
If people can empty their hearts and be humble towards others, they will receive benefits that will fill them within and elevate them beyond others. The more they become empty and humble, the more they are fulfilled and elevated.
Continually becoming empty, continually being fulfilled, continually becoming humble, continually being elevated, so that one is empty yet full, full yet empty, low yet high, high yet low, one attains to a state in which above and below are in communion, emptiness and fulfillment correspond.
Filled with the qualities of the Tao, those who reach this state never fail to ascend to lofty and clear perception.
-Liu I-Ming (~1737 - ~1830)
translated by Thomas Cleary
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