SHUFFLING THROUGH OUR DAYS

So this is what we are all doing I guess. Shuffling through our days, getting dressed or not, snacking, watching our animals happily nap while we read or watch TV or sit stuporiously. Meanwhile, the butterflies and hummingbirds are chasing through the backyard jungle while the orange tree and the orange bougainvillea sway to the sound of happily chirping birds. No freeway traffic noise, no planes overhead.

Now the next day, March 31.

I didn't sleep deeply last night so today was another in and out one. One has to count one's success, small victories, as my teacher Sonia calls them. I did get dressed. I did a load of laundry that needed extra treatment (still in washer). I got the trash cans out. The litter boxes were cleaned. The kitchen floor was mopped. Some other laundry folded and put away (after an embarrassing number of days). My temporary crown just fell out. I guess that isn't an accomplishment. Hopefully, my dentist can see me on an emergency basis tomorrow.

I am recommending some deep Van Morrison listening to ease your soul and lift your spirits. He was a lovely soundtrack to a thorough kitchen mopping. This one really got to me tonight. It's from a not particularly popular release, Wavelength. The music is stronger than the lyrics in some cases, but with Van his voice is really just the instrument. Take It Where You Find It.

I thought these lines were a bit of a palliative for our current moment. Complete lyrics at the end.

And close your eyes
Leave it all for a while
Leave the world
And your worries behind
You will build on whatever is real
And wake up each day

Well, it is almost two a.m. I had some computer maintenance that could not be avoided if I wanted to work at all. I watched a bunch more of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. I pretty much hate Quentin Tarantino but there were some okay performances. It was an okay movie to have on in the background, but what a waste of money and screen space. Masturbatory. I feel for any young or inexperienced consumers who might buy this as arty.

At least I feel I accomplished a couple of things. I am going to try to start practice teaching on Zoom. The current plan is to start with 30 minutes of stretching, breathing, and calmness. Send me an email if you want to be invited to the session.

There was a FB meme today about movies you had seen more than five times or watch every time you come across them. Here were my five off the top of my head. 

A bout de soufflé (Breathless)

Swing Time (Fred Astaire flick)

Wings of Desire

White Christmas

A Hard Day’s Night

And here's an article about some of the early work I did in the film biz.

TAKE IT WHERE YOU FIND IT

Men saw the stars at the edge of the sea
They thought great thoughts about liberty
Poets wrote down words that did fit
Writers wrote books
Thinkers thought about it

Take it where you find it
Can't leave it alone
You will find a purpose
To carry it on
Mainly when you find it
Your heart will be strong
About it

Many's the road I have walked upon
Many's the hour between dusk and dawn
Many's the time
Many's the mile
I see it all now
Through the eyes of a child

Take it where you find it
Can't leave it alone
You will find a purpose
To carry it on
Mainly when you find it
Your heart will be strong
About it

Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America
Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America

And close your eyes
Leave it all for a while
Leave the world
And your worries behind
You will build on whatever is real
And wake up each day
To a new waking dream

Take it where you find it
Can't leave it alone
You will find a purpose
To carry it on
Mainly when you find it
Your heart will be strong
About it

Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America
Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America

Change, change come over
Change come over
Talkin' about a change
Change, change, change, change
Change come over, now
Change, change, change come over

I'm gonna walk down the street
Until I see
My shining light
I'm gonna walk down the street
Until I see
My shining light
I'm gonna walk down the street
Until I see
My shining light
I'm gonna walk down the street
Until I see
My shining light
I see my light
See my light
See my shining light
I see my light
See my light
See my shining light

Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America
Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America

Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America
Lost dreams and found dreams
In America
In America
In America

SUDDENLY I SEE IT ALL CHANGE

Me with Chris Whitney's beautiful birthday bouquet.

Post post March 26, 2020

Although I have sworn to keep my gardening ambitions to a more achievable and enjoyable level this year, this does not mean I don’t peruse the emails I get from my seed suppliers. “Gardeners are never alone in the garden.”immediately caught my eye. The kitties, particularly Emmylou and Oona Minnie are my constant companions out there in the dirt. Sometimes I worry I they will get underfoot and I will harm them. Oona loves freshly turned dirt and will cover up small plants, damn her. I don’t trust her not to dig up the bulbs in her search for the right place to roll around, pee, or poop.

Strange music on the mental jukebox today:

And The Angels Sing

We meet, and the angels sing
The angels sing the sweetest song I ever heard
You speak, and the angels sing
Or am I breathing music into every word

Suddenly, the setting is strange

I can see water and moonlight beaming
Silver waves that break on some undiscovered shore - Then
Suddenly, I see it all change
Long winter nights with the candles gleaming
Through it all your face that I adore.

You smile, and the angels sing
And though it's just a gentle murmur at the start
We kiss, and the angels sing
And leave their music ringing in my heart.

— Lyrics by Johnny Mercer

I am seriously trying to get out into the garden where the sun is brightly shining but I get distracted by cats and music and messages. I know I should be cleaning the kitchen and cooking. But but but … outdoors!

Later, but not too much.

Between texting, email, the usual musical distraction, and telephone calls, I am still on unmade bed in pjs. Neither gardening nor kitchening nor even eating have been addressed.

Thinking of the fine grain of the daily domain.

First blooms on the Brooks Cherry Tree I bought for my birthday last year, thanks to Matt and Kit.

I wrote something last night after YTT, but I guess I didn't save it.

I suppose it is not unusual in these world-shifting times to spend more of it in bed. It's pushing noon and here I am. I think Janet has gone back for round two of sleeping as it is very quiet in the house.

I did not sleep well at all last night, notwithstanding that I did not crash too late nor had I consumed alcohol or too much of anything. I knew at least an hour before I went to sleep that it would not be happening.

Oh look! I found it:

Three days and two yoga teacher training sessions later.

We are muddling through. One student has a large deck so we can practice at some distance in the fresh air. I would not say that social distancing is being strictly observed, but we are careful and there has been no coughing or sneezing or anything. I come home, go into the garage where my bathrobe awaits, change into it, throw clothes in washing machine and head for the bathtub. This is going to be a long haul.

I don’t know if I am sad or tired or both or neither. I quite want to hunker down in front of some mindless tv but I need to go make taco filling and eat. That could help my mood. 

The photographically elusive Emmylou Patsy Clownpaws.

Well, the mindless tv didn't help much, especially some favorite characters bit the dust in two shows.

On the way to YTT yesterday, this Van Morrison song came on my shuffle. We all need more Van Morrison and music now. I am going to leave this post as I doubt anything substantive or entertaining will arise here. 

Play along if you like. In the comments, post a song  that is getting you through these sad and challenging days. 

RAINCHECK

It's not high finance, it's called heart and soul
If it's rock and roll, got to go, go, go, go, go
Gonna keep moving on up to the higher ground
Gonna keep on moving on up, I got to stand my ground
Gonna keep on moving on up, I wanna stick around
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Won't let the bastards grind me down

Call me raincheck in the afternoon
Call me raincheck, need a shot of rhythm and blues
Call me raincheck, on a golden autumn day
Call me raincheck, I won't fade away, I won't fade away
I don't fade away, I don't fade away, unless I want to

Can't take my love away, ah 'cause it's here to stay
If it fades away, come back another day
Gonna keep on moving on up to the higher ground
Gonna keep on moving on up, I wanna stick around
Gonna keep on moving on up, oh gonna stand my ground
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Won't let the bastards grind me down

My name is raincheck in the afternoon
My name is raincheck, need a shot of rhythm and blues
My name is raincheck, on a golden autumn day
My name is raincheck, and I don't fade away, I don't fade away
I don't fade away, I don't fade away, unless I want to

Move it up, move it up, move it up, move it up
Move it up, move it up, move it up, move it up
Move it up, move it up, move it up, move it up, move it up
Grind me down, grind me down, grind me down

My name is raincheck in the afternoon
My name is raincheck, need a shot of rhythm and blues
My name is raincheck, on a golden autumn day
My name is raincheck, and I don't fade away, I don't fade away
I don't fade away, I don't fade away, unless I want to

Put on your dancing shoes, dance away your blues
When I'm feeling like this, I got nothing to lose
Wanna keep on moving on up to the higher ground
Wanna keep on moving on up and I'll stick around
Wanna keep on moving on up, got to stand my ground
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Won't let the bastards grind me down
Oh, won't let the bastards grind me down

My name is raincheck in the afternoon
My name is raincheck, need a shot of rhythm and blues
My name is raincheck, on a golden autumn day
My name is raincheck, and I don't fade away, I don't fade away
I don't fade away, I don't fade away, unless I choose
I choose, I choose, I choose

No, I don't fade away, I don't fade away, I don't fade away
Unless I choose, I choose, I choose
I choose, I choose, I choose
I choose, I choose, I choose
I choose, I choose, I choose
I choose, I choose, I choose
No, I won't fade away, I won't fade away, I don't fade away
Unless I want to

Somehow, my neighbor's flag seems spot on.

FOLLY ENOUGH

Copyright Barry Blitt, used without his permission.

I hesitate to start writing this morning as it has been so arduous these past couple of days. However, I can see some progress in my writing and thinking, so just like my continued effort to regain my headstand, I will press on for a bit. 

My friend SC, in quarantine in upstate NY, sent me this poem this morning.

THE AMBITION BIRD

So it has come to this –

insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,

the clock tolling its engine

like a frog following

a sundial yet having an electric

seizure at the quarter hour.

The business of words keeps me awake.

I am drinking cocoa,

the warm brown mama.

I would like a simple life

yet all night I am laying

poems away in a long box.

It is my immortality box,

my lay-away plan,

my coffin.

All night dark wings

flopping in my heart.

Each an ambition bird.

The bird wants to be dropped

from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.

He wants to light a kitchen match

and immolate himself.

He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo

and come out painted on a ceiling.

He wants to pierce the hornet’s nest

and come out with a long godhead.

He wants to take bread and wine

and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.

He wants to be pressed out like a key

so he can unlock the Magi.

He wants to take leave among strangers

passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.

He wants to die changing his clothes

and bolt for the sun like a diamond.

He wants, I want.

Dear God, wouldn’t it be

good enough just to drink cocoa?

I must get a new bird

and a new immortality box.

There is folly enough inside this one.

— Anne Sexton, The Complete Poems

In lock-down and quarantine, ambition seems so quaint, at least any professional ambition. Mostly we aim for health and shelter for all.

Maybe this is enough for this morning and my ambition bird can be cleaning the kitchen all the way to the floor.

BUT SOMETIMES SOMETHING HAPPENS

I got up late again. Somehow that sentence has the starkness of the opening line of L'Etranger. Little did I know until now that there was an entire article about this here.

The sun is out but it is still chilly by southern California standards. Janet has the tv blaring which always makes it challenging to work in the front part of the house. My impulse is just to stay here in bed with Vera Paris and read, but that doesn’t get anything accomplished. And you know from reading this blog, that list is long.

Writing yesterday’s post was hard and time-consuming. I am not sure there was adequate coherency to the admitted incoherence. The practice is attention and focus, just like yoga practice. Just showing up.

I quoted Jane Hisrchfield nine or ten years ago when I first started this blog:

"Every good poem begins in language awake to its own connections—language that hears itself and what is around it, looks back at those who look into its gaze and knows more perhaps even than we do about who and what we are. It begins, that is, in the body and mind of concentration.

By concentration, I mean a particular state of awareness: penetrating, unified, and focused, yet also permeable and open. The quality of consciousness, though not easily put into words, is instantly recognizable. Aldous Huxley described it as the moment the doors of perception open; James Joyce called it epiphany. The experience of concentration may be quietly physical — a simple, unexpected sense of deep accord between yourself and everything. It may come as the harvest of long looking and leave us, as it did Wordsworth, amid thought “too deep for tears.” Within action, it is felt as a grace state: time slows and extends, and a person’s every movement and decision seem to partake of perfection. … In the wholeheartedness of concentration, world and self begin to cohere. With that state comes an enlarging: of what may be known, what may be felt, what may be done.”

Jane Hirschfield, Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry, New York, Harper Collins, 1997

Yoga the word comes from the Sanskrit yuj, which is to yoke together, unite. (Now I lost that train when Vera Paris came bounding across the bed.)

I must be really writing because this is getting harder.

After a good long chat with KH, I feel calmer.

I feel very clumsy and insensitive in negotiating the reality of this pandemic. The not-so-gentle gravity of the situation continually pushes, sinks deeper and deeper to the layers of my constructed reality. I think I have avoided outright panic because panic requires or, at least, requests immediate alleviation and palliation. And there is none to be had. There are too many unknown unknowns so trying to figure out and thereby control reality is a no sum loser's game.

We are all sitting here in limbo together.

Sitting here in limbo
Waiting for the dice to roll
Sitting here in limbo
Have some time to search my soul

— Jimmy Cliff

Here's a tasty Jerry Garcia/David Grisman version.

That about sums it up for those of us not able to contribute more than the not-unsubstantial love, good will, and consciousness to think of the greater good.

Overcast and colder here now.

How can I still be in bed at 1:30? Well, I am not in bed as much as on bed with Vera now curled at on my feet.

CORNERS

All but saints
and hermits
mean to paint
themselves
toward an exit

leaving a
pleasant ocean
of azure or jonquil
at the doorsill.

But sometimes
something happens

a minor dislocation
by which the doors
and windows
undergo a
small rotation
to the left a little

— but repeatedly.
It isn't
obvious immediately.

Only toward evening
and from the farthest corners
of the houses
of the painters

comes a chorus
of individual keening
as of kenneled dogs
someone is mistreating.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

WHAT WOULD SHE PUT IN IT?

IF SHE ONLY HAD ONE MINUTE

What would she put in it?

She wouldn’t put

She thinks she would take,

suck it up

like a deep lake—

bloat indiscriminate

on her last instant—

feast on everything she

had released, dismissed, or

pushed away; she would make

room and room as though

her whole life of resistance

had been for this one purpose;

on the last minute of the last day

she would drink and have it; ballooning

like a gravid salmon or the moon.

—Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Well, it is still overcast here although the last weather report I read did not indicate rain today. The afternoon will be clear, or so it is said. 

I mention this because I need and want to be gardening, but I am having one of those grey day sleep attacks. I want to crawl in and be gone for a few hours. I don’t think I will though. I am more likely to get into a bath and spend some reading time.

Janet is in the kitchen fixing her oatmeal, courtesy of Trump-supporting-actually-practicing-Christianity neighbors (TSAPCN). I made some Jim Lahey No Knead Bread, but, in my typical scofflaw-of rules way, did not follow the timing directions. After consultation with my brother, David, a known bread baker, and Le Chef d’Ess, I just let it rise for 24 hours. It came out great, although difficult to remove from pans as I neglected to put any cornmeal on the bottom (assuming I had any that was not full of bug protein). I took two small loaves over the to TSAPCN with some roasted garlic and herb butter. I ate mine with the Trader Joe's chicken mousse pâté I have been indulging in. Mighty fine. Janet had hers with oven-roasted cod stew.

Yes, I have been cooking. While trying to clean the freezer and use some things, I found a soup stock from 2015. Where there’s some more room right there! The frozen bananas were defrosted and became part of spiced dark brown sugar banana bread with cashews and dried mandarin oranges. I think spaghetti sauce is on the agenda for today as well as some ground turkey taco filling.

Hit me up for the recipe if you want it.

But I just want to sleep.

Janet and I are getting on pretty well considering. (Oh no! The Enemy of the Laptop is here, claiming her right to purr on me. This is adds to the considerable weight to the napping argument.) I think she (that would be Janet as clearly Vera Paris would be conked out somewhere if work were being done) enjoyed my bustling in the kitchen last night. So inspired was she that she voluntarily cleaned the kitchen. That rarely happens. I do hope it warms up enough for her to walk today.

It has been Simpson's clouds for about two weeks when it isn't raining.

Long bath later.

I am losing the productivity games today. I am actually enjoying the stillness. I have been hearing the traffic noise from the 605 since I was ten, but it is all but quiet. Through my bedroom window, the orange bougainvillea is swaying along, the tangelo tree is all about growing, with fresh, thorny branches shooting up at the sun and sky. The catercorner neighbor is working on his deck roof. I wonder if he can see me.

The bath was deliciously quiet. The book group is reading Norwegian Wood this time around. We are going to try a Zoom meeting which is nothing new for me. Although I don't think I would particularly recommend this book, I can understand why many are taken with Murakami. His writing is lovely. 

If you're in pitch blackness, all you can do it sit tight until your eyes get used to the dark.

—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

That surely feels where we are at the moment ... and maybe for many moments to come. I feel relatively isolated so I am not immediately worried about myself. But my homelandheartland is Brooklyn and my dear peeps are right on the front lines. One of them is a doctor who posts intelligent things on FB. She thinks she has had the virus and her partner is isolated to see if she comes down with anything. Another friendsister's husband has it and her live-in daughter had been exposed elsewhere as well. Still another friend works at a homeless shelter. Yeah, the darkness around us is deep.

"What marks his plays is the way things get so messed up the characters are trapped. Do you see what I mean? A bunch of different people appear, and they've all got their own situations and reasons and excuses, and each one is pursuing his or her own brand of justice or happiness. As a result, nobody can do anything. Obviously, I mean, it's basically impossible for everybody's justice to prevail or everybody's happiness to triumph, so chaos takes over."

—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

And a hell-to-the-yes on that.

This is a rambling post, take it as you will.

Spotted on yesterday's ramble.

It's easy enough to feel isolated and therefore safe and not to extrapolate or feel too far into the distance. But I made the faux pas of suggesting the Kermit Place Readers try Atul Gawande's Being Mortal on the immediate read list. I admit to being a bit embarrassed now. I thought it would be a good starting point for some deep and perhaps soul-satisfying conversation, but when the disease is in your house, at your work, down the apartment house steps, it is a whole other matter. I think the measured but negative response pulled me out of La-La Land denial. More focus.

This is taking me hours to write. I drift off. Eat popsicles. Muse. Work on the sorting of the feelings. 

I did go to practice this morning. There were four of us plus the instructor. We were able to practice social distancing. It might seem as if I should quit teacher training but this is the time I need to do this. This was a furlough week for the training and we start up again on Saturday. I need the grounding I am getting from training.

Plus, I am already not practicing enough. At home, there are those bulbs begging to be planted, and always always always housework, reading, crafts, and Mom. (The sun did finally come out but it is windy. For those of you keeping score.) With social distancing and the instructor teaching an instagram class, practice is different. I was in the front of the room and the other three were behind me in the studio, so I could only see the instructor. (My arthritic shoulders are giving me a hard time so vinyasa and garudasana are extra hard for me.) So, without seeing them, I was comparing myself to the other yogis and beating myself up because that's what one does when one's head is up one's ass for a time. And then I turned and saw that indeed I compared favorably to them and more importantly to what I can do now.

My point being about being in some bullshit isolation in your home, you head, your ass, as the case may be. And my suggesting an inappropriate book was another exampled of self-reference and isolation (although my intentions were good). 


Getting a workable perspective on any part of this is a challenge. It is too easy to put oneself into a frenzy (if you are me) and spend time hating the OrangeToupeedPutridMeatSack that currently sits on the throne. That's not a productive focus (although there is the release of saying as many cuss words in as many ways as you can think of).

I lifted this from Peter Coyote's FB page.  It's on the bliss ninny spectrum so if you can't stomach platitudes and get nothing from a dharma talk STOP HERE. See you next time.

The picture at the bottom of this text is the costume I leap out of the phone-booth wearing, like superman arriving to save the world, but mine are just the robes of a Buddhist teacher. Watching the news and feeling the agitation of so many has prompted me to try to respond to peoples' anxiety and fear in some way, and so I'm posting this short dharma talk about fear in the hope people will find it helpful. 

A deep bow.

If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely, I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life - and only then will I be free to become myself.

Martin Heidegger

The current virus will disappear eventually but another fear will arise in its place. While we applaud the selfless efforts of doctors, nurses, first responders and countless beings who continue to serve the public in this dire time, we might take a few moments to consider fear itself. It rarely rests. It arises when we face poverty, consider nuclear weapons or mass shootings, sometimes when we just walk in the dark. We fear for our children and quite rightly fear for our entire planet. Most constantly, though usually on a back burner somewhere, we fear death. 

I’d like to offer a few thoughts about fear and particularly the fear of dying which have helped me when I have been afraid in the hopes that they might help others who may be suffering now. 

When we think about dying we are, without realizing it, imagining ourselves as an isolated entity unattached to the rest of the universe, fragile as dandelion fluff. We are fearing the loss of an “idea” that doesn’t actually exist in the way we habitually think of ourselves.

It’s useful to remember that we have never, for an instant, been separate from oxygen, from sunlight, from water, from the microbes in the soil that grow our food, from the pollinating insects, from the birds that control pests. Even Genesis reminds us that we are made of the Earth.

From the perspective of being inseparable from “the rest of it” the idea of a separate, isolated existence dims and sometimes disappears temporarily. Which is not to say that it’s false. We all have self-awareness— a sense of self— but the central delusion of mankind is to believe that that’s all we are, while ignoring visible evidence which supports a deeper view of what our life really is.

Those of you who meditate should understand that you practice dying on every exhale. If your body inhales the next moment, blessings— you are still alive, rejoice for that. However, at some point, each and every sentient being will have a final exhale. That’s what life comes down to. One way to understand meditating is that, while meditating, we allow the small idea of who we are to dissolve into formlessness—the Big Mind of the Universe. Breathing in and out, whether we live or die, has, for the most part, always been out of our hands. The belief that we can grasp and control it is the same sort of delusion as believing that we only exist separately. The waves are never separate from the Ocean. When it arises into form, we call it a ‘wave.’ When it sinks back to the source we say ‘Ocean.’ It is the same for everything that has form. 

Considering this deeply has always helped me when I’ve been afraid. I hope you find this helpful.

Hosho Peter Coyote,

Zen priest

'Nuff said.

HER HOME HER HOME

I don’t know about you, but I have been sleeping a lot. I hear that some of you all are too freaked and depressed to sleep. I have a surfeit of trazadone if anyone needs some. It rained last night. Instead of listening to a book to fall asleep, I just let the rain soothe me. One wishes the rain would wash away the virus. 

I just read that LA County schools will be out of session until May. I feel for all those kids who not only can’t go to school for socialization, but can’t visit with their friends either. That must be some kind of hell for all involved.

Janet has been on lockdown for two weeks now. When it is not too cold or rainy, I get her to take a walk around the block. She fights me, but not too hard. I am going to try to get her to start reaching out to her friends via telephone because I can see that the lack of social interaction furthers her dementia. She’s slightly less oriented to the world around her. Her senior center friends are still gathering to play dominoes but I just think caution is the better part of health here. She's pretty depressed and somewhat bewildered.

I am just waiting, not thinking about it obsessively. Being mindful and careful and monitoring the news, but really trying to use the quiet to make progress on the shambles of my life.

Blooming milkweed. Welcome monarchs!

I am not bored, of course. I have enough to do to get me through a life time or two. Gardening and cooking are at the top of my to do list. The plan is to tear up the front lawn and just plant native plants and flowers flowers flowers! I had bought a clematis last year and was just on the verge of throwing it away when I spotted green. I managed to get it into the ground and the hydrangea as well. I have several roses, a purple hibiscus, and a hawthorn that need homes in the ground. I still have bolted basil that looks somewhat ratty, but the bees love them, as do the hummingbirds and butterflies so I cannot tear them out. I am much torn and scratched from battling with a Happy Chappy rose in the bed in front of the house. 

The backyard, being ringed by concrete walls and deck, get a bit too hot for some plants. The poppies, nasturtiums, calendulas, and bougainvillea all do well, but others, like roses, not so much. I have three or four more trees to try to squeeze into the pool area: pomegranate, cherry, and lime. The lime tree has been in a container for about two years and is full of blossoms this year. Well, if we are under quarantine for many more months, I just may get it done. Digging is hard work, though.

I am most torn between wanting to garden and needing to be on KP. I have some Jim Lahey No Knead Bread that has been sitting around for too long while it waits to be baked. Might be a failure, 

but who knows.

Janet is heading back to bed, which is a bit disturbing. She is bored but as she can't see enough to read so tv is her only option. After I get the bread in the oven, I should put more focus on entertaining and stimulating her. Her favorite yoga teacher, Teri Ann, is about to offer online classes, so I will try to get her to practice.

Much to the chagrin and horror of most, my teacher training continues. The yoga studio is closed for the most part. Cindy does an instagram cast a few times a week. There are only four of us in the training so we are able to keep a good distant in that big room. I feel as if this is the time for me to do this, so I will persevere. 

Two weird songs battling for brain space: Pretty Ballerina by The Left Banke and Dance to the Music by Sly and the Family Stone. If anyone can see a connection here, give me a shout out. Pretty Ballerina is hells-fey, but gorgeous if overly sentimental. Dance to the Music warrants no comment.   

My audiobooks are Andrew Delbanco's The War Before the War: Fugitive Slaves and the Struggle for America's Soul from the Revolution to the Civil War and The Girl on the Velvet Swing: Sex, Murder, and Madness at the Dawn of the 20th Century. The latter is little more than a potboiler and not as compelling as American Eve: Evelyn Nesbit, Stanford White, The Birth of the "It" Girl, and the Crime of the Century. The Delbanco book is excellent but not really fall asleep material.

Okay, off to kp and laundry land for now. Vera is of the opinion my time and raison d'eire would be better served as a luxurious lap for napping. Much less than I should force her to suffer the ignominy of washing the sheets. She is not to be denied.

THE SECOND

In any collision, one strikes;

the other is stricken. This

is a given with the nano-

calculations made possible

through silicon.

Earlier centuries depended

on testimony to know

the bender from the bent

and often judged an act

by how it ended. Many bumps

were simply abandoned to the

morass of simultaneous action.

Love being among them.

For who would second

as I find myself seconded—

the original feathered weapon

tattered. I love you seconded

for seven year. Whose love

comes second forever bears

a quiver of unsayable words,

unusable gestures; a boldness

lost—as if Ruth had not said

Whither thou goest, but merely gone,

making Naomi's people her people,

her home her home.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Here's the bedside stack that I am barely looking at:

A STOP ALONG THE WAY

Joan Brown, The Cat Bride

It is going to take some serious fortitude to get through YTT today. I am exhausted from yesterday. The day is rather blustery and tending toward overcast, although there are sporadic sun showers as the Washingtonian statefolk say. I am a champ at dreading, so I am worrying that I have such a long day ahead, four hours of teacher training and I signed up for a workshop. I may keep my participation on the low key side.

There are physical manifestations of my training. My right arm is not sure what is going on. I feel my arthritis all over my shoulders and neck. Having not practiced intensely for the past couple of weeks due to health and teeth issues, I am not at my peak strength. Stoved up.

Doing this training is walking into a wall of your own fears and self-reality. I made the grave mistake of putting my mat down yesterday next to one of the most advanced students in the whole studio. That doesn’t do anything for one’s confidence and feelings of accomplishment. I guess the contrast is easy to see with the best and worst side by side.

Realizing, really having to be in the moment(s) with one’s age is a challenge. I feel very much like an outsider, not unlike, in some respects, it felt to be the only female living in Boystown. I can never measure up, no matter how much I want to or how hard I try. I am at odds with myself, reminding myself that maybe I can’t do a jump back to chatauranga, but that there are other things I can do. I will be surprised if I don’t cry today in training. 

My conversations with myself that this is good, breaking down one’s ideas about abilities and limitations might bring me closer to a true self. Perhaps other bad or non-salutory habits can disappear along the way and maybe I will end up in a better place in life.

Right now, there is that old feeling of less than and not good enough. Old and in the way. Non-important. Non-essential. And very other.

WOODEN

In the presence of supple

goodness, some people

grow less flexible,

experiencing a woodenness

they wouldn't have thought possible.

It is as strange and paradoxical

as the combined suffering

of Pinocchio and Geppetto

if Pinocchio had turned and said,

I can't be human after all.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

THE LEAP, THE PURGE, THE QUICK HUMILITY

I spend significant time petting cats every day. They all have their moments, some being more demanding than others. If I sit in bed to read or write, I have Vera Paris to contend with, particularly in the morning as she is very playful. She is not shy about getting the attention she wants.

Oona Minnie Pearl Moonlight is highly attracted to my desk, especially if I have just returned from errands or outside work. She likes to knock things off the desk and manages to put nearly everything on the floor. I like to have a small vase of flowers on a shelf in front of me, but that invariably ends up soaking the desk. Fortunately, the laptop was elsewhere.

On a whim and at a post-Christmas sale up in Wrightwood, I bought my mom a pair of slippers with cats on them (natch). These were adorned with the exact bells Oona and Vera wear. I can tell which cat is which by how they move, but now there is the added cacophony of Janet walking around in her slippers. Figuring out the other bells took me some time.

Here's a placeholder.

I want to stay up and write about how the yoga training is challenging me and all. But we are supposed to go to bed at 10:00 and get up at 6:00. And I do need to get up early because it is my desk morning. So instead of writing about how I notice I got some less-than-desireable eating habits from my mom, I am going to take my meds, turn out the lights, and hope I am similarly inspired on the morrow.

Another morning at the desk. The orange smell fills the lobby here.

RELIEF

We know it is close
to something lofty.
Simply getting over being sick
or finding lost property
has in it the leap,
the purge, the quick humility
of witnessing a birth—
how love seeps up
and retakes the earth.
There is a dreamy
wading feeling to your walk
inside the current
of restored riches,
clocks set back,
disasters averted.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

I think this is the first morning when I have not turned on the space heater. It is slightly chilly, but it hardly seems worth the effort. Spring is coming as evinced by the greater number of folks with little kids walking past to go to VIento y Agua. I brought my own coffee (and breakfast) this morning. The door is barely open but it feels much noisier. A white SUV pulled up with what sounded like some African highlife music playing.

I'm already having a hard time focussing. Even the swoosh of cars is distracting me. Maybe sound is carrying more because of a change in the air.

I don't entirely know what I expected from teacher training but it is different than I imagined. A lot of feelings come up when I give myself a moment to reflect. I am surprised at the amount of emotion I am having regarding my body, my age, my abilities, and just generally my entire person. I feel as if my being were squinting and slightly cowering a bit. (I just noticed that the space heater isn't even here at the desk!)

I think the biggest surprise, something I had not factored in to the decision to do this training, was the internal focus. I wasn't expecting the self-examination and likely personal "re-tooling." My well-being, my integrated being, has really NEVER been an aspiration of mine. The threads of selfhood here are knotted and gnarly. This comes as a bit of a shock and definitely brings up some fear and loathing.

And there is a lot ... and I should get to some more review before this afternoon's session ... Even just trying to move towards the first round of ayurvedic eating, for instance, has much going on. I spent a couple of days in a mental kerfuffle, worrying about how I could make any of this work. And then I hit upon the idea that I could just pick an item or two and focus on integrating those things into my life. Hey! I don't have to do this all at once.

One of the things is not to overeat, not to get so full you don't even feel well. And this is where Janet comes in. Both of us have a deep addiction to Trader Joe's Popcorn with Avocado Oil and Himalayan pink salt. I managed to stop without getting to the disgusted point yesterday. When Janet woke from her nap in the evening, I asked her if she wanted dinner. She said no as she had eaten so much popcorn she was ill. Bingo.







A PLAIN ORDINARY STEEL NEEDLE
CAN FLOAT ON PURE WATER
— Ripley's Believe It or Not

Who hasn't seen
a plain ordinary
steel needle float serene
on water as if lying on a pillow?
The water cuddles up like Jell-O.
It's a treat to see water
so rubbery, a needle
so peaceful, the point encased
in the tenderest dimple.
It seems so simple
when things or people
have modified each other's qualities
somewhat;
we almost forget the oddity
of that.

— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010

Janet voted for Elizabeth Warren.