Now

It's going to be a busy day at work today and I planned on going in early for my own sake and I have class tonight, which I'm not sure I will make. It depends on how the day unfolds. I'll have to take it a moment at a time. I did decide that I needed to write and that I would go in a bit later, so that I can do this one thing for myself first.

A book has been brought back into my consciousness after a fellow blogger mentioned it as a book that changed his life. That book is Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. I do recall having this book. It's one of many that got away with my last move. It's a book that was part of several in a class I took long ago; then again in another class, the teacher couldn't praise it enough.

Since the book had been brought back into my awareness, while browsing the shelves of the second hand store recently, there was a copy there peering back at me as thought it had been waiting for me; I invited the book back to its home in my own shelves. I have been reading it for a few moments each morning before I get out of bed to start the day. I have nodded my head in agreement and feel that I'm visiting a familiar place, an old friend.

I believe that certain things, whether experiences, moments, books–the possibilities are plentiful–as long as we are paying attention, what we need will surface. The Power of Now has reminded me of the strong influence the Vietnamese Buddhist Monk Thich Nhat Hanh has had on my life, and takes me back to when I first saw him speak and then purchased one of his books nearly 20 years ago. I don't look to him as a guru by any means, and I don't think he'd want that. Instead, I look to what makes common sense to me: the practice of mindfulness, compassion, love, understanding, nature, and being in the present moment.

Through these many years, I feel that finding and being in the present moment is there for me to enter when I choose, when I choose to let go and surrender to it–not think, but do. Since rediscovering The Power of Now, I feel that certain spokes of the wheel are reconnecting and opening further.

I've been thinking about my past angers and I feel that, without being able to say why, The Power of Now, opened up something in me that allowed me to frame what I've been thinking about for so long and put it to the page. I started to write about it a few days ago, an image of my childhood that I've often thought about, but never felt comfortable putting to the page, even to my personal pages; I finally did, and I went on for four pages and it took a different direction and became entwined with work. I was overwhelmed with how much there was to edit if I want to post it to my blog. I view it as part of my memoirs, for that is the type of writing that I am most drawn to, that, the essay form, and journal writing.

In the past several days, I've been finding my mantra to be the single word, "now" to bring me into the present, especially at work or if I find I'd like to slow my thoughts down.

**
A Dream - From my journal (Sunday, April 8)

Last night when I became aware of the music that almost always comes through the apartment walls, I said in my mind, "now, now..." I dreamed last night I was in a situation where my death was before me. I don't remember how I got into the situation, but I was standing there with someone aiming a crossbow at my throat. I think I heard someone shriek or make a sound of fear. I said, "it's ok." And I remember I kept saying, "now, now" to myself. "This is now." I accepted the situation and became my own witness. I concentrated on the present moment and a calm overtook my being. I think I remember the click of the arrow releasing. The dream ended.

A Good Restless Night ~ After Affect: Letting it Flow Out

Last night was a restless night. Not in a bad way. I waited too long to brush my teeth and it bothers me when I skip a night of flossing and brushing. My significant other got up to use the restroom at close to 3:30 a.m. and I took the opportunity to drag myself from a laziness; not quite sleep, rather some sort of heaviness where my mind and body were both awake, but neither was budging. I know it drives him crazy when I wait so long. It disrupts his sleep. I’ll try to do better.

After that, I was wide awake and that thing that happens, happened. You know, where you find yourself phantom writing, where thoughts pour out of your mind, full ideas and thoughts that you’ve held inside and turned around and around—they finally begin pouring out coherently and you can see the words, the sentences, the feelings streaming by, but you just watch. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to disrupt the flow.

And so, there I was. I didn’t want to get up again because I could sense that my significant other was not sound asleep yet. It wouldn’t take long. I continued to let my thoughts spill out and I imagined that I was an hour glass and these thoughts were sand steadily pouring out and I wasn’t doing anything about it. And then I felt the night breeze caress my cheek. It soothed me so. There is nothing I enjoy more than the feel of the breeze on my skin at night through the open window. I have a pack of index cards on the window sill. I grabbed one carefully not to make too much movement, then I reached for my mechanical pencil. I tried to write two words and it seemed that the scratch of the pencil in the quiet room echoed loud. It wasn’t going to work. I put both back up and sat there, going back and forth in my mind: Am I going to get up or lose all the thoughts that are shooting out like stars in the sky? What will I do? Do I want to begin my day?

By now it was a little after 4:00 a.m.—ah makes me think of a book I checked out from the library. I’ve poked around in it, haven’t done the exercises. But still felt inspired in some way. I’ll have to come back to this book, since it makes more sense now that 4:00 a.m. is on my mind. The book is called The 4 a.m.. Breakthrough: Unconventional Writing Exercises that Transform your Fiction by Brian Kiteley. He’s also written The 3 a.m. Breakthrough. I haven’t set my eyes on that one yet. As I was saying: I didn’t want to get up that early and start my day because I knew I would be exhausted later and that I needed to sleep.

Finally, I heard the breath from my significant other that signifies that if I get up, he won’t notice, so I slide out of bed, or rather I maneuver out of bed. I’m boxed in on the window side and I have to navigate just enough space to put my foot down at the end of the bed, so as not to lose my balance. I go to the living room, get the battery operated lantern from the bottom shelf, turn it on, get my notebook and pencil, crouch over, and begin writing.

By then, the thoughts are not exactly flowing out the way they were at the brink of awakening. No, of course not. I did manage to jot a few thoughts down so that I can come back to them later. Instead what I wrote was mostly a few words to spark my memory next time, words put in their own corners in the notebook for each separate idea or thought. I’m still glad I got out of bed. I’m glad I was awake at that hour. The clouds seem to wait until the wee hours of the morning to look there most stunning and romantic. I could slip out of my window and fly with them easily. And that was my restless night.

About the photo: I’m not exactly sure why I chose this one to share. I took it a month back on a visit to the library. I liked how one piece of art framed the other artwork. It was taken with my iPod Touch, so the quality isn’t that great. There’s something about it I like and I love that the mountain is in the background.

It’s nighttime again…have a good night.

Happy writing!

Thinking about Haiku

I find that when I am trying to understand something, if I write what I’m learning and digesting, it sinks into my system better. I enjoy watching the seasons come and go, yet the other day when I passed the park near one of my favorite crepe myrtle trees—it really became apparent to me how many seasons had passed in my lifetime that I had not captured in a way that I would remember. I feel that only within the past few years have I really jotted down impressions on the page that will be there to remind me of the passing seasons and the elements unique to each.

The first time that I distinctly recall being introduced to haiku was in a college English course. The instructor had a fun air about him and you could tell he loved not only teaching but also people—he cared about us. He was trying to be funny and put the class at ease and began reciting a haiku by Basho. I honestly do not remember the haiku he chose. What seemed to stay in memory was the excitement the teacher had for the very short form and all that it contained. He read it again and again. Did we see, did we get it?, he seemed to be saying with his body language, book propped up in hand.

Haiku seems to me like sipping a sweet, strong port—over time and many small sips, the moment penetrates your being: One moment contained inside a seemingly small container—and often that one moment is the whole world reflected back.

I recently started reading a short book for children and adults alike called Haiku: Asian Arts & Crafts for Creative Kids (2003) by Patricia Donegan. Kigo makes more sense to me now. I first came across the word kigo on one of Keiko Amano’s blogs where she was discussing haiku. Ever since then, I have been more aware of the word when I read about and think about haiku. Each part of the world will have its own season words sometimes only making sense to those who live there. It made me start to think of all the critters around here and when they seem most apparent—which time of year, what part of the day—and all the other characteristics of a season.

I love the “checklist” in the book on page 8 (there is a descriptive sentence after each word in the book):

The Seven Keys to Writing Haiku

1. Form
2. Image
3. Kigo (Season word)
4. Here and Now
5. Feeling
6. Surprise
7. Compassion

For many who may read this, you might be thinking yes, we know this already. But for me, having a little more background and having it put forth in such a simple manner, makes me feel like I’ve just discovered something for the first time—as though it’s absolutely new to me.

I like baby steps; I never mind going back to square one again and again.

I respect and acknowledge the traditional form as part of the Japanese culture. I will never be able to fully understand haiku from the Japanese perspective. I will not be able to write it in beautiful Japanese characters, but I’m appreciative that there are ways for English writers to appreciate the form and its beauty—ways to work with haiku in English.

What resonates with me most is my love of nature; how I feel so much; and how I love trying to transfer images and impressions and reducing them to their most true form.

So the other day when I was observing the rose branches that are in the same park and how they were still bare but beginning to show signs of tight buds readying to bloom, I thought about haiku, about kigo—about how the seasons and months seem to go so fast and that the only way to slow them down is to capture them in images and words, especially haiku—because it seems the fewer intentional words, the more the moment is able to be recalled.

I want to remember the seasons, more so now than ever, partially because from one year to the next, they never seem the same. I want to be able to look back.

haiku
teardrop falls from the moon
living moment

(haiku written February 23, 2012 without a season).

Friday ~ Miscellany of Wanderings ~ Laughter and Dancing

This morning I have my metaphorical dancing shoes on laced up with passion and laughter. A stray from the classical, jazz, and Latin notes that usually breeze out of the speakers, it was time to put in high-energy music and get moving!

As usual, I’m in and out of books, certain ones pulling stronger. During my morning time, if I’m not writing, I’m reading. This week I’ve been pulled in different directions, each book shouting, read me, read me. Whom to pick, whom to pick? I love the writing of Milan Kundera. When I read his words, I feel transported and he pushes me to think. There are certain of his books that are more difficult for me to enter because of the politics and the satire that won’t resonate the same as it does for someone from his Mother Country. Nevertheless, I gain much through his penetrating mind, and his beautiful and lyrical writing. Right now, his book that keeps calling me is, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. In fact, laughter is an activity that I cherish. Laughter and hilarity make life interesting and the ability to see the comedic in any circumstance is healing.

I’ve recently come upon a book that I was not looking for. I think I was looking for a book on language and this one came up as one that others bought. It was free and had favorable reviews. It’s not a book so much as it is an essay on laughter. I’m on page 27 of 99 by Kindle standards, so I have a ways to go, but so far—through its denseness—I am having many connections—stragglers that appear to me as little lights stringing together. The essay is titled, “Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic” by Henri Bergson. It makes me realize how much I see the comedic in life and how especially at work, even when I have my occasional moments of emotional sensitivity and overreaction, most of the time I am laughing to myself and feel that I am watching a sitcom. And often I laugh at myself too. This gets me through the day, to bring this element to the often mundane tasks of office work. I’m not complaining, just pointing out that I make the most of my time and work best when I am surrounded by laughter, even if I’m the only one laughing inside. Now, this isn’t to say that I sit and make fun of people or laugh at them all day, rather if someone has an aspect to their personality that arises often. For example, an office mate that shares the space will overhear a conversation and will insert himself into it loudly and cut off whomever was talking. For some co-workers this is an annoyance. Objectively speaking, it’s probably slightly rude, but I don’t think he’s aware of it. And here is what Bergson has to say about the comic character, “…it is really a kind of automatism that makes us laugh—an automatism, as we have already remarked, closely akin to mere absentmindedness.  To realize this more fully, it need only be noted that a comic character is generally comic in proportion to his ignorance of himself. The comic person is unconscious” (pg. 8). Ultimately, I have no problem with his frequent intrusions. It offers variety and interest to my day and it makes me laugh every time because it’s who he is and for me there is hilarity to this automatic behavior and the way that it physically plays out. Bergson further states, “to imitate any one is to bring out the element of automatism he has allowed to creep into his person. And as this is the very essence of the ludicrous, it is no wonder that imitation gives rise to laughter.” When you are in a situation day in and day out, you can either find the horrible all the time, or you can do the opposite.

I have also been in touch with my childhood enjoyment of imitating and occasionally, I do imitate and am able to invoke these moments by sound and physicality. It doesn’t happen often and it’s very spontaneous when it does. In this case, I feel that it’s harmless. This particular co-worker has a strong personality and is quite comfortable with who he is.

Now, as I think of imitating myself, I laugh. A few months back, my significant other was playing around with our iPad and when I came out of the bedroom, he was filming me. When we played back the film, I was in stitches with laughter. I didn’t realize what he was doing, even though it should have been obvious, so in the film clip my eyes kept darting back and forth and I just had so many little odd body movements as I stood there, looking here, looking there and asking, “what are you doing,” before I figured it out.

Before the music started and before I knew I was going to write this morning, what brought me here to the page was the “Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyer.” I was tossing a few old pamphlets into the recycle pile and was about to put the Trader Joe’s flyer there, when I realized I hadn’t read through it yet. I am always entertained when I read it. I flipped through quickly and landed on an image of what I assume is supposed to be a Greek man speaking with his hand held out in discourse. The caption reads, “I’m happy to have a dialogue with you about the yogurt, but in the end, philosophically speaking, it’s all Greek to me.” It may be the frame of mind I’m in today, but it made me laugh. I put the high-energy dance CD on, started dancing, grabbed my laptop; kept dancing; grabbed The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, set it by the laptop—and while I was getting the book, I saw “Goddesses Knowledge Cards,” which I discovered over the weekend when I began my declutter frenzy. I thought I had gotten rid of them. I’m so glad I did not. Still dancing, I shuffled and spread the cards out, closed my eyes and selected one: Pele the “fiery Hawaiian volcano goddess.” Perfect card for the day. “She reminds us that even in the midst of fiery eruption there is creation and new life.”

Following my Thoughts

The shower used to be the place where I was calm, where ideas would come to me; running from the shower I would dry off enough and grab for the pen and paper. Now showers are sometimes rushed, still enjoyed, some thoughts, but not the same as before.

Just this morning, while I decided to do those dishes in the sink—washing dishes is not a favorite activity of mine—but today I was there with those dishes and the thoughts were there and I realized that this would be my new space, besides the other little entry points within a day that can cause me to go into a reverie, into the world of my thoughts. When I was done with the dishes I didn’t come directly to the page. Some time went by, and as I was reading and browsing, I realized too that I receive just as much joy reading about books, the description, other reader’s reactions, etc., as I enjoy reading the books themselves. I download more samples than I’ll ever be able to read. Some samples get deleted, some I keep there in case I scroll through the many pages one day in search of a book on top of the many new books that keep showing up. This is one of my races with time. It’s not a race really, but it goes along with my path. Some worlds I enter with my toe and leave it in the shallow end, never to return; other times, my toe keeps nudging in until I’m up to my calf and then my whole body is swimming and I keep on swimming until I reach that end point.

And then I realize that my hair looks scraggly. Something has stirred in me of the want of remaining a pretty flower and I know that inside I feel it, but then the outside—I try to maintain the balance of what is portrayed in the media, what feeds the ideas of perfection—you know what I mean—not perfection but unrealistic physical expectations. I watch my mood go from medium-high to low. Too much in my head. Too much thinking of silly things. These thoughts this morning played into yesterday. I decided to give my hair a trim myself. When it’s short, it grows so fast and it gets costly to maintain. I took the thinning shears I purchased months ago and only used once for two or three quick snips so my hair would stay down on the sides a little better. Yesterday I noticed my sides were getting too long. I asked for them to be longer when the stylist cut my hair last month and I don’t like how they grew out. I snipped and snipped with the thinning shears, which only cut pieces of hair. I liked that the sides were shorter and I thought it looked alright. As I started looking closer, it didn’t look so good. I’m going to need to call and make an appointment to get my hair cleaned up. I used to do this when I had longer hair too. I’d get frustrated and cut my hair myself and then make an appointment. My eyebrows are growing in too and I like them, yet I don’t like them. I think I’m being too hard on myself. I think that there are too many annoying things that are available for women to pay too much attention to the outside. I’ve always been an inside person—not always, that’s not true. For a great part anyway I have been an inside focused person. And I must say being solo makes it that much easier, in my opinion, to not get too wrapped up in those outward things. This will pass; it will also cycle back.

**

I went to pick up a book on hold from the library last week. I was running short on time, but decided to take a quick look for a certain book. When I didn’t find what I was looking for I quickly looked for something to catch my attention. A white spine with red and black stood out: The Fourth Treasure: A Novel (2002) by Todd Shimoda with calligraphy done by his wife, L. J. C. Shimoda. I was intrigued on reading one of the endorsements on the back cover:

“Brushing heart and mind, The Fourth Treasure has depth and nuance of a skillfully calligraphed scroll.  Todd Shimoda balances the worlds of neuro-psychology and the ancient ‘Way of the Brush,’ from Kyoto to Berkeley, from Japanese culture to American and every shade in between.”

—Liza Dalby, author of Geisha and The Tale of Murasaki

I began reading the book that night and knew I was going to be right at home in a world of learning, beauty, and culture. I’m not too far in yet. The story goes back and forth between time periods. I love that throughout the book there are Japanese kanji with a description of the meaning of that particular kanji.

There is a part in the beginning that has moved me and I hope to live these words, to keep them close to my heart:

“Before leaving his studio, the sensei quickly bowed toward a wall scroll, a work of calligraphy completed by the first Daizen sensei on the day he founded the school.  The poem—“Live Life as Art”—had become the Daizen school’s motto” (pg. 9).

A Sense of an Ending ~ Book Reflection: Letter to the Muse, Know today as Vincent

How did I come upon this book I ask myself?  It turns out Julian Barnes was awarded the 2011 Man Booker prize for this small but quietly potent book. But I think by now that is old news. That didn’t matter to me and in fact it did not seem to stir upon my consciousness. Now that I know, I imagine how ecstatic the author must feel. So congratulations to him.

I first saw mention of this book in an email newsletter I subscribe to. I then saw it in another email. I knew that I would like to read it at some point, but I didn’t pursue it at that time. I had finished up the previous audio book I was reading and I was in search of a new one. Since I have a monthly membership for a flat fee, each month I receive one credit toward any audio book and then other audios are discounted. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to listen to. Something I’ve read before? Something new? Hmm. Nothing was speaking to me. And then I looked and there I saw that familiar title: A Sense of an Ending. The story sounded interesting.  The story of youth and how the suicide of a friend from a distant past is revealed, bringing the protagonist back to his schooldays—memory unfolds. It’s not a large book. Four hours and 40 minutes by audio.

I enjoyed listening to the writing. I have a hold request at the library so I can read the book myself. I’m number 164 in the queue. The good news is there are 24 holdable copies across libraries in my county. It will be a little while, not too long though. In the meantime, I downloaded a sample for Kindle with the intention of only reading up until the sample stops. I love seeing the words on the page. How he opened the story and how he recounts a memory, and then continues:

“We live in time—it holds us and moulds us—but I’ve never felt I understood it very well. And I’m not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist elsewhere in parallel version.”

And of course there is more. Then he continues his story where it begins for him during his schooldays.

I found myself lulled softly into the story, entering the school, the classroom, and this band of friends.

I listened to this audio slowly, though it could have been listened to in one sitting. I enjoyed the banter between the friends as the protagonist pulled from his memory bank. When I finally reached the end, I felt a small sense of that’s it. That’s how it ends. I don’t often like endings. There was a subtlety to this one. Despite my initial feeling toward the ending, I enjoyed the story so much that a couple of days ago—I finished the book last week—I decided to begin listening to the story again before the book from the library is available. I don’t like recommending books because I know that we all have different tastes, different moods, etc. I can only say that I’m glad I found this book. It’s the journey of past recollections meeting present and it becomes a meditation on memory—death, life, time, choices, regrets—the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Written with acuity and a sense of grace, I appreciate the quiet, loudness of this book.

Book: The Geography of Bliss

Last year’s Book Lover’s page-a-day calendar wasn’t too exciting, but this year’s seems to have a lot of intriguing titles. I’ve begun to amass not only piles of physical books to be read, but now I have a pile of calendar pages scattered about. Some may never see themselves into my hands.

One that I recently finished was The Geography of Bliss: One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World by Eric Weiner (2008). I must admit that when I first began the book, the introduction had me, but once I got to chapter one: “The Netherlands: Happiness Is a Number,” I almost stopped reading. Was it out of boredom, was I not relating? I’m not sure. After setting the book aside for a few days, I decided to come back to it again, give it another go. I’m glad I did. Weiner’s style had me laughing through the book and I found that he held my attention and had interesting observations.

The countries he visited and reported on were The Netherlands, Switzerland, Bhutan, Qatar, Iceland, Moldova, Thailand, Great Britain, India, and America. The subtitles to each chapter alone gave me a laugh or a smile. You can purchase or search inside the book at Amazon.

Book: The Geography of Bliss

The chapter that resonated with me most was the one on Iceland where “Happiness is Failure.” It made an impression on me for several reasons:

-The relationship Icelanders have with their language and the joy they get from it;

-Everyone seems to be an artist of some kind;

-Weiner observed that there did not seem to be much envy in Iceland.

-On Failure. In a conversation with an interesting Icelander, Larus had this to say: “Failure doesn’t carry a stigma in Iceland. In fact, in a way, we admire failures” (pg. 163). Of course, Weiner’s reaction was such that anyone would share. What!? And to answer his confusion, Larus, replied, “Let me put it this way. We like people who fail if they fail with the best intentions. Maybe they failed because they weren’t ruthless enough, for instance” (pg. 163). This alone is a great bit of wisdom to reflect upon, for how many times do we find ourselves afraid to do something because of our fear to fail? It’s so valuable to be able to see how other people from different cultures deal with common issues, with being human.

The Geography of Bliss left me with a lot to contemplate, other views to consider. It was insightful and fun to go along for the ride with Weiner on his quest to explore his nagging question.

Endnote:

It’s ironic that I wasn’t in the right “place” when I first started the book and all it took was coming back with a new day’s mindset, finding myself loving the “place(s)” that I then found myself traveling into.