It’s a sad day.
Grey, thickly overcast. Dripping, icy, cold. Unfriendly & even harsh.
Harsh not only in it’s weather, but harsh also in it’s politics, it’s judgments & planetary pain.
I slept badly last night. Occasionally I do that. I try & not get caught in the non-sleeping. I go with it, tossing like a sailor at sea, reaching for my book on a dimly lit e-reader. I aim to let it be & know that either the next night or shortly thereafter, there will be sleep.
2 scheduled yoga clients asked to change their practice days from today until tomorrow. I did a strengthening practice of my own in the morning & meditated. I played with my current art making, wherein I make things & ask questions later.
I walked the dog who also felt the misery of this day, wet-bellied, clothed in socks & boots, bored & not running through snow or grass or on a meandering trail. Then I sat with tea, book close by that I never reached for.
I tuned in instead to a podcast, meditation guidance delivered by Michael Stone: How to Meditate, Forgive, End Blame, And Stop Wounding Your Own Heart. catchy title.
I felt tired & sad, watching the railing drips, the sleet drawing wet lines on the window. I allowed tears to well up, recognized them (yeah, we’ve met before), heard & tuned into Michael saying, we are in a stream and eventually, we are the stream.
I held the round shaped mug of green tea to my chest, warming my hands, warming my heart centre & allowed myself to just sit in an easy chair, small dog tucked in beside me, & just listen. & breathe.
I knew that this day was white water on the stream. Just that. Not the whole stream of this life. I knew it to be some rapids, stones, branches that have been caught, pushing the flow up into a spray, directing it over to the side, carving out the muddy bank.
I chose for that 1 hour talk, to sip, quiet down & accept the sadness, the disappointment of Istanbul’s bombing, of Brussels’ bombing, of angry bombastic Trump, of Jian Gomeshi’s trial, of a dearly loved one’s illness, of a friend‘s & family member’s job finding hopes, etc.
And the stream calmed. The art objects with unclear intentions began to make sense & bring joy.
I did it. I paddled through the white water.