The other day I got into a political discussion with my host's downstairs tenant and the plumber. I HATE apologizing for my country.
I also hate my ostrich mentality. Some say this is the supreme example of white privilege: I can afford to turn my back on the problems, and I have safe havens. Others say this is healthy, that the focus on negative news is bad for one's mental health. That may be: I have a huge headache today. It may be caused by the proliferation of negative Facebook posts from NRA and Trump supporters (or from anti-left supporters....the agenda is never clear to me.)
I read posts from people who are threatened by children and youth who protest, who tell adults what to do. They see these kids as pawns, they liken them to Hitler Youth. I see the parallel...But the parallel I see involves the Civil Rights movement, nonviolent in the face of violence. It is sad they had to grow up so quickly. That’s what happens in times of war, and it appears that we are once again at war with ourselves. I am heartbroken, but these kids go past that to find their collective voice. I feel the glimmerings of hope. But I also fear. There are no taboos: when threatened, the powerful lash out, and this country is no longer a safe place to speak out, if indeed it ever was. I am proud that people still speak out, despite that.
Meanwhile, I also read about the attacks on my personal future. What will I do if Social Security is gutted, if Medicare is decimated, or if PERS is destroyed? These are all things that I have paid for, that I have depended upon, but that neither the current administration nor today's kids (tomorrow's leaders) have any reason or desire to support. And I am not alone in this. It's a hell of a time to be getting old.
My headache is getting worse.
Monday, March 26, 2018
Monday, March 19, 2018
Sauntering with the Buddha
When I was snowshoeing the other day, I was internally chanting
the mantra AB sent me about walking, and suddenly it made sense. Meditation can be
like that:
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk
I don't need to breathe, I don't need to walk
The Buddha is the breather, the Buddha is the walker
I enjoy the breathing, I enjoy the walking
There is only breathing, there is only walking
There is no breather, there is no walker.
As I got into the rhythm of wading through the snow and the chanting began to fit my rhythm, the sense filtered through to me.
And then I started worrying about cold toes and chilling sweat and the distance I had gone and the distance I still had to go. I can be like that. :)
I sent that to a friend, who replied via Thoreau and his essay on sauntering. While Rebecca Solnit remains my go-to writer about walking, Thoreau's ideas really spoke to the way my brain becomes unfocused, disconnecting from the Now. As he said, thoughts often move into the plans and anxieties that occupied me before I began the mindful activity, whether it be meditation, music, or walking. In the past several years, my thoughts swirled around physical and emotional health: was I doing what I needed to be doing? Now, I still think about that, but from a more existential point of view. Or, as my dowsing friend asks her pendulum crystal, Is it for my higher good that I embark upon this activity or thought?
But, on my most recent walk, I did not think about work and productivity. It wasn't that sort of distraction that took me away from my saunter with the Buddha. I wasn't worried about the material, and I wasn't really worried about the existential. I knew that my physical body needed to be outside, pulling the crackling air into my lungs, feeling the sweat cooling as I walked through the shade, pausing in the sun to slow my laboring lungs. There was no question about material things, other than the lack of a neck gaiter and the concerns about socks (I'm not wearing the wool ones, what was I thinking?!) and the gloves (stop taking them off for pictures, the fingers aren't warming up afterwards.)
There were, however, questions about my choices. Should I have turned north and walked to Landasbygda and the little store? Was that a shorter distance? Was it an easier trail? Should I have turned down to the lake, recrossed it on new snow, and walked back along the eastern edge? How much further was the plowed road? Did it go back up and east to Landasvegen, or did it turn west towards Hwy 33 and Dokka? Were my toes going to become frostbitten? My torso seemed icy, was it okay? Could I eat some snow, or was it contaminated by invisible microbes? Because I tend to explore with minimal preparation, I had no water and I hadn't checked distances, and now I was worrying. It's difficult to focus on the Buddha when you are worrying about stamina and the elements.
Yet, there were moments of clarity. I'd stopped the chant (it got me across the sparkling white lake), but I was still aware of being out in the sunny Norwegian landscape, slowly scissoring my legs in the snowshoe rock, part wade, part clamber, looking side to side and up into a bright blue fringed by pointy dark green. Lumps of blue-white snow textured the clearings, more snow quilted tree branches, weighing the saplings down into arches.
Those brief bits of awareness came and went, buried in anxious thoughts. Shortly after I gained the deep snow of a semi-plowed road on the east side of the lake, I lost the remnants of the snow-shoe trail P and I had broken last week. It swerved up into the woods along a groomed trail that went to Dokka. We had followed it a bit, and then gone down to the lake and back across. Today I was exploring new territory. The going was tougher, and I could feel snow going down into my boots. A trail of straight single-lined footprints led me on down the road towards the southern end off the lake. Was it a fox? It would occasionally make forays into the woods or towards the lake, but it always came back, making a little V at the intersection. I saw little mussed-up piles of snow, like the creature had, catlike, buried its feces. Maybe a lynx?
I breathed and sweated and worried. After a good forty minutes, the side road went down to the lake, and so did the tiny footprints. I labored on, thinking, okay, just a few more bends and we should be at the trail head. Maybe I should go down to the lake instead? do I want to climb the hill to Landasvegen? Well, I'll have to at some point; and I continued slowly onward, noticing that the lake was dividing into long tendrils, and I was on the longer one. Dammit. But then, I saw the large clearing, an empty parking area. It was not plowed, I was still wading, but the road from the parking area was going the right direction. I scraped my gloved hand lightly along the roadside piles of snow, scooping up featherly untouched flakes and letting them melt on my tongue and quench my thirst.
Finally, I reached the place where plowed drive intersected trail road. A torii gate stood on my left, leading to a lake house. Was it private? No knowing, but the drive curved up to my right. I could take off my heavy snow shoes and ride that small ease in my effort up to the main road. Once there, I leaned against the heavy metal bar that closed off the side road down to the lake and the vacation homes. The bus to Gjovik drove past. I breathed, and waited for something to impel me forward. A whush-whush in my ears took my gaze into the sky, where I saw a large bird with blue-black wings lofting over the road and into the trees. It reminded me of the time I paused on the mesa trail and watched the ravens, listening to the wing-beat in the huge silence.
It was enough. I turned left and began the last leg. Despite the rolling hills, my lungs were fine. I was going to make it. I mentally greeted landmarks, calculating time and distance. I thought about cold well water and roasted potatoes for my late lunch. And then, consciously, I thought,
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk.
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk
I don't need to breathe, I don't need to walk
The Buddha is the breather, the Buddha is the walker
I enjoy the breathing, I enjoy the walking
There is only breathing, there is only walking
There is no breather, there is no walker.
As I got into the rhythm of wading through the snow and the chanting began to fit my rhythm, the sense filtered through to me.
And then I started worrying about cold toes and chilling sweat and the distance I had gone and the distance I still had to go. I can be like that. :)
I sent that to a friend, who replied via Thoreau and his essay on sauntering. While Rebecca Solnit remains my go-to writer about walking, Thoreau's ideas really spoke to the way my brain becomes unfocused, disconnecting from the Now. As he said, thoughts often move into the plans and anxieties that occupied me before I began the mindful activity, whether it be meditation, music, or walking. In the past several years, my thoughts swirled around physical and emotional health: was I doing what I needed to be doing? Now, I still think about that, but from a more existential point of view. Or, as my dowsing friend asks her pendulum crystal, Is it for my higher good that I embark upon this activity or thought?
But, on my most recent walk, I did not think about work and productivity. It wasn't that sort of distraction that took me away from my saunter with the Buddha. I wasn't worried about the material, and I wasn't really worried about the existential. I knew that my physical body needed to be outside, pulling the crackling air into my lungs, feeling the sweat cooling as I walked through the shade, pausing in the sun to slow my laboring lungs. There was no question about material things, other than the lack of a neck gaiter and the concerns about socks (I'm not wearing the wool ones, what was I thinking?!) and the gloves (stop taking them off for pictures, the fingers aren't warming up afterwards.)
There were, however, questions about my choices. Should I have turned north and walked to Landasbygda and the little store? Was that a shorter distance? Was it an easier trail? Should I have turned down to the lake, recrossed it on new snow, and walked back along the eastern edge? How much further was the plowed road? Did it go back up and east to Landasvegen, or did it turn west towards Hwy 33 and Dokka? Were my toes going to become frostbitten? My torso seemed icy, was it okay? Could I eat some snow, or was it contaminated by invisible microbes? Because I tend to explore with minimal preparation, I had no water and I hadn't checked distances, and now I was worrying. It's difficult to focus on the Buddha when you are worrying about stamina and the elements.
Yet, there were moments of clarity. I'd stopped the chant (it got me across the sparkling white lake), but I was still aware of being out in the sunny Norwegian landscape, slowly scissoring my legs in the snowshoe rock, part wade, part clamber, looking side to side and up into a bright blue fringed by pointy dark green. Lumps of blue-white snow textured the clearings, more snow quilted tree branches, weighing the saplings down into arches.
Those brief bits of awareness came and went, buried in anxious thoughts. Shortly after I gained the deep snow of a semi-plowed road on the east side of the lake, I lost the remnants of the snow-shoe trail P and I had broken last week. It swerved up into the woods along a groomed trail that went to Dokka. We had followed it a bit, and then gone down to the lake and back across. Today I was exploring new territory. The going was tougher, and I could feel snow going down into my boots. A trail of straight single-lined footprints led me on down the road towards the southern end off the lake. Was it a fox? It would occasionally make forays into the woods or towards the lake, but it always came back, making a little V at the intersection. I saw little mussed-up piles of snow, like the creature had, catlike, buried its feces. Maybe a lynx?
I breathed and sweated and worried. After a good forty minutes, the side road went down to the lake, and so did the tiny footprints. I labored on, thinking, okay, just a few more bends and we should be at the trail head. Maybe I should go down to the lake instead? do I want to climb the hill to Landasvegen? Well, I'll have to at some point; and I continued slowly onward, noticing that the lake was dividing into long tendrils, and I was on the longer one. Dammit. But then, I saw the large clearing, an empty parking area. It was not plowed, I was still wading, but the road from the parking area was going the right direction. I scraped my gloved hand lightly along the roadside piles of snow, scooping up featherly untouched flakes and letting them melt on my tongue and quench my thirst.
Finally, I reached the place where plowed drive intersected trail road. A torii gate stood on my left, leading to a lake house. Was it private? No knowing, but the drive curved up to my right. I could take off my heavy snow shoes and ride that small ease in my effort up to the main road. Once there, I leaned against the heavy metal bar that closed off the side road down to the lake and the vacation homes. The bus to Gjovik drove past. I breathed, and waited for something to impel me forward. A whush-whush in my ears took my gaze into the sky, where I saw a large bird with blue-black wings lofting over the road and into the trees. It reminded me of the time I paused on the mesa trail and watched the ravens, listening to the wing-beat in the huge silence.
It was enough. I turned left and began the last leg. Despite the rolling hills, my lungs were fine. I was going to make it. I mentally greeted landmarks, calculating time and distance. I thought about cold well water and roasted potatoes for my late lunch. And then, consciously, I thought,
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Ice sculptures
I was overwhelmed by nature's ice sculptures. I want to print them up and post them all over the walls. I want to become a glass blower and recreate them in gleaming silica. But for the time being, all I can do is look at them on the computer. These were mostly taken from one frozen rivulet flowing down cliff wall and through iron hand holds. A few come from just down the Galdane-Seltun ancient road, and some a fall near the ferry.
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