Parting the Clouds

Joy cometh in the morning, or so the psalmist tells us. But all things are relative, which I'm sure I don't need to tell you. I have no complaints about how this particular morning began. Before surrendering to the call to be up and about, I lay nestled in the peaceful bliss of a couple of cats still dreaming by my side.

"Poopsie, what's it like out?" I asked and was immediately assured that I was right to assume the sounds of water running nearby meant Ms. Wonder was enjoying a dunk in the Volga tributary running out of the tap in the salle de bain.

"Overcast and blustery," she said and I nodded. It was a useless gesture, of course, as she was in the next room.

Zen Garden at Straw Valley

No, not a bad little morning, but life doesn't loiter underneath the coverlets. It moves fast and eventually one must face the reality of gray skies and coolish breezes. 

I was on tap this morning to lead a meditation class at Straw Valley, and the class was making its last call before raising the curtain on today's performance. It was for me the work of a moment to drape myself in something loose and comfortable and then flash from east to west along the southern corridor of Durham.

Sunday morning meditation cleasses are never expected to be large and today's expectations proved correct. Straw Valley was quiet. I'd been notified by text and voicemail that about half the regular crew would be otherwise engaged. No, not a large class but still, I didn't expect to be the only one there. 

Now, as you know well, I have no sympathy for those who whine. Still, I don't want to mislead you. I hate as much as anyone the cosh behind the ear that Fate delivers when I'm not looking. Reminding myself that the most important gifts in life are Time and Place. And reasoning that I had plenty of Time in the perfect Place, I began to qigong like the dickens.

I entered the Zen garden where I began with Wuji Swimming Dragon. Under the bamboo arbor, I executed Parting the Clouds. In front of the art wall--Embracing Heaven and Earth. It was in the middle of this qigonging that a young man and woman entered the courtyard carrying laptops and coffee.

"Are you with the meditation class?" she said.

I confessed that it was true because she had caught me waving my arms around my head and it seemed futile to deny it.

"Is that 'ki gong you're doing?' she said.

"Chi gung," I said because I always like to get it right.

"We were wondering about that," said the male half of the sketch.

"Wonder no more," I said. "Join me and do what I do."

"Want to?" she said looking at him with eyes that sparkled like fireworks after a Durham Bull's game. I could tell that her smile was to him like the sun and he was her Chanticleer, ready to flap his wings and strut his stuff. 

They joined me and we worked our way around the courtyard until we came to the cabanas where another couple, friends of the first, were invited to join us. They did.

"This isn't what I expected meditation to be," said the new woman.

"Ah," I said, for the Genome is quick and I knew exactly where she was headed with this comment. "We have a few minutes left. Let's go inside and I'll introduce you to Zazen." 

Daybreak by Cathryn Jirlds

No sooner had we entered the back room of Sanderson House than I realized the room was not as empty as I'd left it. Another couple enjoying coffee and scones were surprised to see us. After a few pour parlers, they too joined us seated on the floor in front of one of the abstract photos, Daybreak, by Cathryn Jirlds.'

And so with a little acceptance and with willingness to live life on life's terms, we not only bucked up our immune systems and improved our cognitive abilities, but we also had a great Sunday morning in the Courtyard. 

Every day should be just so. Data, set a course to the Age of Aquarius. Engage!

A Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with The Enforcer, I pace the south end of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. 

I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a preview of what the day will be like for the Genome. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I enjoy greeting the people that I see out and about in the early morning. They're people with purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person again. I struggle to find purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I spend my days in Heaven's waiting room. 

Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has its own agenda. I'm expected to do something, almost anything I suppose, and that seems to be enough. More than enough really. Doing anything seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. Or rather, I may be a fool, but... oh, I don't know. Let's not get derailed by existential philosophy. 

I know most people live with the idea that life has meaning and that they have a purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch a favorite barista from Ethiopia who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes I drink in Native Grounds and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that.

Even though I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I have been chosen by the Enforcers to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--not to mention the pain in the upper back--I began doing a few qigong wudangs. Swimming Dragon, was the first, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. 

My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

Amy, of course, is that little region of gray cells... No! Sorry, you know all about Princess Amy by now.

When my attention returned to the here and now, I realized that about a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they were doing at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all knew what it was like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.

The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning, and I hope you remember that early is a relative thing. I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only someone from the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line feeling that if one cup was good then another would be even better.

"Ho!" he said in the manner of an English copper. I didn't like it. The tone was all wrong. "Swilling cocktails, eh?" he said.

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning?"

"Out on the tiles to all hours?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure of the word's meaning but it sounds good and I've heard it used under similar circumstances.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said while correcting my posture and smoothing the gig line of my shirt to show that I was above all his jibber-jabber. "And I look forward to hearing the explanation. I'm sure it will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out carousing, getting home just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood. That's what I mean, Mr. Hoitie-Toitie."

This remark got me hotted up to near incandescent. The nerve! The impertinence! Again, not sure of the definition but I'm pretty sure it's in the neighborhood of my meaning.

"It could scarcely have been later than two when I got home and I was seeing an old friend off to spend the holiday in the Catskills." And I'm sure I said it with topspin to qualify for hauteur.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish," I said, "and we don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish and I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something from the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy. That's why I'm in line."

He seemed to consider this but after a few seconds, his inward gaze looked out again and settled in the vicinity of the lower portions of my map. His expression was one generally found on someone who has just found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"What?" I said, passing a hand across my face.

"You don't wear a beard," he said in the tone of an accusation."

"I don't wear a beard and I'm happy about it. Too many beards taking up space now. I haven't seen so many beavers since the days of Edward the Confessor."

"Ho!" he said. "Real men wear beards and your face would benefit from a mustache as well."

"I wore a mustache for years when younger," I said, and it looked horrible, much like a soup stain."

"What does Ms. Wonder think of it?" he said.

"Of what? My shaving?"

"I'm sure a bit of facial hair would provide much-needed relief to someone who spends more than a few minutes in your presence."

"What does it matter what others think?" I said and I was now aware that others were listening and I felt the conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"That's good. She doesn't like it. You'll have to grow some hair. Take a few days off and get away is my advice. You'll probably look like Rasputin until the stuff grows in."

I will not stop shaving," and I'm finished with this conversation.  J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me. The barista is waiting for your order.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath, power, and balance to be ready for whatever life brings my way. Second breath to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath to recognize that there is more good than bad at this moment.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that on your chin?"

But this is where you came in I believe.