Controlled Spontaneity

When this old world is getting me down and people are just too much to deal with, I go for a walk along the path in Brunswick Forest--the path that surrounds the lake. That's what I did this morning. It's what I do every morning if it isn't pouring.

It's quiet and peaceful there. Azaleas and forsythia are blooming in the open spaces underneath the trees. Geese and ducks are guarding their nesting places in the shallows along the shores. Time slows down there and I can easily find a moment to hide in--a moment outside of time. The moment that Einstein missed in his equations.

The voices of crows, visions of egrets in flight, the warmth of morning sunshine on my skin, these and more fill my senses, heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing.

I learned in the zendo at the Zen Center in West Houston that any action coming out of a mindful state of consciousness was governed by controlled spontaneity. Like poetry, jazz, or kung fu, it's not something that you plan and rehearse; it's simply something you do.

Wynton Marsalis said that in jazz music, every moment is in crisis and you must bring all you have to bear on that crisis in the moment. Just like the poet, martial artist, and musician, there is no past or future, everything is right there in that moment. Life happens right now!

I was there in that moment as I walked the mindful path. But unlike the accomplished musician, my mood disorder sometimes allows bits of the other to slip into the moment. For me, it was noise from a nearby construction site, the whine of gasoline-powered leaf blowers, and the roar of 18-wheelers on the highway. Not a little anxiety was pressed down into my chest and ignored in my futile attempt to remain mindful.

When I crossed the street in the middle of the pedestrian walkway, the guy in the loud sports car approached me, in the middle of the walkway, at an uncomfortably high speed. 

"Off with his head!" screamed Amy from the emotion-control center of my brain. But I had the benefit of a mindful meditative walk on my side and I remained calm. 

Just like the poet, the martial artist, and the jazz musician, everything was in that moment. My action, resulting from the Zen state of mind, was one of controlled spontaneity. Fierce qigong! The finger happens!

It may seem a small matter to you; hardly worth writing a blog post about. But to me, it's a big deal and important for me to document it. Each time I read this post (and I do re-read them often) I'll be reminded that sometimes I am able to stay in control--sort of. I wonder what would have happened if the guy in the sports car had stopped.

But he didn't, did he? And that makes all the difference.

Defining Moments

"Ms. Wonder", I said. "Have you ever gotten your knickers in a wad?"

And I'll bet you can guess why I asked the question. It's because, as you are certainly aware by now, that she seems to never be rattled by any circumstance. Concerned, might be the word to describe her most excited reaction. Slightly worried on rare occasions, but never, never does she jump the rails.

She didn't answer right away but seemed to be searching the data banks for salient memories. 

"I suppose I did when I was a small girl", she said.

"Did you wear knickers when you were small?" I said.

"You're silly," she said. "You didn't literally mean knickers when you asked the question and you know it," she said. "I do remember being upset that I never got anything to go in my cereal other than bananas. That's why I never eat them today. I prefer peaches and blueberries."

"I wore knickers as a child," I said.

"When you were a baby you mean? she said.

"I also wore short pants and sandals," I said.

"So?" she said.

"I didn't like them," I said, and when I say I didn't like them, I mean that I hated them."

"Why?" she said.

"Because big boys didn't wear shorts. Shorts were for girls, was my opinion."

"Why didn't you like sandals?"

"Because pebbles got in them, underneath the arch of my foot, and that hurt. Added to the physical pain was the embarrassment of sitting down and inserting a finger between foot and sandal to extricate the pebble. The word is extricate, isn't it.

"The word is extricate," she said, "but I wonder why you use it. Why not withdraw, free, clear, wriggle out? But never mind that now. Why was it embarrassing to remove the pebble?"

"Because it drew attention to the shorts and knobby knees," I said.

"Yes, well I feel your pain but if that's the biggest problem you had, then life in Shady Grove must have been pretty gentle on the mind," she said.

"Ah," I said, "you may think so but you haven't heard about the socks that didn't fit properly. And if that doesn't change your mind about my childhood, then wait until I tell you about being forced to eat pine needles on the school playground."

"I've heard that one," she said. "And it's disgusting. Any why is it called a monkey's paw anyway?"

The last remark got past me. I assume it was meant to be a diversionary tactic and so decided to give it a miss. I include it here only because it may have some meaning for you. If you recognize it, please leave a comment below and clue me in.

I forged ahead with the theme, the nucleus, the heart of the matter as I saw it. 

"That pine needle moment was the single most defining moment in my young life," I said.

"Fierce Qigong," she said.

"Rem acu tetigisti," I said.

"Yes," she said, "a pine needle."

Blinded By The Light

The morning was about average as mornings go on the Carolina coast. Skies were blue and clouds were something that you've heard from me hundreds of times. But driving down Grandiflora, there was no indication of just how big the day was going to be.

Apparently, an offshore ocean breeze, the one I call Queenie, had taken her eye off her youngsters for just a moment--that's all it takes--and a couple of juveniles were now running around Waterford teasing the residents with thoughts of tropical climes.

It was a morning that promised a modicum of tranquility and dreamy something-or-other. Then I turned left off Grandiflora and onto Waterford Way. As Wynd Horse veered to the east, Bam! Pow! Blinded by the light!

There he was, just above the trees, at just about the right spot for a window, if the sky had windows. The young sun was hot-dogging in the Carolina blue sky. Shamelessly brilliant is the way I'd describe it.

The whole spectacle reminded me of that line from the King James edition where God told Moses to look away when he passed by because mere mortals are incapable of absorbing his full glory--not even a reasonable facsimile.

I had to shield my eyes and look to the shoulder of the road as I drove to Brunswick Forest and when I passed the welcome sign, I saw that the mockingbird, instead of singing the usual welcoming song, was taking refuge in the shade instead.

I'm certain the spectacle was intended to impress his mother. I mean the sun's mother. I'm speaking of the sun's mother, of course, not the bird's. It's a common character flaw among young suns or so I'm told. And I'm sure that all this unbounded glory made the sea very proud indeed because it was she who gave birth to this monarch of the heavens. 

I know it's hard to believe unless you have witnessed the sun rising from the sea, that water could give birth to fire but that's only a fraction of the weirdness of quantum reality.

"Just look at my boy," I imagined the sea to her sister, Queenie, the wind. "He's so strong."

"Yes, he's something alright," said the wind, "but he's not so strong as I."

"What do you mean!" demanded the sea, "He's stronger than you by a long shot."

Again, this is the conversation that I'm sure they must have engaged in that morning. I offer only the basics of their remarks; I can't do the dialect.

"Want to bet?" said the wind, and just like that, they were off on that old argument again. 

It was enough to make me consider going back to bed but it was an idle thought and quickly passed for there is much to be done and I am the only one with the perfect combination and experience and a randomly ordered limbic system to make it happen.

Gazing once more to the east, the skies were blue as blue and the towering white clouds were gold-tinted by the alluring golden light. I stared into that seemingly perfect place and contemplated the impossible distance. My heart began to steam with the desire to be there.

I know this may all sound questionable to you but it's something I often do; homesick for the first world probably.

And so, life being what it is, I paid my respects to the morning, made a short visit to my rock, thanked the mockingbird for her appearance, and then rolled up my sleeves and got busy following the dictum of someone-or-other from my childhood: So let it be written, so let it be done.

Nothing But Blue Skies

The problem...

'Nothing but blue skies do I see', go the words to the song and it’s blue skies that I look for to keep my emotions manageable.

The image I have in mind when I think of blue skies is of the American West and those vast blue skies. I feel happy, joyous, and free when I'm out west and my spirit soars up into that vast blue dome of heaven.

On one trip to Utah, a few years ago, I found myself looking down on a small herd of bison that grazed on the plains below. A young bull, not yet mature, seemed to be proving his courage and testing his independence by grazing out beyond the fringes of the crowd. 

Every minute or so, that youngster would look back over his shoulder to make sure his family was still where he left them. That confirmed, he seemed confident and I’ll bet he felt happy with those blue skies smiling down on him. Still, I noticed that he sometimes would start visibly and swish his rump furiously as though he’d been bitten or stung.

He had help dealing with those irritating insects in the form of a little buffalo bird that was busy pecking around in the fur on his back, shoulders, head, and rump. If that was the complete story then all would have been well, but it wasn’t and it almost never is when happily ever after is involved.

Occasionally, for no reason that I could see, the little bird would become excited about something. Maybe she saw a hawk too high in the sky for me to see or maybe she saw a shadow creeping across the prairie. Whatever she saw, or thought she saw, excited the little bird to the core. She would puff out her chest, open her mouth wide, and utter a high pitched, “skee - reeeeeeeee.” 

Each time the alarm sounded, she leaned forward as though to expel all the air from her lungs. She did this with such force that she almost toppled over onto her face.

I thought this behavior quite cute and even funny, but not so the little bull. He took it big. He thought the sky was falling. 

In one swift move, he would abandon his dream of independence and race back to the protection of the herd. Minutes later, he seemed to think it safe enough to venture back out and the whole sequence of events would be repeated.

In a lot of ways, I’m like that young buffalo. I too have fears that I must face each day to live the life I want. I'm troubled by irksome little bug-a-bears that can irritate and distract like biting insects. Small as these annoyances are, I can become very irritable and build up pressure until I’m leaking at the seams and in danger of exploding.

I also have my own little buffalo bird. It’s my limbic system. Although I have all the tools I need to remain in control of my behavior even in stressful situations, I can easily ignore what’s happening around me until my amygdala, like that little buffalo bird, starts screaming, “The sky is falling! Run for your life.”

The Solution...

There are many definitions for mood disorder but the one I like best is "a change in a person's mood that interferes with everyday life for an extended period of time." 

This is my own definition. I made it up after extensive research on the difference between heavy mood swings and the bonified, certifiable, mood disorder.  

I've come to believe that we live our lives on an emotional spectrum and it isn't a matter of "normal" and "disorder" as much as it is a matter of control.

I know what to do to keep control of my behavior and regulate my mood. I truly am enough to handle anything and everything that comes my way. I have it within my power, when Princess Amy (my amygdala) begins acting up, to say, "Sweeten up, Amy. No need to get the knickers in a wad. I've got this."

My recovery from emotional seizures has been a lengthy one and I would never have gotten started in the first place without the help of people who had suffered as I had and who found ways to overcome some of their own limitations. The techniques that work for me will work for anyone willing to work them. I call them Fierce Qigong. But that's a story for a later post.

* Princess Amy

I stole Amy from Therese Borchard who writes the Beyond Blue blog. Therese calls her amygdala "Amy" and since I think of my Amy as a heartless little tyrant, much like Lewis Carroll's Red Queen, I added the title, "Princess." 

I sometimes call her by different names but no matter what I call her, I know that when I'm feeling anxious and irritable, it's all her fault.

Remember this: Life comes hard and fast. It pays to be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

Personal Mythology

"Lupe," I said, getting right down to the nub of the thing, "I'm opening the gate and stepping out onto the yellow brick road." I expected the movie references to grab her attention and I was right.

"Oh, good for you", she said. "Remember to get in touch with your personal mythology."

Her remarks captured my attention but the meaning got right by me. If you want to get the kind of results that will bring home the goods, you must take the Buddhist approach in my opinion. No time for mythology, personal or otherwise.

"What are you talking about, you little geezer," I said. "What's mythology got to do with it?"

"Don't you remember when we talked about how everyone is the hero of their own life story? You should pay better attention," she said. "Myths exist because stories are the way humans understand life. You, for instance, in opening the gate and starting your journey are like one of the knights of the Round Table beginning a grail quest. You're looking for your personal holy grail."

"Excuse me," I said, not a little miffed at the suggestion that I was playing make-believe. "I'm not talking about a fairy tale. This is real life that I'm concerned with--my life." 

Without waiting for her response, I said, "I'll be in touch later." With that said, I left her presence and wandered off looking for a more sympathetic ear.

Wandering brought me into Ms. Wonder's office. I don't know what she actually does there but I imagine it to be the place where she researches universal philosophical ideas. She seems to know everything. I suppose you could say that she plans her wonders there.

"Whoa," she said. "You look like you've lost your best friend."

"Who?" I said.

"If you mean which friend you lost, I haven't the slightest. It's just an expression."

"I just left Lupe," I said, ignoring the tangent expression she'd introduced, "and you'll never guess what she said about my yellow brick road journey."

"Let me guess," she said. "She probably brought up the mythology of the individual."

"How did you know that?" I asked. "And it's personal mythology."

"Oh, that's easy," she said. "Lupe relates everything to personal mythology. It's her thing."

"Why didn't I know that?"

"That's easy too--you don't pay attention."

There it was again--another reference to my attention deficit--and I didn't like it. But it's not germane to the subject at hand and with not a little effort I let it go.

"I wonder how she came up with such a loopy idea?", I said.

"Probably because it is in every sense a truly Lupe idea."

"At any other time I'd laugh, but my plan to find meaning in my life is serious business. It is for me. Sometimes. But it seems no one else feels the same."

"Then everything is working out perfectly," she said. "Lupe developed her ideas of personal mythology, or the mythology of the individual, as the result of looking for meaning in her childhood past life memories."

"Lupe has past life memories?"

"Wow, you don't pay attention, do you?"

I bit my tongue if you understand the expression.

"You should ask her about it," she said. "Do it now is my suggestion. I'm sure it'll help with your stroll down the yellow brick road."

I gave her a look and I meant it to sting.

"Trust me," she said.

Back in the presence of the little shrimp, I asked her to tell me about her childhood experiences with reincarnation or whatever.

"You really came to hear about your personal mythology, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, to be honest, I am curious to hear what you have to say, but only if it has a bearing on my quest for Emerald City."

"All you need to know, at least for now," she said, "is that when King Arthur's knights began a grail quest, they were told that after entering the Enchanted Forest, they should avoid the temptation to follow any paths they might find."

"Seems silly to me," I said. "Why not take advantage of someone else's work? Standing on the shoulders of those who came before so to speak."

"Whenever a knight of the Grail tried to follow a path made by someone else," she said, "they became lost. Any path you find is made by and for someone else. Each of us has to find our own way--make our own path. Nobody can give you a mythology. The images that mean something to you, come to you in your dreams or in your actions. But you'll not understand them when they come to you. Only later when you can put them into context will their meaning and importance become clear."

"These are deep waters, Lupe."

I paused, floating in those deep waters, and Lupe remained silent allowing me uninterrupted time to get my bearings.

"So what you're saying is that I have to find my own personal path."

"What I'm saying is that you have to make your path, not find it," she said. 

I didn't like it. "Disappointing," I said.

""True since the beginning of time," she said.