Easy Does It

My preoccupation with grace continues. I think about it all the time, wherever I go, whatever I do and with whomever I may be. I try to perform all my actions gracefully, and not just activities that require graceful movement for optimum effectiveness, such as yoga, dancing, or walking. I make a point of doing even nothing gracefully. My body likes it. I tend to do less damage to myself when I just sit or stand with as much ease and grace as possible. So I figure grace must be good for me.
The biggest challenge in practising a life of grace has been in my relationships. I try to relate to everyone - family, friends, colleagues and strangers as graciously as I can. Most of the time this isn't an issue for me. If things are going well and people are being polite and respectful, I don't have to stop and think about my reactions to every little thing that transpires. I just go with the flow. And going with the flow tends to be graceful. You know - no struggling or resisting - just free and easy movement.
However, ever since I instituted this new grace-wherever-I-can policy, I've noticed a distinct increase in my vulnerability to slights and hurts from less-than-gracious people. I've admitted before in this forum that I'm a bit of a drama queen, and although I've curtailed my penchant for real-life drama considerably over the years, I still tend to "put myself out there" when it comes to expressing myself, especially when I'm in a good mood. I could be discussing something as banal as the weather, but if I'm feeling good and want to express an opinion on it, I might momentarily "act it out." Nothing over the top or anything, just a bit of slightly eccentric, idiosyncratic behaviour. Sometimes I like being silly. It's harmless fun that amuses me, and usually amuses other people, too. But that's just the sort of thing that has always caused me trouble with people who misinterpret and mistrust my behaviour, even though they may be amused by it. They may laugh, but not necessarily with me.
The easiest way for me to practice graceful living is to strip away extraneous words and actions. Keep it simple. Do everything with as much ease as possible. My new habits have caused me to talk less and listen more. Nothing wrong with that. But there are still occasions when someone has said something that is as thoughtless as it is unnecessary. That's when my recently adopted practice is really put to the test. So I stop, breathe deeply, and ask myself what is the most gracious way to respond to this situation? By taking the time to decide how I'll respond, I've already done the graceful thing. Once the moment has passed I feel slightly taller, and a whole lot wiser. And to think it requires so little effort. Sometimes less really is more.
Now that there's less of me - less show and tell, less in-your-face, less crap to dig through to grasp my meaning - I'm a lot more vulnerable than I used to be. But vulnerability can be a powerful defense. Only the rudest, most angry and unhappy people feel empowered by attacking the ostensibly weak and defenseless. A true warrior gets no satisfaction from an unworthy opponent who doesn't offer any real threat or challenge. (I'm finally beginning to appreciate the warrior poses in yoga. It's about being a spiritual warrior; fighting the good fight and taking aim against my inner demons.) Being vulnerable doesn't necessarily mean leaving yourself open to attack. It's about revealing your true self, which is understandably something we're not always willing to do. The psychologist and author David Richo says that our deepest wounds can be openings to the best and most beautiful part of ourselves.
My good friend Calvin, who is one of the most gracious people I know, once said to me "It doesn't matter what happens, my dear, just as long as you look good." Taken out of context, those words seem shallow and superficial, but I know exactly what Calvin meant. We can't always control what happens to us. The only thing we can control is how we react. We choose our response.
It's taken me a lot of mistakes and bad choices to realize that when misfortune or hardship strikes, I still have the option of behaving with grace and dignity. Okay, I admit that I've never experienced the worst indignities that extreme cruelty and oppression can create. Extreme circumstances often call for extreme measures. Yet Mahatma Gandhi chose extreme actions time and again - hunger strikes, passive resistance to violence - and still maintained his integrity, as well as the dignity of an entire nation.
I'm finally learning how to use a former weakness as a strength. It requires absolutely no compromise on my part. In fact, it's made me more honest and open. Sure, it can be scary, and leave me even more exposed to ridicule, but I've stopped making things worse by reacting badly. Even if I end up with egg on my face, I remove it as gracefully as possible.
- G. P.

Good Gracious Me

My new year's resolution is to say grace before every meal. By that I don't mean bowing my head and muttering the words aloud before I eat. If I'm in public and it would be inappropriate to draw attention to myself in the aforementioned manner, I'll simply sit still for a few moments and say grace to myself. That's what I've been doing for almost a year now, whenever I remember, which is about twice a week or so. Now that I've made it my new year's resolution, maybe I'll remember to do it every time.
I've mentioned before that I try to say grace before meals, but it was meant as a means to slow down my voracious eating habits - too much too fast and all that.
When I stop to give thanks for a meal, it does, indeed, slow me down. But now I'm upping the ante. I'm hoping that by saying grace, I'll be invoking it; allowing it to enter my life. All this because I've recently become obsessed with grace - the state of grace, living in grace, to be in good graces, or to be grace itself.
I'm not really sure what's caused this recent preoccupation of mine, but I know grace is a good thing to have and I want my share of it. However, I also know that it's a gift, usually associated with something that's divinely bestowed. People who are considered to be full of grace are worthy of it, because it's a quality that is invariably accompanied by, or synonymous to, kindness, generosity, goodwill and mercy. A genuinely kind and generous person is usually someone others like to hang around. One feels graced by their very presence.
Okay. I know. It's completely unreasonable to hope for the gift of grace without the concomitant virtues. Although I try to be courteous and thoughtful as much as possible, I also frequently slip up. I'm only human. But there are a couple of things I can do - things over which I have complete control, and don't need the disposition of a saint to master. One of them is saying grace before every meal. As long as I offer sincere gratitude for being able to share in Pachamama's bounty, it stands to reason that I will be inviting at least some grace into my life. At least that's my hope.
Another thing I do, and have done for many years, is walk as gracefully as I can. I've written frequently about my love of walking. I walk a lot, and I do it mindfully. I figure since I'm walking anyway, I might as well do it as beautifully as I can. For years now, whenever I walk, I pay attention to my stride, my posture, and my breathing. This deliberate, conscious way of walking has become second nature to me. It's an easy, accessible form of exercise and meditation. I like to think that when I walk with as much grace and ease as I can muster, then surely I endow myself with some sort of spiritual gift, because it's not just a physical experience. Whenever I engage in a conscious, contemplative stroll through the woods, my spirits are lifted, and I feel truly graced with the gifts of good health and peace of mind.
So maybe one day I'll live in a state of grace. But as it stands now, that's highly unlikely, because grace also denotes humility. Hoping to be rewarded with grace just for appreciating good eating and walking - something I should be doing anyway - is not what a genuinely humble, grateful person does. Mind you, that's still not going to stop me from saying grace, or walking with as much grace as possible, and secretly feeling oh-so-proud of myself when I do.
- G.P.

Home is Everywhere

It's good to be home, and I don't just mean where I live, but right here on my little web. I returned two weeks ago from 18 days in Peru, the most mystical land in the world. Okay, I haven't been in every land in the world, but when the time comes for me to go abroad again, wherever I go will have to be pretty effing magical to top my experience in Peru. I have many stories from my brief, intense time there, and some of them will no doubt end up on this little web of mine, while others I've already told to a few friends, and there are at least a couple that will stay safely stored in my heart and soul. They are all a part of me now, and I've learned a little more about myself and this earth to which I belong.
By now regular readers of this space will know of my obsession with signs and synchronicities - messages from the Universe. I tend to measure the magical content of any experience by the number of synchronicities that occur, and my time in Peru was one big, fat billboard of a message, scribbled from top to bottom and side to side with sign after sign, each one more potent and meaningful than the last.
Although I did my best not to expect anything, I still wanted and hoped for magic. I was not disappointed. Magic was everywhere, mostly disguised as signs and portents, big and small, light and dark. The first most memorable "coincidence" was on my way to the airport. I was sitting at the back of a city bus that drives non-stop to the airport, when I noticed an abandoned book on an empty seat at the front. Although the book was lying face down, I recognized it right away, because I work in a bookstore and it's a long-time best-seller. It was The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. I'd read some of it over 20 years ago, but I wasn't able to finish it because I thought it was New Age piffle, and rather poorly written to boot. The last laugh's on me, of course, because that book has made Mr. Redfield a very wealthy and successful writer. All the more power to him. Nonetheless, I didn't give the book much more thought for many years, except to notice, rather ruefully, that it was a perennial best-seller.
Flash forward many years to yours truly sitting on an airport-bound bus and spotting the book on an empty seat, just waiting to be claimed by the right person. Well, wouldn't you know, that person was me. I recalled quite clearly that the main premise of the book was about the importance of paying attention to signs and synchronicities. It's a great premise, but it obviously wasn't enough to hold my attention all those years ago.
I confess to being a little bit of a book-snob, and wondered if I should give the book another try, despite less-than-stellar writing. I vaguely remembered that the story took place somewhere in South America, maybe even Peru. So I told myself to walk over and find out just where the story happens, and if it's Peru, then it's an obvious sign this book is meant for you, so pick it up and read it, for Goddess' sake. Some of you readers probably know what comes next, because yes, the story is set in Peru.
So began my own Peruvian journey, filled with meaningful coincidence and happenstance. I read the entire book on the flight to Lima, and still didn't glean much more than I did the first time, except to note the significant way I came upon it. But the message was clear - pay attention. And pay attention I did.
Making note of details in an exotic land isn't hard. After all, that's part of the reason people travel, to see and experience new things. Peru kept me vigilant and on my toes all the time. There was an abundance of strange and wondrous landscape, flora, and fauna. I probably wasted precious minutes trying to take a well-composed photograph when I should have been just enjoying the view. After all, I can google Machu Picchu anytime and get far better pictures. So when I finally learned to slow down, breathe, and relax about taking everything in, there was room for magic.
***
Peru is a land of butterflies and hummingbirds. The blue morpho, probably one of the most photographed, painted, depicted and marketed of all butterfly species, is native to the Amazon basin. Every time I saw one I stopped breathing for a moment, lest the spell it cast be broken. I also saw at least a dozen glass-wing butterflies fluttering in dense foliage beneath a rainforest cascade. I'd anticipated seeing a few blue morphoes, but I'd completely forgotten about the glass-wings, which I'd first read about only a few years ago. Their thinly-outlined, transparent wings are truly otherworldly, and render them virtually invisible to predators. It's no wonder that butterflies are fabled to be fairies in disguise. The same goes for hummingbirds. And oh my Pachamama were there hummingbirds! Hummingbirds are a very special totem for me, and will always remind me of my mother. (Yet another story for another time.) So in a land where I reconnected with Mother Earth (Pachamama to the native Peruvians), the plethora of hummingbirds that darted all around me kept me thinking of my mother specifically, and all mothers in general, and the biggest mother of all, Earth herself.
I was very near the end of my stay in Peru when I spotted what was to be the last hummingbird I would see there. (Sorry, I can't tell you what kind, there's a wide variety of hummingbirds in Peru.) Anyway, I was enjoying the dance the little bird was doing around a flower, and musing on the fact that I'd been graced with so many visits in Peru from two of my favourite creatures, when I suddenly realized that these two significant totems were also tattooed on my body! There are many animals and insects that have meaning for me, but the two that visited me the most in Peru are not-so-coincidently my tattoos. I have a butterfly tattooed on my arm, as well as a hummingbird on my ankle, and I got them long before I ever knew that I'd be going to Peru.
I've always known that we write our own stories as we live out our lives. Every choice we make, everything we say or do is part of our narrative. And like any story, there's usually some foreshadowing somewhere. Of course the images I permanently etched into my skin are meaningful to me, and are stories unto themselves, but my trip to Peru has shown just how deep, prescient, and multi-layered in meaning those symbols really are. (That's why I marvel at how some people deliberately put unpleasant, negative images on their bodies. Don't they realize the kind of karma they're attracting?)
Not all messages were joyous, however. On my first full day in the Sacred Valley of the Andes, I stumbled upon a dead kitten at the gate to Apu Lodge, the hostel where I was staying in Ollantaytambo. (Apu is the Quechua word for spirit or god, and many of the mountains are homes to gods and spirits.) I had gone on a short walk in town, and when I returned barely thirty minutes later, I found the kitten sprawled out on the cobblestones, just feet from the gate. She was still warm to the touch. I didn't want to leave her there, so I picked up her inert body and brought her into the garden. She was so tiny she fit into the palm of my hand.
I informed the owner and staff of my discovery, weeping all the while. They were most understanding, and promised to give her a proper burial. A lovely young woman from England, who worked at the lodge, performed a native smudging ceremony on me, cleansing my soul and thanking the spirit of the kitten for sacrificing herself so that I could learn and grow. And indeed, my time in Peru turned out to be powerful and life-altering - a symbolic death and rebirth.
After finding the lifeless kitten, my journey was filled with many butterflies and hummingbirds, totems that signify transformation and resurrection respectively. (In the high Andes of South America the hummingbird is taken to be a symbol of resurrection, because it goes into a state of suspended animation on cold nights - a small death of sorts - but comes back to life again with the warmth of the morning sun.)
So there it is. One small, but deeply significant part of my journey in Peru. It's not the sort of story I can tell everyone, or publish as travel writing, because what I'm describing is really my inner journey, and not about where I went or what I did. Materialists and prosaic, type A personalities don't understand, but they don't spend time here, where I write freely about the things that matter to me. This is my place to spin and weave tales of minor miracles and magic.
Yes. It really is good to be home.
- G. P.

Amor Vincit Omnia

My anger is gone. Until six days ago, I had been very angry for several weeks, and what's worse, I didn't know why. Despite my good health, recent good fortune, and a dream coming true, I was carrying a load of resentment that no amount of yoga, meditation, and visualization could expunge. But now it's gone. It disappeared quite spontaneously at a funeral for the husband of my friend, Kathryn.
Although I'd never met Andy, I went to his memorial service out of respect for Kathryn. I hadn't seen Kathryn in a long while, but I'll always cherish the many hours of song and laughter we shared when we sang in a women's choir together, where I first met her many years ago.
Anger was still sticking to me like a prickly burr when I arrived at the church for the funeral. At least I was able to put aside my dark feelings once I entered the church and met some former fellow choristers.
The minister and numerous friends and family spoke of Andy as a loving, deeply spiritual person. It was obvious he was deeply loved in return. The memorial service was very well attended, and whenever anyone spoke of him, the word love was used frequently. Tears flowed freely, of course, and laughter was shared, too.
He died after a long, terrible illness, but I learned at his funeral that he never complained, and if anyone had reason to complain, he most surely did. Since attending the funeral I think twice before I open my mouth to voice some petty concern.
Kathryn spoke as well. She's a gifted speaker, songstress, and writer. It was inspiring to listen to her speak so eloquently about her beloved husband's last months on this earth. I shall never forget her words as she described how Andy, as he drew nearer to death, was gradually and inexorably stripped away, until there was nothing left but love. As I listened to Kathryn speak I couldn't help feeling slightly envious. (If you've read the last two posts, you'll know about my recent anger, as well as my long-time issues with envy.) Anyway, there I was, listening to a lovely lady who's lost her soul mate; who's experienced a depth of loss I probably never will, and yet I felt envy. Hello? How could I possibly be envious of such sadness, such bereavement?
I quickly realised that it wasn't her pain I envied, but all the love she has given and received, and still does, in spite of her grievous loss. I could almost hear Andy whisper in my ear, bursting with pride for his gracious widow, "So you think you know envy, lady? Well, envy this!" And I yes, I felt envious, but it was okay. I was fine with it. The spirit of a man I'd never met showed me that feeling envy doesn't have to be full of bitterness and resentment. Not at all. It can also come out of genuine respect and admiration, and that is exactly what I felt for Kathryn.
The love all around me was palpable. It wasn't directed at me, because it wasn't about me. But it didn't matter. The love that swirled and vibrated all around me and through me was for Andy and Kathryn and their family, friends and loved ones. It filled the church and the hearts of everyone there. The effect was so tangible that I felt as if I was being massaged with love.
After the funeral I felt lighter, softer, and looser, as if I'd been to a spa or yoga class. I know I go on a lot about this stuff on my little web, but I still never cease to be wonder-struck when something happens that proves to me that the line between the physical and the metaphysical is such a fine one; that unseen things like thought and emotion have a reality on a quantum level. We know that every physical thing vibrates, but surely thought and emotion do, too, because the vibrations in that church penetrated me on a physical and emotional level. Something inside me had changed. The inexplicable anger I'd been feeling for weeks was completely gone, and hasn't returned since. A mother-load of free-flowing, freely-shared, tearful, joyous, sad and beautiful love has washed all my resentment away.
Even though I never met Andy, I now feel as if I had. The part of Andy I got to know, however briefly, isn't physical; it isn't matter. But while I was with his family and friends, I most definitely felt, on a deep and abiding level, his large and loving Spirit. And that does matter.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

oh dear

This morning I washed my shower stall. And then I had a long, hot, soapy shower myself. So what? you may ask. Well, my response to that, whether you asked the question or not, is that this morning's ablutions weren't just your run-of-the-mill morning rituals. I washed away a lot of anger as I scrubbed down the walls of the shower stall with my environmentally-friendly, all-purpose, bathroom cleaner. This happy, psychological by-product wasn't just a result of working out undesirable emotions with good, old-fashioned hard work, because I really put some muscle power into it; it was my intention to wash away my anger. Even though I have a lot going for me these days, I found myself waking up angry because that's how I went to bed last night. So I marched into the shower and scrubbed it all away. Right now I'm writing what's left of my anger out of my system. And I do, indeed, feel better.
Skeptics may say that it was the exercise and hot water that drained my negativity, and had nothing to do with what I was thinking. Sure, those things are very effective for soothing the savage breast, and I used them to good effect, but I made them even more effective by imagining my anger going down the drain with the hot, soapy water. One of my gifts is a vivid imagination, and I used it this morning as I watched the angry scum - or was it scummy anger? - dissolve with each hard scrub of the brush. I killed my angry thoughts with imagination. It was one kind of thought overpowering another.

This blurb isn't over. I'll finish it later. I could, of course, put it in my draft folder, but it's my little web and I'll publish an unfinished blurb if I want to...

Okay. It's several days later, and I'm back to finish what I started. So where was I?
I was ruminating on the power of thought, the power of imagination. My imagination has sometimes saved my life. Although that's not literally true, (but it might be, how would I know for sure?) it's certainly helped me through some pretty rough times. So if I have to imagine my anger going down the drain in order to purge myself, then that's what I'll do. That's how actors make a living, and I'm an actor. That very same use of the imagination also applies to life off-stage as well. The same tools that help me create a flesh and blood character on stage can be used to create who I am in real life, too.
Anyway, I was pretty much out of steam for this particular little blurb when I logged back on just now. But I wanted to finish it, so I came back to it. I've observed that the way I do one thing is pretty much the way I do everything, not necessarily with the degree of skill, but with the application of commitment and focus. So as lame as this ending is, I'm stopping now.
See you soon.
- G.P.

Green-Eyed Monster

Feeling envious really sucks. Take my word for it, because it's an emotion with which I'm quite familiar, at least until recently in my life. I've had wonderful, enviable experiences of late, so my acquaintance with that dreadful feeling has lessened considerably. In fact, when I tell people of my upcoming dream-come-true adventure, I hear "I'm so jealous," or "I envy you," a lot. As soon as someone says that, especially if they're a good friend, I feel bad for having shared my good news, because I really don't want someone I care for to feel that way.
I've been consumed with longing and yearning for much of my adult life. Constant, long-time yearning can turn into envy and bitterness, which are poison to the soul. I'm sure I've said "I envy you" before, but I can't recall when. I've felt envy so often and so deeply that I just won't say so aloud to the recipient of those feelings. I keep such dark, bitter thoughts to myself. I know that when my friends say those things to me, they don't taste the bitter bile of jealousy as I do, and that it's just their way of saying how lucky I am. I also know that they are genuinely happy for me. Still, due to my experience with that unhealthy emotion, I don't want them to feel that way on my account.
I confess, however, that on one occasion when I told a certain someone my good news, I was secretly hoping to illicit some jealousy on their part. Needless to say, this person isn't really a friend, just someone I'm forced to see more often than I'd like. On another occasion I relayed the news more as if I were boasting, rather than bursting, with happy news. I immediately felt remorse, because I know what's it's like to be on the receiving end of news delivered in an insensitive, oh-so-full-of-yourself manner.
I hope my forthcoming adventure heals some of these issues for me, and makes me a better person. Isn't that why we like to go to different places and experience different things? I'm sure for many people it is.
But what if circumstances prevent you from spreading your wings? I've written many blurbs about how a truly good and interesting person doesn't need to explore the world to broaden their mind. We were given minds so that we can expand them just sitting quietly by ourselves, or walking mindfully in a crowd. I keep forgetting that a lot of the people I've envied for where they've been or what they've done aren't particularly interesting or enlightened, just full of themselves. Indeed, people I truly respect and admire seldom make me envious. They inspire me instead, or even fill me with awe. These far preferable reactions uplift and motivate me; they don't bring me down.
Envy comes out of feeling a lack of something. That lack or need is nobody's fault but by own. I shouldn't have to fill that need by going somewhere outside of myself, especially if I'm unable to do so. All I need to improve myself is myself. If I'm healthy and my mind is in tact I've got all I need to make myself a better person. But now I have the opportunity for self-improvement by experiencing something grand. Lucky me. I realize that's a fortunate shortcut to self-fulfillment, and for that I'm truly grateful. It's a lot harder to be the envy-free person I want to be without all the things that make me envious. But for now, my cup is more than half-full, and I appreciate that. But even when I see my cup as half-empty, I've found that genuine gratitude takes some of the sting out of being bitter.
I'm only envious when I compare myself to others. So maybe I should stop doing that. After all, everyone's going to die one day, right? I find that rather comforting. And even if I found out there was some super-human out there who will never die, I wouldn't be envious in the least. I like that we're all a part of the cycle of birth and death on this fabulous, cyclical planet of ours. So next time time I'm feeling envious, I'll just remind myself that one day I'm going to die, just like the person I envy.
Death is the great leveller. It's something we all share, sooner or later. Knowledge of our inevitable death puts things into perspective, and that curtails odious, self-destructive comparison to others. It's strange how my current obsession with death, which I've alluded to in recent blurbs, has supplanted the feelings of envy I've harboured for many years. It's also strange that I feel much more stable preoccupied with death than when I was living with the wobblies and making myself sick with envy.
No doubt it's my age, the time of year, and recent turn of fortune that has killed envy and turned my thoughts to a seemingly darker mode. It's like the Death card in the tarot. When it turns up in a reading, it rarely signifies physical death. Death XIII in the tarot tells of the passing of an old way of life, a clearing out of the past, and the birth, albeit sometimes painful, of the fresh and new. The tarot Death card is about rebirth, and purging the unwanted and unnecessary.
Well, I've no need or desire for envy. So for now, at least, good riddance to bad rubbish.
So mote it be.
- G. P.

A Thousand Words

The picture here is not a pretty one. It's a photograph of the house where I used to live over 6 years ago. I didn't own the house; I rented the flat on the 2nd floor, but I called it home for 24 years. The big, gaping hole on the upper level used to be the living room. The burnt out window to the right is where my bedroom used to be.
My home of almost a quarter of a century burnt down this past June, after being abandoned and boarded up for over 6 years. I was evicted, along with the other tenants in the house, and everyone else in the five century homes on the same side of the street. Most of the tenants on that side of the street were various artists and other low-income persons. After we were evicted by the landlord/developers - nice development, eh? - they boarded up all the houses and left them derelict for squatters to regularly invade and occupy. The squatters would be booted out on a regular basis, the doors were boarded up again, and then the desperate folk looking for shelter would come back, knock down the doors and start the whole cycle over again. It went on like this until somebody, looking to warm themselves one chilly night, lit a fire in my former home and shut it down for good.
I tell this sorry little story because it's a perfect metaphor for my life right now; at least it was at the time of the fire. There have been profound changes in my life this past year, most of them good, or at least resulting in something good. When I was evicted from my home, it was a death of sorts - a death of a way of life I had known for half my life at the time. There was sadness and struggle, and a lot of purging. I rid myself of more than half of what I'd accumulated in all those years living there, and have been purging a little all the time ever since. But along with this highly significant "death" in my life, there was also renewal.
Fast forward more than 6 years to the present, when my life and circumstances have changed again, and the house I was so unceremoniously kicked out of burns down. I found out about what had happened to my house upon my return from my brief and joyous sojourn abroad. And of course I don't think it's simply a random event in my life that my old digs should burn down when and how they did. In the years following my eviction, I sometimes returned to see how my long-time, former home was doing. It was falling apart rapidly, of course, and signs of the cyclical coming and going of squatters was clearly evident. I suppose that's not so surprising; the abandoned houses were practically calling out to homeless people to come and try them out.
My former home was only one of five, large, once-beautiful houses all abandoned and boarded up at the same time. I couldn't help noticing that the only house that was ever crashed into by squatters was mine. And no matter how many times the illegal tenants got shut out of there, they always came back to my place, even though the other homes were as accessible as mine. Go figure.
Of course I apply significance to that fact. I like to think that a certain sense of a happy home still surrounded the place more than the others. You know - good vibes. There was a certain magic to the house and its surroundings. Sometimes people even commented on it. So maybe even homeless folks looking for a good place to crash sensed it as well. I watched all this going on over the subsequent years following my eviction, moving twice in the interim and ending up in my current abode. Things didn't really get much easier and "luckier" for me (whatever that is) until this year, and then wouldn't you know, when I finally felt the struggle and yearning abate, and a brand new life begin, my former home goes up in flames. It became a symbol of my former life being over for good. I couldn't go back even if I wanted to.
I'm dwelling on this right now because of the time of year, and time of life - I have a significant birthday ending in a zero coming up. I've been pondering my upcoming birthday ever since my last birthday, and these symbolic events don't let me forget it. The Zen saying - while you are living know that you are dying - is about living your life while being aware of your own mortality. That isn't morbid. It makes a person aware of what is truly important in this life.
But I'm tired now. I'm aware that my neck and shoulders ache from sitting at the computer for too long, and that it's important for me to recognize that and stop hurting myself more, despite the pleasure I get from writing another little blurb on my little web. I'm also aware that it's mid-afternoon and the rain and clouds that have been around all day are departing, and are leaving behind a fresh, moist, not-quite-fiery-red-and-gold autumn day. I shall go walking and breathing and thence to a closing shift at the bookstore where I work.
Everything happens for a reason (well - most things - the Universe includes randomness, of course), and the messages, signs and symbols the Universe sends me do not go unnoticed. Some of those signs aren't pretty, but they're often the ones that pack the biggest punch. So I'm off to look for more signs - nice, happy signs - on what's turning out to be a lovely day. And I'll leave you with a nice, happy sign, too. Enjoy.
Blessed be.
- G. P.