Posts Tagged ‘post-traumatic flush syndrome’

ocean even in the mountains

April 22, 2009
almost an ocean. holding the ocean at bay.

almost an ocean. holding the ocean at bay.

the prelude to an overdue blog usually involves extensive apologia: call it meta-blogging, call it facetious self-flagellating, call it a modern confess-mess. nonetheless, here we are.  a gift inherent to Blogs is that they are more readily personified even than Love; this makes them the perfect material for the poet to abuse.  i commence to abuse.

truth: i’m out of practice.  my fingers are jonesing to allegro and tripping over themselves at the very same time– like ballerinas on quaaludes. (it is embarassing to spell-check quaaludes; i will not.)

when faced with the tamasic state (lethargy, heaviness, inertia), sage advice is that one must take action, however small– and (almost) any action will do.  otherwise, tamas, like gravity itself, is bound to win out; your best intentions will mold as quickly as raspberries in august’s dog days.

but what the revered sages encapsulate for us in aphorisms sometimes takes months of aberration to notice as true.  hence; inaction, like a cartoon transformer, won out for a while.  fine– give the dog a bone.  life unfolded as it does– witnessed or not– and as it will continue to do– witnessed or not.

last night after a particularly luminous yoga nidra practice (conducted, via CD, by the one and only Sree Devi Bringi!), as i lay on the floor listening to the closing prayer (asatoma sadgamaya), i had a visceral experience of the divine substratum– don’t gag, oh skeptic brooklynites of my tribe– instead, read on.

what i mean by this– and i do believe it is important to know what one means by this– is that i perceived somatically the oceanic current which is all that is. (wtf, matey? have the lilacs got your forebrain? shhhh…ride the language for a moment). within this, amidst this, i felt my body as a form (as everything manifest is form) & how in the “ocean” my form, like all forms, has been pushed to the surface, long enough to participate in the interface of elements, that conversation of particularities which we call “being alive.”  eventually, according to its rhythm, the ocean will disintegrate or break up this form, my form.  but i felt it as if it were all happening at once: creation, preservation, destruction.  and then i had to pee. it is the toilet, i say, that keeps us real.

the experience was such that i did not have to ask for (or pray for) peace because peace was inherent.  it is very difficult to harden oneself in an ocean– which is to say, to do so is not a boon but rather a very effective way to drown.  instead, to greet life, or another human being, in softness— i keep having to learn what that is, what that feels like & what that invites. there is no dryer sheet as a shortcut to that mode of relating.  it takes endeavor after endeavor, with being after being.

quaaludes, i hear, help in this endeavor.  (if you know how to spell quaalude you get an e-cookie; in which case, we should talk).

but dissolution of form is not a reason to be wishy-washy.

and what kind of early-spring email would this be if i didn’t mention the local squirrels, who could offer replicable case studies for mania?  though my move out of boulder is imminent, i cannot say that my affection for the squirrels here is increasing– the way one might develop affection for a toilet that doesn’t work reliably just because one knows one will leave it.  you know: the kind of toilet you must babysit through the flush(es) after a particularly euphoric delivery. yes, we have one like that here.  truth and fiction are best friends.  and yet, our squirrels are following their nature, animating their form, in the best way they know how: with entitlement.  up trees.  pillaging grocery bags. who knows– maybe even strapping on water-wings and taking a try at the ethereal ocean.

because violets and new dandelions are crawling outside and a deer is shoving its small face into my east-facing office window– i think it is trying to eat the reflection of the sparse grass in the pane– i will draw to a conclusion this blog-post, which, like most blog-post, like most of life itself, is really inconcludable.  if we die not necessarily knowing why we have lived, am i not justified in finishing a blog not knowing why i have blogged?

may love be tangled in all the fibers of your being.

bloggingly, oceanically yours,

s.

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