Wisdom of One
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Monday, August 27, 2012
What does not want to be whole?
“I don’t know how to let go of that,” she said moments
before her cervicals were readjusted, so palpable was her slip that the moment
froze and echoed off the walls. Many of us, do not know who we are without
being defined by the pain of our previous stories.
Several years ago, I jammed my right ankle on a lava rock, resulting in several years of compensation. Years
of limited motion, or days of paying the price after a good hike, limping in pain
as swelling from an overworked
subtalar joint and tarsals subsided, easing back into walking upright.
My foot jam occurred on my first summer in Kaua’i, on my
birthday, with a slice of birthday cake in hand. A juxtaposition of emotions,
no?
Our bones carry our emotional stories: “As a carpenter, I
have to lift heavy machinery;” “As
a Mom, my lower back aches from carrying the baby;” “Oh, my hands have never
worked right since…”
Our bones can also be road mapped to the store house of
emotions: our organs. Inflammations and uneasiness in our body can be created
in a multitude of ways; one of which is how we live our bodies; another is how
we live in our minds.
Recently, standing up to my ankles in water and mud in a
taro patch, I ruminated on this less than perfect ankle of mine. What would it
take, I thought, to have this ankle be whole again: surgery? more work? What?
Later on that day, I injured my foot. The ball joints of the
big toe were jammed backwards. It hurt. A lot. I could no longer place any weight on the foot. The pain was
not a throbbing or inflammatory; it was a searing snap to attention. The type
of pain that the rest of the day’s details fall away and I have nothing to
notice but the present moment.
Between myself and a few other hands the joint was reset;
the tendons coaxed back to their proper standing, and four days later I was
standing in the dry sands of Kona working again, fully standing.
The ankle had full range of motion. The new injury was
rectified and so was my elder wound. Why?
I have heard that many of us define ourselves in what we can
and cannot do: great gardener, not a woodworker. Great with words, cannot play
music. Can go to yoga, not sure on public speaking. I can’t move my neck, my shoulder,
my back…a few years ago (fill in life event) and on the story goes. The event
happens once. The retelling repatterns muscle memory, a constant instruction to
the body self to hold the pattern of pain. Is it that simple?
Yes and no.
Are there severe physical traumas, of course. Am I talking
about those, probably
not.
Am I talking about assumptions and the conditioning of
muscle memory that allows us to taut that we cannot return to a state of
fullness and claim ourselves whole and not broken? Yes.
Why would we do that?
Good question.
SOMETIMES
Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest
if you move carefully
through the forest
breathing
like the ones
in the old stories
like the ones
in the old stories
who could cross
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound,
a shimmering bed of dry leaves
without a sound,
you come
to a place
whose only task
to a place
whose only task
is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests
with tiny
but frightening requests
conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
Requests to stop what
you are doing right now,
and
you are doing right now,
and
to stop what you
are becoming
while you do it,
are becoming
while you do it,
questions
that can make
or unmake
a life,
that can make
or unmake
a life,
questions
that have patiently
waited for you,
that have patiently
waited for you,
questions
that have no right
to go away.
that have no right
to go away.
- David Whyte
My ankle, you ask? It reset. It moves in circles and
straight lines. It carries my weight wholly forward, and I intend to keep it
that way.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
J.Krishnamurti, an Empty Heineken, and a Little bit of Independence
“Did
you see where it go?”
“Nah.
But I think so, it went down when he try and catch –“ is barely off my lips
before Makalohi glides across the beach and dives easily under the waves.
It
is a perfect blue of a day on O`ahu - the water, the sky, the light - all
brilliant and crisp in a multitude of hues: azure, turquoise and periwinkle.
Standing along the shoreline in Waimanalo at a child’s birthday party, one of
the littler attendees had retrieved an adult’s empty green bottle, using it to
play water games. One quick wave, and the empty Heineken buoyed away from the
child into the deeper waters just out of reach.
Makalohi’s
brother tried to retrieve the empty bottle, but his little arms and legs,
where unable to reach. Unable to stand by and watch, his sister slipped into the ocean
to retrieve the unattended mess.
“Is
she looking for something?” a little girl of about six, in a navy and hot pink
Hello Kitty bathing suits asks.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Extreme Care: Flight 1895
“Did you see that?” he umpfs.
“No.
What?” I answer as my foot casually pushes my bag under the seat in front of me.
“Fallen
Solider. Just put on the plane.”
“Ohhh-“
“F**king
cardboard box.”
“What?”
I swivel.
“They
always say, don’t they, ‘Don’t end up in a cardboard box,’ and that’s what he
was in a cardboard box,” he looks right through me, continuing, “Cardboard, and plywood frame. Not a
plywood box, but a frame of wood so I guess he doesn’t roll out, with a stamp
that says ‘Extreme Care,’ and a baby blue handle.”
“To
grab –“
“No,
just a trimming, just a bit of trimming. The stewardess says that sometimes the
captain of the plane will get out and salute him, but they are tight on time
today,” his eyes, still moving, meet mine.
“That
is incredible, I –“
“You
should have seen it. I mean on tv they show you all of what they want you to
see, but they don’t want you to see that. No they don’t want you to f**kin’ see
that. You would think a family member or someone from the service would – “
“If
the government won’t pay for a box, why would they pay for someone to fly with
the body?”
“You’re
right,” he laughs uncomfortably. “Ain’t that the truth. You’re right. What a
fool.”
Forty-five
minutes later, I discover the man’s name: Michael. He is a successful lawyer, travels
avidly, surrounds himself with fascinating people, enjoys financial freedom,
blackjack, boxing, cigars and affairs, living in a loveless marriage of twenty
years with a woman he compartmentalizes his respect for as a “phenomenal
mother, but not my match as a partner.”
It’s
amazing what we will tell strangers, is it not?
“Now,
I’m not judging, but the affairs, really twelve?”
“If
I’m honest,” he sips his Gatorade, “but the last one is the only one I would
have left my wife for.”
“Huh.”
Monday, June 11, 2012
Absolutely Worth It
Photo by Joe Longo
I woke up grumpy. A little frantic. A little ungrounded. A
lot ungrateful.
I took my grumpy self to Highpointe Café, and berated myself
along the way for: running out of my way to buy a coffee when I could save the
money, the time and the dehydration. I took
my perfectly poured cup, sans one sip into the car, and grumbled about my
little naggings of lack, slipped the unstable cup almost into the cupholder and
viola: it exploded all over my car.
I laughed.
Apparently someone wanted to teach me a lesson about
ingratitude. Call it the Universe, Murphy’s Law, Self, I got what I asked for: nothing.
The same time that I was coffeeless and chagrined, I
received a text from a friend who was having a kick ass morning. Everything was
unexpectedly going right for them.
I stopped.
Apparently someone wanted to show me what else could be
happening: everything.
I sat on the porch, awaiting my clients, and realizing what
a little brat I was being to the Universe. Here I am, doing what I love, with
people I adore, and I was complaining and worrying over things that hadn’t
happened yet. Translation: things that may never happen. I was so busy
complaining that I had to start dropping things I did want to make room for all
my grumblings. Sure it was just a cup of coffee, but the Universe fills the
Space with what you are holding Space for. I was pouting, arms crossed, no room
to receive, so I lost a little something.
I ended my day, after full sessions with wonderful clients,
sitting at a restaurant raucously laughing with a dear friend over the
humilities of life. I strolled down the very same street I had clomped down earlier
that morning a much happier person.
I reflected on my morning spill, my rant of worries: How to
get plan a, b, and z done perfectly. How I would ever finish my curriculum, juggle
travel, open my heart, and get my teeth cleaned. How I would overcome obstacles
that I was creating for myself, begrudging that I was not doing or being
enough, guilting myself for being too indulgent, too reckless, too this, too
that.
Then, I shut my mind up. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,
but right now, as I slipped down Germantown Avenue, I was good. The night was
good. Life was good.
That coffee was priceless. It turned my whole day around. $3.50 and a whole lot of scrubbing of
white vinegar eradicated my sour residue. What a small price to pay.
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