Momentary Lamentations

There is always so much yard work to be done around here, and at times I enjoy it immensely, it puts me outside and more in touch with the natural world. I refilled all the bird feeders, cleaned the bird bath, gave the hummers fresh sugar water, trimmed the Jerusalem sage, made a quick trip to The Natural Gardener and helped Dale select and plant a shrub--Elaeagnus x ebbingei--, watched the buzzards fly overhead in search of dead carcasses. So many slaughtered deer by the roadsides. As I scooped up a bunch of trimmed algarita branches destined for the burn pile I could feel their sharp thorny leaves piercing my skin and noticed little splotches of blood here and there. Suddenly I felt an eerie sense of heightened awareness, almost as if I'd traveled some distance away from all that is familiar. With a crispness of tone I hardly recognized, the nearby cooing of a mourning dove gives me pause to wonder at my surroundings and look at things from a totally different perspective. The ground is dry and powdery in spots, as I walk along I step into heat spots, like walking through a warm ghost cloud. I'm prone to peeling off my clothes, and feeling what little breeze is blowing, the warmth of sun. A few clouds have rolled in and I think I hear the distant clap of thunder. A brief shower of very light rain falls gently like a half-hearted baptismal rite, just a little tease from above. Mixed with sweat and perhaps a drop or two of rain, little trickles of blood flow down my scratched skin and I wonder how it would feel to lay down and roll in the dirt amongst the thorny leaves of the burn pile and let myself bleed into the earth and feel the sky pounding down on me as I listen to the sad lament of doves.

Once upon a time, after ascending the stairs from the smoky depths of the grotto with the 14 pointed silver star marking the birthplace of Christ, on which I planted a kiss, a friend whispered in my ear that she found nothing holy or sacred at all about that place, certainly not even closely comparable to the holy and sacred sight of a field of flowers. I agree.

A Measurement of Time

I have been totally confused as to the day/date the past few days. It all started with my watch which has a little window that shows the day of the week and the date, like this:

SUN 6

Of course I have to already know it's July and it's 2008, which I can usually manage. But when a month such as June comes along with its 30 days, my watch isn't programmed to know that--it assigns each month 31 days. Therefore, I have to remember to make the correction manually, in a timely manner or I'll get all confused. So all week I've thought July 4th was on Saturday, at least on and off. One moment I'll get it straight, but the next moment I'm in sync with my incorrect watch date, fluctuating back and forth in my mind as to the date and day of the week. My friends tell me I have way too much time on my hands. There's a pun or two in there somewhere.

Which brings me to one of my all time favorite yoga teachers David Moreno (Ahbi). I love him dearly and would take as many of his workshops and classes as possible, if I could. We've tried to work out a schedule whereby he returns to Austin and teaches a workshop for my gay yoga kula in conjunction with doing a workshop at Castle Hill, and/or Yoga Yoga but he is so busy that this idea we've discussed several times may or may not ever happen.

David does not like me to wear my watch in his classes. Period. He says it interferes with my internal clock. Even if I never look at my watch during his class, he says it still interferes with my internal clock through some process akin to osmosis. Ironically, David has issues with watches and clocks, and I say this endearingly, because he is always (BEFORE class) asking me what time it is, and he has brought an assortment of little clocks to class that invariably are either not working, have the wrong time and need adjusting, he can't read them because he forgot his glasses, and so he will hand me a little clock and ask me to read it or fix it or adjust it. It's really just hilarious.

Which brings me to my issues with watches: growing up, I didn't know my Dad well at all. He worked in the oil fields of south Texas and was often gone from home for weeks, depending on the rig location. I now know he had a difficult childhood and saw atrocities beyond my comprehension during his time as a WW II soldier. So when he had time off, he would go straight to the bottle and would usually be rip roaring drunk by the time he got home. He and my mother would have awful fights and I spent a great deal of my early childhood living in a state of fear and hyper vigilance (trying to protect Mom). He often presented gifts to my sister when it wasn't her birthday or Christmas, just something he enjoyed doing. But I got nothing, and that hurt a lot. My mother and grandmother would try to compensate for this, but that really didn't help. On Christmas during first grade I got an Elgin watch, presumably from Dad. I wore it with pride and had that watch until I was 16 and it was stolen. Now I feel nearly naked without a watch and have quite an assortment of them. I think they represent a subconscious connection with my longing for Dad and his love.

I must say how delighted I was to see that Kale, a superb yoga teacher from Australia who has been teaching for 30 years, now at Castle, wearing a watch while teaching his classes. He is truly a great teacher and yogi. And he wears a watch! Yes! I'm vindicated!

Feelings have just come up for me and here they are: my mother made many mistakes during her life (who hasn't?), beginning with her choice to get married young and drop out of high school and to stay stuck in a bad marriage for 18 years. But something did shift for her and she set about making many changes to her life, and even though I always loved her deeply, it wasn't until later in life that we became best friends and I admired her in many ways. But our early years were difficult. She died in 1996 after a long and difficult battle with COPD and bladder cancer. I was with her during her final hours, and held her and cried. The last words she ever spoke in this world were to me, and she whispered in my ear "I'm so sorry." So I say to Mom, it's all ok, all is forgiven, we all struggle with life and making decisions and screw up. I miss you. You did your very best. And Dad, I know you loved me but you were suffering with so many issues that you just couldn't cope with, and were so overwhelmed. It's okay, I have only forgiveness and love in my heart for you.

Often, along with our work, it takes time to heal, sometimes a long while. There is liberation and freedom in forgiveness of others and of yourself. For me, letting go of long held resentments, deep seated anger, self-pity, etc...is always the beginning of healing.