All these short, slow days. Sun rising behind a band of cloud so that it's more a leakage of colour into the horizon, than a whole new day. Deliberately slow, at first, taking the available time, like pausing on a bridge despite the pull of the other side, pausing in this extended moment. In the process, detecting - and questioning - the givens, the assumptions, that make up so much of the pull. Why, now I come to think of it, should I rush to get this done, that done, the birds fed? It seems to me that the choice to live in the moment may be taken at one level of consciousness, while the obstacles to living in the same moment are at a deeper, less apparent, even less conscious, level. I choose to live in the moment, just as soon as I've got this done.
I'm with the people who consider washing up to be a meditation. Doesn't get the dishes done any quicker, and if you've got a tidy kitchen on the other side of your bridge, yeah, okay, I'll do the drying because you're quicker than I am. Told last week by a talkative friend that meditation is very difficult. Said friend has only really meditated - really managed to do it properly - twice in her life, she said, but each of those times, she came away feeling so refreshed, so very much better. I think we define our own lives, and attach labels and conditions that aren't always helpful.
One day, I shall teach a relaxation technique that involves filling a sink with warm, soapy water, immersing your hands, and rubbing one or more dishes, rhythmically, oh so rhythmically, with a sponge until they shine. In the gift shop, I shall sell squeezy bottles of liquid for relaxation, and a range of 'relaxation dishes'. My friend is happy to see meditation on the other side of the bridge. She seems relaxed, tranquil, cheerful, all the words that add up to: alive.
I'm with the people who consider washing up to be a meditation. Doesn't get the dishes done any quicker, and if you've got a tidy kitchen on the other side of your bridge, yeah, okay, I'll do the drying because you're quicker than I am. Told last week by a talkative friend that meditation is very difficult. Said friend has only really meditated - really managed to do it properly - twice in her life, she said, but each of those times, she came away feeling so refreshed, so very much better. I think we define our own lives, and attach labels and conditions that aren't always helpful.
One day, I shall teach a relaxation technique that involves filling a sink with warm, soapy water, immersing your hands, and rubbing one or more dishes, rhythmically, oh so rhythmically, with a sponge until they shine. In the gift shop, I shall sell squeezy bottles of liquid for relaxation, and a range of 'relaxation dishes'. My friend is happy to see meditation on the other side of the bridge. She seems relaxed, tranquil, cheerful, all the words that add up to: alive.