Originally posted on June, 2016—Re-posted August, 2017
Think Relaxation, then Action

Here’s a powerful passage from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, page 441:

“Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.  When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation—some fact of my life—unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.  Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in this world by mistake”

I have tugged and tussled and tangled with this concept for a while now.  Acceptance?  The answer to every single thing?  That can’t be right.  What about the things that are simply wrong, simply righteously and deeply wrong?  Are we to accept them blindly?  How will things ever change if we just walk around in acceptance?  Does living mindfully mean becoming a little sheep in a lovely pasture with a whole bunch of other, accepting and bleeping sheep?  I think not.  Over time and practice and pain and life unfolding, this is my understanding of this concept today.

Like on the yoga mat, when we struggle against the moment, when we fight against sensations, pushing and prodding them to be different, everything becomes harder.  Constricting around the moment is like putting our foot on the brake—everything slows and tightens.  Relaxing into what is happening, EVEN IF WE DON’T LIKE IT, is the doorway to transmutation.  (Yes, I am intentionally yelling, damn it!)  Again, just like on that yoga mat, breathing and relaxing into the sensations that arise (of course they arise—life in a body guarantees sensation) is like putting your foot on the gas, giving the moment a little fuel to move on.  Fighting against life doesn’t work.  It causes more suffering.

Then, of course, there are actions to take.  But I believe the seeds of action must be planted in the earth of presence, in the earth of acceptance.  Simply said, what is happening wins—no matter how wrong it might be.  Reality is relentless; it always wins.  Righteous indignation spins us out.  When we are relaxed with what is, actions we then take can become impactful and sustainable.

Here’s an example from my life.  I had a major and traumatic loss several years ago.  The Inner Quest Intensive, a profound off the mat program that I taught for twenty years, was taken off the schedule.  Not being involved in any discussion about it, I was informed after the decision was finalized.  Accepting this change in my professional world and in our larger curriculum has been a long and arduous journey for me.  I have had to be present with my heartbreak, with my terror of such a deep emptiness, with my fear of economic diminishment—and on and on.  Over time and practice, I am slowly outliving the feelings.   Now, as time passes, I find myself able, from a place of deeper relaxation, to accept the reality of this loss, and to slowly to take steps to rebuild my life.

I’m enclosing a visual image for us:  this is Richmond Pond at dawn, one early spring morning.  The entire lake was smooth as a shiny mirror, while the sky was filled with billowy, dark stormy clouds.  The picture is remarkable to me.  As you can see, half of the lake has absorbed the image of the storm clouds on its surface.  The other half of the lake has maintained its smooth, mirrored surface.  Somehow this image supports me today in my journey of acceptance.  The clouds, the struggle, the darkness—to stay present with them long enough, until they release and integrate, allowing the mirrored surface emerges again.  That is my hope for us, all, today.

 

Originally posted on July, 2016—Reposted August, 2017

What if there aren’t any?

I don’t know.  I’m old now.  I’ve been doing things the same way for a very long time.  My commitment to the same way of doing things is mostly unconscious, nevertheless ferocious and deep.  Case in point: “Is it the Sagamore Bridge?  No, I think it’s the Bourne Bridge.  No, wait, I’m not sure.  Oh, shit.”

I’ve been coming to Cape Cod for several decades now.  With different iterations of housing that track my aging process, from camping in major rainstorms and sleeping in resulting mud, to the current housing, the-slightly-above-funk-motel, the Cape is alive with memories and images of different incarnations of my life unfolding, all rich and seasoned with heart.  In my early lesbian feminist days, Provincetown was a’gaggle with excitement and stimulation galore.  Now, decades later, it is more amusing that life-affirming, more successful marketing than identity validating.  Nevertheless, coming here is a home-coming, one that tracks my life, nostalgic and rich with luscious light, stunning sand dunes, and a repertory of memories of salt-aired freedom.  But in this sea of constant change, there is one issue that remains the same, summer after summer.  That issue?  The which-damn-bridge-to-take issue.

You must understand—I am married to one of life’s more efficient navigators, a map-reader extraordinaire.  Although I am personally map-adverse, I am surely one of life’s more competent drivers.  Together we are a vehicular team of great efficiency.  We can’t make a navigational mistake, even if we try; we have been lost only once in our 20+ years together (oh, that damn Boston!), yet, the which-damn-bridge-to-take-issue snags us yearly.  Coming into the Cape our individual and collective memories seem to fuzz.  Toward the end of whatever highway it is, we start to fret: Sagamore?  Bourne?  Bourne?  Sagamore?  We’ve discussed obvious methods of documentation from year to year, writing on the map, keeping the correct bridge name indelibly written on some piece of something, somewhere, etc.  It just never happens.  And it never needs to, since we always, at the last instant of possibility, turn off onto the “right” bridge.  Except this year.  This year we did it “wrong”.

I was fully responsible for a last moment’s jerking away from the usual and habitual exit.  The result?  We found ourselves on ANOTHER BRIDGE.  It was shocking, slightly exhilarating, and disorientating.  And—stranger than strange—it was a miraculous “mistake”!  We ended up on the other side of the Canal (not sure which canal, but some canal), missed the traffic circle from hell, merged into Route Six easefully—and probably saved a few minutes driving time!  WTF?  All these years, we thought we were taking the “right” bridge?

What if there was no such thing as a “mistake”?  What if a “mistake” is only an opportunity to do something differently, to open the doors to a new way of seeing things, of approaching things, of being in relationship with things differently?

Dr. Bill Thomas, geriatrician and proponent of mindful aging, urges us to let go of that which we do the best, for the next thing to emerge in our lives.  Similarly letting go of right and wrong, good and bad, frees us up for—we don’t know what.  That’s the point—we don’t know and, in the not knowing, lives the freedom of renewal.

What might you imagine doing differently in your world?  How might life be different if the concept “wrong” didn’t exist?  Today, is there anything you can shake up, any old behavior readied to shift and change?  Give it a go, dear friends.  And open your heart to the possibilities.

Keep me posted! Let me know how your summer is unfolding.

All blessings,
Aruni

 

 

Originally posted on June 26, 2016

Lucy Doodle (blond bombshell)
&
Zac Joe Doodle (tall, dark & handsome)

We called the new neighbor Mr. Milo, simply bestowing upon the quiet, anonymous man his dog’s name.  The dog and the man not only looked identical, but their presence was perfectly mirrored in the other.  Both were contained, delicate and deliberate.  Dog was a tidy greyhound who always wore a neat, season-appropriate coat.  Man was white and non-descript, impeccably dressed in anonymous taupe outerwear.  On long and delicate legs, together they walked with a deliberate flow of paced, guarded energy.  They showed no affect at all.

My dogs did.  Lucy Doodle, the charismatic blond leader of our family and Party Dog Extraordinaire was clearly the most expressive being I have ever met.  She walked on her leash on my right, generally disheveled in appearance, reacting to life with “big energy”, as we would fondly say, in our better moments.  Zac Joe Doodle, the silly supporting man on my left, was always game to get on board the newest adventure.  He was the full-hearted, fully available follower.   I walked in the middle, with a wary and cautious eye to the world, always looking for that bunny around the next tree, waiting in its seductive stillness.  My dogs were neither contained, delicate or deliberate.  They pulled and danced against the leash, walking, living and playing with great, wild abandon.  I was younger then, committed to the illusion of control, a life strategy that didn’t work terribly well.

Our general encounters with Milo and Mr. Milo on the dirt roads where we lived and walked were never pretty.  Milo seemed above the canine fray, and the Doodle Fray on my right and left were anxious to insert themselves into Milo’s tidy world.  Embarrassed exchanges occurred between the humanoids while the canines, seemingly from distinct species, regarded each other with disdain (on Milo’s part) and eager possibility (on the Doodles’.)  But we always managed to extricate ourselves from any embarrassing tangle of leashes, legs or barks.

Until The Event.  The Event happened one morning on the Beach Road.  All was well in Doodle-Land as we rounded the corner, the last stretch of the road ahead.  A walk without incident was always my unconscious goal, to protect the dogs (hence myself) from any variable of life, like a rabbit or dog encounter.  I still saw the world as a dangerous place; it was my job to protect the dogs and myself from all variables.  Lucy and Zac did not agree with my perspective. They were eagerly, excitedly and messily available for life as it occurred.

As we rounded the corner to head home, walking toward us in rhymed content containment was the Milo Family, humanoid and canine.  Some invisible energetic switch must have flipped on in young Lucy’s brain.  Filled up with whatever dog hormones drive one toward instant insanity, she lunged ahead, with Milo and Mr. as her sole focus.  Zac, always ready to follow his sister’s lead, surged behind her.  The intensity of jerking of both leashes startled me and knocked me down onto my knees.  However, I would not be deterred.  I held onto the leashes and, dramatically and whole-bodily, literally went down with the Canine Ship. 

Think Ben-Hur.  Think the chariot scene, but without the chariot. 

The Doodles dragged me across and up the dirt road, with me on my knees, holding the leashes for dear life.  We traveled in this terrified, breakneck fashion for perhaps a half a block, time and distance illusively at a standstill.  Milo and Mr. stood stock still as we descended upon them, crazy dogs with crazy person literally attached. 

The rest is a blur.  Perhaps I sputtered an apology, attempting to seem normal, despite the fact I was still on my knees and in a cloud of dust, deposited at the Milos’ feet.  My dogs danced and pranced with glee, with Milo looking down at us, I swear, with a sneer of disgust.  The Milos extricated themselves; somehow I managed to stand and limp home.

My dogs have taught me about my illusion of control.  The tension between offering them training while letting them be exactly who they are has been life-changing for me, rich with growth and development.  But I was younger then, a newer dog-companion, and righteously pissed at them.  I swore vehemently I would never walk them again, a proclamation that lasted seven hours.  I have since learned that being angry at a dog is a futile and ridiculous contradiction of life itself.

Lucy is gone now.  Although it’s been some years, our house still echoes with a strange emptiness.  Zac has emerged as the man of the house with quiet dignity and incredibly calm-mostly-good-boy-behavior.  Both Milos disappeared overnight from our neighborhood with an expected lack of fanfare.  My knees eventually recovered, my temper calmed.

I continue to grow and learn from my relationship with Zac, my dear soul companion.  I think of my chariot ride courtesy of the Doodles up the Beach Road with some tender snickers today.  Its memory still tickles my heart.  My canine companions continue to give me the ride of a lifetime as I practice letting go of the reins.

My dear Reader-Friend-People, what memory lightens your heart today?  What brings you a snicker of relief?  How are your lessons being delivered to you?  Please do keep your emails rolling in—aruni@rnetworx.com. I love hearing from you!

All blessings,
Aruni

February 3, 2014

And I recommend it highly.

Okay, it wasn’t wild-run-around-the-house ball; it was stand-in-one-spot, catch-and-keep away ball. My mommies were there and my brother played, too. He gets scared and shy of shared games, so his position in the Game is to stand by my other mom and got his chest rubbed.

So fun!

Then my legs didn’t work again. I fell over but it was worth it.

Then it was bedtime. I couldn’t get up so everybody, my mommies and my brother, we all slept in the living room with me, like a big pajama party. But dogs don’t wear pjs.

Everyone breathed together and slept.

The next day I got sicker but so what? I played ball, my favorite thing, and I had a pajama party with my pack.

The sun rose, got higher, made pretty patterns on our walls and I died.

I’m here to remind you: do you favorite thing, even if you think your legs are going to give out. Especially if you think that they will give out, or if you’re too busy, or if you think it isn’t important, do it anyway.

Play ball, run in a meadow, chase bunnies, eat frozen apples, whatever makes you weird two-legged folks happy. Because your legs are going to give out like mine did.

Someday? Right?

So have fun now.

Here I have meadows and meadows and meadows in which to forever run, with no human calling me back. I have yummy food and friends and delicious clouds to sleep upon. And my body doesn’t hurt at all.

Yahoo.

Oh, and before I go, thank you for sending me love and lighting candles (whatever that means) and praying. I feel very honored and blessed by your love.

And please remember—have fun now. Do what you love to do.

Signed,
Your friend—the dog—Lucy Doodle