Category Archives: Buddhism

Attachment attitude: What is it?

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As I work in a daily, rhythmic manner running the airbnb I notice the thought arising: too much. It is interesting to see how jaded my attitude is to work. It has been my saviour as I worked 70 hour weeks most of my life as a teacher.

Our family embraced labour as an anaesthetic. Gabor Mate explained in his recent on line class that those who have been abused have “itchy” limbs. They seek to move in order to dispelling the trapped energy.

pink pinwheel catches the wind

I spent year after year watching myself and assessing my relationship with work. Scarcity mind set created an adrenaline fuelled kind of desperation. If life is too difficult, then everything is too difficult. This next “thing” is a struggle.

“And let me prove it to you,” my ego said. “Keep moving. Keep in the struggle. You cannot remove the dancing shoes, Princess.”

I no longer feel as if I am falling through uninhabited universes one after the other alone when I am not doing the cortisol/adrenaline dance. The sense of yawning emptiness that will melt my very existence no longer horrifies me. I know how to see it and release it.

intentional sanctuary

The secret is in checking my body. These are the signs that I am not abusing action:

1. I feel as if there is enough time for everything
2. I am not competing in my head with my past, with others, with some societal projection of success.
3. I feel at home in my body. I feel the ground beneath my feet, the space around me upholding me, the in flow of new energy in a smooth and untroubling manner.

I have shifted from making a copious to do list, the kind that takes up two sheets in my journal, to just touching intention in the same gentle way I touch a new blooming rose. I feel its texture. I breathe in its smell. I see the beauty of it.

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close up beauty

And then at the end of the day, when I was coming off of work addiction I structured a transition.  I had to write a list of what I had done without the rigidity of me trying to survive anything, or block out anything.

What most surprised me is that I would create as many intentions while moving through the day, as I did when I sat and forced myself to task. What surprised me is I was elated to see that I could trust myself.

Digging my heels into a donkey was my old way of working. But I came to see I was not a stubborn mule. I was a race horse filled with joy to just be kicking up my heels. There did not need to be a whip, or a jerking on the reigns.

I wanted to move and explore and learn. And I have found a way to do that that is more organic and less fear drive.

So when I feel a tightness in my chest from working 7 days a week, when I feel the old violin sawing irritation music, I remind myself to sink into the senses.

As I make the beds after hanging the candy colored sheets wave on the line, I select which brilliant pillow cover to place against another. Everything is art. Everything is creating. Everything is play. And I am spreading love energy in my house, thinking of the guests that will sleep peacefully.

the beauty

Can I know where I am headed by being frightened of it? I am beginning to see how the anxiety has handicapped me, now I am calm and trusting. Where ever I am, I am supported. Where ever I am, regenerating energy surrounds me.

And if I am beyond my limits after making beds for 153 people in four months, there is always a Netflix Brooklyn 99 binge retreat available.

I know how to take care of myself, finally. And it took over 70 years of learning to get here. But it is pretty “Toit”.

My Story and I am Sticking to it

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I learned “whatever” as my clearing process. I imagined the Heathers or Reese Witherspoon being seriously blonde.

While I am not a hair tosser, I could picture the hair flip, the pursed lips the shoulders rising and shaking off anything just not desired that might be perching there… a parrot or raptor, or three crows in a row. Whatever… with the eyes rolling in a way that minimized the narrative.

It wasn’t so easy for me at first. Before I was born… you know the Buddhist Koan, “who were you before your mother and your father met?” Before I was born when I was just part of the spirit soul soup floating, I went to the decision room, the headquarters where the next contract was drawn up.

I have a stubborn psyche. I was offered first this life and then that one. The images of what was possible were shown to me. So many lives before this one, I had experienced poverty, imprisonment, dying alone and moments of beautiful ferocity, bravery and prophecy.

No! I answered. No, I am tired of the lessons and the programmed learning moving me up one small step at a time on the stone landings thrust into the universe’s hillside.

Give me the lessons. I signed up for the double Ph.D because I was voraciously focused on shifting myself. There was a demurring and some half hearted attempts to dissuade me. But I was sure. I wanted it all this time… everything I had not understood in the past HAD to be revealed to me.

And so I was born to a psychopath. My dark haired father with the muscled out body whose arms and legs were crawling with the popped out veins of a weight lifter came home from Europe when I was 18 months old.

My mother had her own fractured self with serious confusion of you for her that acompanies Borderline Personality Disorder.

At some point in my father’s past he was so traumatized, so fragmented that he shared six fully formed personalities in the one robust body. I would say that seven people raised me but in fact a person with Borderline Disorder does not hold claim to a self so that accounting does not work.

Whatever.

Chaos was my laboratory. It is where I studied the lessons this time. At any given moment, I could be attacked. My bones were broken… cheek, nose, collar bone, hands, arms. I learned early on to comply with demands that left me no sanctity of my own body. My body belonged to them. The threat of death hung around me as a constant part of my environment. Furniture, dishes, my toddler self were hurled at the walls.

And it was confusion. Not everyone learns to run in the night as a father stands on the porch with a loaded German Luger. Perhaps that is why I don’t enjoy jogging.

Whatever.

What I learned early on was that there was nothing I could count on. I could not count on protection, stability, acceptance within my home. There was no pleasing or compliance that would stop the crazy.

I also learned how beautifully hypocrisy works in its way through the world. My mother who would slap my face until it bruised volunteered at my school as the home room mother and everybody loved her. She dressed me in beautiful clothing and we acted.

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What I learned was that no one cared. The teachers saw me as a possession of my parents. The neighbours were focused on consuming and accumulating status. In the 1950’s there was no sense of intercession.

But I could read. I could study and experience other’s lives through narrative and biography. I ready every fiction and biography book in the school library by the end of grade 6. I could escape into other experiences. It saved me. It kept me alive.

I ran for the door when I was 17 to go to university and there I found a kind of sanctuary.

But the wounding was something I carried as a deep shame as if it were my fault. I felt that I was outcast. Early on I had experienced bullying and group battery in school.

My sin was my vocabulary. My sin was my intelligence. And I ‘got’ things more quickly than others. Because my very survival depended on my rapidly tuning into the emotions of other, I understood situations instantaneously. It has made of me a very political animal.

I was called weird by classmates and a genius by my teachers. In grade 6, I could read at first year university level.

The nightmares, however, followed me. I awoke screaming for decades. And that can really put a hex on your love life.

One day when I had used up all of my work addiction, I decided it was time to do what I had come here to do. It was time to heal myself and learn the lessons I had signed up for.

I entered a ten year period of meditation, plant medicine, semi-isolation and fervid study: What determines our decisions? How does the brain work? How does family history, our social amoeba, our proximity to others shift our decisions? I couldn’t get enough. I was hungry to learn.

 

As I grew and settled into myself, I realized what a gift I had given myself by walking this chosen path. I became a stronger channel. The messages were crystal clear and always accurate. I learned to more deeply trust the channel. I learned deep compassion as I came to understand the trauma that both my mother and my father had experienced and inherited within their body signature.

I sat with Gabor Mate, with Duncan Grady, with shamans in Peru, with women’s energy workers in Nelson and I read and I read and I read. For three months, I sat Ho’onoponopono focused on My connection with all of my relatives one by one. I took responsibility for the way I envisioned them and I allowed myself to run back along the narrative trail of their lives until I broke. My warrior’s armoured chest, the leather protection of a Roman soldier fell away. And I sat with their pain. I cried for them. I let it go.

Whatever. Whatever had happened to them. It was theirs now and not mine.

Now when I sit facing a client… someone who I am coaching, I can think to myself… yes. I have been there. I have been abused. I have been terrified. I have been addicted. I have been suicidal. I have been locked into ill health and deep bottomless despair.

When I sit facing a client I am not imagining their story. I have lived it. And it makes me more compassionate. It makes me a person who knows absolutely that they can get beyond the drama. They can walk away shrugging their shoulders and saying…..

 

Whatever.

Is It Me?

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When I awoke this morning I came out of a two week darkness. I have been productive and sad. I have been friendly and grieving. I have been doing my job of running my bed and breakfast and at the same time being emotionally sluggish.

Yesterday, I awoke with a smashing headache, a stiff neck and a sense of the eternal weather of gloom around me.

What makes/made it even worse is that I know this weather system is from old geography.

I am highly aware that my self criticism is left over scar tissue. The conjunction with reality and my perception of reality is so blatantly out of line that even in my most unforgiving moments, I see it.

I say to myself, I  have nothing to be depressed about. My house is gorgeous. My garden is spectacular. The fences surrounding my queendom are sparkling white with fresh paint. My deck is sanded and freshly painted. My body is strong and healthy. My children know how to love their children. The signs of building a positive life are all around me.

But there is always something. There is one friend who always criticizes me. She bends to pluck a weed out of the garden, or points out something that is wrong in my life. I can feel the extra weight of her inspection piled on top of the scale. When she speaks to me, it shines a light on how fragile I am. Her thumb pushes down on a pile of weight I have already placed there. My own disparagement is already unbearable. And the heaviness of it appears more clearly when her voice is added to the deprecation dialogue running in my head.

When my counsellor said yesterday that my attachment bonding is wounded, I began to cry. Not a nice Victorian lady like drip that can be swept away by a lace handkerchief. It was a break in the retaining wall. It was a breech of the encapsulated story. I felt the grief of it and all that it has cost me.

And so I know that while my hands, my focus, my skills have created so much that is positive for me. I have a yearning to no longer be ostricised by my own mind. I was never good enough and so now I am never good enough for me. I could never help the pain around me as I was growing up and so now I try valiantly to heal the pain around me. But the pain within me… that is “sinning” I explained to my therapist. To carry the yearning for more than I have is somehow a transgression into evil.

The counselor asked me what it was I wanted to be. She asked me why I try so hard to be perfect and the words poured out.
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Toronto Love

I want to be “blameless” I said. I want to be not responsible for any failure. I desire once and for the rest of my life to be able to say that I am above reproach, beyond criticism, above suspicion, irreproachable, unimpeachable, in the clear, not to blame, without fault, exemplary, perfect, virtuous, pure, moral, upright, impeccable, unblemished, spotless, stainless, untarnished.

Untarnished. And there it is. “Nothing you did to me hurt me or handicapped me.”

The constant criticism in my head is where I carry the greatest damage. I yearn for connection, for expression, for the freedom to be the ferocious spirit of my soul.

And the methodology I intend to embrace is being “good enough.” I cannot protect myself from the violence that lies in my past.

“Can you be more loving to yourself?” she asked me. And it is exactly what I say to my clients. So I get it.

Processing is such a bitch.

Allowing the Day to Find Me

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I invite you to subscribe to my youtube channel. https://www.youtube.com/user/TheCovitch/videos

Often when I arise I hold a list in my head, I flirt with some goal I have been attracted to and then I wait. I start the day gently not forcing it to show me anything at all.

Outside my attic window, what is the shape, colour, temperature, temperament of the day showing itself to be?
I have learned to be gentle with myself.

When I awaken early, I curl back down under the blankets and have a memory of being four and just going back into the soft blur of the down duvet, the hazy light, the tenebrous sense of self. It is a luxuriousness, this unwinding of self.

Now, with all of the work I have done on my consciousness, I move from sleep to partially awake with the sense of safety. I am complete. I am protected. I am floating on the warm water of the buoyancy of the universe. Whatever guides, or spirits or angels or forces of fairies or loving dead that exist are around me.

Last night as I went to sleep I looked back into my life to take inventory of the spirit medicines that I had asked to help change my mind. The person who woke up screaming with nightmares every night and who lay in the crib, the bed waiting for violence somehow knew to turn to plants for a deep repair of the neurological pathways.

Knowing that all recollection is colored by the structures of the present, I hesitantly counted up my transformative experiences. And there were at least 28 times I allowed the journey to something greater to repair a very fragile, shattered sense of self.
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For eight years, I sat silence and meditation without seeking a crowding intimacy. I knew something without knowing it. I was reaching for something without seeing it. The broken boned, broken spirited person who suffered in the belief that suffering was the reality knew to go after something bigger.

As I went to sleep last night, I saw that I had been on this “mission impossible” since I left home at seventeen. I wanted to be stronger and I was strong enough to reach for that. I wanted to be more capable of love and I was loving enough to reach for that. I wanted to be open and honest with myself and with everyone else and I was trusting enough to reach for that.

And the result is a greater peace. The result is that I am more gentle with myself. Each morning I am reborn. Each morning I come into the world gently knowing that I cannot know what I am becoming.

I look back and I see the courage of my spirit. The many times that the pain was too big to endure, yet I persisted knowing that beyond the despair there was peace and that I was never alone. I am never alone.

Last Sunday, I did readings as a clear channel for 16 people. The ability to see their struggle, their pain, their wounding is clear for me. And what is also clear is what their shining core spirit is called to be. It is because of my journey that I can say to them, “Peace awaits you. Your purpose awaits you.” I know.

I have been there.

The Ice Mountain Physio Challenge

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After breaking my wrist, I was so carefully in submission to my body’s need for healing. I envisioned my bone mending and did all I could to support that process. Since I had never broken a major bone before (pinky toes don’t count) I knew little of the result of hibernation for six weeks.

I skipped along to the hospital to have the cast cut off and discovered the snipping of the support opened up a world of pain. Diligently, I pushed through and twisted my hand into the shapes the physio recommended.

And then the snow came. The shovel and I became a team. I cleared a “landing pad” for my car out in front of my house by digging the blade of the shovel in, doing a mindful squat, supporting the majority of the weight with my good hand and then carefully twisting my left wrist to deposit the snow. My goal in this game of reclaim was to have the ice mountain gone that had been build by the snow plow and various clearings.
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blue snow

Today the sun is shining for the second day and just a mound about the size of two tires stacked together sits out in front of the house. It is like my debt… such a small percentage of the original blockage is still sitting there. The joy of going after a goal and completing it is within a 100 scoops of my shovel. Every victory is to be celebrated. And the result has been a stronger body after six days of the snow workout and a much more responsive hand.

The mountain in the way of self confidence can be removed… one habit at a time. Every victory is to be celebrated.

Getting Lost in Control Mode

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As I was pulling weeds this morning, it hit me. It was a special effects, explosion of color energy, transportation to the centre of observer seeing so clearly how I operate moment.
When I see me, I know it is a true “vision” when it is not a harsh, judgemental, OCD perfectionism, adult watching rebellious teenagerish tinted vision.

We see through our own shadow.

I tried to pull the invasive plant from the hardened soil and it broke off in my hands. And then I stood careful not to crush a “real” flower. I was barefoot in the dress a bed and breakfast guest left for me.

I walk around with it on, lately, most of the day. I put on no bra, do not brush my hair and get up straight out of bed to do my work. I have over a 100 guests a month to prepare for.

And so I stood in the silky, modest dress without any attempt to seem like anything.

“I use the walls as a defence.”

As a child having a dangerous father who let me know at any time he could kill me if I was not compliant; having a dangerous father whose body was inhabited by a kaleidoscope of six rotating personalities had left me wary.
The one thing I could do once I left home was to refuse.

At home, I could never refuse. It would cost me my life.

living in the structure

It left me singularly alone. The nine years I spent in University were spent by and large in a library.

The orderly books were my defensive structures. There was quiet. No one could suddenly begin screaming in anger or pain in a library. There were no games. A book was checked out, checked in and read within certain parameters.

My safety, my sanity, my ability to grow depended on my controlling the gates of my existence.

I went through four roommates my first year of college because I refused to engage. The head of the dormitory called me in to see why they kept leaving me.

Trust was a foreign concept to me. Withdrawing into silence, into long midnight walks on a deserted campus, into ideas and books and biographies of others’ lives served me well.

Added to the taint of trauma was the fact that I was an empath which meant that just walking into a room filled with people would be strenuous. That woman over there bend over her drink has been battered. The loud, heavy man is carrying so much grief it almost dissolves my own body.
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And so I controlled any contact that I had with others. I had to go to work. I had to make money and function in the world but I was an actress.

I had learned early on that crying at my desk in second grade would only lead to the bully gang finding me at lunch time and circling me to beat me. They would turn the zippers of their jackets outward and strike me with them until the zippers left welts.
One does not cry when one is beaten at home because there is no room for solace in the school.

Chickens see the spot of blood and will go after the weak one. This is what I learned in primary school.

For three months of the year I could not go to school because the bruises were too telling. Someone would know. I must not betray the family.

I was taught that when I was the most injured, I must hide it.

I became an actress. My shining intelligence, my feigned self confidence, and my carefully built muscular body made the struggle invisible to those around me.

creating a strong body image.

And I could always control who was around me.

I could always refuse to answer the phone; refuse to go to the party; refuse to join a group. It was how I survived.

I will be 73 years old in August. As I stood in the garden in the silky dress without having undergone any morning rituals of artificiality, I saw that my way of dealing with my experiences was neither mistaken nor unnecessary.

Bare feet on the ground, a broken off weed in my hand, I said to myself, “This is where you are now.”

There was no need to grade my “performance.”

I am just here to learn. And maybe it is time to stop hiding who I am.

That thought felt good.

Blindness. Walking in confidence

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Spiritual blindness clouds my vision at times. I keep returning to the programmed scripts of scarcity, competition, victimhood and this flat paper doll world construct where in we are standing in our underwear waiting for some outside source to dress us up. The giant hand will cover the shame of who we are without acceptable stylish cover. The controlling hand will give us the fabric of status. We will be anointed by validation. We will be absolved of our denuded humanity by the powerful outside authority.

The distance between where we believe we can go and where we can get to belief is always something I am aware of. Like someone walking in a mirage desert projecting in a landscape of oasis, my programmed reality is at odds with that which my spirit knows to be true.

The big work for me is to release the struggle. How do I go from what I am now to what I know myself capable of being? Where is the map? What are the instructions? Am I supposed to read it by the full of the moon or with a candle held behind it so I can see the tracings of the journey?

Like some lost, skitterish animal, meditation finds me stuck in a gully, or trapped under loose scree. Meditation brings me back to the container of now, of breath, of body, of allowing all of the fear-pain-anger to just exist in now.

we live in a grid

What my practice has done for me is to allow me to push the “Start Over” button. I have also found that sitting silence or chanting until my tears fall without check allows me to be loving to myself. I return to my intention to stay in the experience of growth.

In the past, I was in a self created classroom not unlike the one my mother described in the 1930’s. When she made a mistake, the ruler marks raised welts on her hands. When she did not learn at a rate or at a predetermined level of performance, she had to sit on a tall stool wearing a tall hat.
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In the past, I was in the classroom of perfectionism and I was brutal and unforgiving of myself.

Meditation allows me to push the re-set intention button. I start again. I view myself with loving kindness. Because I have come to understand that being human is basically a bitch, I know to be kind. Because I have come to appreciate that being born into a body IS the hell we all fear mistakenly fear in the afterlife, I have come to be more compassionate to all of us.

William James knew

One time when I was in Floatspace, I saw the souls as lights. They were in the waiting room between lives and each one chose to come down the shoot of energy into his or her mother. Each one made the commitment to come to earth and agree to be born. As I floated in the salt water, I saw a hundred thousand lights travelling to earth to agree to enter a body. They agreed to suffer pain, face death, walk in the mass delusion of whatever their culture had constructed because they wanted to learn.

We see what we believe

It takes my breath away, the bravery of souls. We are here to learn. I am here to learn. And it is through meditation that I can keep my focus and like an adventurer ask the question: What is the real map?

I get lost. I stumble. I forget to be grateful. But I know that this life is where it all happens. It is where we truly learn to love.

How to Live in Interesting Times

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These are not trivial times. You would have to have been abducted and put in some shed, bunker, outback hill hollowed out captive at random especially built structure to be unaware.

 

Every beautiful thing is here

It is a time of triggered, reactive, defensive, spewing of fear. So many are feeling like their nervous systems have been tasered and as they finish their convulsions of neurological energy epilepsy, they lay limp looking around for WHO did that. They find some post on facebook, or twitter, or snapchat or some news source and attach all of their explosive overload onto that one thing.

The other day a troll fight broke out about Oprah and Weight waters. What was her motivation? Was she altruistic? Was she simply marketing? God help us all if we can’t believe in the Oprah Ministry of Follow Me.

I put up a response as I watched some insisting that Oprah was being disrespected and attacked by others’ comments. Reading through the thread again, I saw not one disrespectful comment. I was curious.

Then I got it. Good lord the media is corrupt. We have to cover our heads to protect ourselves from the revelations that most of the structures, systems, institutions, inculcated belief systems are mind prisons and simply not reliable. We are like a partner in a marriage that has been betrayed and can no longer believe in anyone.

People are like children. The safety corner is gone. The sanctuary is a myth. Daddy is a monster and has committed atrocities that we weep to see.

So what is left? The limbic system is running the show. We have four choices when we are in rapid foaming at the mouth fear states: fight, flight, fornicate, feed.

The cracks mean reformation

And so people are triggered instantaneously. They are having trouble with insomnia. They are experiencing neurological diseases for some yet unexplained reason. They are walking around with a skin crawling type of anxiety.

Blaming themselves works for a while and then they look outward.

The question becomes, “Who is attacking me now?”
How else do you explain the tsunami of cortisol flowing through the society?
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What if the crow were yellow?

So we attack one another. Somebody out there is doing this to me. Something out there is doing this to me. And then the eyes squinch up and they fall upon somebody who is attacking the vestiges of faith they still manage to cling to.

Oprah… no. I will fight for this symbol of light and truth.

I joking said that people are so triggered at the present time and so engaged in verbal fist fights on social media that I dare not post I like sweet pickles.

Somebody will come on the thread and say only garlic dill pickles are real and good. Sweet pickles are chemical, GMO, owned by a devil company, poisoning heavy lead mercury nano robot bone marrow depleting.

And heaven protect us all if I had said olives are the best.

And so we have become like children or frightened animals and race around looking for someone else to blame for the clearly and truly chaotic energy place the world occupies today.

Now more than ever, we are called upon to ground ourselves and become mindful. To see the flash of fear energy entering the body or leaving the body is to be in a place where you are no longer a victim.

It is what meditators strive for. It is what paramedics strive for. The calm understand that people are hurt right now will allow you to be able to see everything with the higher brain function. Instead of being a victim, you can become an emergency worker. You can show up with love. You can show up with compassion. It is what we are being called to do.

And I have no emotion around Oprah, pickles, which music group is the best. The heated debates are the result of marauding gangs of victims looking for a way to release fear. It is unnecessary.

The result is a population that is more fearful and more easily manipulated.

Sit down. Meditate. Check your body. Everything you need that allows you to grow up is right there.

You eat whatever pickles or olives you wish listening to any music that makes you vibe high and learn to believe in yourself and your instincts. There is no Daddy or Mommy. We are grown ups.

Fresh Snow Christmas wonderland

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Christmas ribbons my neighbours tied on my fence for me as a surprise.

The joy of living in a neighbourhood for over twenty years is reinforced after a fresh snowfall. Not only are we suddenly transmitted into a movie set from the 1930’s with the fluffing up, puffing up branches holding the voluptuous white but we are called to go outside and play in it.

blue snow

The adult version of play is to shovel the sidewalk, brush off the car and dig out short bull dozed entry ways and exits for the car.

I step out the door and feel an excitement to be able to stand in such a beautiful place. The old trees planted in the 1950’s were once all along the street but some have survived. Some stand arching over the sidewalk, framing the vanishing point of the end of the street five blocks away. It is an unadulterated exquisite moment.

down the street

I slide my yellow plastic shovel along the walk way to clear a path for the phantom visitors in my mind. Only the mail person usually comes to the house but it is almost time for my winter guests to appear in my bed and breakfast.

Being careful not to catch the shovel edge on the ridge seam in the cement, I move the new snow in one long swipe in front of three houses. And then I begin to clear what will be only this amount of time from the layers of snow. More will come. There is no sense of staying clear, being done. There is just the walking and rhythmic sweep of the shovel.
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My neighbour comes out of his house and he begins to sweep off my car. We talk about the one legged crow sitting in the tree overhead that his wife keeps alive by feeding it. We talk about the widower pigeon that my neighbour has named but I can’t remember what exactly. I know the pigeon by his color, shape and markings.

My neighbour talks to the pigeon and to the crow and promises them food as soon as he is done. But he is having fun. He moves down the block clearing other people’s landholding sidewalks because his shovel is filling up. He leaves a mark revealing cement not twenty minutes from the time I have cleared the area.

Christmas ribbons my neighbours tied on my fence for me as a surprise.

When I go into the house, I feel good. The conversation was not begun. It began almost 20 years ago when we talked over the fence from spring to fall. It is on going, effortless.

When I next go out, I see the footprints of the pigeon spinning out from the circle of bird seed. And further down the one foot print from the crow by the pile of peanuts.

More snow is falling, and the trees are holding it close. It is Christmas.

When weather becomes the truth

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Sometimes we live in our heads, or in our past, or are lost in a scripted narrative someone else has penned. But when each of us opens the door and the percussive wall of cold strikes the entire body, all of the accompanying orchestration of violin thoughts stops. There is only the skin taking the temperature.

 

extreme weather

The frozen patterns like faces press against the windows partially imprinted on the car. It isn’t until the extreme falls away after turning on the heater that I go back into the droning, circle patterned of flying thoughts.
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Part of the pleasure of walking the icy sidewalk into the howling wind is the weather itself bringing me into the breathing moment. I hear my lungs at work. I see the air warming and steaming out of me. The cold is slapping me out of it. I am only this step, this foot, this warm boot, this creature moving on the ground.

And when I was in Peru and laid in the hammock, I ran sweat slipping my body surfaces like waterfalls on a sculptured hillside. The walk up the path would begin with the skittling thoughts but as I shoved myself against the moist, hot air I recognized that the trailing end of a narrative had melted and disappeared. With several more steps I would begin again but the line of thought dissolved even earlier on until I was released from any interest except my breath and the wall of opposition the tropics pushed against my progress. At times, I felt I was behind myself trying to catch up with the place my body had now moved into.

Extremes of weather hold some fundamental truth. There is only the body, the skin, the breath, the intention of movement and it leaves us free of the embroidered speculations in the mind. It stops us cold.