Virtuous confusion

Back when I was in the NKT (New Kadampa Tradition) it was highly discouraged to read other Buddhist authors other than Geshe-la, or to take teachings from other traditions. If you did you were deemed a “mixer” and therefore not serious about your spiritual path. And while there was no written rule to this effect, once you got past the introductory programs, it was became pretty evident. The reason for this, we were told, was that it would divert us from the path that Geshe-la very clearly delineated in his books and study programs, and in general would just confuse us.

And you know what? They were absolutely right. Ever since I have started reading other Buddhist authors and exploring other traditions, I am confused. Which is refreshing. And disquieting. Refreshingly disquieting. Definitely not comfortable.

There was great comfort in my good fortune to happen upon Kadampa Buddhism and the very clearly laid out teachings. I will be forever grateful for their study programs which gave me such a good grounding in basic Buddhist principles. The fact that it was a fairly rigorous study program appealed to me and played to my strengths. I’ve always been a bit of a smarty pants. I catch on to intellectual concepts very easily, and can piece them together with other concepts to get a sense of the bigger picture. I’m good that way. With physical endeavors, not so much. But sitting on my ass thinking about shit? Oh bring it on, baby.

The method of meditation that I learned combined analytical contemplation with placement meditation. In other words, we would be meditating on an idea we had learned in our studies. In the analytical part of the contemplation we would deeply consider the topic, compare it with our own experience, use our imagination, etc. Once we had gotten to the object of the meditation - a determination or conclusion - we would focus on our mind on that single-pointedly, trying to deepen that feeling or thought. Taking it from a merely intellectual construct to something we know in our heart. Our basic practice was Lam Rim - aka, the stages of the path - and by doing our round of the 21 meditations we would become deeply familiar with all the stages of the path to enlightenment. And while by doing this practice for a decade I definitely have a good grounding in the Buddhist path, but I think like many of my friends and others I have known in the NKT, I got a bit too fascinated by the map, and lost sight of the ultimate destination - enlightenment.

My new teacher, Anam Thubten, is not big on categorizing himself in terms of tradition. He’s slippery, that one. But, he keeps hitting home the point that we have to go beyond mere concepts because on the other side, there lies enlightenment. Great. Awesome. Count me in. I loves me some Heart Sutra. Yet, when I sit down to meditate and try to let go on my concepts, well . . . I just end up focusing on my breathing, which isn’t the point either.

So, since I seem to be lacking in any kind of practice of awareness or mindfulness, I decided to take an six week Introduction to Vipassana course at out Spirit Rock. Spirit Rock and Vipassana feels worlds away from the my experience in Tibetan traditions. So, there was a part of me that was desperately trying to fit what the young, very soft-spoken teacher was saying with what I already knew. I even mentally rolled our eyes when he asked us to lay on the floor and do an exercise I consider more a part of yoga than I do Buddhism. Oh lordy, aware of my body? I don’t do body awareness, thank you very much. May I get back in my head, please?

But, I’m staying open and giving it a try. It’s just another facet of the jewel that I haven’t explored yet. I need to suspend my judgment, and just let the questions arise and not stress out when the answers don’t come.

 

In search of inspiration

Maybe it is the longer days. Perhaps I have finally recovered from years of being busy most nights after work. Perhaps it is because I am bored (again) at work. But whatever the reason, when I come home from work at night, rather than appreciating the opportunity to relax, to vegetate on the couch and watch TV, I am finding myself bored. Bored at the office and bored at home just ain’t right. So, I am in search of my next great passion.

I have a closet full of the remnants of my past great passions. Perhaps passions is too strong a word, perhaps a more accurate word would be diversion. Mere diversions. Let’s see in the last few years I have tried:

knitting
soap making
learning to play the flute
this whole blogging thing
jewelry making
photography

So, in search of inspiration, I lugged the boyfriend with me the Maker Faire at the San Mateo County Fairgrounds. It looked to be the best of geekery, Burning Man culture, and crafts. Certainly, I’ll be able to find something there.

I suppose I could put my collection of old pens to good use and create an art car:

Or find creative uses for my old computer components:

And knitting is always more interesting when you combine it with drumming:

And who doesn’t love giant flaming floral arrangements?

As fun as many of the exhibits were, I think I’ll have to stick with something a little smaller and manageable. So, for now, it is the jewelry kit that is getting dusted off. We’ll see if I can’t reignite that creative spark that seems to have gone out lately.

 

For the birds

A friend of mine suggested that my next post after the Dorje Shugden/NKT one should be something about the dangerous intersection of religion and politics. Good topic. Mighty good topic. And it’s even one that I’ve been thinking about lately. However, my head hurts from being lectured at in my own blog. I just want to want to talk about my newest obsession: Clara and Carlos.

Clara and Carlos are the Peregrine Falcon pair who have layed a clutch of eggs on top of the San Jose, CA City Hall. The three eyesses (aka baby falcons) are now at that adorable stage of looking like fluffy little drunks. They weeble, they wobble and then down they go. Feeding time is the best. But, then again, I never fail to be amused at their post-feeding comas where they all collapse into a pile of fluff.

While George and Gracie, the PG&E (San Francisco) falcons will always be my first love, since they have decided to retire to Marin and stay out of the spotlight, Clara and Carlos will now occupy a window on my browser during daylight hours. Please enjoy the falcon cam.

And here is a little taste of some prime falcon viewing:

 

Dirty Laundry

As far as the major religions go, Buddhism has a pretty good reputation. In general, we don’t go around embarrassing ourselves in public on a major scale. You’ve never seen stories about pedophile Buddhist monks, nor are we associated with terrorism in people’s minds. We don’t have any problems with evolution and seem to be pretty chill with the whole gay marriage thing. Our panties don’t tend to get into a twist about other people’s very personal choices. Overall, we don’t tend to make a big fuss or even statements about political matters. And hell, and the most famous Buddhist in the world is a beloved public figure with a great laugh, twinkly eyes and a Nobel Peace Prize under his robes, to boot.

So, when the whole issue of Tibet comes up, the Dalai Lama and the Tibet supporters tend to get a very sympathetic hearing. Even people who don’t understand the whole history of the issue tend to come down on the side of Tibet simply because the picture in their minds of the Dalai Lama and Buddhist monks and nuns is that of peace and compassion. This positive image is a huge weapon in the arsenal of the pro-Tibet camp.

Oh? What’s this? Why are these Buddhist monks and nuns protesting the Dalai Lama? Oh lordy, lordy, it’s Tibetan Buddhism’s dirty laundry getting strung up for all the world to see. It’s the Dorje Shudgden controversy rearing its ugly head again.

The controversy is quite complex and there are plenty of resources on the web on both sides if you really want to dig deep. However, here’s a thumbnail sketch from my perspective: Years ago, Geshe Kelsang Gyatso (aka Geshe-la) who is the founder of the New Kadampa Tradition got into a rift with the Dalai Lama over a dharma protector/demon (depending on your view) named Dorje Shugden. My feeble understanding is that the Dalai Lama views Dorje Shugden as a demon who is out to harm the Dalai Lama as well as the future of Tibet. In 1996 he asked his followers to no longer engage in any practices worshipping/propitiating to Dorje Shugden. To do so would be to go against His Holiness’ well being as well as the Tibetan cause. Geshe-la, on the other hand, views Dorje Shugden to be an integral part of the lineage that both he and the Dalai Lama share. In fact, to NOT do Dorje Shugden practice would be going against their teacher Trijang Rimpoche. In Tibet, after the ban, reports say that Dorje Shugden practitioners were being oppressed and harassed. The conflict gets ugly and people on both sides are harmed, and even murdered. Geshe-la joins the fight on the side of the Shugden practitioners and calls for his students in the NKT to protest the Dalai Lama outside his speaking engagements in the States and Europe. The reputation of the NKT got pretty tarnished. Geshe-la eventually gave up the cause publicly. The NKT continued to practice Shugden. Outside certain Tibetan Buddhist circles no one really cared.

Apparently, because there has been recent activity against Shugden practitioners in Tibet, the NKT is once again taking up the picket line against the Dalai Lama. When I first heard this, I shook my head in dismay. While my NKT days are now behind me, I still have good friends who study and practice within the NKT. These may be very confusing times for them. I remember when I was asked to participate in the protests of a decade ago. Here I was this relatively new practitioner, and being offered a free trip to New York City. New York City!? I love New York! Oh, if I accept the free trip, I have to participate in the protest against the Dalai Lama . . . uh . . . um . . . no, no thank you. The issue made me uncomfortable then, and it makes me uncomfortable now.

I don’t know who is wrong or who is right, or if there is even a wrong or a right in the matter. If the Dalai Lama is truly oppressing the people who wish to practice Shugden, that is wrong. Right? I mean, most people would agree that religious intolerance is wrong, and when we see it happening, good hearted people should stand up for the oppressed. Yet, doesn’t the Dalai Lama, as the spiritual leader of most of Tibetan Buddhism, have a right to change doctrine? But, what about his role as the political leader of Tibet? Can you truly have both a political and spiritual leader without advocating a theocracy? Tibet is really the only country I know where people long for the old days of the theocracy.

I guess my real problem is the timing of these protests. With the Beijing Olympics putting the Tibet issue on the front page, how messed up is it that a splinter group comes and tries to move the spotlight into this little known corner of Tibetan infighting. I mean, come on . . . Also, the NKT, as an organization seems to be going through some turbulent times and people’s faith is really being put to the test. Who knows, maybe that is the point. Maybe the point is shake people out of their comfort zone, to strip them of their attachment to good reputation and to test if they truly have reliance upon their spiritual guide. I don’t understand it. I’m really hoping that the reasons behind the protests do have to do with religious freedom and justice, and not anger or power or wanting to suck up to the Chinese government.

I’m glad this is not my battle. I don’t want to fight. All I can do is pray: may everyone be happy, and may everyone be free from misery.

 

The thief of sleep

I can’t help but wonder if there is some exotic foreign or mythical sounding nickname meaning “thief of sleep” that I can bestow upon the boyfriend. I wouldn’t want him to know I’m calling him a thief of sleep, because he always looks so sad and crestfallen whenever I try to explain that he just has this way of fucking with my sleep without even trying.

You must excuse me if I am a little cranky. Less than hour ago I was enjoying a lovely nap after having finished a very good book. All the proper conditions were being met for a good nap: the proper nap time (naps must be started no earlier than 2:30 and no later than 3:30) and the proper company (naps must be shared with at least one feline companion). I don’t nap very often, what with the full-time office job, and on the weekends I’m usually involved in some other activity during prime napping hours. The boyfriend, on the other hand, is all about the naps. That man engages in at least one nap a day. He has no rules around when he’ll nap. If the urge hits him and there is a bed near by, down he goes for the count. Since he works from his home and can set his own hours, anytime is nap time. I am partially disgusted by how indulgent he is when it comes to naps, and I’m also kind of jealous that he can do it frequently and with such ease.

Anyway, as happens 8 out of 10 times I try to take a nap, he inadvertently wakes me up. Today it was with a phone call. Others time it’s by clomping into my house in search of me or one of the cats to come greet him like a conquering hero. Arrrggggggg!

Perhaps I am overly delicate when it comes to my sleep habits, but I always have a hard time falling asleep when he is here. Despite his abundance of naps during the day, he inevitably heads to bed before I do. Even if I’m tired, I stay up later so as to give him time to fall into a deep sleep before I slip into bed myself. Normally, this happens after I’ve fallen asleep myself on the couch. Gingerly I creep into bed while I am still in a half slumber hoping I can just pick up where I left off mere minutes ago. It doesn’t tend to work. Even if he was sleeping somewhat soundly, the sounds of my getting into bed rouse him into enough consciousness where he’ll throw a leg or arm - usually both - over me and then fall back into a deep sleep. I feel trapped and within seconds a deep wave of anxiety washes over me which then turns into adrenalin, and I end up bolting from the bed. (OK. Fine. This doesn’t always happen, but I’m cranky and can make gross over-generalizations if I want to.)

I can avoid this bedtime drama if I remember to take a Tylenol PM early enough in the evening so that the anxiety of feel trapped can’t break through the grogginess. I have found that growling at him or a petulant “don’t” right before the leg or arm toss sometimes helps, and he turns back over and falls back asleep within seconds. And since he’s such a sound sleeper, he rarely remembers being growled at.

Oh well, I didn’t want a nap anyway . . . yeah, yeah I did. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Damn thief of sleep.

 

Spirtuality for the masses?

A year or so ago, that very concept of spirituality for the masses would have made me wince, and perhaps smile meekly and say “whatever works”. However, inside I would harbor my doubts and my judgments about any path that wasn’t mine. You see, I was a spiritual snob. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.

I never considered myself a fundamentalist by any stretch. I did believe that there are many paths up the mountain, and many qualified guides, so I never believed that the New Kadampa Tradition had the exclusive pipeline to enlightenment. Yet, I believed that to get to the top of the mountain it took effort, lots and lots of effort, and study, and time and devotion and more time and more effort . . . I had amassed a vast array of empowerments, and vows and commitments, believing the hype that I needed to take full advantage of all the precious spiritual opportunities that came my way. We had the “pure” tradition, after all, so as long as I went along with the program my enlightenment was guaranteed. So, why read other teachers? It’ll just cause confusion. It made sense to me, and still does to some extent, to find one guide up the mountain and follow him/her no matter how arduous the path. Jumping from guide to guide, from path to path, will only slow down your journey to enlightenment. And that would be foolish, right?

With the help of my new teacher, Anam Thubten Rimpoche, I recognize that all I was really doing was adding a new layer of identity (or ego) - that of “Buddhist”. I was replacing my mundane delusions with the beautiful illusions of Buddhism. Rather than search for the ultimate truth, I was busy decorating my very conventional truths with tangkas and statues and all the other trappings of a “good” Tibetan Buddhist. Anam admits that he is a bit of a one trick pony as a teacher. All he teaches is emptiness, the ultimate truth. Our Buddha nature is not merely this seed that needs watering to grow into full Buddhahood, but is rather here with us now, fully grown. We merely have drop all the layers of illusions, beautiful or not, for it to be revealed.

A few weeks back, my friend John and I went to Carmel for some teachings by Anam (sorry, I probably should be calling him Rimpoche or some such term of respect, but it feels like an affectation). It was a great weekend, and it was wonderful to get some one-on-one time with him. During one of the breaks, we were talking to a woman whom I think of as his assistant. Let’s call her Natalia. She had a book by Eckhart Tolle with her and was telling us about these webinars that Oprah, of all people, was doing with him. Immediately, I felt my snob mind kick in. Eckhart Tolle? Oh plu-eeze. I tried to read the Power of Now a while back and I simply couldn’t get through it. It felt like it was watered down Buddhism, and since I was studying the real thing, I figured this guy had nothing to teach me. Oprah? I have proudly said I have never watched her show. Anyway, Natalia handed us the book and said basically these were teachings on emptiness, and isn’t it amazing that millions of people are tuning in each week. Looking through the book briefly, it did appear that guy really did have something to say. And it was indeed pretty amazing that millions of people were even interested in how to let go of the ego, rather than how to build it up.

Perhaps there is indeed a spiritual revolution going on, and it has nothing to do with religion. Perhaps it will be a TV personality that points the way by introducing the masses to teachers who distill the wisdom of many traditions to a form that people can understand and practice. Who am I to poo-poo it? Personally I don’t care if someone worships Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad, a blade of grass, a Phillips screwdriver, or nothing at all. As long as whatever they practice or believe leads them to be a kinder, more caring person towards all living beings, and not merely those who believe or look as they do, I don’t care what form their spirituality takes. If more people were happy and at peace with themselves the world would be a far, far better place. And that’s what we all want, isn’t it? So whether it is Buddha or Oprah who leads us there, it doesn’t really matter to me anymore.

 

I’m so mean

Doris is not speaking to me . . . again.

Doris, you see, thinks I’m mean.  Doris has accused me of such crimes as calling her a homophobe, calling her mother shallow, and believing that she is an irresponsible pet owner. 

I don’t think she’s a homophobe, nor do I think her mother is shallow, and I believe she is a good and responsible pet owner. I do believe, however, Doris is crazy.

I have worked with Doris for about six years or so.  Same department, different projects.  So, most of our contact is really purely optional.  I like Doris.  She is a kind and decent person, and definitely a bit quirky.  Granted, in the “real world” we probably wouldn’t be friends as I doubt our social circles would necessarily intersect.  But, here in the work world she is one of the few people I spend any time chatting with.  That is, when she is speaking to me. 

These silent periods can last a couple of days, to close to a month, depending on how deeply I have somehow offended her.  The following exchange resulted in about a week’s silence:

Doris:  What did you do this weekend?
LazyBuddhist: Oh, I went out to Point Isabel for a walk and to hang out with all the dogs.  Sometimes I just need to have a good hit of doggy love.
Doris:  Why don’t you get a dog?
LazyBuddhist:  Well, I work full-time and live alone, I don’t think it would be fair to the dog.
Doris:  That’s not a nice thing to say!
LazyBuddhist:  What? 
Doris:  You’re mean.
LazyBuddhist:  How is that mean?  You asked me why I don’t have a dog and I told you. (Then I remembered - she has a dog and works full time.  Oh shit.)
Doris:  So you think people who work full-time shouldn’t have dogs?
LazyBuddhist:  No, I’m strictly speaking for myself, not making a policy statement or saying what is right for someone else.
Doris:  You should have kept that opinion to yourself. You’re mean.

I know I probably just should have apologized for offending her.  But, I couldn’t.  I’m stubborn that way.  Silent treatment?  Oh, bring it on.  It’s a family specialty.   My stubbornness and pride are not traits I’m proud of, yet I admit I havent’ been terribly interested in changing them.  Perhaps if I had truly been in the wrong, sure, I can swallow my pride with the best of them and do the mea culpa like no one’s bidness.  But for this? No, I don’t think so.  I always let her be the one to re-initiate contact, and everything gets back to normal.  No need for rehashing the past or holding on to grudges.

We had a good run there of being on speaking terms for a couple of weeks.  Our online chats definitely make the day go by faster.  But I have managed to offend her yet again.  I don’t mean to, I really don’t.  Yet, I have to admit I’m starting to find it slightly amusing at how completely unintentionally and easily I can get her panties in a bunch.  

Maybe she’s right.  Maybe I am mean. 

 

I’m sorry Richard Gere

May I call you Richard? Mr. Gere? Oh, I thought we were closer than that. OK, I’m sorry Mr. Gere. I went to the Free Tibet rally in San Francisco with every intention of staying to hear you speak. I was all excited. I left work at a reasonable hour so I could get there when it was supposed to start at 6pm. But then there were technical difficulties and it started 45 minutes late. But I stuck it out even though I was sooo tempted to leave. None of my friends had showed up and I was getting hungry. But, for you, for Tibet, I hung in there. I’m all about the Free Tibet cause, Richard. I mean, Mr. Gere. Sure, I spent a few years feeling a bit suspicious about those who over-romanticized the Tibetan cause, but that was the NKT speaking, not me. Free Tibet! Free Tibet! See?

Anyway, even though they got such a late start with the rally, they decided to go on with all the planned speakers anyway, all 2 hours worth. You do know it gets hella cold in the City at night, especially when the breeze kicks up? And while I can do two hours of standing around, going on three is really, really pushing it. When Archbishop Desmond Tutu spoke around 8pm I got a bit re-energized and figured I could hang in there for you. Boy, he’s almost as lovable a religious leader as the Dalai Lama. I could totally see those two hanging out together. Then they had a Tibetan musical group perform. Nice interlude before the final act - you. Nope. There were yet more speakers. I couldn’t take it, Rich, I mean Mr. Gere. I had to go home. My feet were killing me. I was freezing, and I was hungry.

Can I tell you something? I’ve had a crush on you ever since we were both young and had dark hair. You were in American Gigalo and I was a junior at UC Berkeley. Oh my, you made my lady parts all tingly. We kind grew apart in the mid to late 80’s. We both made some bad choices, you in movie parts, and me in life in general. But, in the 90’s we started to get together again. You became one of the world most famous Buddhists, and I got in therapy and later discovered Buddhism for myself. We had something in common again. Sure, a lot of people say you’re a pompous ass, but they don’t know you like I do. I love your good works for Tibet and AIDS, I adore the fact that you let you hair go silver, and frankly in my eyes, you’re still a hottie.

So, I’m sorry Richard Gere I didn’t stick around and here you speak. I’m sure you were awesome and inspiring.

 

So wrong, but so funny

Thanks to Nice Melons for pointing me to this site.

 

Simple pleasures (part 1)

This morning as I was sitting in the sun-room reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat Pray Love” (and thank you to all those who recommended that to me) and her ruminations about the nature of pleasure, I realized that in that very moment that I was sitting in a big ol’ pool of pleasure myself. There is nothing so soothing as the feeling of the sun on my face. At first the pleasure is only skin deep, but as I continue to sit with it, it goes deeper to melt away all the worries and compulsive thoughts that plague my waking consciousness. And soon consciousness itself starts to burn away as I fall into a sun-induced nap.

Growing up in Southern California, most of the summer months were spent laying out in the sun and working on my tan. And it was work! Really, it was. A lot of strategy went into getting that tan. Even though I tanned easily, there was still competitive pressure to have the darkest tan. At the time (back in the 70’s) tanning lotions advertised not their SPF and protective qualities, but rather their ability to get you a deep dark tan. After trying many different lotions, I believe Ban du Soleil was the lotion of choice, but it was expensive. I usually just stuck with my old stand-by Johnson’s Baby Oil (I think we even experimented briefly with vegetable oil, but that just felt nasty). Even though I never got quite as dark as my friend Mary (she was cheating though; she claimed to have some Native American blood in her, so her skin started out darker than my German/Irish skin), it didn’t matter when we were laying there in the sun with nary a thought in our cute little teenage minds. When the tipping point was reached and the pleasure was becoming pain, we simply jumped into her pool to cool down a bit and talk about boys. And then we’d reapply our oil or lotion and start all over again. After the sun had moved away, we’d check our tan lines to assess our progress and then plan our evening to go out and show off our hard work.

Of course, that was all before people talked about the link between skin cancer and the sun. I feel bad for kids growing up now fearing the sun what with their parents slathering them with SPF 1000 lotion and protective clothing before they step foot outside. And sure, maybe as adults they have less sun spots on their skin, less wrinkles and perhaps less worries about the odd mole and such. But still, nothing beats the pleasure of basking mindlessly in the sun.

 

What is this thing you call “dancing”?

I don’t understand dancing.

Seriously, I don’t get it. Never really have. I doubt I ever will. I don’t like to dance. I have no desire to dance. Dancing, to me, is just a waste of perfectly good music that could be appreciated quietly with perhaps a bop of the head to the beat.

I have the rarest of commodities - a boyfriend who not only enjoys dancing, but knows how to dance, has even taken lessons in various forms of dance. Early in our relationship, he would want to go out dancing, particularly Cajun dancing. He learned rather quickly my discomfort with dancing and my disinterest in getting over that discomfort. Seriously, I am quite happy just listening and appreciating the band. I think there is nothing sexier than people playing music, and it’s something I really enjoy watching . . . while sitting still . . . perhaps bopping my head . . . and, on rare occasions, a tap of the toes.

Whenever Tangerine (the cat) walks by my television when it is on, she pauses, cocks her head and stares awhile at the screen with a curious look that says “what is this all about then?” I think that is much the way I look whenever I encounter people dancing whether in person or on TV. It simply does not compute. And I think the most confusing of all dance is ballroom dancing. I mean seriously, wtf??

The boyfriend doesn’t understand my aversion to dancing. So, I am left clumsily trying to explain why I don’t like dancing. The best reasons I can come up? I don’t like the idea of always having to follow the man’s lead. I think it stupid and sexist. It’s all just an old-fashioned mating ritual.  We’re beyond that now. And here’s the reason I’m really not proud of, but I find dancers to be really stupid and shallow. I don’t know how I got this notion in my head. It’s probably not true in all cases. In fact, I know it’s not true. I even have a friend who is a ballroom dancing teacher, and she is far from stupid and shallow. Yet, in my mind, whenever I think of someone who is really into dancing, that is my first impression. Who knows how I got that notion in my head.  Perhaps I never like the girls who took dance in high school.  Maybe it is a hold-over of being told I was uncoordiated and clumsy as a child. 

However, I do love old Hollywood musicals, and the singing and dancing is what I love most about Bollywood movies. And, just lately I have found myself watching with perverse curiosity the television phenomenon “Dancing with the Stars”. First, I was fascinated by what was passing for “stars” these days, and secondly by how seriously these people take this whole dance thing (and thirdly by Priscilla Presley’s plasticized face).   And while it is an amusing way to pass an hour or two, the show has done nothing to change my mind regarding the complete nonsensical nature of dancing, nor the intellectual prowess of professional dancers.

Well, now that I have insulted a vast number of people who enjoy dancing, I think I’ll go curl up back inside my head where I tend to live much of the time.

 

Restless night

This week is hardly turning out to be as I had hoped.  In my imagination this week would include reading, some gardening, cleaning, napping, sorting out the boxes in the sun-room and finished off with a fabulous weekend in Carmel.  Well, two out of six isn’t bad, I guess.

There were more aftershocks this week from my f-up of a couple of weeks back.  So, I ended up working two days this week, and spending more time than I would like to admit with my mind spinning out of control, conjuring all the horrible consequences that may befall me.

After the first aftershock had subsided, the boyfriend and I did get one productive day together where we cleaned out the sun-room and sorted through about a dozen boxes that had been piled up in there ever since I moved in about a year ago.   It felt good to get all that cleared out.  Then another aftershock hit, and there was nothing I could do about it until the morning. Yeah, there goes that good night’s sleep that usually comes after a day of honest hard labor.

Maybe the t-shirt slogan “If mama ain’t happy, no one is happy” holds some truth.  Or in my case, “if mama can’t sleep, no one else can either”.  So, here are some of the thoughts that kept the beings of Chez LazyBuddhist up much of the night:

LazyBuddhist:  I’m sure that phone call meant nothing . . . he just needed some information . . . I mean, who calls someone to fire them while their on PTO?  . . . OK I have 10 weeks of vacation on the books, that 2 1/2 months of my regular salary . . . maybe I’ll get a roommate so I can reduce my living costs in case I can’t find a job that will match my current salary . . . the boyfriend said he’ll take the cats in case I lose the house . . .  who will take the rabbit?

Tangerine (the semi-feral): Dang, what is up with the One Who Feeds Me?  Go to sleep already so I can have my free-time.  Oh screw it, I think I’ll just run from room to room, periodically stopping to claw the furniture really frantically.  Heeyy Alaska.  Do you mind if I curl up here with you?  You can give me a tongue bath if you want.  You’re not into it?  Oh, that’s cool.  Can I give you a tongue bath? Really, I give great tongue baths.  No?  Hey, where are you going?

Alaska: Gawd! Why can’t that girl take a hint?  I’m just not into her that way, ya know?  I mean, it’s not that I’m not into some sweet young marmalade pussy cat.  I may be neutered, but I’m not dead.  But, damn, she’s relentless.  Looks like mom is tossing and turning, I think I’ll go grace her with my presence.  Besides, she’s nice and warm.  I’m less than pleased about her turning down all the thermostats.  I mean, I’m not the one who screwed up at work and may lose her job due to her own stupidity, so why am I the one who has to suffer a cold house?   There there, mom, your old boy is here . . .

Sasquatch: ZZzZZZZZZZzzzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzz  Hey!  No kicking!  What?  I wasn’t snoring?  You snore!  Sorry, I didn’t mean that.  Here, let me come up and lick your hand for a while.  Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.  See, don’t you feel better now?  ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz

Mr. Binkles: What the bloody hell is going on here?  Where are my boxes?  How am I going to get on top of the cabinet now?  I think I’ll take a running leap . . . ouch!  Maybe not.  Perhaps if I clang my pen around, the Big Bunny will come and put everything back in its place.  Hmmm.  Maybe not.  I think I’ll take a running leap . . . ouch!  Right.  That didn’t work the first time.  Oh screw it.  I think I’ll just take a nap in my litter box and try again in an hour or so.