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Feeling groovy…

Groovy –adj. groov·i·er, groov·i·est Slang Very pleasing; wonderful.

In the realm of my being it is not very often, the feeling of ‘groovy’ in my world comes around.  Actually, it’s rare.  But when it does, it tends to stick on my shirt sleeve for about an hour or so before moving on to its next honourary recipient (depending on how one views this, for feeling groovy is not good for those who are quite content to wallow in misery).

Feeling groovy for me is as the definition above states: very pleasing; wonderful. For a few minutes I am in bliss, over an accomplishment, thought, a good read, a good piece of writing, a really good sermon or Pi Patel not engaging in negative dogspeak with the brown Piti at Ppark to name a few.

This is how I feel when I am feeling groovy as demonstrated by Pi Patel.

This is how the boys act when I’m feeling groovy. groovy

Their reaction does not matter for it is my groovy and not theirs. They feel groovy at biscuit time, bath time, Ppark time, feeding time, sleeping time and especially at belly rubbing time. Bless them, for they have no triggerings to get them to their state of groovy and once there, it lingers well past an hour before naptime.

I wish my feeling groovy was in sync with those around me, than a massive groovy fest could occur.

Unfortunately, groovy is as groovy does not as groovy as one wants it to be. When I feel groovy and others do not, I see them and their views as raining down on my groovy. I long to seek solitude and surround myself with incense and singing bowls in order to keep my groovy as long as I can while creating a chain link fence of spiritual strength to block out the ungrooviness of others.

Right now, at this time. I feel groovy.

Slow down, you move too fast, you’ve got to make the morning last
Just kickin’ down the cobble-stones, lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy

Feeling groovy

Hello lamp-post, what’s cha knowing, I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’
Ain’t cha got no rhymes for me, do-it-do-do, feelin’ groovy

Feeling groovy

I’ve got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me

Life I love you, all is groovy-Simon and Garfunkel

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The Sun will come out tomorrow…

I am sitting here at work listening to a client screaming profanity of the most creative kind at the staff. She is upset, very upset and frustrated at not hearing from the housing agency on whether she was awarded a place to live.

I do not know if the hope for a better tomorrow pulsates in the heart of this client or if the hope is snuffed out with just another day of scamming, lying, cheating, drinking, smoking and scrapping.

I am sitting here at work listening to a client crying hysterically because she left her cell phone charging in the cafeteria to go to the bathroom and upon her return the phone was gone. Her anger and rage were not directed towards the loss of the phone but rather what the phone contained-the pictures of her son and lawyer contact.

I do not know if tomorrow will solve the location of her phone or if the loss of the pictures is the final push into severe depression and chemical abuse.

I am sitting here at work listening to a client singing a Whitney Houston song. She sings loudly off key and I secretly wish for earplugs to muffle the sound. But, I have no earplugs and the singing, (or more like a banshee in heat wailing) continues.

I do not know if tomorrow will bring the same happiness this client felt while singing or if the singing is replaced by extreme depressive outbursts once the drugs run out and wear off.

I am sitting here at work listening to the outside sounds of the neighbourhood I work in. It is a mixture of police and fire truck sirens, car horns blaring, garbage trucks rolling and loading, yelling and screaming with an occasional laugh thrown in.

I do know tomorrow will bring the same sounds, the same sensory abuse of the nerves and whether I am sitting at this desk or in another country, the same sounds will continue to repeat.

So goes another Monday morning of normal activity at the shelter. Rainy weather tends to brings out extreme emotional reactions as the clients are cooped up inside a cement block building with little activities to keep them occupied or distracted. The same holds for some of the staff who work in this same environment-forty hour a week.

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To be or not to be…

I am THE self-saboteur of the most unflinching kind. The irony in honouring myself with the title lies in my inability to realize when my self- sabotaging occurs. I guess that’s why I’m so good at it-it takes years to discover the outcome of the self-sabotage but only seconds to execute and dissolve what might have been.

At this time, going into specifics and personal details of my past self-sabotages, would only ignite sadness. Picking through the rubble of horribly made decisions and rediscovering the skeleton remains of their consequences is not a good thing for the alma (soul). A quick backward glance at the past does permit clarity and sometimes answers into the cause of the self-sabotage but as long as the glance remains a glance. Wallowing in the realization of the destruction caused by self- sabotage can do permanent harm.

‘Googling’ a fixed definition on what self-sabotage is, resulted in endless hits of personal sites with personal testaments too endless to write in this blog.

Instead, I will write my own.

The act of self-sabotage is personal and involves disrupting the outcome of a possibly good thing unfolding for the self. For example, take an attempt to climb the corporate ladder. The credentials and degrees are in place, the years in the biz accumulated and the references secured but the interview for the VP of such and such departments takes less than 10 minutes. By wearing sneakers and not removing the large silver hoops in the nose piercings, the candidate sabotaged the chance for promotion. One could say, the forgetting to dress appropriate is legit, but seriously, if you really want that job or feel you truly deserve it, you would not forget to remove the piercings and most certainly would endure the pain of five-inch heels or shoe tip pinchers to get the job.

Of course, this is sedate compared to how far and deep self-sabotage can go.

Relationships can be self-sabotaged when one wants more than the other wants and seeks to cement an inseparable bond as in a pregnancy, which appears unplanned though really planned.  Feelings of worthlessness and creating situations which reinforce these negative feelings are usually led by self-sabotage as in: I’m fat, so I’ll keep on eating, since I’m fat anyway, and I’ll never get skinny, I might as well keep on eating, Lay’s potato chips, one chip at a time until the whole bag is gone…and then since I gained 10 pounds, I’ll get another bag…this ends here.

Is there a solution towards ending the self-sabotage reign?

I guess acknowledging the sabotaging is the first step. Then a search for triggers, which is what makes it happen to begin with, and then analyzing the possible root cause behind the self-sabotage.  And finally, finding help in coming to terms with it. stop-self-sabotage-behaviour

For me, self-sabotage is about control and negative feelings. Often, my worried state of mind tends to frolic in the past, skip through the present and sit anxiously awaiting for the grass to grow in the future. It is critical for my state of mind to be in the present.

As the sage Oogway in “Kung Fu Panda”, said to Po Ping, “…You are too concern about what was and what will be… Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift…that’s why it is called present…”

 

*illustration from the web

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Thoughts on meditation…

As I continue my meditation practice, I‘ve come across writings, chanting, music, attended meditation sessions and the 14th Dalai Lama (no, we have not met, just through his writings). Needless to say, I am in the Buddha zone of the most delightful kind.

Exploring Tibetan Buddhism continues to be an adventure in discovery, critical thinking and practice. As I read various writings and teachings by lay persons and lamas, I gain clarity and new perspectives. Of course putting what I’ve learned to physical practice is different than reading about it.  Words in print can be glorified, oohed and awed over. Trying to get them to leave the page is another matter!

The Eightfold Path is one of many tenets within Tibetan Buddhism and shares similarities, in a strange way, with the Ten Commandments in that both are implemented towards spiritual growth and an enlighten way of life. The difference between the two, in my opinion, lies in presentation and tone. The Eightfold encourages changes which strive towards enlightenment while the Commandments, command. Do good, go to heaven, do bad…well we know where that leads to.

I was baptized a Catholic, attended Jehovah’s Kingdom Hall while a Catholic, later confirmed as an Episcopalian and now meditate as a Buddhist (or attempting – after all I am in the beginning stages). And no, I’m not imitating Pi Patel’s religious dabble from the book but at times it feels as if curiosity fuels the skipping, stumbling and jumping down the spiritual journey path.

The Eightfold

  1. Right View-See things as they are not what you wish them to be
  2. Right Intention-commitment to ethical behaviour
  3. Right Speech-abstain from false speech, no lies or deceit, abstain from harsh words or slanderous speech or to speak maliciously against others, abstain from idle chatter that lacks purpose of depth
  4. Right Action-abstain from harming sentient beings,
  5. Right Livelihood-no dealing in weapons, in human beings (slave trade/prostitution), raising animals for slaughter, working in meat and production and butchery, selling alcohol or drugs
  6. Right Effort-to prevent unwholesome states
  7. Right Mindfulness-contemplation of body, contemplation of feeling,
  8. Right Concentration-meditation

The Ten Commandments

  1. Do not worship other gods
  2. Do not worship idols
  3. Do not misuse God’s name
  4. Keep the Sabbath holy
  5. Honour your father and mother
  6. Do not murder
  7. Do not commit adultery
  8. Do not steal
  9. Do not lie
  10. Do not covet
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If I frustrate you, will you frustrate me…

imagesfrus•tra•tion
[ fru stráysh’n ]

1. dissatisfaction: a feeling of disappointment, exasperation, or weariness caused by goals being thwarted or desires unsatisfied
2. frustrating of somebody or something: an act or instance of causing somebody or something to be dissatisfied or unfulfilled
3. something that thwarts: something that blocks, thwarts, and upsets somebody all at the same time

-Frustration begins as a speck on my eyelash then erupts into a sty

-It consumes and attaches to the muscles in my neck and back with a vice-like grip, akin to a dog’s teeth holding fast to rawhide

-Seldom does a dog get frustrated at the rawhide, for the rawhide slowly unravels and dismantles under the endless gnawing leaving the sated dog justified

-My neck and back muscles clench up in the kind of tightness a heating pad will not ALWAYS dissolve

-My tolerance towards frustration is low, extremely low –Frustration+Low Tolerance=Stress

-AND that leads to mass consumption of Pringles original which adds layer upon layer of fat unto my belly which makes it difficult for my Gastroenterologist to feel my organs and let’s not mention what my Gyno goes through!!!!!

-Frustration is worse than the green-eyed monster for it is colourless and obscure, seeking shelter beneath all other psychological stuff, while jealousy…well it’s almost always apparent and it really is green!

-Cartoon characters are consistently forced into frustration in order to make the reader laugh, like poor Charlie Brown’s obsession with the football and its outcome

-or the Coyote

-the Wolf with the pigs

-Elmer Fudd

-Sylvester

-this stops here.

-If payroll is due by 5pm Tuesday and the supervisor in department A turns it in on Wednesday at 12pm would I be arrested for giving him/her Ex-lax disguised as Hershey?

-Frustration will be here FOREVER. How I choose to deal with its effects on me is my problem-only…

**image from the internet

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The Christian thing to do…

At one time, I thought being a part of a church would lead to spiritual growth.

At one time, I thought parishioners cared about the health and well-being of one another.

At one time, I thought attending services would lead to understanding and deeper appreciation of the Holy Scriptures.

I thought wrong.

Just because one is, a Christian does not automatically make them one and then again, my definition on what a Christian should be is just that, my definition.  My Christianity or what I believe defines me as one, are based on my own experiences and interactions within the church. No two experiences are similar, nor are scripture interpretations, prayers said, if at all, after communion, or what hat is appropriate for Easter. Christianity is a self-thing not communal as I once thought, which, proved to be wrong as well.

The Ten Commandments are a Christians’ guide to living life, but what one perceives as coveted could be another’s’ striving to attain the American dream. (Although the six room mansion with an indoor pool and marble bathroom is a bit much). If we truly loved one another, we would put forth the love we’d like to receive and not bear false witness with gossiping, lying, and acting incredibly cruel because we can. We would not cheat, murder (squashing an idea before it has roots is murder of the mind kind), or say, “OMG” at the slightest impulse or adulation of whatever.

Lessons I rather not learn are learnt. 551-001

Christians or parishioners are not the apostles, nor is the preacher, Jesus or God.

At one time, I thought, at least at my church, we, the parishioners were to mimic the apostles in spreading the good word and treating each other with love and kindness, as Jesus taught.

At one time, I thought the priest, preacher, rector or whatever the correct pc title is, were the instruments of God and through Jesus’ life and preaching would lead by example.

I thought wrong.

What I find are parishioners who are mean, afraid and quite frankly, lost. What I find is conflict and abusiveness with the leadership. What I find is a person, me, who once so adored her church, torn with a lack of trust in what is said and done. Well, what is said and not done or what should be said and done or not doing or saying anything at all.

I don’t know if I am the Christian I would like to be. It is hard to tear away the layers and see the truth that maybe in some way I am like those whom I criticize. Worse, is seeing the truth and not knowing what to do with it.

Transitions continue, welcomed or not, bearing good news or showing up the ugly truths.

Instead of participating in this Lenten season, I find quietness, comfort and solace within my Forward Movement, at home with a bag of Frito lays.

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Compassion…

Compassion is that which makes the heart of the good move at the pain of others. It crushes and destroys the pain of others; thus, it is called compassion. It is called compassion because it shelters and embraces the distressed. – The Buddha.

Practicing compassion on a daily basis is not easy and at times I wonder if it will ever be. I would like the practice of compassion to be infused within my being so it becomes like breathing -done without much thought, except when I inhale someone’s disgusting cigarette smoke.

But, every day experiences or situations where compassion is most needed, at times, is almost impossible to produce.

Situations like:

1. Dealing with emotional bats, otherwise known as emotional vampires-those lovely people who literally suck the marrow outta ya then fill the crevices with their overbearing problems. I prefer to use the term emotional leeches for literary visual impact. Bats are pretty cute while leeches, (those crafty blood suckers) are flat-out UGLY!

Bat5[1]Z2050095-Medicinal_leech-SPL[1]

OR

2.  Viewing yet another rape crime on the media and plotting with friends on how to introduce legislation that allows male castration as a form of punishment or better yet castration with a dose of Frank’s hot sauce after the procedure. Yes, compassion is not available at this time, only revenge on the p***s kind…now, what if the perp is a woman…?

thCAJDHBLQ

Yes, the examples are not nice but that’s the irony of compassion-it’s not meant to be utilized solely for the feely good things, the charities, the Hurricane survivors, the down on their luck person, etc.

For me, compassion does come easy when the situations or events fall under the feely good things. It flows endlessly, no questions pondered or second thoughts. But, place in front of me a complainer, an agitator, a supervisor who uses me to do his work while he sits in his office and watches movies on his NOOK, neglected animals at the hands of neglected humans, verbal bullies who hurt emotionally with words…this can go, but it stops here, and my compassion which normally resides in mi alma has conveniently moved to my foot.

Yes, the complainer may have painful things going on inside, the agitator may be acting from pain, the supervisor…well…the supervisor may feel his work is inferior and therefore engages in movie viewing on the job (while raking in a big salary) to pacify his deflated ego and now my compassion has moved from my foot to my stomach.

My meditation practice of Tibetan Buddhism centers on compassion, which is essential towards enlightenment. In order to put forth compassion unto others, I must first have compassion towards myself. There are a few things about me that do not permit my compassion. I can be a complainer, an agitator but not one who watches movies at work or neglects animals or bullies with words. If I disdain those traits in others, how do I deal with them within myself?

Right now, I read, I try to practice and hopefully in due time a teacher will find me and gently lead me on the correct path towards compassion.

**photos taken off the internet

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Those who are full of themselves…

Full of themselves-to be full of oneself or one’s own importance-Word Reference Mine[1]

Those who are full of Themselves:

-are downright annoying if you are stuck in the company of one

– will make you meditate to Buddha for loving/kindness and throw in a prayer to the One and only if you are stuck in the company of two or more!

-are self-righteous and love to sit on imaginary pedestals of grandeur as the ‘ordinaries’ muddle about at their feet

– are the cause of severe trauma to the mind and ears for the mind will strain to dissect through the verbal bull and the ears will develop extra wax to block out the irritating shrill of their voice (this has yet to happen to me, but I thought I’d put it out there)

Those who are Full of themselves:

-believe they are the only ones who have talent of any kind

-believe the world centers on and revolves around their schedules, thoughts, needs, wants…

-believe their way is the way, the only way and the ONE’s way needs major adjusting

-believe they are the cream of nectar, do not smell and can wear the same underwear for days on end (not necessarily true, but who cares?)

Those who are full of them Selves:

-may lack self worth

-may be insecure in the most unhealthy way

-may be full of them selves due to the fullness of past abuse endured

-may NEED the most compassion, understanding and patience from a person who is not full of them selves can give

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What the buddha…

‘Prayer is talking to God
Meditation is listening to God’- meditation teacher from Introduction to Meditation

Buddha-w

The other night, I went to an Intro to Meditation class at the Tibet House in NYC.

The teacher, a commanding presence in a room full of ‘wanna be’ meditation practitioners, was straightforward in her lecture style, which began with an inquiry into students’ meditation practices. After listening to the different styles, breathing techniques and so forth, she proceeded to dismiss most of the students’ practices. In other words, their meditation practice lacked technique, structure or a teacher’s guidance, which would cloud clarity.

This was alarming news to those ‘wanna bees’ who thought they were meditating the correct way. Presently, I am a meditation explorer, testing the waters, dipping my big toe in anticipation of diving into this practice. I am as green as a lime when it comes to knowledge of meditation techniques and secretly aspire to become a ‘wanna be’!

The teacher wanted to know why we came to the intro on such a cold night. One student stated she came to learn how to gain more focus and control her wandering mind during meditation. The teacher prompted the student to elaborate. The student responded reflectively and declared her wandering mind interferes with her yoga rendering her attempt at advanced poses.

The teacher’s response to the student: “Let it go”.

Silence and static filled the room like a bad smell.

“Let it go. If you can’t do the poses, let it go. If it’s not enjoyable, let it go”.

More silence and I thought I heard some students gathering up their belongings and coats.

I finally got it.

The teacher’s ‘Let it go’, was not to be taken by its literal sense. The teacher wanted the student to see the pressure she was placing upon herself, by her own expectations. Instead of finding enjoyment in the movement of her body towards forming the poses, she fixated on attaining proper form as well as the expectation of the yoga teacher. The student placed all these constraints on herself and it interfered with the enjoyment of yoga for yoga’s sake.

“Let it go”, meant let go of the constraints placed upon yourself, let go of what is preventing you from enjoyment-not let go of the activity-unless the activity itself is not causing joy.

That made good sense to me.

So, I put into this into practice and found myself letting go, last night, during a running workshop. Yes, I caved in and with the flow of transitions guiding me, enrolled in a Beginner’s running group. The group meets Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings for training until the end of March.

I am not a night person and thought running at night would be disastrous.

It is not.

I am a morning person and enjoy the runs on Sunday.

I do.

The group is competitive.

I am not.

I am not the first to reach the finish nor am I the last.

It does not matter.

Running or penguin running for me is better than a glass of wine or eating a Nathan’s hot dog.

During last night’s run, the sound of my feet climbing the hills was mesmerizing as I felt the cold wind down my throat. I stopped to pet every dog along the way, even the French bulldog who got a little too friendly. I smiled at people and the heaviness of working at the shelter no longer placed pressure on my chest.
I reached the finish and stretched out the kinks in my legs.

Pressure, criticism, worry, doubts, contradictions or expectations were not riding my back with the imaginary monkeys.

I just ran like a penguin and it felt incredibly good.

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At this moment…

January 30, 2013

At this moment, I find myself in the midst of transitions of the most unexpected and most gentle kind.

At this moment, I overheard mom talking to her half-sister over the phone. Another McCalla, Victor McCalla, my mother’s brother died. Death is usually the only reason a McCalla would contact another McCalla. The drama of he said, she said and there will be no burial, cremation, and the ashes will sit on the living room shelf until someone goes to Honduras mantra starts after the death announcement.

If I remained a Walsh, my reaction to this news, the mantra not the death, would be comic relief but since I became a McCalla my reaction to the mantra remains, trying not to react. I always cry at the news of death.

Mom’s side of the family is dysfunctional and I believe Webster honoured them with the definition. Mom’s family is also large. Out of ten children, only four are presently alive and only two communicate maybe once a year. Two are on the east coast, two on the west and east does not speak to west.

All the McCalla’s (except me…sigh) were born in Honduras, when Belize was British Honduras. Some were born in Tela, others in Roatan while La Ceiba claimed another. Some were born with Indian hair soft as silk, while others had coarse wavy hair that refused taming with VO5, while yet others had the kinky cotton kind of hair which only  a lye relaxer could control. The relaxer ruined the hair passed down from their ancestors. The hair from Africa by way of Akan, Bantu, Igbo, Fon or possibly Yoruba, way before Scotland via Jamaica than onto Honduras and mixed with a bit of India saturated the blood.

Mi Tío could not stand his African hair. He could not stand his last name either and changed it to Mangroo. It sounded more Indian, which he longed to look like but did not. Mom's brother045

His kidneys could not stand his body for they failed. His weekly battle with the dialysis machine was just that, man against machine and of course, the machine was in control. As the machine cleansed his blood of waste, it also cleansed his alma (soul) leaving it bitter and in disarray.

Was I close to my uncle?

No.

I did not like him. He favoured my light-skinned sisters with Spanish lessons and his version of Indian history. He was mean to me and spoke harshly to me and about me. He once accused my mom of jealousy towards her sister’s kids, for they were born with the wavy hair that refused taming with VO5. I was born with the kinky cotton kind of hair which mom coated with lye relaxer to control.

I hope my uncle, mi tío, is in a better place now. A place where there are no dialysis machines, where he does not have to endure living in his house with an ex-wife and her boyfriend because he refuses to sell and pay off the ex, where skin colour has no meaning and speaking Spanish is irrelevant. I hope the angels are soothing his soul or that karma will take pity on him when he returns.

Once, I could not stand my African hair and yearned to look Indian like my mother with her Indian features and Indian hair, soft as silk. But, God gave me what I was born with for a reason and I am grateful for his gentle everyday reminder of who I am and where I come from.