Which is the True Self’s Instrument: The Body Or The Mind?

New Yorker 2011A few weeks ago, we discovered that a now-former employee skimmed $3300+ from the practice in cash co-pays between January and April. The betrayal of trust was devastating.  Looking back, there were warning signs. But I didn’t see what I saw. I— my mind, not my real Self— didn’t want to. 

What normal person expects such behavior? Why would she do that? It’s so self-defeating. Why is she like that? It makes no sense. Why? Why? Asking why leads only to an infinite loop of whys. Which doesn’t help you regain your equilibrium, make you feel better, or help you figure out what to do. 

Four in a hundred people lack a conscience and most of them blend in. Sooner or later, into each life, a sociopath must fall. My mind denied, but my body knew. It sent me signals of unease and mistrust, then waited for me to catch up and accept it. 

Accepting reality, not understanding it, is what helps. Why? (Ha.) Because: Acceptance clarifies, leading to right action. I wrote up a summary of the evidence, drove to the police station and pressed charges.

The axis of the world tilted back into place. Eating lunch washed the bad taste from my mouth. I felt like a watered plant packing for my Mother’s Day gift from Hubby and Son: a writing weekend at Rowe with Dan Gediman of the NPR radio series, This I Believe. What do I believe? For starters: Trust, but verify. Ha. What else do I believe? I couldn’t wait to find out. 

The phone rang. It was Rowe: Dan Gediman cancelled. Despondency swamped me. I needed to get away, to chew on something nutritious, to recharge.  “If you’d like to transfer to another workshop, we’ll give you a $100 discount on the tuition,” Rowe said. I liked. 

I signed up for Awakening Your True Voice, with Jean McClelland. OMG. What have I done?

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Away Self Pity! Away! A Not-Haibun

New Yorker 2011Not again—

the itch to write, nothing

to say. 

Actually, I always have something to say. The question is: is it worth saying?  My mind— not my real self— says, Duh, no.  How does it know, anyway? Who made it the boss of me? The problem is, I listen. And stagnate.  Great.  Mind won, D zero. Shut up Mind. Let me go read some funny. Laughter is the best medicine, right? I check in on Jenny Lawson, a.k.a. The Bloggess. And David Thorne, a.k.a. 27b/6.  I crack up and belly laugh and gasp and I want to stop reading because really, all that laughing hurts but I can’t, they’re that good. I’m overcome with gratitude and awe and pleasure/pain.  These two are so talented, so dangerous, so going-for-it, SO THEMSELVES, I might as well kill myself. But then, how will I read them? I want to be that funny! I want to write that well! I want to try! My mind— not my real self— whines: Why bother? You’re not good enough. You’re not worthy. Worst of all: Who cares? BARF BUCKETS!! my real Self cuts in, DISGUSTO! FEH! YUK!! SHUT UP. WHY DON’T YOU FOLLOW YOUR OWN PROFESSIONAL ADVICE? STOP COMPARING YOURSELF TO OTHERS. GET ON WITH IT. Ha. Write on. Good one, Self.

Imagination is more important than knowledge. ALBERT EINSTEIN 

What's a haibun?

Poodles Want To Blog Too

Who are we to stand in the way of poodle doodling?  ShrinkU introduces Poodle Times: Blogging by, for and about the poodle community. Poodle Times is a holey owned subsidiary produced by poodle-in-residence Poodle Oodle, written by Poodle Oodle, and edited by Poodle Oodle. 

Ever wondered how poodles noodle away the day? Read on. 

How To Keep Busy Between Naps, by Poodle Oodle

• Eat. Though it’s never enough, and finishes too soon.

• Sit and wait for food to fall from the sky. Hey, it’s happened.

• Bark to alert dad: Squirrel! Squirrel! Squirrel! Sometimes he pops one with the beebee gun. Mom doesn’t like that. I don’t get it.

• Bark to alert mom: Intruder! Intruder! Intruder!  I survey my domain from atop the couch in front of the living room window. Crows. Mailman. Pizza delivery. Dogs! Pulling their people on leashes! Wow! Bow! Wow! Wow! Mom stops typing to check it out.  She tells me to be quiet. I don’t get it.

• Clamp between my jaws the cheesiest of the socks dad and bro toss to the floor— bro’s are the best— trot (with a furtive look over shoulder) to the master bedroom, paw paw paw the bedding (while moaning), then place it (now soaked) on the right spot. A few nose nudges and— it’s just so. Fleece gloves work too, but that’s seasonal, winter only. Mom hides hers. Good one, mom.

• Tip all wastebaskets to sniff out that tasty tidbit.  Lots of salty tissues lately. Allergy season. Yum. Morning and evening, when nobody’s looking of course. They don’t like it.  What’s not to like? I don’t get it.

• Swat the cowbell hanging from the back door handle to let my people know… I have to go. A smack on the outside bell, and it's back in, for a treat!  Timing is everything, or they start to catch on.

• Lift the ears— Hark! It’s the call of the mild! Poodle Oodle Oodle! Calling all poodles! Come in poodles! Come in! That means belly rubs. Gotta go. 

In the next Poodle Times: Working Nine To Five, by Poodle Oodle

Haibun For Essex Farm

A slow thaw

the stones still cold

in the midday sun [Lorraine] 

In spring a young man’s fancy may turn to love, but this not-bad-for-an-old broad longs for farm fresh greens. Beautiful days, all bright light, glowing color and bird song make hope flare: This is it! Spring is here! But, no. Winter hangs on, all pushy bluster and chill spit, slapping down daffies and tulips with long cold fingers, smacking bud stippled branches off trees, biting through my wishful-thinking fleece with forty-five degree F-in teeth— Yow! It’s Mud, the north country’s fifth season, a time of fits and starts, of falling backs and bursting forths. Even through a dusting of snow, green pushes up up up, baby leaves unfurl, fruit tree buds blossom— Ta da!

I change into my winter coat. It’ll be even chillier forty minutes away at Essex Farm (the CSA we're members of), with its wide brown fields and drafty open trailers housing the week’s food distribution. I drive, window rolled open, cold rushing my face and roaring in my ears, no radio, wondering which veggie I won’t see this week. Root cellar staples get us through the dormant season: potatoes, carrots, beets and celery root; squashes, cabbage, kohlrabi, and onions.  As winter deepens, first the squashes run out, then the leeks and garlic, then the kale. If there’s no red cabbage this week, that’s it for fresh slaw. Until summer. I feel a pang of loss. But soon, very soon, there will be tender spring greens. Ah, anticipation! 

The best part of belonging to a CSA farm is the excitement and deep pleasure of eating in season, each vegetable in its own time. Oh, the grief when a favorite is done! Oh, the impatience waiting for the next. Oh, the joy of a new arrival! The creative making do with what’s on hand, of cooking without a recipe and without the grocery store.  The awareness, always, of time passing while rolling forward, season after season. Of accepting that life died to fuel mine, and accepting too that my turn will come to return the favor…. Awe for nature, vast and beautiful and terrible….  Stepping into the veggie trailer, I see—  fresh greens! O happy day! Sorrel, young dandelion greens, and chives!  Next week: asparagus!

Late-teens up

early after a late night scatter

to first jobs…

What is a haibun?

PHOTO CREDIT: Jasmine&Roses