Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Fukushima

I am in grief over Japan. My personal feelings don’t matter but there is a pool of universal grief that disasters open up and we all find ourselves tapping into it, in one way or another. Port-au-Prince, Christchurch, Sendai. The Gulf of Mexico. The dying baby dolphins. And now, with Fukushima Daiichi (it means "Fukushima Number One" but it has 6 reactors), the grief ripples further back to Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, Nagasaki, Hiroshima.

Grief has never seemed like a useful emotion—it just is. It is not a motivating force. It stops me rather than moves me. Anger seems more helpful, especially when disasters are human made. Anger focuses us on what is wrong and what needs to change.  Anger moves us to action. Anger says never again.

But grief lasts longer.

Dusting and blessing

I don't like to dust. Sometimes I am in the mood to clean but I never like the dusting part.

Dusting reminds me of how much stuff I have, always too much.  Dusting reminds me of repetitive childhood duties. I  had to dust the furniture every Saturday morning and I can remember every despised rung of every chair. Dusting reminds me of entropy; there is always more dust even an hour later. And unlike bigger cleaning jobs like floors and kitchens, the results of dusting don't really show unless you've put it off way too long.

This morning I applied my personal remedy for impatience with necessary tasks like dusting: take it slow. I think of it as moving through the house or task at my mother's pace. She was slow and methodical, a one-thing-at-a-time person, not a multitasker. So I started dusting slowly and as I did this a practice came to mind.

Identity check

I just googled “practical mystic” to see whether this little blog would show up to any googling seekers. It does. On page 2.
   There are lots of practical mystics out there, including a woman in the UK who has made a profession of it, a number of books about practical mystics (among them, Abe Lincoln) and many how-to’s about being a mystic, bringing your mysticism to daily life, achieving Nirvana in 10 easy steps, and on and on.
   I wasn’t making any claims to originality with the term—though of course I had to secure my own unique Uniform Resource Locator (that’s what URL stands for).  While nobody else uses thepracticalmystic.blogspot.com, I am located, apparently, with a lot of other resources who are wearing the practical mystic uniform.

Followers

I see I have 9 followers, whatever that means. I interpret it as a vote of interest in what I have to say, at least now and then. (This blogspot system doesn’t give many privileges to followers, like getting the posts by email. If anybody would prefer to get them that way, let me know.)

Blogspot aside, the word “follower” is not one I like. It has a fawning quality to it. I am not after followers and I am not inclined to be one. Adoring or being adored triggers ego stuff for me. I am more comfortable with equality—equal adoration all around.

When I say it triggers ego stuff I am cluing you in to the fact that I know the problem is not with followers or leaders but with me. I do not bow easily to people who are clearly superior to me in one way or another.

Love you without the I (a belated valentine)

A young couple at the Y, going their separate ways into the locker rooms. He disappears into the men’s, says, “Love you.” She, bent over the water fountain, murmurs, “Um-um.”

Rings on their fingers. Newlyweds. “Love you” tacks the fabric of their love in place during this forced 15-minute separation.

“Love you” is not the real thing, not a surge of emotion and desire. It’s not the same as “I love you.” It’s a salute to the real thing, a hope, maybe even a superstition that if you stop saying it, the real thing will disappear. If you stop saying it, something will change.

A low-sadness diet

I often see this middle-aged woman at the Y, jogging at a good clip around the track. Her face is red, she is sweating, and she does not look happy. She wears tight, stylish running gear that shows every bulge and fold, so I can’t help noticing her muffin top. In fact, I’ve observed it over months, even years, expecting it to shrink with all that regular, strenuous effort, but it never does.

I haven’t been on the track for months because a plantar fasciitis is dogging my right heel. I stay downstairs for the elliptical trainer or the yoga class. But yesterday I went up to walk a few laps and there she was, red-faced, sweating, determined. And noticeably fatter.

American Idol and slow cookin'

I just frittered away a half hour or so worshiping a story I wrote yesterday evening in the 45 minutes between watching Jon Stewart’s opening segment and the start of American Idol. Well, I did run over a bit because I perfected the story then posted it for the online class I’m taking called “Feral Writing,” and so I missed the first two Idol performers but the really good ones came later anyhow. I don’t vote but if I did I’d have to vote for Jacob, with James and Casey close behind.

The story surprised me. It was a revelation, that I can imagine whole stories like I make meals: look in the fridge, see what looks good or needs to be eaten, and take it from there. It unfolds naturally, one thing leads to another and ties itself up neatly at the end. I’ve been discovering this ability in the last  two weeks in Maya's exercises. Where does it come from?