Monthly Archives: May 2012

Cesar Millan 101

In need of a bit of solace and clarity this morning, I took Mr. Chulo for a walk around Jamaica Pond. I thought we both needed a change from our daily routine. However, the new environment began to cause me anxiety. I became overly concerned with Chulo’s behavior, unsure of the leash politics in this park. Also, there were a lot of ducks and geese and I was afraid Chulo would chase one out into traffic.

He began to pull on the leash. He barked nastily at another dog. A passerby shot me a judgemental look and my anxiety grew. Finally, when we got to a quiet spot, I let him go and sat down at the edge of the  water. He wandered off a short distance to eat some horse poo, but when I told him no, he came back by my side and settled down.

I listened to the water and let my mind be stilled (more or less). I heard inwardly that I have to pay attention to how I feel. It sounds so simple, but I have never been taught to prioritize my own emotions. Prioritizing my own experience doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t do things for others, but that I should pay attention to how I feel in the doing and to make sure I honor myself, whatever the task.

I tend to spend a lot of energy worrying about whether or not everyone else is ok, about what everyone else is thinking and feeling, instead of being grounded in my own thoughts and feelings, my own truth. But now, I have to take responsibility for my own happiness. It cannot come from any other source.

Now, I know this is an obvious truth. I’ve read it a thousand times in a thousand ways. I thought I understood it intellectually, but there I was putting Chulo’s needs before my own and seeing that this is what I do with everything. I have lived unworthy of my own attention. I think this is probably true of a lot of women.

After I sat with this for a spell, I got up to leave. I felt that there was a shift of energy between Chulo and me. He was calm and walked behind me off the leash. I realized that he didn’t want me to put him first. I know this is Cesar Millan 101, but Chulo is my first dog and since I can’t afford a house visit from Cesar, I have to learn this for real, through actual self-understanding. It’s one thing to watch an edited version of other people going through this on reality tv. It is quite another to be in the hot seat yourself.

Which on a deeper level makes me think about how we learn. We can learn facts through our intellect, but the really important stuff of life has to be felt through experience. All the spiritual texts in the world can only be a guide. I remember a long time ago, I think in high-school, coming across the quote from the Buddha, “Seek no refuge outside of yourself. True happiness comes from within.” Today, I am the buddha.

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21 Day Challenge

May 14th,

Two little birds swing

On thin branches, suddenly

All the leaves have eyes.

One day, while driving around in the Grey Pearl, I wanted some company, so I switched on the radio. The tape and cd player haven’t worked in ages, which doesn’t stop me from having tapes and cds in the car. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. It’s sort of like keeping a picture of an old person from when they were young. You want to remember them in their glory days. Or maybe I just want to remember myself that way: Tai and Natasha driving downtown on the FDR listening to Missy Elliot, Tai driving to Boston for the first time listening to Destiny’s Child, etc.

The Grey Pearl is at the point in her life when I’ve stopped fixing things. She’s all meals-on-wheels-y and has the eau of stale popcorn and wet dog. I take her out once in a while for a slow drive to the Stop-n-Shop.

April 24th, Buy turkey sausages and tangelos. Not necessarily in that order. pause pause pause pause pause pause pause pause pause pause pause…

The radio still works as long as you don’t have the wiper blades on, the lights on, or the defroster on. She can only handle one function at a time before she starts screeching like a Nazgul, a sound so ghastly, it makes even the hardest homie on the corner cringe with fear as I roll by.

It’s hard to mention the Grey Pearl without indulging in a bit of nostalgia. But this is not about her. It’s about what I heard on the radio that day.

It was a sunny day. I risked the radio without a complaint from Pearl. I tuned into NPR with me and Pearl cruising along at 30 mph. Good times.

April 29th, Let go let go let go let go open open open…

Enough of this it’s time for bed

Undo the thread of writing dread

Unknow my head

Uncross my doubt

Navigate the round-a-bout

The moment I switched on the radio, I heard a male voice say, “If you want to write, you have to write every day. Around the 21st day, something happens. It takes on a life of its own.” I took this as a sign.

I drove home with images of how I might transform into a Rumi or a Murakami after my twenty-one days of writing. One day they might even interview me on NPR!

I wanted to take on the challenge. I tried to write every day, but some days I just couldn’t. I didn’t feel like I had anything to say. I gave up, boo hoo. I’d heard from writers before that in order to grow, you have to make it a daily practice, but I could never assume that discipline.

I mentioned this to an artist friend of mine who suggested just writing without any agenda. Without the need to share it or even have it make sense. Just practice every day, even if you write the same word over and over again.

April 28th,

Inscrutable Inscrutable Inscrutable Inscrutable Inscrutable Inscru–

Let’s keep dancing, shall we?

Maybe not.

Genius isn’t creating.

It’s knowing when to stop.

Stop your roll

Stop your flow

You enter things you should not go

Ho ho, said the keeper of the beat

Learn to make your moves discreet

I do not mend the mind that flows

It knows its road

It holds its goal

The soul of hand, of paper, pen

That moves the glen

Of writing zen

Cannot compete with screens of light

Of kindle fires made with wires

Delight the light-weight simpleton

Whose cannot-carry shoulders win

The world gets smaller every day

A box-shaped box

Has found its way

Into our hearts

And don’t forget the world of art!

It’s found its way inside there too

Next to the extinct kangaroo

Reducing nature to a myth

No one will remember this

Except in dreams

That thing of green

You mean a tree?

Is that its name?

A fiction, unicorns the same.

His words freed me. Writing became a part of my daily practice. I found that because I had to write things down, I could not avoid anything. What I mean is, often when I feel blue let’s say, I try to avoid or change this uncomfortable feeling, but I found that, in the space of avoidance, I couldn’t write. Not even a stream of consciousness. I had to write the truth of what was and somehow the writing of it allowed me to process it and move on. I know this is nothing new. That’s why people keep journals. It’s just new for me.

I became interested in the process itself. I started out printing by hand. Then, a day or two into the twenty-one day challenge, my writing switched to cursive, mid-sentence. Then one day, I started writing vewy vewy small.

May 15,

I am so lonely. I am Yoda’s little brother, only five hundred and eighty-seven years old. I am not a Jedi like my brother. I am an alcoholic.

The rest of the family does not talk backwards like Yoda. We speak in straight sentences. Our father tried to beat it out of him, this quirkiness of speech. He said it’s a big waste of commas, so Yoda ran away.

Yoda came to my room one night. He said, “Fred, running away, I am. Take the beatings any more, I cannot. Miss you, I will.”

I cried. I begged him to stay, or take me with him. He said I was too young, only eighty-seven at the time. That’s young for us Yodas.

Yoda, incidentally, is the family name. The one you call Yoda is Clavsti(((comb Yoda. It’s hard to pronounce in your tongue.

Before he left, he gave me an (((-))) 8, which is a kind of seventeen legged creature from our planet. It wasn’t a real (((-))) 8, but fashioned out of mud and aluminum foil. By swinging it in loops from its tail, Yoda said I could contact him wherever he was in the universe.

At night, I like to swing my (((-))) 8 by its tail and talk to my older brother. I like to believe that he can hear me, wherever he is. Sometimes I hear stories at the bar about the great Master Yoda, about the battles he’s fought against the empire. I like to wave my three-fingered fist in the air and cheer him on: Go Clavsti(((comb!

Epilogue: Day twenty-two

A dose of nature

Free me from this mundane head

All the snakes are out.


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