I’m reading, well re-reading actually, a trilogy about three sisters from Ireland. The stories are by no means a literary work of genius: they are simple works of fiction and stories of being found by love. (Go figure, my favorite movies are chick flicks as well. Sue me.)
But even though the stories are fluffy and everything works out in the end, there’s a thread of something so precious, so fulfilling there. It’s the essence of community.
Why is it that when the idea of community comes up, it brings a sense of obligation? “Community service” is oftentimes a sentence, a punishment in order to restore to our society what we’ve taken.
I’ve been going through a major observation of self over the past few months as I prepare for my 40th birthday. This svadhyaya, or self-study, has revealed a recurring presence of tightness. In my upper back…in my thinking…in my chest. In my patience.
My practice has changed without my permission. I’m very frustrated by this.
There was a time, in my former career as a counselor, when I was an excellent listener. There was thoughtfulness and grace and acceptance in that. But if we only listen, where is the dialogue? In the dialogue, we find change and truth. In the conversation, we find our breath. In the exchange, we find pause.
Often the hands will solve a mystery
that the intellect has struggled with in vain.
Carl G. Jung
I have an obsession. It’s not a secret to those who know me or have been around me for any period of time. It’s something about which I read, practice, and luxuriate.
I love touch.
Wow.
I have to admit I’ve been a bit frustrated lately. Class after class, I’ve shown up early to fit in a bit of meditation before teaching, yet each time, and I do mean each time lately, there’s been a huge snag with the room. It’s been occupied, it’s been double-booked, the previous class runs long…
Tonight was different. How? Oh, my friend, do read on.