Category: Writings

I watched a video of him talking about his tea meditation. Take two hours over it, he said. Be present in the drinking, with the tea, otherwise, he said, you are not solid. I am not solid. I feel that. How can I make myself so?

It’s all we have. There’s no point being anxious about what is coming tomorrow or next week or the following year. This is it. This day. This moment. This breath.

He told me at breakfast that he saw the paramedics come in the night for one of our neighbours. Poor love, no doubt it was his breath that was struggling to come. I wish him well.

She told me that she is planting a wild flower meadow and I was pleased for her. Such a gift to the world. And at such a time when so many warmongers are planning on destroying it and us. How I loved her that day.

Why is it that returning home is such a tiring thing? Is it just the unpacking, the putting of everything away, or is it something more? Is about a transition from one space, or place to another and all that that involves. The escaping home is never what I hope it will be. There is always this coming back to what I left behind, the unfinished, messy stuff that is mostly unresolvable. Is that the tiredness? Or is it just journeying – passing from one grimy service station to another, trying to ground myself and failing? I am blessed, fortunate, one of the lucky ones, I know this and still I grumble. It shames me.

I saw it happening before it did. And it went everywhere – over the walls, my printer, my files and the floor. It took me a while to work out how to even begin to clear it up. I did, and, mercifully my printer is seemingly still functioning. It was a stupid thing to do. A book was being returned to my tray and it caught my tea cup. Stupid. Stupid. And such time was wasted. What did I learn? Not sure yet.

They are growing dim. The optician told me yesterday that cataracts are assailing both eyes now, with the right one becoming increasingly short-sighted. What am I choosing not to see? The bigger picture? Probably. This poor vessel of mine with its now too straight back and dimming sight. I will carry it for as long as I may and welcome the long sleep when it comes. Sooner or later.

Yesterday was a scratchy one. There was antagonism between us. He wrote a note about it last night saying that it was almost as if something had taken him over. I understand. It could’ve been the moon. Who knows? He is sorry and so am I. The calm afterwards is nice.

We talk about philosophers over breakfast, Heidegger in particular. He doesn’t want me to read the actual text but resort to idiot guides to make sense of what he is trying to say. I want to read the text. He gets frustrated. I never did, he says. I need the immersion. I know this. Let it be, my love. Let me try.

The upcoming full moon is playing havoc with my dreams. They are graphic and intense. Last night, I dreamt that I was working in an institution for children and adults with learning difficulties, and during much of the dream I was wearing someone else’s trousers. They were white with a lacy pattern embroidered into the fabric, too big and too short. At one point I looked at my bottom in the mirror to see what they looked like. Terrible, but I kept them on.

Some might call me a puritan and possibly they would be right. I do edge towards the austere, the pared-back. But this is purely medicinal. I want to get better, feel better inside and out. A rice fast might work. I’ll try it. It is simpler, less fiddly than my usual food. Just three days. That’s all. But no tea.