Progressive

I’ve set a goal to write 1,000 words daily. That’s why the posts are longer lately. They read like journal entries but they aren’t entirely that. I’m playing around with essay, memoir, fiction, poetry, automatic writing and therapeutic exercises. Mostly, I’m just trying to get serious about writing. Typing until, hopefully, something good emerges.

I just got my first pair of progressive lenses in the mail. I’m a little seasick trying to type with them on. It’s depressing, I guess. Or maybe, more accurately, it’s the way of things. And you can be depressed about it if you wish.

My mother is adjusting to aging and to changes in her health. A dear friend is deep into helping her mother through her last days. The horrors of dementia. Of cancer. Of watching someone disappear. All of it is part of the cycle. All too real. It can be faced or run from, but running won’t help you or take you very far. 

I got to see a version of dying some time ago. The hardest thing was letting go. That’s where all the struggle and fear is. But when I did, I was instantly free. Everything felt new and I was not afraid. I did not even imagine looking back or trying to return. Feeling like falling at first, but soon it was flying. Free of everything that gave me mass, that pressed down upon me, or bound me to the Earth. If there was a lesson, it was only that this will happen and it’s not something to fear. Practice letting go. Falling free. Flying.

Hold her hand. Sit quietly beside her. Wait for the song to rise in you. Sing it softly, when it does, with strength enough for her to feel. Your song will carry her through fear and struggle. When you feel her hand relax in yours, you will know she has let go. She is flying now, whole and well, beyond all pain and concern. She’s part of everything. Wide beyond all imagining.

I’m many years behind the times in the use of media. I wouldn’t know how to simply “watch TV” anymore with all the options available. I’m late to the party with podcasts too. Mostly, I rejected them as a whole some time ago because I’m annoyed by the human voice as often as not and also by the really dumb shit so many people have to say. Why put myself through that when I can have silence? 

There have been exceptions to that though. One of them is, The Way Out Is In: Zen And The Art of Living. It’s inspired by the late Zen Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, and broadcast from Plum Village, the intentional monastic community he established in France. I think I’ve listened to 17 episodes so far. Each one ends with a short mindfulness meditation. What a powerful thing it is to come back to your breath. To notice in breath and out breath. A simple, beautiful practice and an antidote to all the forms of madness I am intimately acquainted with. Sit still, breathe, return. It’s practical and effective. I hope it’s something you can use. 

I got frustrated while talking with a customer service representative today. I have a small amount of money in a retirement account sponsored by an agency I worked for for a little over a year. Since leaving there, I purchased a new phone and with it got a new phone number. As a result, I’m left with no way of accessing my account because a verification code is sent to either my phone number or my e-mail address (at the agency where I no longer work). The few pieces of mail I’ve received from this company strangely never have contact information listed. I looked it up on line, found a customer services number and made the call. Eventually, I found my way to a human being. I told her I would like to change the e-mail address and phone number associated with my account because I can no longer access it. She authenticated me using my full name, date of birth, social security number, former place of employment, and mailing address. She asked for my termination date from the agency. I can’t remember. She asked for my hire date. I can’t remember that one either. I know they were about 13 months apart. I can name the months, after some angry recollecting, but apparently I can’t name the exact days. I guess and guess again. She won’t budge. Can you please change just one of those things?, I ask. How about just my e-mail address? No, sir. Then can you please just mail a statement to my home address? Yes, that she can do. Alright then, if it’s not too much trouble, please do. Please allow five to seven business days, sir. 

I realize I’m feeling murderous and that I’ve raised my voice at her on the telephone. The matter is tedious and frustrating, but it’s really of very little consequence. There was no need to be harsh with that woman. The fact that I did so so quickly and without hesitation reveals something. On some level, I believe that I am more important than she is. That’s sobering. I don’t like looking at myself under that light. The woman stayed cool and professional (if a little mechanical). She must be shaking her head at yet another entitled North American adult baby. If I’d only taken a minute to breathe, I would have realized that, although the current situation appears absurd from my point of view, the woman I think I am frustrated with is protecting my assets even while under attack (by me). She’s doing her job very well. 

My behavior was what was absurd about the incident, and I very nearly missed that fact while operating in zombie mode. Zombie mode is your unconscious programming. Your auto-pilot. Mindfulness occurred, but not until after the fact. Not until I’d already infected that woman, who was only performing her job, with my poison.