the sacred ordinary

(read yesterday’s post first)

Since my car was broken, the Reiki Master called, suggesting a telephone or skype session.  This is known as “Distant Reiki” or “Distant Healing”.  The theory behind it is that Reiki works simultaneously for body, mind and spirit on a quantum level – past, present and future.  Consequently, what are a few exits down I-270?

Having posted that I was “unable to sit still without supervision”, I decided to hire a spiritual babysitter.

And pay $68 via credit card for this service.

My husband, who “believes” in Reiki, does not believe in “distant” Reiki.  And he definitely does not believe in $68 credit card charges for it.

But these were desperate times.

My skype is a video-free zone, so the Reiki Master did not watch me lying on the floor under the computer.

Neither did he not watch me fall into deep relaxation.

Note to self:

1) It is possible to have Down Time at home.   Even ON THE FLOOR UNDER THE COMPUTER!

2) It is nice to have a companion.

The experience reminded me of the many supporters I have – real and virtual, living on earth and beyond, for whom I am grateful.

I scheduled an indulgent 90 minute Reiki Session – a balm for post-concert stress.  Also part of my New Year’s Spiritual Practice.

But the car won’t start and I can’t get to my appointment!

Devoted Down Time is what I need.  Why can’t I just STOP for 90 minutes?

Embarrassingly, I am a Reiki “Master” myself, so there is every reason I should be able to do this.

But BUSY is my default mode.

So far today I have practiced the piano, sent 23 emails, made cole slaw, jerk chicken, sweet potato soup with bourbon and oranges, done the dishes, taken out the trash, and posted on my blog.

Now it’s 10:00 am and I’m faced with my inability to sit still without supervision.

I think I’ll make some Spanish Rice.

One of my spiritual practices is to surround the new year’s cusp with things I wish to embody in the coming 12 months.

Naturally, life has a way of interjecting its own “things”.   I try to pay attention.  To fold each surprise into the practice.

12-31-12 letters from beloved teachers.  surprise visit from same.   concert production.   entertaining.  family.  friends.  a special midnight visitor.  six advil.

1-1-13  exhaustion.  sobriety vow.  dishes.  family.  friends.  yoga.  the sacred ordinary.  the ordinary ordinary.

I used to attend a weekly staff meeting.  Bringing along needle point projects helped occupy my mind, steady my nerves, and knit my lips together.  I sewed miniature free-form color patterns – random and pointless improvisations.  One day maybe I would make them into Christmas ornaments.

But they were really stupid, so I crammed them in my back drawer.

Like pointless and random blog posts, which have been pushed to the bottom of the pile lo these many months.  Not good enough to make into anything useful.  Nothing anyone would want.  Just dumb little things.

Pulling out the needlepoint objects after a hiatus, I thought they might make nice Christmas ornaments after all.  Even nice enough to give as gifts.  They really looked cool.

Let me know if you want one.

“FDA moving to limit arsenic in rice” would be hysterical, if only it weren’t true.  Today’s Washington Post explains that brown rice has even more arsenic than white rice, which has 50% more arsenic than a glass of tap water.  Rice grown in Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas is especially high in arsenic.  Organic rice is equally tainted by organic arsenic.

According to the article, one can reduce the amount of arsenic in rice at home by 1) rinsing it before cooking and 2) cooking it in an excess of water and then draining before serving.  (which makes me suspect the arsenic is in the water rather than the rice.) 

One can also limit rice consumption by choosing alternative grains, such as wheat, millet, barley or quinoa.

Tomorrow’s Post:  Stir-fried Garlic Broccoli with Oatmeal

Here’s what I did on this Sacred Ordinary day:

• went to the doctor and complained of an earache
• made lentil soup
• made black-eyed peas with tomato and sweet onion salsa
• made brown rice
• taught 4 piano lessons
• cleaned my desk of little scraps of paper  (“make Mel’s doctor appointment”  “make my doctor appointment”  “update studio schedule”  “order music”  “bring tea to church”  “email Judith”

Now I feel clean.  and pure.  and holy. 

The Golden Compass – Philip Pullman;  Death Comes for the Archbishop – Willa Cather ;  An Improvised Life: A Memoir – Arlin Arkin;  Someone Will Be With You Shortly – Lisa Kogan;  The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins;  The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – Jean-Dominique Bauby;  Chinaberry – James Still ;  Little Bee – Chris Cleave;  The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey – Walter Mosley ;  Best Friends – Martha Moody;  I Know This Much is True – Wally Lamb;  The Teahouse Fire – Ellis Avery;  Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death and Hope, in a Mumbai Undercity – Katherine Boo

I like to keep Busy!

My main problem with spiritual practice is that I’m not slothful enough.  I can’t bare to sit quietly – even for 30 seconds. 

I tidy the house like a madwoman.  (although I’m not big on actually cleaning)  I keep my desk clear of any unfinished task, even ones involving dates two years in the future.

When it comes to meditation, prayer, mindfulness – whatever name you care to give to intentional time with God, Higher Power, Self, Nature – I resist. 

I’m a do-er.

My latest attempt at slower paced spiritual practice involves staying in bed.  The alarm goes off at 6:00.  I shut it off and roll over to connect with God, reminding myself of a 10th century Mozarabic hymn,

“Though bodies slumber, hearts shall keep their vigil.”

I’m not really sleeping, but I doze off for a few minutes, then wake and remember my meditation/prayer/sloth. 

Accompanied by pillows, blankets, birdsong and the warm body of my husband, this is a fine prayer indeed.  Sometimes I invoke the name of the Holy Trinity and fall back asleep a third time.

If it is Saturday I can spend well over an hour in spiritual practice.

Years ago I read an art review in the Washington Post about a certain sculptor’s creative process.  Before he worked, he swept his leanly furnished studio.  For about two hours every morning he swept back and forth as a way to clear and steady his mind.  Every day for lunch he ate pea soup, which he both liked and needed, in order to make his saliva viscus.  Then, after lunch, he sat down to create tiny shapes out of tiny pieces of gold, using his viscous saliva in some important way. 

I made a trip to the Corcoran with my then three-year-old son to marvel at these tiny objects wrought from repetitive motion, clear mind, viscous saliva, and gold.  Explaining the preparatory steps to my active preschooler, I hoped to convey the importance of serenity and focus. 

I’m not much of a sweeper myself.  However I fantasize about having a moss garden and sweeping it clean every morning. 

We have small patches of moss in our yard.  My gardening friend, Linda, told me that in order to expand existing moss patches, one must pluck out any blades of grass or other plant that pops up in the middle of the moss.  One must pull the invaders out by their roots. 

And so I did that this morning.  The gentle sunshine was on my back and I knelt to pull out grass and White Man’s Foot, leaving violets to flourish.  This was a wonderful meditation – listening to bird song and smelling new earthy smells.  I am devoted to this practice and have been doing it for three whole days now. 

This morning I worked for a solid four minutes until I felt it was time to make another cup of coffee and blog about it.

Here’s what I’ve done so far today:

• I showered, computered, coffeed and ate. 
• I ironed and listened to Beethoven.  The later was required by my job.  Otherwise I would not have given myself the pleasure.  Neither would I have ironed.
• I did not say my morning prayers.
• I read about the world’s prisoners and my heart gasped in pity.
• This was in the newspaper, which I sort of read.  Mainly I look at the pictures, which I find are very good.
• I read Lorna’s poem.  She posts a poem on her blog every day and it feels to me as though she writes them just for the two of us.  But that’s only the way I look at it.
• I walked down my street.   When I noticed pale pink roses spilling over a fence, I thrust my nose into one and breathed in pale pink fragrance.
• I thought about my mother and cried a little.  Even after four years – do you believe that?  Can a little crying count as prayer?