Category: An Observation

I hear many different sounds and noises in the place where I’m living at the moment. The couple upstairs and I keep similar night-owl hours. For me that’s a good thing, because she likes running in her apartment. And even though she’s not light-footed, it’s not annoying. It strikes me as whimsical to run in your apartment when you’re an adult. Besides, I know I have dues to pay because when my children were young, they often ran around our apartment with a soccer ball at their feet, especially Michael who didn’t seem able to move without one. Our downstairs neighbors, three different ones in the time we were there, never complained and always smiled and spoke when they saw us, but now I know how it must have felt.

One day in this old building, my sweet next door neighbor developed bronchitis and coughed the night away. At first I couldn’t place where it was coming from, but when she left for four days all was quiet on the coughing front. On her return it began again. I would have brought her a cup of tea, anything to help the cough, but I know her apologies would never have stopped had she thought she was disturbing anyone. This sound had to be waited out.

Six days a week the office phones ring loud and clear downstairs. Some sounds are easily heard – voices are a murmur, but a laugh is clear. And the pipes in this old building always communicate when they’re working. It’s easy to get used to the pipe noises, but it’s jarring at 3am when someone turns on the shower. And no one can ever sneak into this building. The stairs are old and squeaky and always announce someone’s arrival.

Colin Wilson wrote about Ouspensky in one of his books. He wrote that Gurdjieff had taught Ouspensky about self-remembering. It’s about being aware of yourself and at the same time being aware of what you’re looking at. Ouspensky would walk around St. Petersburg in Russia late at night, and practice self-remembering by noting buildings, small objects, etc. The more he practiced the more he felt that these things were aware of him. After awhile he could sense their history. He said, “they were living beings, full of thoughts, feelings, moods and memories.” That’s when he “learned that everything indeed has a spirit. . . .”

And so, this old building has a feel of its own. What is its history? What are the secrets it’s keeping? Who are the people who built it? Sometimes when you enter a building there’s a feeling of something not being quite right. This one feels right at the moment. And even though I’m not able to sense its history, I’m thinking that perhaps it had a good one.
www.gurdjieff.org/foundation.htm
www.ouspensky.info

Sometimes when alone on a long journey, the mind has a way of pulling you into distant memories-if you let it. If it’s pleasant, I let it. Last week on one of those journeys I found myself thinking about my father and smiling. I had to smile because suddenly, out of the blue, I understood the why of some unusual stories he would tell me when I was a child. In those days people didn’t have the flood of information that we have in today’s world. They had to be creative.

When we were young, I don’t remember the exact age, my father would tell stories relating to alcohol and gambling. Those were the times when he’d call me Francesca. Now I know those were also the times when he was gearing up for something-something that was difficult for him to do.

He’d begin in this way, “Francesca,” he’d always catch me off guard, “when I was young and single I used to go out with my friends. There were times when we’d be walking home in the late evening, and all of a sudden we’d see a beautiful woman lying in the gutter with her dress up to here.” he’d then indicate the height. “She was drunk, Francesca, there’s nothing worse than a woman lying dead drunk, legs sprawled, in the gutter.” I can still hear him as he emphasized certain words. I hear him clearly, even now. Interesting tactics my father employed. As for me, it’s one glass of wine, two if it’s a light table wine, no one will ever find me dead drunk lying in the gutter, with my dress up to “here.”

This is how he handled the gambling stories. “Francesca, when I was young and single, I had friends who loved to gamble. The problem was that they were good, and didn’t know when to stop. Can you imagine, Francesca, going home to the wife (yes, that’s what he said, “the wife”) , and telling her you lost your entire paycheck, the paycheck for the mortgage, for food, for maybe medicine, for the children-the whole paycheck gone?”

He told those stories in an easy style. I can’t remember what my young mind thought of those stories at that time, but I do know that I’m not a gambler either. I’ve won at the black jack table, and when I win, a pack of wild horses couldn’t separate me from that money.

I’ve got to give you credit, dad; you were clever.

Lately I find myself here and there. It’s wonderful; the older I get the less I stay put. It’s a big world. We say it’s getting smaller and smaller, but that’s when we’re trying to make a point in a discussion. The reality is that there is so much to see, so many adventures to have, people to meet, things to learn. Ah, yes, when I look at a map I can visualize myself here and there. Notice how that can mean anything. Sitting and anchored in silence at here and there is wonderful too. You just need a different kind of map for the silent adventures. Either way I can be on board in a jiffy. You also?

On a mid-evening train ride last friday, I couldn’t help noticing the look of tiredness on the faces of fellow passengers. Maybe I looked that way, too, but I don’t really think that was the case since I’d just come from having a delicious seafood dinner at Avra Estiatorio at 141 East 48th Street with a few very special people. www.avrany.com

However, as tired as my fellow passengers seemed, I also noticed how quickly they sprung to attention when help was needed. Whether they were reading, or in conversation, when someone struggled with getting belongings on or off the overhead rack, or removing a winter coat, or older couples wanted seating together, there was someone offering to help. There doesn’t seem to be a feeling of stress on trains. It can almost feel like you’re with friends on a train. And sometimes someone you’re sitting with turns to you and the two of you have a discussion that you remember long after departing. Trains promote a kind of support that’s not likely to occur on planes or buses. Why is that? Is that true for you, too?

Is there a person, hopefully not more than one, in your life who tries to control you in very subtle ways? Usually you feel tense with this person, and are not sure what to say or how to be. No matter what you say or do, it’s never quite right. To top it off, the controlling one is also sensitive, and can be as sweet as candy when the situation warrants. This kind of behavior leaves you not knowing whether you’re coming or going.

Walking on egg shells-not wanting to upset the apple cart-leads to a crazy, tricky, lopsided relationship. And I’ve come to realize that it’s okay to upset the apple cart because walking on egg shells is not fun, and upsetting the apple cart is. Really! Have no fear; change can be ever so fine. Indeed!

The stress of a holiday can heighten the egg shell walk. The thing to remember is that the bark of the controlling one is usually much worse than the bite. Sit, relax for awhile, and ask yourself why you allow this relationship to be as it is, and how can you change it. Use your imagination to its fullest. There’s always a way. Sit, relax, feel-without any fear.

Cancer is a puzzle to a lot of people. I wonder what people did before chemotherapy, before any treatment was available. I wonder what happens when people are unaware of having a serious illness. Down the road do they have a spontaneous healing? I’ve read about, and heard stories about, people who’ve gone on long trips after being told they have a serious illness, and returning completely healed. What has to occur for this to happen? Does one forget about the illness and become absorbed in new surroundings, thereby clearing the mind of stagnant, confused thoughts? And how is it that some are healed when undergoing chemotheraphy and others are not? Or some choose an alternative treatment and are healed, and others are not, with the same alternative treatment. Does the degree of belief in the treatment make the difference?

Chemotherapy – what exactly is it? In Canada there’s a treatment called 714x. I’ve heard good things about it, too. And there’s the Hoxsey treatment. Andrew Weil in Healthy Aging writes about alternative treatments. I’ve read of the curing benefits of Graviola. I wonder about cancer and ayahuasca. This world – it offers us so much. And then there’s the power of love. What has to occur for a complete healing to happen? Complete healings do happen. If it happens to one it can happen to everyone. We’re all “cut from the same cloth,” so to speak.

“There is nobody else like you. The more you can quiet your own thoughts, fears, doubts and suspicions, the more will be revealed to you from the highest realms of imagination, intuition, and inspiration.” -Kenneth Wydro, American lecturer

“Silence is the great teacher, and to learn its lessons you must pay attention to it. There is no substitute for the creative inspiration, knowledge, and stability that comes from knowing how to contact your core of inner silence.” -Deepak Chopra, Indian-born physician

And then there’s hospital food. It looks as if it could be somethng special – certainly it should be nutritious, and something to look forward to, –but, alas, it’s hospital food brought in on a cart, on a tray, packaged, cellophaned, covered. For healing, it should lift the spirits. In the twinkle of an eye this could easily change. Of course, there’s this other consideration, change doesn’t come quickly in many institutions. Yet, the ordering and preparing of nutritious and delicious foods could happen. Foods to anticipate, to enjoy, to heal when the cart comes to a patient’s room. It should happen. It could happen. How difficult can this be?

I don’t mind riding buses, actually, “don’t mind” is not good enough. I like riding buses. The experiences I’ve had on buses in other countries is part of the reason why. It’s relaxing to be on a bus for at least thirty minutes, especially in a small town. Simply following the scenery can put one in a meditative state. It’s one of the quiet moments of the day. When people are alone they tend to simply look out the window. I think many riders like the quiet moments on a bus before resuming the day’s activities. One bus driver had a passion for politics and spoke on this subject the entire trip. Traffic was light, the driver was knowledgeable and fair-not angry or opinionated. I know this is difficult to believe, it’s true though.

A lot of Mexican people travel by bus. They’re polite. In fact, I think they could teach a course on manners to many of us in the US. A lot of the time there are one or two people who use their cell phones incessantly. Everyone around them hears their most intimate thoughts expressed. It can be quite entertaining. The high-pitched voices of giggling teenage girls, and the teasing ways of teenage boys have to be accepted, unless, of course, things get out of hand. Rarely does that happen. To tolerate this, all you need to do is remember your own teenage life.

Yes, riding a bus can be entertaining and relaxing.

Hmm, I’ve mixed feelings when looking at the gorgeous foliage. It’s beautiful. There’s no denying it. The fallen leaves are a golden carpet on the ground. I passed a wooded area today, and the trees were decked out in a beautiful costume matching the golden carpet on the ground. And I see winter peeking behind the foliage.

You can always tell the ones who really enjoy cold weather. They say that they feel invigorated and they look dressed for summer no matter the temperature. They make me feel a bit warmer with their light clothing and, in passing them, I usually say to myself, “Look at that. What’s the matter with you?” And with all my might I try to like the cold. These people are my cold weather inspiration. They keep me on my toes. They give me food for thought.

I know there are endless ways to greet cold weather and keep the body warm – adding lots of cinnamon on steel cut oats, or other foods that marry well with cinnamon, as cinnamon is supposed to rev up circulation, and eating hot and spicy foods. Mexican delivery men ride bikes in very cold weather wearing light clothing. I’ve seen from restaurant experience that their intake of spicy foods “warms their innards.” As I thought more about this, I began to remember that as a child I wasn’t a cold-weather wimp. I’d roll in the snow with friends, clothes soaked, mittens so wet they could be wrung out. And there was ice skating on the bitterest of cold days, playing games like Whip with wind and face meeting. The word cold never mentioned til it was time to go inside and strip the wet, cold clothes from our bodies.

After all those years of frolicking in the cold and snow, whatever happened to me? Actually I think I know, and I don’t believe it has anything to do with age. I’ve met some old young people, and seen some young old people. I feel it’s this, in my childhood there was no weatherman on TV announcing the cold and telling us to bundle up because it’s mighty cold outside. We had no one whispering in our ears morning, noon and night. No stores crammed with “cold-weather gear.” Sure, we had clothes for winter, but nothing that would suggest we would freeze and needed to worry about the cold. This and similar reasons is what happened, I feel. I decided this year to do what we all did once up a time. Get dressed for a winter’s day, go outside and enjoy whatever kind of day it happens to be, no matter the temperature. It’s time for a shift in mind and not let the word cold have an impact. I’m not gonna let it happen anymore. Winter, I’m waiting for yer.

In the sky there is no east nor west.
We make those distinctions in the mind,
then believe them to be true.

Everything in the world comes from the
mind, like objects appearing from the
sleeve of a magician.

-Buddha, Lankavatara Sutra