Morning without you is a dwindled dawn-
*Written this past Wednesday at 0500*
I’m more than a little bit pissed off this morning. Primarily with myself (for ignoring my tight hamstrings and back for nearly two weeks), at our local utility company (for raising our rates again), at the lousy Nebraska weather forecasting people (for raising my hopes for nice biking weather), at some close friends I help train for not taking my advice about ultra marathon prep, and at my body once again (because it’s been barely three weeks and I’m lying on the floor covered with ice).
*Written five minutes ago*
Looking back at what I wrote last week, it just occurred to me that maybe my extreme frustration with “life” and the people around me, has at least as much to do with my own irritation(s) at the way I take care of, and treat myself. Interesting to think that if one is as gentle, kind and compassionate as one would like to be, one wouldn’t get quite so pissed off at the necessary trials of dealing with this thing called “life” …
I leave you with this – In one sentence – Who are you?
Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink behind the lake,
The shadows lengthen
Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Song of my soul, my voice is dead,
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
- “Cassilda’s Song” The King in Yellow Act 1, Scene 2 – Robert W. Chambers
Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves-
Sometimes trying to understand what other people know and don’t know can be extremely challenging.
*I’m writing to the men reading today, because all of us do this*
Over the years we have developed a rather keen tendency to think we knew all along something, that we actually just learned two minutes ago talking with a friend. Is it fair to assume that you didn’t know that vintage Italian road bikes use 36 mm X 24 tpi threading for the bottom bracket?
One instance of not knowing exactly what one “knows” is the illusion of explanatory depth. This is the illusion that we can explain “something” deeper, with more clarity and depth, than we actually can. I’ll use myself as an example, because, I think much differently than most folks do …
As adults (used loosely), we are all-knowing, we know all, we can easily explain the intricacies of the world at a moments notice. Then when asked to do so by a friend? Our minds go blank and we instantly start looking for an answer on our iGadgets. Many are shocked when they realize they were mistaken about the depth(s) of their knowledge … “How dare you question me in more depth and detail?“
What am I getting at?
Exploring the depths of a conversation can be truly magical when we switch off the I know this already parts of our inner dialog, and instead – Open up our hearts to listen and learn. This process is profound when attending a new yoga class, picking parts out for a vintage road bike and – A show of hands: Listening to the salesperson down at the local hardware store, the first time! Full disclosure – I have made three return trips once for not listening and “thinking” I knew the answer all along.
Be inspired and have a beautiful weekend!
Live with intention. Walk to the edge. Listen Hard. Practice wellness. Play with abandon. Laugh. Choose with no regret. Appreciate your friends. Continue to learn. Do what you love. Live as if this is all there is-
What is the one word that is often most overused and the least understood practicing yoga – anything? Intention.
Setting an intention is a mentality that demands, demands that we live in a way that prompts an “As if…” approach to living. Rather than the convenient “What if…” approach to living.
Being mindful, centers on being in the moment, putting aside attachments to past Read the rest of this entry »
Dearest, note how these two are alike;
This harpsichord pavane by Purcell
And the racer’s twelve-speed bike.
The machinery of grace is always simple.
This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected
To another of concentric gears,
Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected,
Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers.
And in the playing, Purcell’s chords are played away.
So this talk, or touch if I were there,
Should work its effortless gadgetry of love,
Like Dante’s heaven, and melt into the air.
If it doesn’t, of course, I’ve fallen. So much is chance,
So much agility, desire, and feverish care,
As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove
Who only by moving can balance,
Only by balancing move.