Meetups in Meditations

Would you care to have a gander at my two beloved sisters and their hubbies in Maui?
Joan posted photos to our SISTER LINES blog.
It just warmed the cockles o' me 'eart, it did!

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I promised to tell you about my "intellectual self," and so I shall.
There may be no more dull reading than someone else's meditations, however, so I'll try to keep it brief.

I was reading a book called Huna. It's about a way of relating to the self, I guess, and originates in Hawaii. Anyway, there is nothing unusual about the advice to get yourself into a deeply relaxed state and then imagine yourself going to certain places — for instance, to your favourite beach, which is one of the places I commonly go in my mind to meet up with ... man, how to explain this so it doesn't sound too flaky? — in order to have a conversation with various parts of oneself or even with your dog or another person or someone who has passed or your spiritual guides or fairies. Shamans do this all the time; they go within to get where they need to go.
Hm.
Anyway.
I'm trying. If you don't do visualizations yourself, this may seem too intangible. If you do, you have no trouble recognizing what I'm talking about and knowing the value of it.
It's communication on a whole different level, and although it takes place entirely in your imagination, there is a quality of truth to it that can (and has, at times) take my breath away. I have even been brought to tears of joy by such an experience, once.

According to Huna, there are aspects of ourselves that we need to relate to consciously, and we can do this by reaching a meditative state (just some deep, slow breathing for a couple minutes) and then imagining ourselves going to the place where these aspects of ourselves can be spoken with.

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"... emotionally withholding people ..."
 "... there's an elaborate caste system out there ..."
Joni Mitchell talking about Saskatchewan.
And more:
MUCH MUSIC INTIMATE AND INTERACTIVE

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As I was saying ...

Huna advises us to make intimate contact with our inner self, our emotional self, our mental or intellectual self, and so on. Each serves a different function, though they are all part of each person.

I decided to not just read the book, but to put its suggestions into practice. The first time I did one of these meditations, there were interesting and moving results.

My inner self appeared as me at age three or four, and she was thrilled to see me in the particular landscape where I imagined meeting her. We joined hands and danced around and hugged each other with pure delight. And then there was conversation. And over time she has changed appearance; sometimes she looks like that exuberant little girl, and at others she is a very large and powerful being, and at still others she is a long-haired woman wearing glowing robes, and sometimes she is a type of nature who cannot be seen, is only felt.

I made the trip to meet my emotional self. She was more difficult to find. While my inner, child self had rushed forward to greet me, my emotional self had to be sought through a dark tropical forest. When she did show herself, she was cautious, shy, reticent, as if she didn't trust me. This surprised me, as I think of my emotional self as being obvious, visible. Ha! I had to think again. This emotional self was elusive.

My intellectual self had a room just across the hall from my emotional self. She was quick to call "Come in!" and when I entered, she had risen from her desk near an airy screen door and was advancing across the floor to meet me.  She had hair like Andy Warhol, like Haystack Calhoun (not the wrestler, but the children's book character whose hair looked like, well, a haystack). She was thin and bony, wearing a brightly coloured striped sweater. She told me I had an "Irish intellect." I didn't know what that was, so in the days to follow I asked a few friends and put the keywords in quotation marks into the Google search engine. No luck. It wasn't till a couple years later, when I put the question to WISE WEB WOMAN, who happens to come originally from Ireland, that I got my answer: it's intuition.

Since then I've come to know these "parts" of myself as individuals. All in my head, of course ... and yet it seems to me that each encounter has been absolutely truthful and more than a little enlightening.

A Mild Heat

Tonight is the first time I've come home with aching hands from a day at the office. I've put in longer hours at the keyboard before. So what could be up? Maybe just that after two weeks off, my hands have decided to complain about going back to work? They didn't complain Wednesday or yesterday.

I've got the hot water bottle out.

What I'd like, next to a kind and gentle friend to rub my hands, is a nice mild lotion to put on them, one that would give a little heat without burning the skin. Tiger Balm burns; can't use it.

Any suggestions?

Will I Ever Get There?

Back at work I am since Wednesday, with office hours yesterday that extended to 8 p.m. because I took myself off for a lunch meeting with Alison (my friend and employer, who also bought the meal) and later for an hour's shiatsu treatment with Charlene (my friend and co-worker, who also writes for the Wadena News), and so I stayed late to make sure what needs to be done is done. It was still less than an eight-hour day of actual work.

We have a second man in the office now, in the new year, and also his dog. More male energy! The two men are still outnumbered two to one.

This has been a headachy nauseated week for me so far — fun fun fun. I have had these "neck migraine" bullshit things since I was 28 years old. I have had my eyes checked, my jaw checked. I have seen doctors and alternative healers and even psychics. I've had regular chiropractic treatments, regular therapeutic massage. I've tried cutting out every kind of thing — various foods, drinks — to see if it made any difference, whether the neck thing could be traced to an allergy. I've done yoga, walked, lifted light weights, worked on my posture. I've tried to eat three regular meals a day and snacks in between, and more protein. I'm not very good at that kind of routine and don't like eating when I don't feel hungry, but I try. I try to make sure I drink enough water.  I try to relax, to release tension in my neck and shoulders, where I do tend to hold it without even realizing.

Once I even requested of my inner self a dream answer, and just the moment before I woke up, was in a room with a doctor in a white lab coat, who asked me if I was getting enough sleep.  At the time I probably wasn't, as Emil was still a nursing baby who woke several times a night, and boy was I cranky about that and sometimes even not very nice, and thank goodness Gord was a prince who often got up with the kid and got him something to eat or drink.

I've also worked on my thoughts, my beliefs and expectations about my physical health, trying to make sure I'm not sabotaging myself somehow. I'm healthy and fit, I insist. I deserve good health and physical comfort. And so on.

Nothing has made a damn bit of difference, except that the chiropractic treatments I got every week for a year helped me recognize the beginnings of the neck thing so I could sometimes head it off at the pass rather than waking up in the morning with it full blown and impossible to manage.

Anyway, all this old-person talk about my physical malady in order to tell you that yesterday I made an appointment with a retired physiotherapist who is now doing alternative therapies using both her old skills and some new ones. She is very good at what she does, I think, and last year (or was it the year before? or even the year before that?), she is the one whose ministrations helped me when my back had gone out so ridiculously that I couldn't even wipe my bum in the ordinary way, and this had gone on for such a long time. As always, I am hopeful that someday I won't have to take a frigging anti-inflammatory eight times a month — one that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't, and when it doesn't, I spend the day puking.

For years I thought that because Grandma had had migraines that stopped after she had a hysterectomy, it was hormonal and once past menopause my migraines and my sister Karen's (she gets the same ones, only hers sometimes last three days) would stop. I haven't had a period for about three years (yay! so over and done with that shit! don't miss it a bit) but the frequency of migraines hasn't changed.

So wish me luck. Next week Elaine will show me exercises to strengthen my upper back and shoulders, I presume, and I will do them faithfully and have no more migraines. Yep, that's the plan!

Oh, and I want to bring to your attention this perfect expression from a blogging friend, Maggie:
"The happily ever after is, after all, full of ups and downs and all arounds." Is that ever true! You can visit Maggie's blog HERE.

Winterson

I'm only 54 pages in, but I love this book so far.
First, I read Jeanette Winterson's novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Apparently she received many accolades because it is considered a unique and modern style of writing.
I don't know about any of that. I only know that before the end, I was skimming through large tracts of it.

But then, from this library stack here in my home office, I picked up Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Winterson has written an autobiographical book filled with clear truths and simple explanations about her own life. Her observations are straightforward; her explanations are simple; her writing is powerful and alive. I don't want to put the book down. I want to quote her three dozen times for you already, just because she is saying things so goddamn well.

It's great when a book has that effect, isn't it! And for me, most autobiographies do.

Dragonfly and Snakeskin

It does look as if I collect bags, but that's not the case. Or maybe it is; I can't throw out a perfectly nice, usable bag. They've become a collection without my intention.
What I use them for is to hold rose petals and other items for making amulets and such.
I found a dried, shed snakeskin once; it's in a mesh bag hanging here in the office.
A dragonfly got into the house and was dead before I could put it outside.
Neither have yet been used. But what's the rush?

Hits the Nail on the Head, She Does

Nevertheless, life is pleasant, life is tolerable.  Tuesday follows Monday; then comes Wednesday.  The mind grows rings; the identity becomes robust; pain is absorbed in growth.  Opening and shutting, shutting and opening, with increasing hum and sturdiness, the haste and fever of youth are drawn into service until the whole being seems to expand in and out like the mainspring of a clock. How fast the stream flows from January to December!  We are swept on by the torrent of things grown so familiar that they cast no shadow.  We float, we float . . .

The Waves, by Virginia Woolf, from the Woolf in Bloom blog at http://woolfbloom.blogspot.ca/.

Emil Donny Donny Donndo

Oh sure, he may look happy as we leave Uncle Neil's place, but guaranteed he is not.  So what has got him so giggly? Darned if I know. Most of the time he doesn't either. Something's just tickling his funny bone, that's all.

You can kinda see where he's lost a tooth, if you know where to look.

A New Year's Jaunt

New Year's Day, Kathy style, meant picking up Emil in Wadena and driving out to my uncle and aunt's north of Margo.

But first, a leisurely morning and a short walk.

Down the road

My cousin Leanne is spending a few days there, having come in with her three kids from Edmonton, so I took the opportunity for a visit.

When Emil and I arrived, Leanne's kids were outside with her sisters' kids, taking advantage of the crisp, bright, sparkly winter day.

The cousins through their grandparents' dining room window

They came in all pink-cheeked to find the rest of us at the table eating Christmas treats and sipping on wine. After a while my cousin Heather, as if we looked peckish, deep-fried what she calls "moose-balls" for a hot snack: marinated moose meat breaded with herbs and spices. Tasty!

When Emil and I waddled out to the car just as the sun touched the horizon, I was pretty sure neither of us would be needing supper.

Beyond, the field south of their farmyard

Bringin' in the New Year

Comings and goings, comings and goings.
Town: mail, lunch, groceries, hardware, Everett's to drop off his mail and pick up my clean quilts. (Our hard water stains fabric, so I enlist my son with his town water.)

Scott chatting with someone parked in front of the post office.

Home: wine, liqueur, ham, scalloped potatoes, which are always a treat to us.
This Hour Has 22 Minutes.
The outdoor timer should be switching on my coloured lights any moment.
Woo hoo!

What are you doing this New Year's Eve?

Here's to another year gone, another to come.

We Love Lefse

When Emil and I went to the Christmas craft and trade show in Margo, my sister Karen was there with a vendor's table. She was selling stained glass ornaments, and baking. All the baking was gone by the time we got there, but I put in an order for some lefse.

On Christmas day when I went to Karen's in the afternoon, she had a variety of delicious foods laid out on her kitchen island and on one of the side cupboards. I pulled some of the dinner leftovers out of the fridge and heated them in the microwave — not the turkey or ham, but the vegetables and the stuffing and the cabbage rolls and the perogies. I ate a couple pieces of lefse and when I was leaving, Karen handed me my order of lefse, which she'd frozen.

Yesterday two slices of it were my supper.

See Stubblejumpers Café - the recipe collection

Thanks, Karen!

Sista Swings By

Karen stopped in on her way home from Wadena after her first pedicure — a gift or a prize or something. She showed me her toes and what was I thinking? No picture! Tsk.

We had peppermint tea and ate some of Lynn's poppycock and yakked our faces off and she left wearing her bright red jacket.

I need to get out there too. Sunlight. Fresh air. Birds.

She just texted me. She saw a beautiful snowy owl on her way home.

*** Update:
I walked three miles and saw a swift red fox.

How Little Old Ladies Visit

Two afternoons, one night.

A colouring book and pencil crayons.

Wine. Supper.

Breakfast, caesars, three games of cribbage. 

More supper.

Bev's masterpiece

Me

New dishcloths made by Scott's sister Lynn doubled as handy coasters. 

My New Stained Glass

See it at SISTER LINES.

Cumpny

The list I haven’t checked twice, but only because I haven’t made it yet, is the one headed “Which friends don’t like flannel?” Damned if I can remember.

One friend can't stand flannel sheets against her skin.
Another loves flannel.
What does Bev like?
Flannel's just ducky. So flannel it is.

Bed made and ready for company:

Christmas Christmas Christmas

There was one year that I was obsessed with different performances of O Beautiful Star. Remember? It was after Eli Barsi had been here, performing it onstage at the hall in Wadena.

Well, this year it's The Holly and the Ivy. Here are the ones I like for one reason or another:










Yes I know it's from the film ... .

He Worries

The first thing I do every morning is, like all of us, head for the bathroom. On the way, my head is a-swivel. I'm looking out the windows. What kind of day is it? What colour is the sky? Are the treetops bending in the wind? Are the branches laden with heavy hoarfrost? These days, they are. Talk about living in a postcard.

Next I look to see if Scott's still home or has already gone on his merry way. Early riser that he is, if he's still here he may be tucked into the corner of the couch with the dog, looking at his laptop. Probably about 50% of the time, he's long gone. Nowadays they are putting out bales for and watering the cattle most mornings before they get on to their other work. Whether he's here and I join him in the living room to drink my coffee, or whether I've got the house to myself, it's all good.

Emil's here this morning and will be till Christmas Day, when his dad arrives from Edmonton. They'll spend the next few days together in town at Everett's.

Emil has two weeks off work now, the same two weeks that I have, but he didn't want to come and stay out here at all. Now that's saying something for the supervised group home, isn't it! He's more than happy there, and tells me he worries that I might make him move back here with me, when he wants to spend the rest of his life there.

I tell him not to worry, that he is always welcome wherever I am, but most mothers want their children to grow up and move out. We don't want to look after them forever.

"I love you, Mom. I would not be happy if you die on purpose." Because we lost a close friend of the family to suicide a few years ago, he worries. I assure him that it won't happen to me, though I will die sometime, and likely before he does. "I think I'll miss you then," he says. Yes, my darling; you will.

Joneski

Meanwhile, littlest sister Joan is in Maui with her kids, hubby, and his mom.
She is trying not to sound like she's stalking Steven Tyler but hm they do pick up their takeout each night at a place he frequents. So why not?

As Emil, at age six, said to Joni Mitchell as held her hand at the Mendel Art Gallery in Saskatoon:
"It's too bad we won't get a chance to get to know each other." Joni graciously agreed.

Joan's post today:
SISTER LINES

Joan and Steve:

Better Angels

The term "better angels" has come into my awareness at least three times in the last couple days, including in this blog entry by Regina author Kathleen Wall.

She starts out by writing about a book whose author claims there is far less violence and repression in the world than there ever was, as opposed to the common belief that "The world's gone crazy."

Maybe you'd like to go read her piece? CLICK HERE. Kathleen's blog entries are always meaty and every time I read one, I think, "Oh my, I am such a lightweight." I say this with a little smile and total acceptance of my place on the scale of intellect. Remind me to tell you about my visualized meetings with my "Intellectual Self" someday. They've been few and short, quite matter of fact, but enlightening too. (Note to Self: Remember.)

Late yesterday afternoon I went for the most exquisite walk, stopping several times just to turn completely around and be fully amazed. There was hoarfrost everywhere and my trusty little camera couldn't capture the peace and encompassing lushness of it.

heading down the road

coming back home

To My Mother-in-Law

I don't know about you, but I have never liked putting wet teabags in a dessert bowl or small plate. I've never had just the right one! Till now. 

The little paddle is even perfect, standing in for a spoon when there's no string on the bag.

Thanks again, Pat!

xoxo

Kathy

ps see attached photo

A treasure Pat brought back from the Maritimes this fall. It's actually meant for serving and spreading cream cheese.

Budai

He's here!

He's not my brother, but he's sure as hell heavy.