Monday was an emotional rollercoaster; Tuesday an emotional hangover. Wednesday—CRASH! Thursday, so, sick, I planned my funeral. (I wasn’t going to invite you, by the way. Just because.) Friday, I decided I was going to live; Saturday, I felt loved. Sunday, the coughing started.
To flesh things out a bit:
I got really, really, really SICK. I suppose it started to germinate Monday, poked through Tuesday, and flourished Wednesday and Thursday–those two days I felt so weak and exhausted that I essentially floated in and out of consciousness on the couch (thank goodness it’s in the kitchen, cause the kids still needed to eat).
Have you ever noticed that when your body is not well, your mind is convinced that there is NOTHING right with the world?
BTW, my OCD documentation indicates the source of my illness pretty clearly:
From the process journal, Sunday: “I needed to chill and rest but I felt GUILTY about it. I know this is ridiculous. I’ve worked so hard. I need to rest. But the guilt comes nonetheless. ‘Do More.’ No REST.”
I think this should be the soundtrack to this post:
On Friday, I explored my issues with the Buddha, in some detail:
According to most tradition, Siddhartha Gautama left—another word for this is abandoned—his wife and son to pursue wisdom and enlightenment. And, so we say 27 centuries or so later, he found it.
So I wonder… was his son proud? Did he grow up thinking, “Wow, my Daddy’s the Buddha!”
Or did he think of the Buddha as… “that bastard who walked out of my life and wasn’t that present when he was in it in in the first place”?
Sean: You realize every time you write something like that either your mother or my mother is going to call to ask if we’re all right?
Jane: I love you, darling, and you’re so fucking wise and insightful, but you’re not the Buddha and nobody thinks you are.
Sean: I love you, darling, but I also know you mostly write in metaphor.
But there’s no metaphor here. The more I think about it, the more I think the Buddha was a selfish jackass who was afraid of life.
Flora: Does anyone in your yoga cult read your blog?
Jane: Probably not. Why?
Flora: Cause they should probably ex-communicate you.
Jane: I think only Catholics do that.
Speaking of Catholics—I’ve spent much of this sick week watching G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown series on Netflix. (G.K., by the way, stands for Gilbert Keith—I know you were wondering, so I googled it for you.) I don’t know if it’s any good. I’m mostly unconscious as I watch it.
I really like how green England is, though. In spring. Apparently also fall and winter.
Outside my window, Viking hell is melting and creating ruts so deep, they trap SUVs. (On Wednesday, coughing and feverish and naked under my snowsuit, I try to dig a neighbour out of one of the ruts. Cinder, in shorts and a tank top—Canadian child—helps. We fail; need to call a tow truck.)
On Saturday, there was synchronicity up the wazoo:
…but I’m not going to tell you about that, because it was all too specific and requires too much backstory, and there was a horse involved. Also, Eric Carmen’s “Hungry Eyes” and a pie (pastry, of an undefined kind) topped with whipped cream and a burlesque dancer wearing an apron on which cherries whirled.
But no green beer.
Still. I decided I was glad I lived. And I felt loved. Which was a definite sign I was going to live and defeat this man cold.
Hack. Cough. Wheeze.
Oh, I forgot to tell you:
On Friday, I decided I was going to renegotiate my entire relationship with money.
I have a new sankalpa. And I’m soon going to be rich.
Yes, I was on drugs. Fuck off. I had a blinding, incisive insight.
You: Care to flesh that out a little?
Jane: Um, yeah, not really. Like Saturday’s synchronicity story (unintentional alliteration, by the way), it’s all too specific and requires too much backstory. But stay tuned: I’m sure I’ll spin it all into a cohesive narrative at some point. How can I not?
It seems to me I’m forgetting something…
I’m sure I’m forgetting something…
I was, after all, very, very sick.
Jane: Cough, hack, wheeze. I did sit ups and squats today AND went out for lunch with a beautiful woman AND articulated perfectly why “retirement” was intellectual suicide AND made supper AND did my laundry AND… OMFG, I’m so tired, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough…
Right. So I have a question for you. Do you think The Buddha Was a Psychopath: A Mindfulness Manual for the Rest of Us is a marketable title for a book?
This may or may not be related to my drug-induced paradigm shift re: money.
—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA
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