Imbolc and the 3/4 Moon
Tuesday gratefuls: Exercise. Back. Writing. Jennie’s Dead has more words. -12 degrees! Yikes. Minnesota is following me. Fresh Snow. Gray Sky. Black Mountain. Shadow Mountain. Kep, surprised I got up on time. Feeling somewhat better. BP a little high. Russia. War. Joe. Seoah. Murdoch. Philippines.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: real bitter cold here, right here
-12. Since we moved here in 2014, this is as cold as it has gotten. Something Coloradans are not prepared for. They talk about black Ice, but I’ve not seen any up here ever. Today could be the day.
I’m glad I don’t have to go out. This is online class day. Driving in the Mountains with Coloradans who don’t know what they’re doing in deep Cold and Snow? No thanks. Mini-splits handling it.
When we had -5 a while back, I intended to comment on how excited I was. The purity and clarity of that sort of Cold. The crunch in the Snow. Freezing mucus on the inhale. This morning I’m reminded.
Being a Minnesotan creates a different response to temperatures others in the U.S. take as surreal, perhaps made up. Minnesota Macho. More than that. It kills off ash borers, keeps out poisonous snakes (for the most part, a few rattlers in the southeast), and freezes Lakes thick enough for Ice road truckers. Oh, and Ice fisherfolk, too. Someday we need to discuss the ice-fishing in Minnesota. Its street signs, pizza deliveries, wide screen televisions, bunk beds, and, if an article sent by brother Mark is to be believed, prostitution.
Yesterday was a good day. Got more written on Jennie’s Dead. Not my usual number of words per day, but more than Sunday. Worked out. A bit of cardio, one set of my new work out. Slowly. Slowly. That familiar ache this morning, joints moved, muscles stressed.
A new attitude gradually taking shape. I’m not a perfectionist, as David Sanders and I discussed, but I’m on the spectrum. It’s easy for me to let the best be the enemy of the good. If I can’t do 5 hours of strenuous exercise a week, what’s the point? If I can’t cook a full meal, why cook at all? If I can’t write 1,000 words a day, why write at all? And, if I can’t do any of this at all then, what’s the point? So, yes, a certain clinging to results hangs over my daily. And, is a killer to my eudaimon, my good spirit, my satisfaction.
I don’t care about happiness. Don’t seek it. I do enjoy when it comes, often with friends or after a good day like yesterday, but I want satisfaction, to have done things that matter to me and potentially to others. When I’m at my best, I let them come to me, wu wei. I flow with my life like Maxwell Creek spills down Shadow Mountain.
In an overall sense I feel I’ve done pretty well at that since Kate’s death. I’ve let the grief come when it wants, stayed in it for as long as it needs to express the loss of my soul mate, Kate, always Kate. I’ve tried to let the emergence of a new life come as it will, not trying to force it. Hard though. Perhaps the kitchen remodel and the new furniture pushed rather than received. But yin without yang is all passivity and the Tao moves chi between them, not emphasizing one over the other.
Rigel’s death, too. As she lay dying, my soul ached for her. Tears sprang from my deep holy well of grief, one which I touch easily. After she died, when she left this plane, this universe, this space in consciousness, I began to ease, to find her memory a blessing. Easier, I think, since I’ve had this experience seventeen times. Not because Rigel was less than Kate, no, but because Kate was singular. My wife, my partner, my listener, my prod, my cheerleader, my fair critic. Rigel loved me, too. And, I loved her back. Both, still, I’m beginning to believe.
What does this 75 year old man want to be, to do, to become? I want to lean into satisfaction, my eudaimon, my good demon. I want to do what I can when I can. I want to live until I die. As Lao Tze said, that’s enough.