We got down to the farmer's fields late, after
sleeping in and recharging that battery of health , then push pushing him out
the door to cross fit, because when he gets home he's like a grand healthy
inflated connected up form of his best self , even if it's a gentle go easy
version of their group venture of the day.
So he got home and off we went , to venture onto the empty windy fields, tugging on neck warmer and hat snug against the 28•, flinging his ball far and wide as he thundered about, and taking that first ooommmph struggling step that launches us once more into some distant cousin of a jog.
Which sometimes feels like a walk only stiff and halting with a little more jagged up and down motion. Certainly not what you would imagine in your mind's eye.
But no matter, we all know that, and it's just about starting no matter how or when or anything else .
So he's racing like some big black shiny long haired beauty all across the frozen land and I'm kalumohing along , distracting myself from the bumpy erratic progress and persisting by counting counting once for every four steps.
And there's no rippling waters of roaring winds or magnificent eagles or flirting Broadwing hawk teenagers or fleeting deer or anything that sputters or inspires or inflames my inspiration or amazement . And I'm feeling a little bit bored and cranky and disappointed . And of course it's then that I realize that it's actually not about you , but me.
It's not the day; it's my perspective .
It's not the land , but how I'm experiencing it.
So I stop kalumohing along to think for a second . Either that or have an excuse to stand there huffing out of breath. But actually I'm not out of breath. Im fine with the bumpy fast-as-slug-'running'.
I'm just a little bored. And maybe spoiled .
By the lovely things that happen in this same place nearly every day. And so I walk slowly , contemplating boredom.
Because when there is a lack of distraction, whatever our preferred type, we settle further into ourselves.
It's kind of uncomfortable and there's this immediate impulses that first, accompanied by all kinds of urgent bells and whistles that urge us to go go go find something to deliver us from this place . Of settling down into ourselves.
And when we can't or don't ( go get distracted) the funny thing is ,we settle farther down into our own self-hood until it begins to feel solid. And good. And true .
And actually pretty impervious to fears and imaginings and insecurities .
Because that made up imagined fearful crap is actually sensation and worry , as opposed to real and actual.
Oh, hunger is real. Cold or heat or thirst or physical safety or great isolation are all pretty real.
Living it fighting in war torn countries is real. Living and surviving in crime ridden poverty stricken neighborhoods or working in fields owned by opportunistic unkind farmers is real.
Being where we are, with whatever isn't going well today, in terms of our balance or hearing or sight or pain or flexibility or strength or stamina - are all too real, and familiar to all living beings.
Learning how to be with all that is optional , in terms of whether we choose to be aware and learn to accept and breathe with it, and make efforts to improve what we can, and prevent further challenge, is all too real. Feeling lonely and isolated and vulnerable to growing bitter and angry and rigid and miserable is pretty real.
So I did that same old thing we all do. When we have enough support and love and oomph to swim instead of sink.
I moved my arms around, started kicking, and in I went down the beautiful quiet spare farmer road.
So he got home and off we went , to venture onto the empty windy fields, tugging on neck warmer and hat snug against the 28•, flinging his ball far and wide as he thundered about, and taking that first ooommmph struggling step that launches us once more into some distant cousin of a jog.
Which sometimes feels like a walk only stiff and halting with a little more jagged up and down motion. Certainly not what you would imagine in your mind's eye.
But no matter, we all know that, and it's just about starting no matter how or when or anything else .
So he's racing like some big black shiny long haired beauty all across the frozen land and I'm kalumohing along , distracting myself from the bumpy erratic progress and persisting by counting counting once for every four steps.
And there's no rippling waters of roaring winds or magnificent eagles or flirting Broadwing hawk teenagers or fleeting deer or anything that sputters or inspires or inflames my inspiration or amazement . And I'm feeling a little bit bored and cranky and disappointed . And of course it's then that I realize that it's actually not about you , but me.
It's not the day; it's my perspective .
It's not the land , but how I'm experiencing it.
So I stop kalumohing along to think for a second . Either that or have an excuse to stand there huffing out of breath. But actually I'm not out of breath. Im fine with the bumpy fast-as-slug-'running'.
I'm just a little bored. And maybe spoiled .
By the lovely things that happen in this same place nearly every day. And so I walk slowly , contemplating boredom.
Because when there is a lack of distraction, whatever our preferred type, we settle further into ourselves.
It's kind of uncomfortable and there's this immediate impulses that first, accompanied by all kinds of urgent bells and whistles that urge us to go go go find something to deliver us from this place . Of settling down into ourselves.
And when we can't or don't ( go get distracted) the funny thing is ,we settle farther down into our own self-hood until it begins to feel solid. And good. And true .
And actually pretty impervious to fears and imaginings and insecurities .
Because that made up imagined fearful crap is actually sensation and worry , as opposed to real and actual.
Oh, hunger is real. Cold or heat or thirst or physical safety or great isolation are all pretty real.
Living it fighting in war torn countries is real. Living and surviving in crime ridden poverty stricken neighborhoods or working in fields owned by opportunistic unkind farmers is real.
Being where we are, with whatever isn't going well today, in terms of our balance or hearing or sight or pain or flexibility or strength or stamina - are all too real, and familiar to all living beings.
Learning how to be with all that is optional , in terms of whether we choose to be aware and learn to accept and breathe with it, and make efforts to improve what we can, and prevent further challenge, is all too real. Feeling lonely and isolated and vulnerable to growing bitter and angry and rigid and miserable is pretty real.
So I did that same old thing we all do. When we have enough support and love and oomph to swim instead of sink.
I moved my arms around, started kicking, and in I went down the beautiful quiet spare farmer road.
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