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@underthesunsalutation-blog
Go for broke. Always try and do too much. Dispense with safety nets. Take a deep breath before you begin talking. Aim for the stars. Keep grinning. Be bloody-minded. Argue with the world. And never forget that writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things--childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves--that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.
Salman Rushdie
Juan Gatti
The worst illiterate is the political illiterate, he doesn’t hear, doesn’t speak, nor participates in the political events. He doesn’t know the cost of life, the price of the bean, of the fish, of the flour, of the rent, of the shoes and of the medicine, all depends on political decisions. The political illiterate is so stupid that he is proud and swells his chest saying that he hates politics. The imbecile doesn’t know that, from his political ignorance is born the prostitute, the abandoned child, and the worst thieves of all, the bad politician, corrupted and flunky of the national and multinational companies.
Bertolt Brecht (via toobaa)
From Flower Story on fb.
Grains of Sand (4X) photographed by Yanping Wang from the Beijing Planetarium, China.
Life practice.
Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames. ~ Rumi
The chicken or the egg
Which comes first?
For the longest time now, especially since I moved, I’ve been trying to handle unstructured time in a profitable way, and I think I’ve finally figured it out!
When I wake up, I usually have a good feeling. My bed is nice, my room is pretty, there are a couple of super cute cats to greet me, I’m alive again for another day, and so much awaits.
I putter around inviting the light in. I open the doors and the shades, leaving some just so, so the orchids don’t get burnt. I take a thyroid pill—still trying to discern whether that’s right, what it is, and how much, and does it really make the difference?
My home is expensive. It’s been fine while I’ve got money from the sale of my house, but without enough work, that supply is dwindling, this is what comes to my mind on these mornings. I’ve spent a lot of time creating a haven for myself, and I want to be here for awhile. But I am not sure how that’s going to work, and thus my dilemma. What do I do first?
I know the cats need to be fed, and even if I’m very hungry, taking the thyroid means I have to wait an hour. So, it’s all open after I do that, and thus my dilemma. Even getting dressed means making a choice, because it depends on what I’m going to do.
This should all be so simple as not to even merit discussion, or discourse, there’s only me here, I suppose, but then, there you are too. Which is why I write in this way. So I can consider things, and you might too.
The question I’ve been trying to answer is what’s most important. And that’s not easy to answer, because of course, you have to take into account what’s going on, and what’s required, other people, time schedules, etc. But the thing is, when I don’t have a regular schedule, I get all messed up, because apparently, I’m not that great at making the right choice about where I should start and what should come next. And I’m measuring how good I am at that by what’s resulting. I know, according to yogic philosophy, that’s not the measure, it’s always the process, the journey, what I’m experiencing and learning along the way. But I’m trying to achieve certain things, like being able to pay the rent and the bills, to advance creatively, to connect with more friends and family, both here at home where I now live, in LA of the sunny sunshine, and back at my old home in rainy Seattle, where there are so many beloveds about whom I care a lot.
The choices are many. I’m going to start grad school next week, and there’s a ton of understanding all the ins and outs of all the forms, the usernames and passwords, the organizing this, and the choosing that.
Then there’s the simple demands of what needs to be done here. Besides feeding the cats, I make sure the litter box is clean (although they go outside and barely use it except when I have to be gone for extended periods), making the bed, and tending all the many plants inside and out. I didn’t leave that behind after all. I have 3 outdoor spaces: a front porch, a back porch, and my rose garden down below. There are tons of plants friends that need so many different things: watering, of course, but also fertilizing, and bug removal- I know, yuck, right, but it’s just like giving your kid a bath, really – and moving because the sun changes its path and sometimes I don’t know that’s been necessary until someone’s leaves have gotten scorched in an afternoon while I was absent and then I feel bad. The rose garden I planted down below, and all the rest of the things I either moved around or added, like the hydrangea under the steps- perfect location because of the way the sun filters through- doesn’t get sufficient water from the sprinkler system, so I must make sure everything’s soaked. The temperatures have been in the 90’s and mostly high 90’s for weeks now, and if you miss watering, you’ll see disaster very shortly. So, there’s that.
And I like things to be clean. My daughter firmly believes that I’m kindof a pig, I think, just not aware of details like a refrigerator that could use a more thorough scrubbing, or the fact that my car needs to be washed, again. But she’s not a mother yet, and she hasn’t owned a home, so she doesn’t know the responsibilities I’ve taken on and had for years and years, and how tired you can get, and how, no matter how hard you try, there are only so many things you can accomplish in a day, and so many that seem to slip away repeatedly, either because they’re easy to forget or overlook, or because they’re somewhat out-of-sight, out-of-mind. Or they’re not easy, or they’re particularly time-consuming, or they’re just the kind you want to avoid, because they’re too hard, like repairing a fence gate, or hauling stuff away, or moving something that’s too heavy to do alone. Around here, I have less of that to deal with, and thank God, because I’ve needed a break from it for years. But certain aspects of that equal home to me, so I recreated them here, and I gladly do what’s there to be done, to enjoy what they offer, like the beauty of the mandevillea blossoms, that have just the right light, and the fragrance of the roses that are not getting too much light and heat. So, I’m not a piggy householder at all. I’m awake and aware and it can be overwhelming, just sayin’.
What I’m really dealing with is, though, is: body or mind or heart?
I don’t lose weight easily. I don’t overeat either. I exercise constantly, daily, and do I lose weight? No. Not really. Am I fat? Not very. Am I comfortable? No. I resist aging and the facts of my particular anatomy, because I feel that to surrender is just not one of the options. I’ve got a lot of pain from various injuries, and I know that I must keep moving, but I have to careful about how much I push. And so I have the things that I know work: swimming, and yoga, and weights and walking. I haven’t returned to Pure Barre, although I bought a month unlimited, because that’s how I injured my knee and although it’s been months since I did that practice, it’s still an issue.
What I know is that I have to move. And if I don’t, then, around here, I can get static, especially if there’s no appointment, no session, no class, no demand. If I don’t move early enough, then somehow, I get stuck. For me, there’s this middle-of-the-day doldrum that comes creeping around, and if I’ve not moved, then I’ll get caught in it, and need to lie down, even though I never let myself, because I don’t feel I can afford that luxury.
Then there’s the fact that I’ve woken up another morning alone. I’m used to it, but a bit numb. It used to hurt. I used to miss particular people I’ve loved, and even the ones I’ve hated, and I used to feel ashamed, like there was something wrong with me, that I—as that one popular card, with the pixelated cartoon of the tearful woman on it, said – “forgot to get married.” How could I forget this essential choice of American life? How could I have prioritized mine so differently that my path has been full of twists and turns that don’t look in any way normal? How could I let the best men go, or, in one case, die? And somehow keep around the destructive, harmful ones much longer than I should have? How? This remains one of the biggest mysteries I still have to solve. Because according to Daniel Giamario, the esteemed shamanic astrologer I consulted with, partnership is one of the main tasks I’ve come to learn, that I came in with what I know, which is the pride of doing things myself, and proving my worth by not needing anyone. This time around, I’m supposed to find a way to do it with someone, and God only knows, I better not get hit by a car or something, because there’s probably less than half of my allotted time here left, and if I don’t find him soon, then I won’t have fulfilled that part of my purpose. And it’s not just my need to understand mutuality and cooperation. It’s to know love, of course. Which is why I get stymied in this area, too. I cannot seem to bring myself to the now accepted way of finding a partner. I can’t stomach the idea of “shopping for people.” That’s how I view online dating, no matter how normal it’s become. I still have this old-fashioned notion that you could actually encounter a person in person! How quaint! I know that. Since, obviously, that hasn’t happened yet, or when it has happened it hasn’t panned out—panned out! Like gold-mining, no? How bizarre that we say this. Anyway, I know this is something I either need to take some action about, or not, and I keep choosing or not, basically, and here we are. Well, there is one person I am hopeful about. But I’ve done what I can do, and we have to see what we shall see.
Which brings me to the last category. My mind. I love to read. And I’d do it so much more if I only could. It’s now become something of a guilty pleasure—reading! when it’s so basic and necessary, we need it, and yet, I only really do it before bed, when my eyeballs are falling out from fatigue and my retention factor is greatly reduced because what I really need to be doing is sleeping.
But even more than that, and that’s a big thing, because I’ve loved loved loved reading since I was 5-year-old, I love to write. And I’m writing this today, because I finally came, after much trial and error in this still rather new location for me, this new home, to the conclusion that THIS is the first thing I need to be doing in the morning no matter WHAT else the day may hold. I’ve known this before, that no matter that there were miles to drive to dress that set, or that I had rehearsals to prepare for when I was at the Academy, I wrote during those periods, and you know why? Because I had that schedule. I knew when I had to be where, and it allowed me to choose my time wisely, to plan, to leave enough of it, to sleep enough, and to get up early enough, to keep my eyes open and be open to the ideas about what I wanted to say. It’s been since those jobs ended, and the subbing has been almost non-existent, and the private sessions have been few and far between, and I’ve not quite known what to do to scare up the work I must find, because I need to create income, somehow, somehow, that I’ve not been writing. And it’s bad.
Choosing to go back to school has been a mixed bag of emotions for me. Because I tried it before and I didn’t get in. And it made me question whether or not I was “supposed” to. But I am driven to teach, and teaching yoga, while in my rare previous scenario of working for a state-funded college offered benefits and retirement and all that, that’s not usually how it goes. However, teaching actual school is different. And part of why I’m doing this is that I don’t want to land on my daughter’s doorstep sooner than later. I don’t want to be dependent on her at all if I don’t have to. There it is again—this need to do it myself. But seriously, I’ve got to give her all the space she needs to flourish for as long as humanly possible.
And so this choice is motivated by several factors. I have always wanted to make a difference. I just want to do it as a director. And because I don’t know how, I figure this is a way there. It’s a bit round-about, true, but why not work with kids? All my directing is academic anyway. And I love school—being there, working there, the whole thing. I do believe that my greatest contribution is to tell story. And helping kids find the ways to tell theirs is part of that.
AND this brings me back to the relief I am feeling this morning to have, at long last! arrived at what needs to come first. It’s not that my body isn’t important—but I’m going to jump in the pool at some time of day no matter what, and I’ll drag myself to yoga in the evening, even if I’m much better energized for it in the morning. As far as finding the man of my dreams, well, much as I know I’m supposed to take action and get on those sites and pursue something, I just have to honor my way, and work more on opening my heart than spending time online.
No, what I have to do, what I must do, every morning regardless of whatever else is going on, is to take care of my mind and WRITE. Because when I do, I feel real. I know I’m here. I have a chance to articulate my thoughts, and to connect the dots, to consider things, and to place them before others for their consideration.
I think I’ve known this for a long time now. But, as guilt and shame are the major areas of healing that I have to work on, as they are my biggest life lessons, I have forever and ever and ever, let them get in the way. I’ve felt that I must make sure to be practical, and get that money coming in steadily, that I’ve got to do certain things to ensure my success on all kinds of levels. But the truth is, unless I do this, none of that will happen. Because I won’t be connected with myself. And if I’m not connected here, with me, first thing in the morning, then it’s no wonder that the rest of the day can unravel so easily. It’s no surprise that I lose steam and momentum and energy. I need to be tapped into the creative self, or nothing else is even worth doing.
And so! School begins next week, the blessed scheduling factor will be there helping me to plan and I will be writing each day. It may not be long, like this—longer than anyone apparently has the patience to read, perhaps- but it will be steady. That’s what I’ve come to, thank goodness! And I know, in my soul, that that’s how I’m meant to proceed… that that’s how I’m meant to live.
©2012 Annette Romano
Beautiful.
We will never remember dying. We were so patient about being, noting down the numbers, the days, the years and the months, the hair, the mouths we kissed, but that moment of dying: we surrender it without a note, we give it to others as remembrance or we give it simply to water, to water, to air, to time. Nor do we keep the memory of our birth, though being born was important and fresh: and now you don't even remember one detail, you haven't kept even a branch of the first light. It's well known that we are born. It's well known that in the room or in the woods or in the hut in the fisherman's district or in the crackling cornfields there is a very unusual silence, a moment solemn as wood, and a woman gets ready to give birth. It's well known that we were born. But of the profound jolt from not being to existing, to having hands, to seeing, to having eyes, to eating and crying and overflowing and loving and loving and suffering and suffering, of that transition or shudder of the electric essence that takes on one more body like a living cup, and of that disinhabited woman, the mother who is left there with her blood and her torn fullness and her end and beginning, and the disorder that troubles the pulse, the floor, the blankets, until everything gathers and adds one more knot to the thread of life: nothing, there is nothing left in your memory of the fierce sea that lifted a wave and knocked down a dark apple from the tree. The only thing you remember is your life.
Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon ~ Pablo Neruda
I woke up thinking
I woke up thinking, “The trick is wanting what you have.”
What do I have?
Well, from that initial standpoint: a comfortable bed, with all that that entails—sheets, pillows, blankets; two happy, purring kitties, in a room that’s spacious, with windows that provide light, and a view of the mountains out of one of them, and of a swimming pool (never planned on that one!) out of another.
Elsewhere in the house, there are plenty of things: useful things, educational ones, necessities, and then those that are decorative—I was going to say, merely decorative, but there’s no “mere” about it. I need beauty to live. So, I appreciate the colors of the art on the walls and of the furniture, of the orchids growing on the tabletops and windowsills.
But in the larger sense of that thought, it, of course, goes beyond things. I’ve got enough to eat, food, enough to wear, clothing, and as they say, a roof over my head, shelter.
Who could ask for anything more?
What about wanting what you do?
Ok. What do I do?
I sleep, rise, let the kitties out, let the sunshine in, and I write. I water the plants, inside and out, the mandevillea, the hibiscus, the begonia, the geranium, the gardenia, and all the succulents whose names I don’t yet know, and the roses. I feed the cats, and I make breakfast for me.
I consider the day: do I need to drive down to the location and dress the set? Do I need to go to the yoga studio and work at the desk? I read reviews of plays, so I can decide which plays to read. I study directing, and plan the production of the script I want to put up. I look at all the details of applying for this Master’s in Teaching that will bring me more of what I hope to do.
I clean, and cook, and swim, and practice mantra while I do. I meet with my hummingbird buddy and hope he likes the fuschia I got for him.
Then, we come to wanting who you are.
I am.
I am the embodiment of God. I’m deep and confused, steady and clear, content and concerned, happy and sad. I’m a woman, a thinker, writer, director, actor, teacher, singer, yogi, swimmer, piano and harmonica and future accordion player. I’m a baker of cookies and maker of gelato. I’m a gardener. I’m a book-, theatre-, and movie-lover. I’m a mother. A daughter. A sister. An aunt. A friend.
I have so much more than can be mentioned. Because of course, all of these areas overlap. I have the home I lived in in Seattle—no, I don’t “own” it anymore, but it exists in my mind, as I knew it, and the surrounding garden, and the neighbors, and all my friends there, and my students, and the work I did. Some would say, the past is the past, but I think memory is an essential part of our humanity.
And I have my new home, this sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, in all its beauty and squalor. I have the things I’ve learned that I can apply here to create more of the life I want.
I have the lessons I learned from the way I did things before, and what I know now not to do, and what I’d like to do more of, such as go to sleep a little earlier; be kind and patient with the cats - and with the neighbors - and with my friends; drink less wine and more water; discern whether someone can hear what I’m telling them; not listen to liars… having listened to them, trust again.
I stay with how I feel instead of run. It’s wildly uncomfortable. But what other choice is there? I’ve learned that if I don’t, it will only persevere. I listen to what my habit compels me to eat, and I consider whether it’s necessary. I consider my options before I proceed, sometimes a little too long, yes, but I’m practicing breathing, so it’s worth it. I’m observing. I’m weighing choices, I’m making them, and I’m proceeding, either a tentative step at a time or by a prodigious leap.
Is it enough?
Wanting what I have, and what I do, and who I am would mean that I must be ok with all the things that I don’t have, and I’m not doing, and that I am not.
Am I ok?
Well, truthfully, no, not entirely. There are plenty of things I see and would like, like a new car, because mine is definitely on the downhill slide, and a new painting to replace one I’m no longer enamored with and in fact, haven’t been, for years. I go through swimsuits like crazy, and right now would like more summer dresses, and (it pretty much goes without saying—are all women like this?) more shoes.
But I don’t need any of this, not desperately anyway.
I’d like to have more energy to cook more inventively and put to use the many cookbooks that I have that I’ve used, but not exhausted certainly, not by a long shot. I’d like to play more music and sing more often – and with and for other people, since it’s fun, and I do it well.
I want to teach. It’s a gift to do that. I love it, and am meant to do it.
I need to go to the beach more, and out to the theatre, and even movies.
I’d like to act again, if the circumstances are right. It would be fun to make commercials again, if I don’t have to suffer to accomplish that.
And write, of course—to speak using the new tools I’ve got, and tell the stories only I can tell.
But mostly, I want to direct, because it’s the single thing I’m best at, and I know I’m meant to do it, and it’s just a question of how.
Oh, I’d like to be skinnier (always), stronger (especially my hands), and more beautiful. I’d like it if my body would ignore the passage of time and retain some of what I used to be like. I wish I was the sort that knew just the right thing to say, and said it at the time, instead of thinking of it later, when it’s too late, and doesn’t matter anymore. And I’d like to be more productive, in just about every respect. Better read, more accomplished, making a larger contribution and a bigger difference.
In the perfect scenario? Is there such a thing?
I’d have enough income from being a successful director, creating superlative theatre to share everything I have with others.
I’d spend my days immersed in the art of storytelling, and still have time to swim, garden, cook, read, practice yoga, play the piano, and pet the cats.
I’d be my own true love’s own true love, and move through time in connection with him, and with space between us, so that who we are is our best selves, for ourselves, one another, and everyone we come in contact with.
I don’t think it’s too much to ask for, envision, create. Starting right here, right now, with all I’ve got, and everything I do, and all that I am.
Yes!! I am grateful for another wonderful day.
©2012 Annette Romano
Full sun
In yoga, there’s this ongoing cultivation of awareness in order to learn how to stay present. Being present allows for clear perception. Clear perception is intended to give us true experience, not colored by our past, opinions, preferences, desires, etc. And being in this state, we can see what is, not what we imagine, but what’s really there.
There’s an interesting approach to growing roses here in southern California. There’s this idea that roses like full sun, that they need it, and so that’s how they’re grown here.
In Seattle, no one has this notion (for obvious reasons.) I’d never even heard of such a thing and I’ve been growing roses like my mother before me, and her mother before her, in the northwest, with great success, for years and years.
I guess it depends on what you mean by success. I guess that’s a word that deserves looking up. According to Dictionary.com:
suc-cess (suhk-ses) –noun: a favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors. Outcome.
Hmm. Maybe success isn’t the best word for what I’m talking about here. Because the outcome, the “termination of endeavor” would seem to be, in this case, the flowers, but, with roses, you’ve got all these factors. There’s the kind of plant, in terms of genus or species, and what’s expected there, i.e. the growing habit, foliage color, length of stems, single or clustered blooms, color, size, and fragrance of said blooms, thorniness, etc.
So, you wouldn’t just measure your success on the flowers themselves, but the overall healthiness of the plant, that is, is it growing the way it’s meant to, according to what it is.
And this is where perception comes in. My experience with these plants is apparently quite different from growers here. I’ve been to all the nearby, and not-so-nearby nurseries, and have found that they all seem to be operating under this same – what I can only describe as, not to be snotty, sorry, but – delusion. Because what I find, when I’ve visited their places, searching for old friends I used to grow, is plants that have been scorched.
It’s been hot. It’s been considerably hotter in the Valley than on the west side - 25 degrees hotter, on some days, which is the difference between a pleasant 75 and a far less-comfortable 100 degrees. In Seattle, there is that rare August day when the temperature hits 106, but that’s highly unusual. More likely, the extreme is somewhere in the high 80’s, low 90’s and the average for a summer day is somewhere between 66 and 72.
What you get there, in terms of rose issues, seems to be brought on by the much more temperate climate. There’s dew—something that, as far as I’ve noticed, doesn’t seem to exist here. There’s moisture in the air. Everything is just more lush, due to rainfall, and the state of constant flux. There’s a saying in the northwest, and it goes like this: You don’t like the weather? Wait 10 minutes. And it’s true.
Here, on the other hand, sunny is the norm, and since it’s a desert, it’s, well, dry. The soil is different too, more clay than sand (whatever sense that makes) much more dense, less natural drainage. There are fewer bugs, for sure, which is a blessing. And, at least from my early observations, just generally fewer problems, period. In Seattle, the roses can, and do, suffer from black spot, rust, white mites, aphids, powdery mildew, and God-only-knows-what-else, often at the same time! These things can strike in a night, and make progress. It’s pretty astounding. Keeps you on your toes.
Here, it’s much simpler. The bushes themselves, not subject to any of the aforementioned beasts, seem to grow large. They can put out a lot of buds. But:
1. the buds aren’t big and neither are the blooms themselves
2. they don’t last any length of time, once they open
3. the leaves get all crispy, much like potato chips and
4. THEY. DON’T. SMELL.
This is what got me started on the whole thing. I grow roses because of their heavenly scent. And the thing is, it’s silly to call any essence or perfume “rose” because there are, literally, hundreds, if not thousands, of scents. Roses are as different from each other as they can be. They may resemble each other in terms of how they appear, but when it comes right down to it, they’re unique.
In fact, I used to collect petals and ferment them in vodka and sugar for a few weeks and make batches of rose liqueur. And it occurred to me that instead of putting them all together, although it was gorgeous because of the combination of colors, I should be separating them out and making individual liqueurs, each named for the rose it came from. That would have been cool. I don’t know if that’s possible here. One for down the road, I guess.
I can’t control the growing season and the fact that, unlike the northwest with its 4 very distinct seasons, there is no long dormant period for the roses to rest and then rev up for the coming summer and fall blooming…which is one theory about why they don’t smell like they ought to.
But in any case, what I’ve determined is that, despite the going perception- no, belief - about what’s necessary, I’ve got to grow roses the way I know works. And that’s with a little shade. They like it! They need it. And even given my limited garden space, and its location (mine are receiving afternoon, rather than morning, sun, which I’d prefer – and that means, they can get quite a beating, frankly, when it hits the high 90’s, as it’s been doing regularly) with the help of my little tree out front, what I’m hoping to cultivate are healthy productive rosebushes, that are happy, and green, with large buds AND blooms, and FRAGRANCE. The way they’re meant to be, giving, even beyond the beauty of their blossoms, their greatest gift.
Coda: Those that could manage to remain in awareness for extended periods, who then could see more, who were known as rishis. A rishi is one to whom holy things (such as the Vedas) were revealed, because being in these states of higher consciousness meant you could perceive the truth.
©2012 Annette Romano
