Now I am applying Byron Katie’s inquiry process to my thoughts about the dog (we have not abandoned training or expert help). For example, “Finn shouldn’t still be so reactive toward other dogs.” Is this true? Can I absolutely know it’s true? Of course not. The fact that I wish he’d settle down doesn’t make it so.
How do I feel when I think the thought, “Finn should be over this by now”? The usual: discouraged.
Is there a stress free reason to hang onto the thought? No. There isn’t.
Turn it around: Finn shouldn’t be over this. Finn is doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. What if it’s his job to be the way he is? Or, by the way, for my sister to be the way she is?
AC failed on Tuesday
It is really too bad that I am not enlightened. Or a good Buddhist. Or a warrior trained by a desert shaman. To be real: it’s too bad I’m not even endowed with a moderately level temper. This week has been intense. (Wasn’t last week too? And, will the coming week be any less so?)
downsizing in NY Sat, Sun, Mon
Annuals putting out
washing machine failed on Tues
newly dubbed “Hitler Weed” trying to take over
The recent demands of family, the nearly incapacitating heat, and the thought of getting ready for a five day trip without a washing machine would make even a better person cranky. OK. Let me just state that. Nevertheless, I can’t help but repeatedly ask myself, what is this need to place value on things? To continually make the assignment: “bad” or “good”? How much more energy might I have if every single thing crossing my doorstep simply “was”? (Think: Byron Katie).
Ah… lemon, mint, honey, ice and herbs!!
THAT’s where the edge is for me these days. As I roll that question around in my hot, sometimes cranky, being, I will drink lots of iced tea flavored with fresh mint!
Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.
Frozen rain ponged the roof last night, waking K and me, and leaving steps and walkways coated with ice this morning.
Boys are back at school. The year’s first journal quilt is done. I am challenged by my dog’s absolute and abject terror of the camera.
He came from Puerto Rico, where he was not a street dog, but had been abandoned and left to starve, and endured who knows what else. Just the sound of the lens cap popping off sends him cowering and shaking into a corner. Last night a camera flash on the TV had him burying his head behind my back on the couch. This slows the blog process and may not be something that beef treats can change. Today I will hear Rumi’s words as an invitation to accept this and him as it is — not to wish for something else.
Today I shall: photo Journal Quilt; begin assembling white fabrics for a next big project that will be a total departure from my usual choice of super-saturated colors; make up a bag of scraps to give away; hem D’s jeans; pack up the bottle brush trees.