Bad Karma

Dear you,

I am slowly working my way through Guided Buddhist Meditations, Essential Practices on the Stages of the Path, by Thubten Chodron, and fascinated by the teachings. My hopes here, as in all study, is to grow, not just find another escapist panacea.  As I continue my bumpy ride here in Panhandle world, Chodron's teachings are difficult to apply.  And that is the challenge!  Me versus people I don't like. Quote Chodron:  " We like to think we're broad-minded, caring people and realizing anything contrary to that may be difficult.  Our self-centered attitude prefers to think 'I'm a really good person.  I'm unhappy because the rest of the world is ignorant and hostile."  Well, that hits a mark.

While I am a long, long way from "the path", I am enjoying the lessons, the philosophy, the discipline of attempting meditations and mantras.  The only talent I bring to this study is breathing, for real, I love the lift of inhale-exhale.  Other than that, I am quite the novice.  However, as Chodron advises, I need not rush or expect something that takes a lifetime (or several) to master. Those lifetime-cycles are determined by our karma (actions done by our body, speech, or mind).  Yikes. Well, I'll just keep trying and "be brave and honestly acknowledge what is going on" in my mind.

Okay. This is what's going on in my mind now, some bad karma thoughts. I imagine the forms my "enemies" might take their next time around:

1.  Trump and his sons will return as Pez dispensers.

2.  Annoying Seagrove Beach vacationers will return as dental floss.

3.  Florida governor DeSantis will return as a feather boa; he shall be dragged for eternity across the floors of the finest drag show stages in Orlando.

4.  The angry MAGA Publix cashier lady will return as a checkout conveyor belt.

5.  The far-right censors and enemies of art will return as Dr. Scholl's shoe inserts.

I know, reincarnation/recycling doesn't involve taking the forms of inanimate objects.  But it gives me a little Buddha smile to imagine this happening.   Which means I am not only a long, long way from "the path", but probably a thousand life cycles away from knowing where it is.  I need a spiritual GPS. Poetry always helps, so I re-read/re-study Joy Harjo.

Her collection How We Became Human, uses the words of Nizzar Kabbani as an epigraph:

What kind of nation is this

Deleting love from its curriculum

The art of poetry

The mystery of women's eyes

What kind of nation is this

Battling each rain cloud . . .

Beautiful questions. Instructive, honest, not a drop of negativity there.  Impeccable words and clean karma.

Something to aim for.

Joyce

I'm the problem!

 

Dear you,

Deforestation, compliments of unchecked development in the Panhandle beach area, is bloodier by the day.  Road kill everywhere.  And the creatures who do manage to dodge death by car are forced into residential zones seeking food, water, anything to survive.  Hence the appearance of racoons here at Beachwood Villas.  According to the nosey old farts snow-birding with us, this is my fault. Because for the past year I've been feeding two feral kitties who have been here longer than me. So what's the big deal?  Racoon poop, that's the deal.

Night before last, a really revved up racoon gang hit the Villas and pooped all over the landings of my building and the one next to me.  The old farts were outraged!  Poop on the landing!  "They are here because of that cat food put out by that snotty fast-walking lady who ignores us."  (Yes, this is my survival strategy.  I walk fast with earbuds in so I don't have to engage.)  When I saw the poop near my front door, I thought it was hilarious.  And really, cleaning up after a furry friend is so much easier than cleaning up after barbaric "guests".  Believe me, I have found much worse that coon poop on my landing.  

Anyway, the farts ratted me out to our condo management dude, who I actually like.  He forbid future feedings; his minions tossed out the cat dishes and spread cat repellant (or worse) around the green spaces. I don't want to know their plans for the racoons.  This won't end because with or without Joyce treats, racoon habitats are vanishing and they will continue to show up, searching for anything, especially in our dumpsters. But don't blame the developers or greedy investors, of course.  Blame me! Yep.  It's me.  I'm the problem. Cue Taylor Swift, "Anti-Hero": 

It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me (I'm the problem, it's me)/ At tea time, everybody agrees/ I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror/ It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.

I love that song!  More relevant lyrics from the same:  Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism/Like some kind of congressman?

I guess the farts saw my cat care as a self-indulgent show. Fuck them.  But speaking of congress and poop (bullshit to be precise), how about this dude?

This guy is unbelievable, literally. Doesn't he look like the love-child of Marco Rubio and Gov. Ron Desantis? Startling resemblance. My favorite Santos lie is how he claims to have been a volleyball star at Baruch college, a school he never attended. Why volleball?  Why Baruch? Such an eccentric little falsehood. But apparently HE is NOT a problem.  And neither is the Missouri state legislature that has created a new rule for their female representatives. They can no longer show their bare arms. So very Taliban, these legislative versions of my old fart snowbirds.  And apparently THEY are NOT a problem either.

It's me. Hi.  I'm the problem.

Racoon poop, Santos, and a bare arm ban in Missouri.  The year is already deeply absurd.  And it's only January.

End.

Joyce, your ever-evolving condo criminal

Woke! The bird, the man, and Democracy.

Dear you,

January 6, 2023, the second anniversary of the failed coup.  I exhale and remember that day.  I think about what it means to pay attention to what matters, to be aware, awake. The week's events, small and large, played out that theme.

Wednesday, annoyed by the roar of the cleaning person's blower and the image of Matt Gaetz wrecking Congress on my TV screen, I heard a loud smack, like a hammer on wood.  Alarmed, jolted out of my annoyance, I saw a strange, beautiful bird stunned on my balcony.  She had flown head first into the sliding glass door.  Her little body, black with white dots, appeared frozen.  But then I saw movement as she began to breathe. I resisted the impulse to interfere and just gave her time.  I distracted myself by washing dishes.  Ten minutes later, I went to check her status and saw she was gone!  No blood left behind.  No signs of damage.  She recovered and flew away.  She woke.

Yesterday, tracking the hoped for recovery of NFL Bills player, Damar Hamlin, after his heart attack on the field Monday, I scrolled and scrolled online looking for good news.  Yes.  Doctors on the job released statements that Hamlin was recovering, neurologically intact, and awake!  He woke. 

January 6, 2021, that event at our Capitol, an attempted insurrection fueled by lies and fear, played out "like a movie".  People died. Many officers defending the People's House survived but carry the trauma with them still.  We watched and, most of us at least, realized Democracy is not necessarily a forever thing.  We woke.

This state of wakefulness is transient. Still, we can celebrate it today. For the moment, hallelujah!  The bird, the athlete, the abstract dream of democracy are with us.  Let's stay awake too.

Happy dance.

Joyce