I didn't know that I loved all things that are green and blue. The plastic pendant I've had since junior high school that's blue in front and green in back. The blue and green rubber bracelet that says "inspiring civility." Any book cover or patterned cloth or nature photograph that mixes greens and blues. Greens of plants and grass, and blues of sky and water. Greens and blues in Monet's water lilies, and in a poster I bought in the 70's of a ship with green sails on a blue sea.
Greens and blues are the colors of growth and spirit, of the printed flannel cloth I bought when 12 years old and sewed into pajamas, making and correcting every possible error. My green and blue spring ensemble - light green lightweight corduroy pants, a royallish blue corduroy overshirt, and a blouse of palest green with a blue floral print. And don't forget my blackwatch plaid flannel pjs and blouse.
Even my eyes are green and blue. For most of my life, the DMV, friends, and I believed them to be blue. On close examination, they had hints of gray at the outer edge of the iris and flecks of yellow at the inner edge. But for the last five years or so, my mirror and friends tell me that my eyes are green. I didn't know that eyes could change color. Maybe they just appear to be more green than blue now that my hair is more silver than brown?
Anyway, I liked my blue eyes, and I really like my green eyes. And I love looking at anything that has greens and blues together. Like a latchhook mat I made of a dolphin against a background of greens and blues. Like nearly any nature documentary on TV, like fabulous necklaces and Christmas ornaments I'll never buy but love drooling over.
I've been thinking about the cover design for my first self-published book, Not sure whether to use a photograph of nature's greens and blues, or an abstract design of some sort, but those will definitely be the colors I choose. Green for growth and blue for spirit, intertwined in life-giving motion.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Pain versus Suffering
My mother believed that, although pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. I try to live by this rule, but often break it - usually in the context of emotional pain, but also in cases of physical pain that I believe I could or should have avoided.
There are at least two levels of avoidable suffering. The first is the kind I add myself. Say I'm feeling lonely or bored, for example. That's a kind of pain. But I don't have to add suffering to the situation by blaming myself for feeling that way, by beating myself up for not taking better care of myself, or by slumping into depression because all I can remember and all I can imagine is feeling that painful way - eternally.
The means of avoiding this added suffering is to notice that I'm adding it and to choose not to. This requires stepping out of the pain enough to distinguish it from the added suffering. But that's not impossible - however hard it may seem.
Let's pretend I've mastered not making the pain worse. It is also possible to respond to pain in a way that makes it less painful. A friend of mine who is 81 years old said this morning that, although she's started noticing aches and pains in places she'd never noticed before, she's trying to view them as signs that she's still alive. Thinking about great wrongs and injustices in the world can also help put personal pains in a perspective that lessens their smart.
Regrettably, my first response to pain is either to try to stop it or to tell myself I can last until it quits. Because the vast majority of physical and emotional pains will subside with time.
This is a fact that serious meditators learn. The goal when experiencing pain while meditating is simply to observe it - neither clinging to it nor pushing it away, but simply noticing its location, shape, and character with a kindly curiosity. And also noting how swiftly it changes in some way or degree - because it will change.
There are at least two levels of avoidable suffering. The first is the kind I add myself. Say I'm feeling lonely or bored, for example. That's a kind of pain. But I don't have to add suffering to the situation by blaming myself for feeling that way, by beating myself up for not taking better care of myself, or by slumping into depression because all I can remember and all I can imagine is feeling that painful way - eternally.
The means of avoiding this added suffering is to notice that I'm adding it and to choose not to. This requires stepping out of the pain enough to distinguish it from the added suffering. But that's not impossible - however hard it may seem.
Let's pretend I've mastered not making the pain worse. It is also possible to respond to pain in a way that makes it less painful. A friend of mine who is 81 years old said this morning that, although she's started noticing aches and pains in places she'd never noticed before, she's trying to view them as signs that she's still alive. Thinking about great wrongs and injustices in the world can also help put personal pains in a perspective that lessens their smart.
Regrettably, my first response to pain is either to try to stop it or to tell myself I can last until it quits. Because the vast majority of physical and emotional pains will subside with time.
This is a fact that serious meditators learn. The goal when experiencing pain while meditating is simply to observe it - neither clinging to it nor pushing it away, but simply noticing its location, shape, and character with a kindly curiosity. And also noting how swiftly it changes in some way or degree - because it will change.
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