Saw the doc yesterday, he increased my Zoloft dose and then insinuated that my job might be depressing in and of itself (he’s sort of intimately acquainted with my workplace).  I told him I like it enough and the things he thought would be stressful about it, are some of the things I like about it.  I can’t imagine that working anywhere else would be better. 

Sometimes I tell people that if I wanted to make people happy at work, I would work at the ice cream store instead of (workplace) but people can get bitchy at the ice cream store too so whatevs.

Anyway, I decided that I really need some yoga in my life.  I started craving a yoga class.  I never went to one before, but I saw it on Sex and the City.  Of course, I thought getting a pedicure with my friend would be like SATC too, and it was not wonderful at all.  But the yoga class I went to last night was way better.  I kept thinking, “Puedo hacerlo!”  which is probably unZenlike, but I didn’t hurt myself, even with all the downward dogging.  It was great.  I feel great today too.  I can’t wait to go again.

 

Jack is totally anti-yoga, he never wanted me to go before even though I knew it would be good for me, because of the weird Eastern-religion aspect of it.  I guess I don’t understand why it should be that way, why couldn’t it be just a lot of stretching, and the class I went to wasn’t really too much like that, which I was happy to report back to the skeptic at home.  He said, “That’s what you think.”  I’ll take what I want from it and leave the rest.

Advertisements

Over at Zen Habits (a great blog, BTW), people have a habit of posting the following comment:

 

“Great post, Leo!”

 

I think it should be a drinking game: you drink a shot every time someone posts that comment (or minor variants thereof).  That would not be a very Zen habit at all.  But how Zen is it to just post- I can’t even bear to type it again.  Sorry.

I know a not-very-nice woman, whom I call The Anus.  She is closed up and tight.  Puckered- up.  Sanctimonious.  She thinks she’s hot s**t.

I tried to be her friend, invited her to hang out one day, since I knew her peripherally and thought that since we had some things in common and some mutual friends, that she and I might become friends too.  I don’t know what I did wrong.  It was uncomfortable, too much like a first date.  I knew going in that she tends to be  rather judgmental, and chose to overlook that fact.  Since then there have been some other interactions that were uncomfortable for me, the kind that give me grade-school flashbacks, and I just try to be Zen about it.  I note her closed-off-ness and choose not to get sucked in.  I ignore it.  I ignore The Anus.

“Therefore I tell you,” said Christ in His sermon on the mount, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not much more valuable than they?  Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

This is one of the most powerful passages in the Bible, for me, anyway.  I worry a lot.  I worry about everything, silly things.  Being too cold, being too warm (this is where cardigans come in handy, really), whether my dishes will break, things like that. 

When I hear the faraway honking of geese, it makes feel wistful, sad, jealous.  These are creatures who really have it together.  They fly thousands of miles in the cold, protected only by their own feathers and the aerodynamics of their V-formation.  They stop for a layover, and find water and tasty grass right there.  This system never ceases to amaze me.

I want to be like a goose.  I want to be more Zen.  I ask my Heavenly Father to help me be more Zen.