Now there’s a little miracle. Or a big one. That’s the thing with miracles, they defy constriction. Regular visitors to this blog are acquainted with the roller coaster nature of my existence: mood [s]wings, body aches, existential angst — the “whole catastrophe” mentioned in Zorba the Greek and the book by Jon Kabat-Zinn.
Last night, following mindfulness training at Fernwood Zendo, I found my/self overflowing with joy. Ten of us had just spent two hours in sitting, walking, and standing meditation; I’d guided a body scan and we’d shared homework experiences of mindful eating. Once people left the house, I sat sipping tea with a friend: we reviewed each other’s day, held hands by candle light, and marvelled at simplicity.
During the night I dreamt an entirely new version of an old nightmare. Following a three-year cook’s apprenticeship in my early years, dreams have often been about abuse at the hands of an alcoholic apprentice master. Countless nightmares had me standing naked at the coal-fired stove or running after trains and elevators in helpless panic. Last night’s episode cast me as a culinary expert called in to help sort out a complicated kitchen mess. We spoke politely to each other, people listened to what I had to say, we laughed easily, and everyone went away happy … and I woke up with the ←same ←silly ←grin I’d gone to sleep with.
Old dog, new tricks. (And yes, my back still hurts.)