A Protest

I protest this day. I woke up with dull headache, something very unusual for me. The vacuum wasn’t working, which ironically sucked, because I had a student coming to a double class in less than 2-hours and needed to clean up the dog hair and craft dust from the rugs. The dog liberated herself and took off into the wilds of the neighborhood. She would not return to me. When I finally captured her, she stunk – I mean really stunk. Despite the cold, I hosed her down and dried her as well as I could and left her to dry in the cool November sun. The towels reeked. I too was wet and stinky.

I returned to the vacuum to see if I could get it working. I couldn’t, but I think I targeted the problem. I broke a fingernail, which is really no big deal for me, but it was an odd enough little nothing to snap my attention to the chaotic play of events. I still had class notes in which to center myself, and not enough time to make that happen. My wonderful, understanding student showed up to a hut and teacher in a state of flurried chaos, neither ready nor grounded nor focused on the task at hand. I put the kettle on, cleaned up and changed, said a prayer, smudged myself and eventually settled into the space I needed to be. I think. I hope. For her sake.

Several hours later, I sit with this day and make my protest against it. I light a candle, I burn some sage, I light a stick of incense, I ring the tingshas and feel myself return to myself. For the first time all day I breathe with awareness, deep and full.

In that welcome moment of breathy stillness, I honor the conditions that led me to my disapproval of the day. For in them, somewhere, are nuggets of gold. Of this I am certain and grateful.

I just hope I don’t have to wait for the coal to compress.