A Still Sunday Night

January 29, 2011.

Stillness bypassed my Sunday morning like a breeze you don’t notice because you are out of breath. Except I was in deep sleep breathing. I woke up long after stillness had closed its canteen. Although I realize Stillness is everywhere and available anytime and it is up to us to reach into the hive and retrieve any amount of nectar, certain moments feel like a red carpet walk to the doorway of Stillness. Sunday mornings are such a walk. After noon the zone is narrow even if you are a devout Stillness practioner.

I gave myself permission to sleep in and allow the body to recover. Everything about the status quo seems contrary to how we should live. Winters demand we nap more, walk slower, stay warmer. I want to blame it on capitalism. I too participate in the system even if as minimally as possible.  I want to blame it on me. Capitalism feels like some genetic disorder. The human condition is a baby. Awareness is the surgeon.Where are my gloves?

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Writing fiction is immense work. I have been working on a short story for a month and with great determination yesterday and all of today.  It demands different muscles to swim in a lake than in the sea. Fiction and non-fiction are two different worlds. Both demand effort but they are different.  I tell myself I am a slow writer, I have always been a slow writer. I tell myself it’s okay, you will get stronger and quicker, writing on Sundays was hard too at one point and now so many years later it feels like breathing correctly. You have to write every day is true. And at some point you have to have a finished product. Mama says the difference between a perfectionist and someone who simply suffers from the disorder of perfectionism, underneath which is a fear of failure or mediocrity, is that a perfectionist actually gets something done.

Maybe I will be writing on Sunday nights now. I think 8 p.m. is so special anywhere in the world. I have always thought so.

New York City is dark. Outside my window I can see other windows. Small lights. Is everyone writing something? Even if on imaginary handmade silk paper? A cocoon of thoughts that never open.

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I watched the women’s figure skating championship last night. Some performances gave me goosebumps. I can’t imagine doing yoga poses on ice skates while in fast motion. It broke my heart to see that the difference between first, second, and third place was miniscule yet it made the participants cry. Some subjective judges felt this was better than that in some micro second. At this stage of the competition, the U.S. championship, all those who performed were beautiful, original and left me speechless. I don’t think we need first, second, third place. But maybe those who need confirmation relative to another do.  Do we need social media for ice skating too where everyone is a star?

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Thanks to internet, social media and smart phones there is no end to viewing human creativity. With or without applications that enhance and edit. So much creativity. Why does this surprise us? Humans by nature are equal parts stupid and equal parts innovative. We can create a fire and put our hand in it too. But I believe we have reached a point where we want something more now that we know we are all so creative. That more is always connection. That more is always evolution. That more is always freedom.

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Mama says people make commitments with impermanent realities and fixed fantasies. She says there would be less suffering for all involved if after two or four or fill-in-the-blank years of being in a committed relationship that eventually ends if two people could have kept all the difficult topics in the forefront. She says most people put the difficult conversations to the side and fantasize about the future together. “Make a commitment to the difficult conversations—not everything can be resolved at once but frequent kneading is necessary—and one may realize the life span of the relationship was barely a year and not seven.”

Speaking of suffering I read an article in the New York Times the other day about depression. The argument considered including or not including bereavement as part of the depression disorder. Apparently living is a disorder since death is part of life. Engaging with pain in a meaningful way is a disorder. Didn’t Buddha say living is suffering? How many epiphanies does it take to accept a fact? I think the human experience is painful indeed. But there is no way around ourselves. Love makes the experience sweeter. What is love? Experiencing infinity. We understand infinity differently with each passing day ever since the concept is introduced to us.

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Well, mama just called. The review of the short story is in. “This is so original.” “This makes absolutely no sense.” “What are you trying to say here?” “I don’t care about the difference between show and tell, it just doesn’t make sense.”

Going into the night with words to finish this story. When did writing on Sundays become a break from fiction? Tonight I guess.

~a.q.s.

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Still Sundays A Still Sunday with Love Lotus Sunday