tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83715722024-03-12T19:12:59.136-07:00misswhistlewhen i sing she doesn't care;
when i whistle she looks at me expectantlyMiss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.comBlogger3792125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-15506355318625409582024-02-05T03:45:00.000-08:002024-02-05T03:45:55.957-08:00Acornology<p>I am a huge, huge fan of <a href="https://www.cynthiabourgeault.org/">Cynthia Bourgeault</a>, the episcopal priest, modern day mystic and retreat leader, and I listened to this story from her book 'The Wisdom Way of Knowing' as I was driving back from riding this morning. I'm sharing it because it feels pretty much perfect for a Monday morning.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCztgmP5_hxVguJ4xTUCVp-03apYpaA80IALxXQUAuxiJ6qR4gHrwqImgE03PGnE0W02itajHofM_wCXPbl_zryBeYV1xdkUH6L78AuprSuflCmBZ9z1By3XVsgc2trXNcUyJ01Cdm0FvEboeU4dNm80Xmvy8ylHod4-H4X-XtMDiKyTGcZrsZSA/s4032/IMG_4635.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCztgmP5_hxVguJ4xTUCVp-03apYpaA80IALxXQUAuxiJ6qR4gHrwqImgE03PGnE0W02itajHofM_wCXPbl_zryBeYV1xdkUH6L78AuprSuflCmBZ9z1By3XVsgc2trXNcUyJ01Cdm0FvEboeU4dNm80Xmvy8ylHod4-H4X-XtMDiKyTGcZrsZSA/s320/IMG_4635.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancient oak, Big Sur, New Year's Day 2024</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><blockquote><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Acornology </p></blockquote><blockquote><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there was a kingdom of acorns, nestled at the foot of a grand old oak tree. Since the citizens of this kingdom were modern, fully Westernized acorns, they went about their life with a purposeful energy; and since they were mid-life baby-boomer acorns, they engaged in a lot of self-help courses. There were seminars called “Getting All You Can out of Your Shell” and “Who Would You Be Without Your Nutty Story?” There were woundedness and recovery groups for acorns who had been bruised in their fall from the tree. There were spas for oiling and polishing those shells and various acornopathic therapies to enhance longevity and well-being.</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">One day in the midst of this kingdom there suddenly appeared a knotty little stranger, apparently dropped out of the blue by a passing bird. He was capless and dirty, making an immediate negative impression on his fellow acorns. And to make things worse, crouched beneath the mighty oak tree, he stammered out a wild tale. Pointing up at the tree, he said, “We … are … that!”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded, but one of them continued to engage him in conversation: “So tell us, how would we become that tree?” “Well,” said he, pointing downward, “it has something to do with going into the ground…and cracking open the shell.”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Insane!” they responded. “Totally morbid! Why then we wouldn’t be acorns anymore.”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">*This story originated with Maurice Nicoll in the 1950s. Jacob Needleman popularized it in Lost Christianity and named it “Acornology.” Cynthia Bourgeault retold the story in her book, The Wisdom Way of Knowing.</p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p>Have a great week. xo </p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-47295898711777855732024-02-01T04:11:00.000-08:002024-02-01T04:33:48.685-08:00Inspired by Elmo<p>It's February the first, always a good day to start something new. As Frank Cottrell Boyce says, "BEGIN...it doesn't matter where you begin but BEGIN because there is magic in starting something new." I keep a little scrappy picture of his handwritten IG post to hand and I refer to it liberally.</p><p>And the other person who is interesting on this subject is the slightly controversial Joe Dispenza, whose NY Times bestselling book "Becoming Supernatural" seems to inspire people. He says, and I'm paraphrasing, that you can't expect different results if you continue to behave the same way every day, that's it's only by changing things up that we ourselves change; that we should change our habits to change our lives.</p><p>I'm not an authority on change but I am someone who needs to make quite a lot of effort to be happy, especially in these winter months. I have to remember every day, and every time I catch myself in the rearview mirror to "turn that frown upside down." I'm a genuinely happy person, but it takes some work, and maybe you can relate.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWmk_coOUclzkht3IMq_pjAus5JAuOd2mEKFFQZbdh_Cftj4RzN81cMLj7uXfawXLwS9qyxNBPI3S6Q3HiJSRcGVc4f-jfQHCDTDBlUxcf0lCG-REzyOH4_wMgq_SESaXkJmHys4bE2bz6bsIIjvq8plVXbEWjtsHKaUoz3hXBSmabvSzPvnhgw/s1600/elmo-therapy-how-are-you-4afbdc14a123adaccc3f092f0b67a3bc6166cb0b-s1600-c85.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWmk_coOUclzkht3IMq_pjAus5JAuOd2mEKFFQZbdh_Cftj4RzN81cMLj7uXfawXLwS9qyxNBPI3S6Q3HiJSRcGVc4f-jfQHCDTDBlUxcf0lCG-REzyOH4_wMgq_SESaXkJmHys4bE2bz6bsIIjvq8plVXbEWjtsHKaUoz3hXBSmabvSzPvnhgw/s320/elmo-therapy-how-are-you-4afbdc14a123adaccc3f092f0b67a3bc6166cb0b-s1600-c85.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>On Monday, Elmo, everyone's favorite little red fuzzy Sesame Street character, tweeted, somewhat innocuously "Elmo is just checking in. How is everybody doing?" He was flooded with replies:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #101010; font-family: "Publico Text", serif; margin-top: 25px;"><i>"I'm at my lowest. Thanks for asking," one person replied. </i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #101010; font-family: "Publico Text", serif; margin-top: 25px;"><i>"Elmo I'm depressed and broke," another wrote.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #101010; font-family: "Publico Text", serif; margin-top: 25px;"><i>"Elmo I'm suffering from existential dread over here," another replied.</i></p></blockquote><p>(source: CBS News) </p><p>It's rough out there.<u> And we're all feeling it.</u></p><p>I was at a dinner this weekend for 18 people and four of the people at the party told me that they had an adult child who was suffering from anxiety. One had trouble leaving the house at all. Another was obsessed with conspiracy theories. And another just hadn't found their place in the world, and was living at home, sleeping a lot.</p><p>So today I was thinking about whether there was something I could do to help. I've spent at least two years on an interesting path, a path to discover wisdom, a path that brings me back to when I was a philosophy student, but also something that is I suppose an effort to become a better or more realized person, to expose all the bits that have been covered up, and read books by those who are on a path of spiritual enlightenment in the attempt to understand better why we are here and how to make it a happier place for everyone. And also, I suppose, to expand in some way in an effort to find the truth.</p><p>A lot of the things I have discovered are about love, that it indeed makes the world go round, and, to a certain extent, that it is the basic building block of everything. I don't want to alienate people -- I am a bit woo-woo (I get the "you're so LA" a lot, as you can imagine) but hopefully some of this stuff is relatable. <u>Here are some sure-fire ways to get you back on the right track</u>, or at least to make you feel that you aren't swimming against the tide.</p><p>1. Wake up an hour or half an hour earlier. Get out of bed without looking at your phone (put it in another room; we are all addicts). Do something quiet for a few minutes while you're still in that beautiful, soft liminal state between sleeping and waking. Meditate. Pray. Do some yoga. Or write in your journal (I do Julia Cameron's three pages of longhand writing). Or do a combination of all of these things. This is what sets your intention for the day, so that the day doesn't just dump on you.</p><p>2. Get out in the world before the sun rises. You will start out grumpy but you will see the most magical skies shot with pink and orange, and the bare winter trees will sparkle as if they're covered in snow, and sometimes there will be geese or crows. And then, like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=At9RjKHC79U">an aria</a>, the sun will rise, and you will stop in your tracks, or pull your car over, in order to photograph it or just marvel in its glory. (Even on blurgh days it's possible to witness a sunrise).</p><p>3. While you're making your morning cup of tea and waiting for the kettle to boil, get down on your hands and knees and commune with your dog. Everything else will melt away and it will just be you and your favorite thing in the world loving each other. (I was listening to Swami Medhananda who was talking about a particularly Hindu faith that believes that God so loves us that he/she manifests as what we love, so that for example, for Christians God manifests as Jesus, and for Hindus it's Krishna and so on. It struck me that for us dog lovers, that is exactly where we find God.)</p><p>4. Walking. 10,000 steps a day is a bare minimum. If you want to shift your energy or vibrate on a different level, walk or run or dance; just move your body. Lots of stuff gets stuck, so if you can't walk or dance or run, move your fingers, your toes, your arms, your neck, swing your legs back and forth, or do spinal flexes (cat/cow).</p><p>5. Be in nature. There is a character in Isabella Tree's Wilding who is an Oak tree expert, and does marvelous mystical diagnoses on Oaks and what they need to thrive. He refuses to wash at all because he believes that the spores and bacteria and bits of micorrhyzal ephemera that stick to us are important for us to thrive as well. Everyone knows about shinrin yoku/forest bathing now. I go as far as hugging trees, especially on the oak avenue in the field to the south-west of our house, and the ancient yew tree in the churchyard. It's surrounded with a bench and I stand on the bench and throw my arms around the trunk and feel my body fizz with good energy.</p><p>6. Be a good friend. Check in with friends. Send them notes and poems and bits of random information so that they know you are thinking. This will come back to you in spades. Yesterday, I received a little box of writing paper adorned with bumble bees, from a girlfriend who said, "I saw these and they made me smile and think of you." That little parcel brought me back from a deep spiral of feeling a bit lost. Like magic. Such kindness! </p><p>7. Be in water. Drink it. Soak in it. Shower in it. Walk by it. Feel its energy (waves). Immediate mood changer.</p><p>8. Breathe. 4.7.8 or 4.4.4.4 or just a deep cleansing breath to reset yourself. I tend hold my breath when I work or when I'm concentrating and forget this. I get stuck in a bit of fight or flight. Every time you go through a doorway, think "breathe." It's like a little moment of centering or bringing yourself back to the here and now. Imagine Ram Dass smiling beatifically at you as you do this.</p><p>9. Be part of a group. Join a local bridge club. Find the quilting ladies in the next town. Learn campanology. Chat to people at the local shop, smile at the lady at the garage when you're buying gas/petrol, say hello to fellow dog walkers. Find people with similar interests (I love my barn/yard/horse ladies so very much and last night we all went to see the film Priscilla which I worked on.)</p><p>10. Turn off the news. Of course you should keep up to date and be informed, but the 24 hour news cycle is just bad for our mental health. You know that sour feeling when you've been disaster-scrolling. Just stop. And instead of dwelling on the horrendous situations in the world, find a mindful way to do something. Give to Save the Children, for example. Find a way to channel your concern into something that might make a difference. (I know this is really hard. We are so very divided in the world right now.)</p><p>11. Create. There is a theory I like that says God is creativity. I think I believe it. It's in creating that we find that magical wisdom we've been so yearning for. Write, draw, paint, arrange some flowers, bake a coffee cake, reorganize your bookshelves, compose an opera. These are all acts of creation. I love to think of it as making something beautiful that wasn't there before. If a day goes by and I don't do this, I don't think I've kept my promise to the world and I find myself feeling a little empty.</p><p>12. This may or may not work for you and I'm not here to judge (as I still suffer from bouts of depression) but maybe try not drinking alcohol for a bit? I gave up drinking 13 months ago, and everything is better. I don't miss it either, which I know astounds people. I sleep better and I don't wake up with existential angst, and there seems to be more time in the day. I am less scattered, more focused, happier. It probably deserves a bigger post, but I'm here to say, as someone who used to drink a couple of glasses every single night, that this is pretty awesome. If you would like more information on this, please ping me.</p><p>13. You are not your thoughts. I cannot state this enough.</p><p>14. Take an afternoon nap. Block it out in your calendar as a meeting. Sleep only 20 minutes, no longer. (Alternately do a thirty minute yoga nidra which you can find on Insight Timer, which, just like Heineken, reaches the parts other things can't reach.)</p><p>15. This is a silly little thing but tremendously cheering. The iphone wallpaper now has an option to choose photos of pets in its shuffle categories. (Go to Settings, Wallpaper, Customize and you'll see a little icon at the bottom left where you can choose pets or people or views...) I have Bean (the lovely deceased dalmatian who is the face of MissWhistle) on there, and Dotsie, who died ten years ago, as well as Thistle, my Frenchie. I'm trying to get out of the habit of looking at my phone, but when I do, I'm faced with an image of DOG. :)</p><p>Good luck to you with your February journey. I'm happy to be back on the blog; please do tell me if you have other good ideas we can add to this list. You can find me on Instagram at @bumbleward or email me at bramblejelly@gmail.com. Sending much love and hoping that it reverberates around the world. ❤️</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-29089125797741529012023-04-21T04:44:00.003-07:002023-04-21T04:44:58.313-07:00Failing and Flying<div class="o-vr o-vr_12x" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 60px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="c-feature" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="c-feature-hd" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 4px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><h1 class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline" style="border: 0px; display: inline; font-family: canada-type-gibson, "Gill Sans", "Gill Sans MT", Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 1.75rem; font-style: inherit; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Failing and Flying</h1></div><div class="c-feature-sub c-feature-sub_vast" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 33px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution" style="border: 0px; color: #494949; display: inline-block; font-family: canada-type-gibson, "Gill Sans", "Gill Sans MT", Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 0.875rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">BY <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jack-gilbert" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; transition: color 0.25s cubic-bezier(0.215, 0.61, 0.355, 1) 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">JACK GILBERT</a></span></div></div><div class="c-feature-bd" style="border: 0px; font-size: 1.25rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3; margin: 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-poem isActive" data-view="PoemView" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It's the same when love comes to an end,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">or the marriage fails and people say<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">they knew it was a mistake, that everybody<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">said it would never work. That she was<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">old enough to know better. But anything<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">worth doing is worth doing badly.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Like being there by that summer ocean<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">on the other side of the island while<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">love was fading out of her, the stars<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">burning so extravagantly those nights that<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">anyone could tell you they would never last.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Every morning she was asleep in my bed<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">like a visitation, the gentleness in her<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">like antelope standing in the dawn mist.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Each afternoon I watched her coming back<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">through the hot stony field after swimming,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">the sea light behind her and the huge sky<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">on the other side of that. Listened to her<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">while we ate lunch. How can they say<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">the marriage failed? Like the people who<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">came back from Provence (when it was Provence)<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">but just coming to the end of his triumph.<br /></div></div></div></div></div><div class="o-grid" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro, Garamond, Baskerville, "Baskerville Old Face", "Hoefler Text", "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 22px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-grid-col o-grid-col_10of12" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline; width: 638.367px;"></div></div><p> </p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-28517249321439598072023-02-10T12:50:00.000-08:002023-02-10T12:50:40.513-08:00Co-vert<p>To say that this week has been a blur is an understatement. Due to my malady, I've been sucked into Emily in Paris, at my mother's and everyone else's recommendation, and have gone so far down the rabbit hole that I've started to look up Chateaux in Champagne, and I'm thiiis close to ordering <a href="https://www.otticanet.com/en/eyeglasses/lgr/oasi---palmerie-collection/1379285/" target="_blank">these frames</a> that Camille wore in an episode of Season Three, featuring Sofia the confessional artist from Greece. I want most of Sylvie's wardrobe and half of Camille's and I'm even considering moving my office to Paris. Oy.</p><p>I felt odd on Tuesday, odd enough to whine about it to Charlie, odd enough to say "I don't want to go to New York tomorrow," but somehow managed to get my packing done to the point of not fearing death the way I usually do pre-trip, with shirts and sweaters and trousers and cute shoes in neat piles (outfit coordination worthy of Emily) on the bench in the bedroom, ready to go. With a cute navy dress, some pearls, thick tights and a big furry scarf we headed up the M4 London-bound for a friend's birthday screening, and C, who is incredibly amenable, listened to Thomas Keating with me, because he knows I love him, and because it was miraculously tuned in to <a href="https://open.spotify.com/episode/04Jkfo4py5SMNTjcpcMEIW?si=H1E9WaKtQQO5oh2ejwmsIw" target="_blank">this podcast</a> on my phone. The essence of what we'd been listening to is this "Let Go & Let God (Act)" which is, I suppose, the idea that if you clear your mind enough and create some quiet space, and trust, then God will help you out. OR Show up and the Universe will meet you half way. It's part of the twelve step too. It was a beautiful drive - bright, cold sunlight and pink and pale blue skies. But I still didn't feel like myself. At all. Even though I'd be looking forward to going to New York for weeks, to see my client's new film, get a breath of the city, and of course my lovely friend Jack who runs his antique/design business out of Sag Harbor. </p><p>Then a ping from a client who was also supposed to be travelling to NYC to see the same film "Can you give me a quick ring?" And thus, the dominoes started to smack the table in a satisfying procession; his girlfriend had Covid close to him and wasn't sure he could fly as it was probably a matter of time, so what did I think? We could go but it was risky because he didn't want to be down for the count in New York for two weeks, and then the possibility of giving it to everyone else, but then when could we make the trip and was it worth my doing it without him? etcetera etcetera. Trip gets cancelled quickly. Somehow, my tickets are refunded and my hotel cancelled under the wire. Jack texts to say he can't in fact have dinner because he has to drive to Maine for a client. So in one half hour everything is cancelled and tied up in pretty bows. No New York trip. No disappointed client (more time to focus on the edit), no disappointed friend, and no travelling with a stuffy nose (me). </p><p>By Wednesday morning I was feeling distinctly flu-ish but generally bright and even managed a zoom with a client. On a whim, I PCR tested myself and wham, two thick red lines. C banished me to bed in a thick cashmere cardigan and beanie, with Christmas socks, a small schnarfing Frenchie, and steaming cups of tea, and I've been alternately dozing and watching Emily ever since, completely in another world. C brings me supper and sits on the other side of the room in a mask. He brings me grapes and crudités and easy peelers and Dairy Milk with hot cross buns, and he comes in and checks on me while I am sleeping ("I can hear you breathing" I say). I am thoroughly spoiled. Thick slices of fresh sourdough from the local pub, slathered in Lurpak and chocolate caramel wafer biscuits for tea. I managed a shower today, and I walked to the garden gate and back to get some air, because you feel quite strange after almost three days in bed. I've also flung open the bathroom window to let the oxygen circulate. </p><p>The pink geraniums who felt neglected on the kitchen sink counter have been in front of the bedroom window for a couple of weeks and are blooming, an astoundingly jolly fuchsia. I've been staring at them intently, and their petit Amazon arrangement to the right of them, and beyond that, the birds nibbling the fatballs in the cherry tree, endlessly, so that we're referring to it as the Garden of Tits. Thousands of tits. Tits are arriving from all over the world to be in our garden, it appears. The word is out. Birds are flying in with their suitcases, whole tit families.</p><p>I'm in a fog. A complete odd and blurry state, senses blunted (my taste is not entirely gone, but enough to not notice the flavours or whether there is dressing on the salad), occasional bouts of ocular migraine (kaleidoscopic vision which mildly absorbing if it weren't so annoying), brain thick and stodgy. But I have given in to it. God, I'm spoiled and lucky to be looked after so well. I wonder if this is a cleansing of sorts; a reset? Is it a kind of clearing out to make room for other things? Or perhaps that what we should use if for. A reminder of clarity, of the need for making space for clarity. Does that make any sense? Or is it the Covid talking?</p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-74155879083438372042023-01-30T00:03:00.005-08:002023-01-30T00:06:01.826-08:00Remain openI've woken up full of optimism. The sky is clear, spotted with pink and yellow from the sunrise; I can see splodges of hopeful color through the branches of the oak tree in front of my bedroom window. The birds have started to sing and there is a glimpse, just a mere speck of spring, when you wake to a full dawn chorus and bright cloudless skies. Every new day is a blank canvas, a way to reintroduce yourself to the world, an opportunity to start again. I want nothing to get in the way of this moment; I want to channel all things into a funnel of positive, thoughtful nowness, nudging everything gently to the edge of what might be, what could be. We are standing around on the edge of a great river of flow and all we have to do is take one step in, one courageous step, eschewing fear, into the unknown, for everything to be revealed and available to us. It's that little push that takes us from our complacency and safety to the place where everything is happening all at once.<div><br /></div><div>This used to be called "a kick up the backside."</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked seven and a half miles yesterday with two great friends. It didn't seem like seven and a half miles because we were so engaged in the conversation and the trees and the laughter that we just kept putting one foot in front of another, and thar she blows. I jumped off the top of a barbed wire fence without ruining my knees. They constantly ache and I ignore it, but that is the age I'm at, where knees start to creak and lower backs start to moan. I steadfastly refuse to give in to it. It's fifty five years of riding horses; that must have some impact on knee joints. I fantasize about having my hocks injected, like a horse, and then immediately dispel the idea from my mind, because the idea of a large needle going anywhere near my synovial fluid makes my tummy hurt. But knees aside, over the years I've thought about my mother's solve for every sadness "go for a long walk" and I'm beginning to see the wisdom. There is enormous comfort in nature. Lewellyn Vaughan Lee, a Sufi mystic, <a href="https://www.eliseloehnen.com/episodes/llewellyn-vaughan-lee" target="_blank">talks about meditating under trees</a> and their ability to take away emotional pain. (Before you roll your eyes, imagine this: imagine trying it once, imagine opening up your mind just enough to try something that you consider completely outlandish, imagine being open to an idea that doesn't fit with your view of the world, just once. Is there anything really more ignorant than scoffing at something you haven't tried? Someone said this, and due to a brain that's aging as fast as my knees, his name isn't immediately to hand. I do know that I had lunch with an old friend and her new husband, a venerable and senior correspondent, who, when the subject of psychotherapy was raised, became irate and said "quacks, quacks, all of them" and knocked back another large mouthful of red wine, his third glass.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel as if I am pregnant and something is about to be birthed. Everything is conspiring. I am excited for it. I wish you all (if you happen to find your way over here) a very happy week. Remember to remain *open.</div><div><br /></div><div>*On the subject of openness, the Christian idea of kenosis is rather a good one - my understanding is that it's self emptying so that there's room for the holy spirit. Or, in my somewhat less Christian interpretation, it's emptying one's mind (through contemplation, meditation) so that there is room for new ideas to foment. For example, if you are constantly bombarded with images from Instagram and bon mots from Twitter, doesn't all of that contribute to a foggy mind stew of meaninglessness, that's really just a distraction? Once again, nature is very good at clearing this out. Good luck.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-86101997351171255182023-01-27T06:38:00.000-08:002023-01-27T06:38:09.909-08:00Faking it<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh4S1fbhWeYVlcxpO-CNUAEY4paymrvfomxXgST229Tuy0ZdYIpVHegg_EZDMZXTbDVX-9koxn9JNUdfTOWXukFvIgYchqkaSPveTyppdXk3ctSqZ98iNu0Yc7kNjvhlTpU8gWDJkJvBxsb2LdNYmKqIRcycgd0IxpNmKiyxhkgDZIw-OGkQA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="410" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh4S1fbhWeYVlcxpO-CNUAEY4paymrvfomxXgST229Tuy0ZdYIpVHegg_EZDMZXTbDVX-9koxn9JNUdfTOWXukFvIgYchqkaSPveTyppdXk3ctSqZ98iNu0Yc7kNjvhlTpU8gWDJkJvBxsb2LdNYmKqIRcycgd0IxpNmKiyxhkgDZIw-OGkQA" width="192" /></a></div><br />Good morning from West Berkshire, where the snowdrops are just beginning to bloom, and the daffodils and jonquil are pushing up through the now unfrozen ground. January is the heaviest month; the heady realization that the days are getting longer buoys one, but it's still cold and muddy. My horse is still sharp. She is, like me, a summer princess. I've persuaded the lovely girls who make up her bed to give her extra shavings and to bank up the edges even more. Her bed is so cozy that I'd even lay down in it; with its round apron at the front, it's fit for a Queen. I was nervous today. I can say that now but for a long time I couldn't because I had a reputation for being brave. Balls out, they called me. BOB. But when the sharpness comes it feels like sitting on a tightly coiled spring ready to explode, and you have to do something with that thoroughbred energy. "I'm a bit scary-fied" I said to my trainer. "Last Friday is still in my head." I didn't think of it yesterday when we were out in the woods, but today, back in the school, I'm thinking of it. Last Friday she scooted across the school as if she'd been bitten on the arse by a tiger, and leapt in the air in an enormous buck. I sat to it, of course, but it was scary nonetheless. Today, she's sharp and tense, and looks at everything. Even prior to coming into the school she was irritable, flickering, anxious, cold. I try to breathe to balance it out. I know I have to find a way to fake it and to channel the energy correctly. "Let's just keep her busy so she can't think about it," Lizzie says, and so we go from collected to working to medium trot, we do shoulder in and travers, moving the base of the neck back and forth, pushing into a more extended trot across the diagonal. I know that when we are in our special box together, when she is on the end of my hand and soft, when I'm in the middle of her, riding the energy, all will be well. "Breathe" says Lizzie, and I do. "When your heart beats faster she will know," she says. And so I do my deep ocean breath and try to quieten my body. And slowly the thought dissipates. `Very slowly, focusing on her, and on us together, and trying to keep my seat deep and my shoulder blades together and my hands soft, and making sure I'm using enough outside rein, and keeping my legs by the girth and thinking hard to myself "channel Charlotte Dujardin" we begin to glimpse it. Suddenly the thought has gone, the adrenaline has gone, the spring is loosening, and the energy is going into these big bouncy steps, rocked back a little on her haunches. There is cadence. And we have created it together. "I love you Lizzie" I say at the end, and my voice begins to warble a bit. Getting through the fear at the beginning of the day makes you feel as if you've climbed a mountain. <p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-87713456098124804592023-01-26T08:12:00.002-08:002023-01-26T08:25:13.500-08:00Don't react<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been thinking a lot about not reacting. I've been thinking a lot about accepting bad news and weird turns of events and seeking equanimity; by not reacting, the event itself becomes minimized, as alarming as it may be when first encountered. No matter what happens, everything is there as some kind of lesson, some kind of learning moment (as they like to say in elementary schools in Los Angeles). To leap from the overwhelming sense that one is exactly where one is meant to be, and so finely tuned and aligned with the world to be on the precipice of manifestation (this sounds so woo woo but I don't know another term for this - it's the feeling of being so at one with the universe that things aren't surprising when they're lovely or perfect or beautiful or joyful; a similar thing happens on a horse, when you and the horse are so in sync, when the horse is so on the end of your hand that the mouth of the horse and your hand are in complete harmony, so that it doesn't matter what you ask for, it will happen. When you are in this state of balance and mind-melding it doesn't matter what is asked of you because it will happen) to the dissonant feeling that things are creaky and weird and misunderstood and not in any way in sync, is very odd. Two things happened simultaneously: Oscar nominations with an overwhelming show of love for a client's German film and on the very same day (and not, I'm aware, by mistake) another client deciding that our relationship is over ("I respect you so much...it's not personal...I am looking at everything from a different perspective.." etc). A perfectly lovely Dear John letter which makes perfect sense and should not feel personal, and yet it does, and it colors everything, makes one doubt everything. It's my monkey brain I say to myself. This is just chatter. Breathe. I one hundred percent know that in this case I did everything I could and more and that I tried to remain true to my values and what I believe to be right and still hold a place for the client's desires, even if I didn't believe them to be clearly thought out, or for his own good in the world. But here's the thing: I am not his mother. I am not hired to be his mother or his moral compass. How strange it is though how the universe lists from side to side in that way from one extreme to another.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was bruised, it's true. Embarrassed even. I worked very hard and I know I gave it my best. But now, after my 25th night of Dry January, after an evening of reading and contemplation, after a cold ride on a fresh horse this morning, through the woods, watching the jackdaws and the magpies, and breathing, just breathing in and out (I count one in/one out and try to make it to ten without my mind wondering. Try it. It's so hard!) I feel like it's right. I am okay with it. It was jagged and irksome and difficult and I'm not here on this planet to bend myself into a pretzel for someone else especially if they don't notice the effort...what is that? Instead, I tried to make myself one with my horse. I sat on her cold back and paid attention to the way she fidgeted at the beginning, on the lookout for tigers and bears and scary things. I made her walk past Jane's pigs with her neck bent right, like a shoulder fore, so that they wouldn't freak her out and make her snort. I made her trot more than she wanted to, pushing her into my hand. And finally when we walked, I put my bum properly down in the middle of the saddle so that she could feel I was resting and centered, and I felt the way her body was warming against my lower leg. We continued like that, stepping over the icy bits, swinging along, her tail out just slightly as it is when she's happy, ears pressing forward, alert. If my hands move in exact sync with her body, and I breathe like she is breathing, and I shift my weigh just a little deeper into the center of my pelvis, then perhaps she will think we are one, perhaps I will think we are one, not two, just one ball of breathing, walking energy. I was matching her. It was our special kind of equine kenosis. It calmed her and it calmed her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">In my job, I know how to get things. I know how to think about a goal and focus every effort into attaining that goal. I know how to not give up. I know how to push beyond obstacles. I know how to be not so polite. I know how to make things happen. I didn't realize I had this quality until my friend Marta told me that I have a can do spirit. Ha ha. I'll take it. This doesn't always apply to things outside of work however. It's so much easier to advise other people or make things happen for other people, or to see other people's problems so much clearer than one's own. Do you know what I mean? Everyone's else's trajectories seem so illuminated somehow, like the lights on the floor of the plane in case of emergency. I wish I knew how to do this for myself. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, not reacting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I believe that we're trained to process minor trauma by reacting to it, that is, to tell our friends, to turn it into a drama, to talk about what a horrible person the other is, to demonize and catastrophize. At least, this is what I have learned. But in fact, the alternative, which is to notice it, and to catch oneself before we've made it bigger than what it is. For example, it's very possible that nothing is ever about you. And yet, this is what we tend to do, we understand things as <i>happening to us, </i>when instead - and this is supremely hard to do, but it's worth the effort - we could imagine that actually everyone is so self-involved and carrying their own set of worries and desires and fragility that it's not EVER about us/you. Isn't it better then to think about things <i>happening for you</i>? Here's a simple example: You are in a rush and you are at a red light that seems incessant. You have two choices. You can yell and scream, and curse at the cars in front of you. Or you can breathe in and out slowly and use it as an opportunity for a mini meditation.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">An apache helicopter just flew over my garden. And the sky is going very dark. I suspect rain.</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">One option leaves you with palpable anxious, frustrated energy in the middle of your chest. The other allows you to bring new loving energy into your lungs and allows you to pause for long enough to see that it just doesn't matter. There is an idea that the space between the in and out breath is in fact an opportunity to glimpse heaven. (Heady stuff when stuck at a red light, no?)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you look up <i>equanimity </i>it will say "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 16px;">it is </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 16px;">the steady conscious realization of reality's transience</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-size: 16px;">. It is the ground for wisdom and freedom and the protector of compassion and love." </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">I suppose the other thing to look at here is the idea that one is in control of one's destiny. I'm not sure I am. And yet I don't advocate standing in the middle of a field and flailing. Our is a 50/50 relationship with the universe. If you show up and do your part, the universe will meet you half way. That has become clear to me. Maybe not when I was young, but now this is increasingly apparent, and there is something rather beautiful about it. You know, like the symmetry of a Wes Anderson movie. (OhMyGoodness, <a href="https://misswhistle.blogspot.com/2007/09/from-east-coker-by-ts-eliot.html">this poem </a>so sums this up!)</span></span></p><p>- - - - - - - - - - -</p><p>January really does suck, doesn't it. If you're not enjoying it, do take a look at the <a href="http://misswhistle.blogspot.com/p/january-jeliciousness.html">January Jeliciousness</a> section of this blog. It was done one January when I was a bit miserable and so were my friends, and in an effort to cheer us all up, I thought "food"! And so I went to my favorite foodie people and asked them to share their very favorite recipes. I just dipped into them again and they're wonderful. Try Reza's chestnut and lentil soup or Coral's shortcut cassoulet or Suzi's Lebanese Messy Malfouf.</p><p>- - - - - - - - - - -</p><p><br /></p><p>(This is of course assuming that people are reading this, which I don't think they are. But just as a reminder that this is not edited, just spewed out there, so my apologies ahead of time. Thank you and take care.)</p><p><span style="color: #202124; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-5669582448444770092023-01-23T07:05:00.000-08:002023-01-26T07:06:42.372-08:00Rabbit<p> I'm back on here and it feels like the old days, back in 2004 when I started the blog, and no-one knew about it, so I had the freedom to write what I liked, in a free-flow spewing of words on the page, with no editing and no regrets. I seem to have that freedom now as no-one is aware of the blog anymore. For that I am grateful. I can slowly come back to writing without fear of mockery or derision (ha ha, people are too kind for that).</p><p>We caught the last day of the Lucian Freud exhibit at the National Gallery and I'm glad for it. I texted my friend the artist and said, Freud is good at children, dogs and flesh. The hands of Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza are very good, long, bony patrician fingers spread across his knees, and the startling beauty of Lady Caroline Blackwood, in bed in a hotel room in New York. But mostly I loved the puddles of dogs either central to or in the corner of the pictures. The English are very polite in museums. They stand back and take their turns. I love how American I have become, curious and somewhat slightly pushy. I move forward as close to the painting as I can, and read every sign, and of course apologize profusely as I do it.</p><p>Awfully cold this morning. I woke up with the intention of not looking at anything before writing, but found Hanef Kureishi's substack, which comes into my inbox every day. I love him. The world is better for his words, however tragic the circumstances are. "The HK substack is v. good" Vivien texted me yesterday. "Yes" I replied. But God it's cold; my whole body is under the covers but my face and hands are cold as I write, listening to the birds. Must remember to take fat balls out to them this morning: memo to self.</p><p>I'd forgotten that it was Chinese Lunar new year and dragged C to Dumplings Legend in Gerrard Street for xiao long bao and the extraordinary funghi salad with chili oil, garlic and cilantro. We followed the parade of children in red, holding paper dragons, mothers with strollers, babies in noise-cancelling headphones and beanies which covered their eyes, tourists of all shapes and sizes. Streets were closed all around Chinatown and the the whole world seemed to be celebrating with those little firecrackers - mostly small boys but a couple of older men who should have known better, throwing them down behind me to make me jump. In our continuing run of good fortune, we joined a queue that went well past the next restaurant and resigned ourselves to the fact that we'd be waiting for an hour. I watched a two year old play with cigarette butts in a planter and step from one glass brick to another, while his mother spoke to her friend. "You know" I said to Charlie in a effort to keep him in cheerful spirits, "there's only two of us, so our wait could be less." No more than a minute later a jolly man appeared holding his hand in a Churchillian V sign, inquisitive look on his face, "Two?" he said "Any parties of two?" and with that we were whisked to the top of the line, and inside the restaurant, festooned with red and gold decorations and paper chains and rather smug looking cats, to a table for two at the back of the restaurant. Amazed at our good fortune, we praised the great rabbit in the sky, and ordered way too much food (dumplings, chinese broccoli, smashed cucumbers, funghi salad and duck...a feast).</p><p>I'm not used to London at the weekends; it feels softer somehow.</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=SxMpHXj62gE">This piece</a> by Jacobus Clemens non Papa was the first thing we heard at evensong at Westminster Abbey. It sounds lovely here, but inside the Abbey with the voices of the Westminster choir boys (one of them can have been no older than seven) it was nothing less than heavenly. Increasingly in life one finds oneself without structured silence and sacred places seem to provide moments, even minutes of silence and quiet contemplation. I was looking at the window in front of me - Christ in brilliant red and blue in the middle and saints radiating out - and then closed my eyes and thought about teachers at school who closed their eyes to listen to music and how I was concerned that they were sad. Apparently just blissed out.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-55544228439361046152023-01-22T01:32:00.004-08:002023-01-22T23:08:29.336-08:00Eight Swans & Abundance<p>Yesterday, at breakfast, eight swans flew over the wall, just past the window as we were eating porridge. I was upstairs grabbing a book and I saw them from a different perspective. "Did you see the swans" I shouted down the stairs to Charlie.</p><p>Apparently it was a sign of what was to come. After a forty five minute car journey, we stepped into a magic forest near Lambourn. Charlie has a slim volume of walks in Berkshire, an old-fashioned tome, with lovely hand-drawn maps of different walks. Today's was Ashdown House (where I swear Cecil Beaton used to live - as usual, I was wrong) and Wayland's Smithy (he was, I kid you not, the Saxon God of Metal) - an ancient barrow on the Ridgeway near Uffington. Slightly crankily, with cold fingers and sore toes from the previous day's walk, we meandered through the wood going away from the house, and our chatty compadres in the National Trust Car Park ("too much coffee" I snarked) and the light pierced through the mist and all we could hear was the sound of birds. Looking up, there were hundreds and hundreds of small birds, perched in the highest branches of the old, bare oak trees, singing. But I could not identify them. We were cold and I knew we had to keep walking to warm up, but it was hard to not stop and listen in reverence to the sounds. As we got close to each tree the birds would chatter on to the next, and so on, as if they were leading our way through the forest in an alternated version of Hansel and Gretal. It was our very best luck that a group of birdwatchers appeared a few minutes later, binoculars and cameras in hand, "they're field fare and redwings" said one of the men, when I asked, "they're non-native, just winter visitors." From where they were standing, the birds were against the sun and harder to see. "You must go further in," I suggested, "the sun lights them up." I don't know if it was David Sedaris, or who it was who said that for most of your life you ignore birds and then at a certain age, you become interested, in fact, obsessed with birds and notice them everywhere. I'm now officially in the twitching phase of my life. (However, walking with my friend Marta in Nantucket, I do remember the excitement with which she pointed out the nesting ospreys. These tiny thrushes, the smallest in the world, but their<a href="https://www.british-birdsongs.uk/fieldfare/"> song is immense</a>.</p><p>Further on, we took a path along the edge of the wood, with a low mossy stone wall on one side, and misty old trees on the left, a small hedge to the right. "This is ancient woodland" said Charlie, and it felt ancient, not in a scientific way, although it was that, but as though it were full of ghosts; the lacework of palest blue sky above and the gentle breath of those who had come this way before.</p><p>The joy of walking is that even if you don't feel like doing it, even if it's cold and your mind is worry-filled, the simple act of putting one foot in front of another (and the necessity of doing this fast in order to keep warm) allows you to slowly melt back with the earth, walking upon it and yet as part of it, and it quiets the mind, slows the breath, expands the heart, so that what feels hard and irksome to begin with becomes effortless and easy and natural. One foot in front of another, that is all it takes, with the sun on your back and the knowledge that there is a sandwich and an orange in your backpack.</p><p>Wayland's Smithy (an atmospheric neolithic chambered longbarrow) was a place I'd visited many years ago when my children were still small, with my friend Dom, who lives nearby. He's very good on ancient roads and earthworks. It was in the summer, on one of those long, long days just before supper time. I was wearing a t-shirt and a skirt and probably a pair of Chucks. The sun was warm, and the grass was high, and I remember being very happy. I grew up near the Ridgeway and this was also the Ridgeway even though miles from home, so it felt familiar, well-worn, comforting. Yesterday was very cold, and colder because of the low cloud that was floating on top of the hill, but the light was extraordinary, filtering through the trees in clear shafts, the kind of rays you see in Munch's paintings). A family was clambering over the stones as we stepped up to the top of the barrow and surveyed the view, regiments of trees surrounding it, the filtered sunlight, a man on a fallen log drinking tea out of a flask, a child that wanted to go inside again, a man with a dog called Dapper (I know this because I asked; Dapper had a marvelously cartoonish curled lip). Maybe it was the day, maybe we were lucky, but the energy was powerful, right through the middle of my chest. I took a picture of a woman with a dog and then texted it to her.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTKWTnPt2pBJP238BWwtc74OYyfLeIU25D9HQWbemp8RpSnzgA_N21CbS8Hgl_8CAXZoVyat5b-ixeZ52jceDT_UUeitsZgv-8xa5k0xi1ESWp_OtPu2-EMbpOb91PDC82CKHwKVvGKP7TLZ-HNkoigI3IEvMdrj1byqsqAf1ggk3QXfuJvSM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiTKWTnPt2pBJP238BWwtc74OYyfLeIU25D9HQWbemp8RpSnzgA_N21CbS8Hgl_8CAXZoVyat5b-ixeZ52jceDT_UUeitsZgv-8xa5k0xi1ESWp_OtPu2-EMbpOb91PDC82CKHwKVvGKP7TLZ-HNkoigI3IEvMdrj1byqsqAf1ggk3QXfuJvSM" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzJhu83hGZlzCbfKhqvOyccnUQ9jYJVaKK6I1goXmx-obv2O0gV-nfs7XvFV8VuNS2CYAOH3Z3kOqiuxbWf_tGZXNqch6t0fZtUGOLoq96mxk8rTmrjzS00Gjs_e3CIPXnU6kwc9PaViIC605qiSwHF-gSf-BX5rbXpnsX_WZhGR3631-zyaE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzJhu83hGZlzCbfKhqvOyccnUQ9jYJVaKK6I1goXmx-obv2O0gV-nfs7XvFV8VuNS2CYAOH3Z3kOqiuxbWf_tGZXNqch6t0fZtUGOLoq96mxk8rTmrjzS00Gjs_e3CIPXnU6kwc9PaViIC605qiSwHF-gSf-BX5rbXpnsX_WZhGR3631-zyaE" width="320" /></a></div>As we walk back along the Ridgeway towards White Horse Hill we eat sandwiches. Charlie is amused because I think every meal should be taken sitting down at a table, properly, and tell my children never to eat on the run or standing up, but this was a practicality. I imagine Ranulph Fiennes did the same in his polar explorations. Slowing down too much would mean getting too cold. "All we need to see now is a horse galloping" said Charlie. And there it was, of course, a woman on an Arab horse, jogging towards us. It felt as if we were on a precipice of manifestation (I know that sounds dreadfully Santa Cruz, but I don't know how else to describe it) where whatever one thought about would appear, in a weird, beautiful liminal state between the world of matter and the world of spirit. I felt this way but decided that C who is pragmatic and a sports fan would laugh me out of Oxfordshire, but it was he who said, later, when we were driving home, that it felt as if we'd been to communion. It was Narnia or the land at the top of the Faraway Tree, out of time and space, placid yet deliberate, where every single thing was packed with meaning.<p></p><p>The last part crossed an enormous stubble field, the path went diagonally across it, past a half way marker that served as a resting place for ravens, to a gate at the top of Weathervane hill, which leads you through a field of Belted Galloway cattle. The sun was setting and there was an orange light penetrating the cloud with floated -just so- in the valley below. Do you remember that film set in Tuscany, Above the Clouds? Is that the name? Where the light is so beautiful that you can't believe it's real? It was the kind of terracotta golden light that you only see on winter's days in California. We stood at the top of the hill and looked out at it and didn't really know what to say. A large dose of awe packed right in the middle of the breastbone. What do you say, really, except thank you?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhf9OijfccZMGjRRI281HCFR4txIUptCEdHHYftHUceFZBRVBn7xBAcqUjzXcUNLqiK-z8cN9PdoxM6UlECEygi0OaS5ldm9AJhEHs7ApzIXMvme29wdgqF9rV891Y_QkH4p-JElF77dobFzmB-xrkLtCLdITBBpPHQHyr_FTV4iZNCGCcizhs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhf9OijfccZMGjRRI281HCFR4txIUptCEdHHYftHUceFZBRVBn7xBAcqUjzXcUNLqiK-z8cN9PdoxM6UlECEygi0OaS5ldm9AJhEHs7ApzIXMvme29wdgqF9rV891Y_QkH4p-JElF77dobFzmB-xrkLtCLdITBBpPHQHyr_FTV4iZNCGCcizhs" width="320" /></a></div><br />One of the rules I had as a child was to say hello to everyone, including animals. It goes against the rule I employ with Thistle, my Frenchie, who is somewhat mistrusting of new people, and I tell them quite firmly to ignore her. But in general, Thistle notwithstanding, I've found that the most interesting things in life occur when you say hello to people. Most people are taught not to talk to strangers (or that awful English thing where children are not encouraged to be curious - it's none of your business) but when you do, magical things happen. I've found that saying hello to animals, especially cattle or sheep, it calms them, and makes them aware of your presence as non-predatory, so they stand still and let you walk by. <p></p><p>I've spent so much of my life scooting through, too fast, doing too much, leaping from one challenge or crisis to another, being fueled by the adrenaline of fear, and not spending enough time being present, and by that I mean being there in the moment, smelling the roses, talking to the calves, bending down to scratch the dogs' ears, stopping to listen to the birdsong. I think that is how those moments are created where you feel you are between two worlds; that's where the light comes in, that's when your choices become manifold, when the moment becomes infinite and abundant and filled with pure love.</p><p><br /></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-70690735760094465732022-06-27T00:47:00.002-07:002022-07-06T08:31:00.697-07:00Guan Yin at the Ashmolean<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR98atyVE7VdPYo8HtTTjF9Q_K6A8nvogi0V2jsmEXRfnHEH05F-p25ypvIkyRc4onPVlltxvoxM7MyYwVjLXg-RR3HcaU20TGnaATUrR1bsd0iUKZshk5Jiozni50_AkM-IdL6KdWAnrwC-iihUXBFJZyxm31o2ayDMcxD9mR0nP5sNwKmU/s566/guanyin%20blancdechine.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="425" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR98atyVE7VdPYo8HtTTjF9Q_K6A8nvogi0V2jsmEXRfnHEH05F-p25ypvIkyRc4onPVlltxvoxM7MyYwVjLXg-RR3HcaU20TGnaATUrR1bsd0iUKZshk5Jiozni50_AkM-IdL6KdWAnrwC-iihUXBFJZyxm31o2ayDMcxD9mR0nP5sNwKmU/w300-h400/guanyin%20blancdechine.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-54603396298858343052022-06-23T05:50:00.000-07:002022-06-23T05:50:19.953-07:00A blessing<p> I'm listening to portentous music on headphones at my desk. It's a catchy little track entitled "Cleans the Aura and Space. Removes all Negative Energy." No really, that's the name of the whole thing. There is a low note which reminds me of Joy Division's Atmosphere, and a bit of a drum thing, as well as wind chimes. Somewhat mesmerizing; you have to stay with it to see what will happen.</p><p>Two things I've been thinking about:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>If you do the work, the Universe/God/Spirit will meet you where you are.</li><li>We are here on this earth to heal each other.</li></ul><div>The second one came to me while driving too fast down a straight road through the middle of a golf course at a time of day where no-one is about. It's the second day after the solstice. It says the sun rises at 4.48am today but there was already a glowy light at half past four, and the birds were just beginning to stretch a leg out of their cozy nests. **Must buy wind chimes, stat.**</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm reading<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/0876120796/ref=sw_img_1?smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE&psc=1" target="_blank"> "Autobiography of a Yogi"</a> by Paramahansa Yogananda and it's marvelous. Ben Kingsley narrates (so I'm not reading, I'm listening, at speed usually). "We are here on this earth to heal each other" came to me while listening to "Song to the Siren" by This Mortal Coil. If you haven't ever listened to this track, try it<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFWKJ2FUiAQ" target="_blank"> here</a> - and if you're one of those people that has just discovered Kate Bush, you will love This Mortal Coil. They are a mash up of The Cocteau Twins, Pixies and Dead Can Dance, conceived of by the guy who ran 4AD records. It's blissful stuff. Sorry, I'm going all Ronnie Corbett on you. Autobiography of a Yogi was famously the book that Steve Jobs read about three times while recovering from dysentary, because there were no other books within reach. It's about saints, yogis, miracles, science, awareness, enlightenment, grief, family. George Harrison would keep stacks of them in the house and give them to anyone who needed "regrooving." I think that's where I might be now.</div><div><br /></div><div>This may be too honest or make me too vulnerable to reveal, but being in LA does my head in, in a good way. I stayed in my old house because the very kind owner was away and offered it up to me, and while it created an enormous sense of safety (my home is for me my sanctuary; this house had changed very little - just slightly different art on the walls) it did bring up questions about lifestyle choices. England is a balm for me and whenever I'm in LA I long for misty mornings and green fields covered in dew, and beech woods, and the chalky strata of the Chilterns, but when I'm in England, it's the converse. Suddenly I find myself imagining myself in the canyon, walking on the dusty paths that smell like sage, and the massive feeling that I'm among my people there. This may be one of those posts which reveals too much, like telling someone else your dream which seems completely natural to you but actually reveals an enormous secret longing to a friend. You know what they say: don't tell people your dreams. I'm so pulled in both direction. Los Angeles provided me with the massive shot of positive adrenaline to my flagging heart, there was positivity wherever I turned, and love, and respect. These are my people, I thought. They understand me here. There is kindness in abundance, among the plumped lips and smoothed brows and impossibly flat tummies. If I sported an American accent instead of the upper middle class English one I have, I'm sure I would do better here. But there seems to be confusion when someone who sounds like me behaves in ways that isn't particularly English at all. It's odd for a privileged caucasian woman to be speaking of otherness, I know, but this is something</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my oldest friends, who is also English, took me to the Lake Shrine - the Self-Realization Fellowship on Sunset Boulevard in the Palisades, which I've passed a million times but never ventured into. It was started by Paramahansa Yogananda. I said "do you want to go for a walk?" and she invited me to her house where she had prepared a feast of a lunch - roast cauliflower and white bean salad, roasted corn and avocado with greens and a buttermilk/feta dressing, and even vegan Coronation Chicken. We sipped on grapefruit soda and I admired her passion fruit vine (she provides the fruits to everyone I know because her tree gives in abundance) and <span style="font-family: trebuchet;">watched her foster cat catch a bird (it escaped in a flurry of feathers). "Do you want to walk on the beach or?" I'd mentioned the Lake Shrine before her because I'd never been there before. "If it's calling to you, it's calling to you and we should go there" she said. I hadn't expected it. We drove along PCH to Sunset, parking just inside the gates. At the visitor centre it says "<span style="background-color: white;">Dedicated in 1950, he envisioned a spiritual environment where people from all over the world could come and experience peace of heart and mind." And so there exists a beautiful garden with a lake in the middle, with a path around the whole thing, honoring the Christian, Islam, Jewish, Buddhist and Hindu faiths. There are shrines, waterfalls, areas set aside for meditation, a small chapel. More <a href="https://lakeshrine.org/about-lake-shrine/">here</a>. It filled me with a profound sense that God was there and God was with me and that God was everywhere, in each of those flowers, especially the gardenias (my favorite flowers, next to peonies). I found it hard to articulate at the time. I think I screwed up my face and cried and thanked Wendy for bringing me. But the warm glow stayed with me and seemed to somehow infuse everything I did, and do.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_7KjCMVhSOLLDbsAbePkaaIcZ0Qx7ce6yWGu4_qwGHnQ9pGEjtkmZ_dzTNl-7Olg15EapOhpz8jk9FJuwEZviSw90IkCnYrZXHvV7iZrslngKTnqawXer-78ZRAVygQFxLfjmnnwhUZrCSHp140lmGblBz6E-kVuqFpFoX-rPzMlCuQqgRo/s960/bhagavad-gita-quote.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_7KjCMVhSOLLDbsAbePkaaIcZ0Qx7ce6yWGu4_qwGHnQ9pGEjtkmZ_dzTNl-7Olg15EapOhpz8jk9FJuwEZviSw90IkCnYrZXHvV7iZrslngKTnqawXer-78ZRAVygQFxLfjmnnwhUZrCSHp140lmGblBz6E-kVuqFpFoX-rPzMlCuQqgRo/s320/bhagavad-gita-quote.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I think it's called a blessing.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-52966546490238369362022-06-07T07:17:00.003-07:002022-06-07T07:21:02.625-07:00you are not alone<p>While wheeling my trolley around the supermarket on Sunday, I bumped into a woman who was mouthing to no-one in particular, but perhaps me, because I'm the one that was right there in front of her "I don't really want to be doing this anymore." I smiled in that British way (smile and nod, says Vivien, it's what the Queen does, amazingly diplomatic but not really committing to anything) and continued to trundle, rounding down the pasta aisle, being temporarily fascinated by the different kinds of couscous and pausing. I felt bad. I should've said something encouraging. It didn't sound like she was in good shape. As she turned into my aisle I caught her eye and said "Me too! I really don't want to be here much either." "I just don't like shopping, she said. I've lost so much weight" - she points to her jeans which hang off her hips - "and I cook for people who don't really eat and seem to be happy with the same thing every time. I have so much anxiety about shopping." She trails off and uses her right hand to push her floppy dark blonde hair out of her eyes. She looks apologetic, but she's smiling a little. She points outside the window "My husband is sitting in the car.." and rolls her eyes benignly. "Why?" I ask. "Have you told him you need him?" "No," she laughs."He wouldn't get it. Since the pandemic he thinks he's exempt from going into supermarkets." I give her a sympathetic look. "I'm so anxious," she repeats. "I have a job interview on Monday, nothing big, just a job at the farm shop." "Oh but that's wonderful," I say, "it will be good to get out and be around more people, don't you think?" "I hope so," she says. And then we're at the checkout; she's next to me. And that's when I do that thing that embarrasses my children so. I say, "I know this may sound a little nuts, but I spent a long time in California" (I always say this; it's code here for woo-woo/hippy-dippy but also kinda cool). "There's a breathing thing you can do that really helps for anxiety.." and I go on to describe box breath. The woman thanks me politely. I'm wondering if I will regret this. I think of my children and how mortified they'd be.</p><p>I woke up feeling alone in the world today. (It's nothing to worry about; it's something that goes after I've been up for a while). I said something like "We're basically on our own, let's be honest" to Charlie, an existential cry into the void from a seven year old. "You're not" he says, and irritatingly I know he is right. But as if the universe heard this, I rode through a triangle this morning, a triangle of grass with a road sign in the middle, and at the very moment that I rode through I saw my friend K peering through the round window of glass at her front door, my friend Jane in a smart small grey tractor, cutting the buttercups in her horse field, and on the hypotenuse, a grey electric VW driven by no other than my friend Lizzie, all together and at the same time. It made me think about the nature of time, and how it really isn't linear. For me, at that moment, having woken up feeling alone, the universe conspired to have three people I know be at the same place at the same time. I know, it's a little silly too, but it does remind you to print out these words and stick them on your mirror:</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">YOU ARE NOT ALONE</span></p><div style="text-align: left;">And then there was <a href="http://misswhistle.blogspot.com/2008/04/coal-fire.html">God in the beech leaves</a>, as I rode down the track towards Watlington. I know this because it was enough to make me catch my breath, that green net to catch the sun, and the sun twinkled through it, and I found myself saying thank you, out loud. Divine light, I thought. This is divine light. This is what I'm always inviting in. Don't forget it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm rather taken with Sharon Hewitt Rawlette who writes about <a href="https://sharonrawlette.wordpress.com/books/the-source-and-significance-of-coincidences/">these types of coincidences</a>. Here's a transcript of something she did with Rick Archer at <a href="https://batgap.com/sharon-hewitt-rawlette/">batgap</a>. Scroll down to the third time Rick asks a question, the story of the pastor <a href="https://batgap.com/sharon-hewitt-rawlette-transcript/">here</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's wonderful, no?</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-33328725119829727842022-06-04T01:16:00.000-07:002022-06-04T01:16:00.875-07:00where you start<p> One of the things you can do, if you're in doubt, if you're shaken, is to stare at the person you love across a table in candlelight when there are other people around and they don't know that you're looking at them. Just watch them twinkle and interact when you know they're hurting inside but they're a master at appearing unruffled and erudite and sound and engaged. Watch them objectively, as a visitor would, forget that they're a part of you, that you've forgotten sometimes where they end and where you start, forget the irksome horribleness of the day, not created by them, but just circumstance - forget circumstance - and watch. You may have a glass of wine, but maybe just one because you are driving, and you may be using your sparkle as a shield - it can be a useful place to hide - and you may have also done that special meditation that brings the white light in when you think nothing could possibly work. You may have driven across the Cotswolds in despair while trying to apply mascara and wondered about the state of the world, and how indeed you are going to survive with horribleness you have witnessed. You may have heard things you should not have heard, so much of it that your chest filled with jaggedy energy that made your mouth dry and your heart pound. You may have spoken to your child - a man now and wise and empathic - with whom you have strange telepathy - and listened to his words, your son, who is now advising you in his quiet, kind way on how to negotiate your way through the darkness. But then, after all of this, at a dear friend's table, with a white cloth, and candles and a small china dachsund sitting in the middle of it amongst the blowsy flowers, watch your person dispassionately, as if you are a stranger, and see how it feels to witness love for the first time - kind, unconditional, rising up through the suffering. This is a good man, you think. This is a brave, sexy man. This is the person that loves me. This is a person worth fighting for.</p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-3283320102221458102022-05-27T19:23:00.000-07:002022-05-27T19:24:01.558-07:00Testimony by Rebecca Baggett<strong style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(96, 108, 118); color: rgb(96, 108, 118); font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">Testimony</strong><span style="caret-color: rgb(96, 108, 118); color: rgb(96, 108, 118); font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">, by Rebecca Baggett.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(96, 108, 118); color: rgb(96, 108, 118); font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(96, 108, 118); color: rgb(96, 108, 118); font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><strong style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(96, 108, 118); color: rgb(96, 108, 118); font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 13px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">(for my daughters)<br style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit;">I want to tell you that the world <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">is still beautiful. <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">I tell you that despite <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">children raped on city streets, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">shot down in school rooms, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">despite the slow poisons seeping <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">from old and hidden sins <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">into our air, soil, water, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">despite the thinning film <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">that encloses our aching world. <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">Despite my own terror and despair. <br style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit;">I want you to know that spring <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">is no small thing, that <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">the tender grasses curling <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">like a baby's fine hairs around <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">your fingers are a recurring <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">miracle. I want to tell you <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">that the river rocks shine <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">like God, that the crisp <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">voices of the orange and gold <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">October leaves are laughing at death, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit;">I want to remind you to look <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">beneath the grass, to note <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">the fragile hieroglyphs <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">of ant, snail, beetle. I want <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">you to understand that you <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">are no more and no less necessary <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">than the brown recluse, the ruby- <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">throated hummingbird, the humpback <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">whale, the profligate mimosa. <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">I want to say, like Neruda, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">that I am waiting for <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">"a great and common tenderness", <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">that I still believe <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">we are capable of attention, <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">that anyone who notices the world <br style="box-sizing: inherit;">must want to save it. </strong><br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><br></div><div><div style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><i><br></i></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div></div><div style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br></div><div> </div></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-28499902638938211002022-04-19T04:01:00.002-07:002022-04-19T04:17:47.219-07:00Thief of Happiness & other magical thoughts<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My friend Viv, who is a swan among us, serene as a ballerina on top, and paddling furiously underneath, tells me that Covid is the thief of happiness. I thought about this a lot, as I wondered around the pond staring at the heron in the tree, trying to remember to breathe through my feet and rest in awareness; things I do when I'm trying to be happy. Here's the truth: I'm really struggling. And not in a normal, oh fuck, I'm having a horrible day way, just that there are so many things that feel discordant and out of alignment. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe_aY9qd7Va3N5aduERDX_opZFTXXGletVZv1o9Wf2NisVUyDPKvFgOqrsw9gpL1MEpVSdAn_qTW7-iQh4DE8nIWW65j_N0AaJSXy09GzotNx6cRR6TScrwaucWZ7KBf2aqnHZDIq4vyMn5TdmRdhxqBwg5Dy7P22GBwgrdzQGgDF3nFI4eg/s4032/IMG_3372.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe_aY9qd7Va3N5aduERDX_opZFTXXGletVZv1o9Wf2NisVUyDPKvFgOqrsw9gpL1MEpVSdAn_qTW7-iQh4DE8nIWW65j_N0AaJSXy09GzotNx6cRR6TScrwaucWZ7KBf2aqnHZDIq4vyMn5TdmRdhxqBwg5Dy7P22GBwgrdzQGgDF3nFI4eg/s320/IMG_3372.heic" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>It struck on Good Friday, a disproportionately sunny day, the end of which we spent in Winchester, first at a Ravilious exhibit and then at the Cathedral, for a female choral Pergolesi Stabbat Mater. It's the kind of divine music that makes a believer out of you, swoony, tearful, feel it in your heart stuff. We wandered out afterwards and there were young people lying on the grass, pink sun-burned faces, small children on bicycles, old couples hand in hand, arms without sleeves, giddy dogs. And then at home, the sun pouring into the kitchen, great shafts of baked orange light, the kind that makes you look up from the sink and give praise, even mutedly. You see, the thing I've found about England is that after the winter, the cold, the pandemic, the horror of the war, the pessimism of the BBC news, the misunderstandings and awfulness and jarring discombobulation, all we need is a sunny Good Friday, a cup of tea and a hot crossed bun, and all is well. All is reset.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But my dog is dying. I know that she is dying because every single bone in her body is prominent but her gut is the size of a large water balloon. People with dogs will understand this. For me, she isn't a bony gargoyle with bad teeth and an attitude, she is an irridescent angel of light who has gotten me through the biggest move of my life, warming my ankles at the same time, even on the coldest of nights. We have been through months of yellow puddles of Bisto, epic flatulence, mistakes and accidents and misdiagnoses, bad vets and good vets, and the lovely nurses in between. A dead chicken lies in her wake. And now here we are with a pretty strong belief that it's stomach cancer. I am okay with it. I couldn't think about it before, but now I can, and that's how brilliant the mind is, isn't it? Easing you in to uncomfortable situations gently, grooming you for the worst. I'm ready for it. But, oh God, I don't want her to suffer. I know it hurts even when I pick her up. She needs a sheepskin bodysuit to protect her.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I poll my two best friends. I say, as one does, "Did you feel psychotic when you had Covid." And "Was your mental health affected when you had Covid?" and both of them said "No." Very Quickly. But they would, wouldn't they? Isn't that what people do, especially here? People want to keep a lid on it. I wish I wanted to keep a lid on it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dog is at the vet and C reports that she's getting steroids to try to get rid of the fluid that is filling her stomach and preventing the protein from working its magic. Steroids are what I was given with my auto immune disease. They feel magical and final somehow.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I told another friend that I wanted to get away to somewhere warm, somewhere with a warm sea, and she told me that it was just as easy to feel good here, by focusing on nature in one's own garden. Believe me, this is usually what I do. I wake up. I walk outside. I get pulled in by the birds and the sounds of the tree in the breeze, and everything changes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My dressage and non-duality friend (ha ha) is a fan of Duncan Trussell, and because of this I've become a fan. You may want to check out <a href="https://www.duncantrussell.com/episodes/2016/7/18/my-mom-part-2" target="_blank">this conversation</a> between him and his dying mother. It's beautiful. But one thing that gave me enormous strength this morning was in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBeFn7TyAY4">this conversation</a> between Duncan, Sharon Salzberg and Ragu, where he says something like, "I'm always struggling with depression." I feel a need to come out and say that same thing: I am always trying to find ways to keep my depression at bay. I have been off my meds (all meds) since July, I have a robust meditation practise, I am an ardent fan of spiritual podcasts and listen to them every day. And I have downloaded books by monks and scholars and the enlightened in order to further understand this thing Prince calls life. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But still, every morning, I must decide to wake up and choose happiness. I do not take it for granted.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Let's be honest, Covid has fucked with that. (Viv says "honust" instead of "honist" which is so elegant an old-fashioned and well-bred. Every time I speak to her I try to remind myself to do the same; it's so much more pretty.)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And another thing: I love wine. I love the taste of it. I love the gently woozy, happy way it makes you feel after one glass. I love the color of rosé, the gentle pink of it, the way it makes you think of summer and people you adore, of cherry blossom and blowsy peonies, of picnics by the sea. But wine is not my friend. It is one hundred percent connected the way my synapses snap; and my dopamine levels, after a life of drinking, of coming from a drinking culture, of being part a society where drinking is as natural as smiling, need refreshment. So I don't drink. I don't drink until I feel smug enough about not drinking to have a glass of wine to celebrate. And so it goes. And so it goes. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And I know why I drink. I drink because it makes me not feel everything. When I don't drink I feel every single thing, every vibe, every issue, every sting of pain, every old trauma. It's what our parents and our grandparents did because they didn't understand coping methods, nor, generally, boundaries.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Feel it to heal it, right?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, healing. This, right here, this is what I'd like to figure out.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not just for me, by the way. I'm hoping that whatever I discover will help everyone.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here are two book recommendations. The first one comes from a taxi driver I had in London on Thursday, who asked me if I meditated. He knew, of course. He used to be a monk and this is his teacher.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> * <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Monks-Guide-Happiness-Meditation-century/dp/1473696674">A Monk's Guide To Happiness by Gelong Thubten</a> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He's a party guy who joined a buddhist monastery where they meditate 12-14 hours a day alone...but he offers such invaluable tips as "don't reach for your phone the moment you wake up" and other things we need to be reminded of. Huge sense of humor and brings real world knowledge to his spirituality. Lovely.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">* <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fear-Less-Living-Anxiety-Addiction-ebook/dp/B0738HZZLD">Fear Less by Dean Sluyter</a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This recommendation comes from my friend (who I've never met, ever!) Rick Archer at </span><a href="https://batgap.com/" style="font-family: georgia;">BATGAP</a><span style="font-family: georgia;">. A former TM teacher who lives in Venice, CA teaches something called natural meditation (rest in awareness) similar to Gelong Thubten (above). Sound, uncomplicated, effortless. I love him.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-30733246875245537982021-12-28T08:42:00.004-08:002021-12-28T08:46:58.309-08:00chatter/clutter & spiralling hawks<p>Hello world! We're in that weird noman's land between Christmas and the New Year, and I'm staring out on an unusually blue sky. It's 3.41pm and the sun goes down in about ten minutes because deepest December. In my new office I have a wide expanse of sky, bare trees on the right, a few clouds on thee left, a couple of planes making vapor trails, the garden wall strangely without birds (we had pheasants this morning). It's very very still and very very quiet.</p><p>The madness of Christmas - three days of a full house of seven children and two children - an eighth couldn't make it because of Covid - has given way to that still, small quiet. Three days of joviality and forced joviality (God bless McD with his lateral thinking games) and small triumphs (a three year old learning to ride a bike for the first time, a perfectly cooked turkey) and odd sadness (a funeral, a death). And now we're in a period of contemplation.</p><p>My sister was cremated on Thursday. It was a small service for very close family followed by a bigger memorial in a very jolly church, decked for the holidays with a Christmas tree festival, which helped make the thing more bearable. Her children were magnificent and stoic and I was proud of our family, standing together in solidarity. She died of pancreatic cancer, like my brother before her. I find funerals weirdly uplifting and enjoyed doing my own research into the sister (half-sister) I didn't really know very well, and discovering wonderful things about her like her encyclopedic knowledge of birds and trees, her decision to get a tattoo at age 70, going to India after wanting to for fifty years, and loving it. Most of all, I was glad to find that I was wrong about her, that I'd carried a child's memory of who she was, a memory that serves no purpose now, a memory that had failed to incorporate the loss and tragedy she'd lived through.</p><p>(There is a pigeon on the wall now, lit by the last of the sun's rays, pecking at the ivy.)</p><p>And then a client died. I found out on Boxing Day, very early in the morning, and was up with it through the day, trying to find out information, issuing statements, trying to make sense of it all. Two things I will say about Hollywood: People are very kind and reach out with condolences when this type of thing happens, and it's lovely. They come out of the woodwork, people you haven't heard from in years, and they text you and ask you how you are and what happened and who will direct the next project now? But there are also those who like to insert themselves into the action and find ways to connect with the deceased, big themselves up to show how close they were. It's very, very strange behavior.</p><p>So much grief lately.</p><p>And so much chatter/clutter.</p><p>I tried to explain this to McD in the middle of the night. "How are you feeling?" he asked (I've been coughing coughing coughing with non-Covid bronchitis). "I feel like there is too much chatter," I said. I have this sense that in order to capture time, or make more time, the only way to do it is to quiet one's mind and allow some peace and quiet to make itself at home in one's mind. I'd been scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, twitter, insta, google, facebook, looking for things people were saying about the lovely client, and suddenly realized that I had no more room, only word soup sloshing around between my ears. I wanted some quiet. I wanted the equivalent of a pristine white room with just one small camp bed to lay down on. I wanted to silence my monkey brain.</p><p>(A hawk now, spiralling up, up above the wall, as the stars begin to come out.)</p><p>Time is a construct. And filling one's brain with monkey stuff feels like a dreadful waste. What if better things want to come in? What if there are great ideas that want to come visit? </p><p>Imagine your brain as an inbox. And the only emails that are coming in are things like google alerts, wayfair promotions, jetblue offers. But what you want is a great, well-written email from a friend. Do you know what I mean?</p><p>So this week is going to be expanding the mind week. Keeping it nice and clear and clean and uncluttered so that it can be open to more interesting things. No more tabloids in my head please.</p><p>Thistle, my Frenchie, seems to have developed Intervertebral Disc Disease (IVDD) so she supposed be crated and can only walk on a harness in the garden. No stairs, no jumping, no walks, no excitement, etc. It's hellish. So, no dogs in the bedroom (for the first time ever in her life) and no proper walks. I could cry just writing about it. The vet has her on three different meds - pain meds, inflammatory, muscle relaxants - so in the mornings she is confused, discombobulated, completely freaked out by the new system. What the fuck, I think. What is the point of having a dog if they have to live in a crate (when they haven't been crate trained) and can't be in your bed and can't go for walks? Is that actually a good life? Is that worth it? I'm not sure it is. She is nearly 11, a good age for a Frenchie. There has been so much grief. I can't even think about this.</p><p>(The sky is almost completely dark, and the clouds have grown to cover it over. Someone is shooting by the river. I hear a shotgun. A few starlings fly overhead).</p><p>I think this is what we need to come back to:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>quiet</li><li>skies</li><li>the sound of birds</li><li>folding oneself into nature</li></ul><div>For those of you who are interested in soul stuff (you know, woo-woo, psychic, spirit stuff) like me, I'm loving Pat Longo, who has a book called "<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gifts-Beneath-Your-Anxiety-Longo/dp/0806539437">The Gifts Beneath Your Anxiety."</a> Pat isn't a great writer (she is a little repetitive) but she's a wonderful, empathic woman who is truly gifted, but also really down to earth in the way that only a woman from New Jersey can be. I love her.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I adore Nichole Bigley who has a really smart, pragmatic podcast entitled <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/a-psychics-story/id1479682063">"A Psychic's Story"</a> where she interviews people who lead supernatural lives among the ordinary. I find it enormously uplifting. (I first discovered Pat Longo<a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/healing-your-anxiety/id1479682063?i=1000542283623"> here</a>.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Take care, good folk. Enjoy these between times.</div><div>Let's talk soon. </div><div>Much love, Miss W xo</div><p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-47101998099740266492021-12-28T08:36:00.001-08:002021-12-28T08:36:32.434-08:00Chris Levine at Houghton Hall: 528hz - the Love Frequency<div dir="ltr"><br><br><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4AnvtFIym8Y/Ycs9EZ5mO7I/AAAAAAAAMI0/ATMz6WdnlmUZSHV8KvayoqmzRYaJp2ZyQCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_1208-792501.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4AnvtFIym8Y/Ycs9EZ5mO7I/AAAAAAAAMI0/ATMz6WdnlmUZSHV8KvayoqmzRYaJp2ZyQCK4BGAYYCw/s320/IMG_1208-792501.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_7046793187832511410" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br><br><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-60Xa9juZwdo/Ycs9Fd4RblI/AAAAAAAAMI8/_p34ob1UnAYKxYruiLSvit23kXkLt22QACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/75D93C92-3294-4D73-9A55-3BA26E419A2E-795715.JPG"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-60Xa9juZwdo/Ycs9Fd4RblI/AAAAAAAAMI8/_p34ob1UnAYKxYruiLSvit23kXkLt22QACK4BGAYYCw/s320/75D93C92-3294-4D73-9A55-3BA26E419A2E-795715.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_7046793206080564818" /></a></div><div dir="ltr"><br><br><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-doUL4vPKbDE/Ycs9GItDnZI/AAAAAAAAMJE/32lQVRTjwBUnFH_-MIdPCXdoYjcEKFOfACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/57BCADCF-E45B-4660-936F-154EC818823D-799214.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-doUL4vPKbDE/Ycs9GItDnZI/AAAAAAAAMJE/32lQVRTjwBUnFH_-MIdPCXdoYjcEKFOfACK4BGAYYCw/s320/57BCADCF-E45B-4660-936F-154EC818823D-799214.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_7046793217576246674" /></a></div><br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><br></div><div><div style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><i><br></i></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div></div><div style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br></div><div> </div></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-16373085092429608242021-11-05T00:20:00.001-07:002021-11-05T00:20:29.723-07:00You have everything you need within you<p><i>You have the blueprint within you. Everything you need is inside you, just as the acorn contains a mighty oak.</i></p><p>Pre-dawn walk this morning. The light was just coming in and we walked past the pond where the duck were beginning their morning ritual of circling and chatting to each other. You have to walk quietly (no bark-y dogs) or they will scare and move back into the reeds. It was dark and blue and only the ducks and the crows who live in the big sequoia by the pond. There is a dark, rhododendron-lined path that links the pond to the field, and you have to walk carefully here too if you don't want to fall into a badger whole. The field was crispy white with rime, every blade and leaf outlined in frosting. And here I find my favorite avenue of oak trees, perhaps from when that was the original entrance to the big house next to us. The sky is splintered with pink, awaiting the sunrise, but moving quickly-quickly, greys and melons, shell pink and orange. I put my arms around the largest oak and pressed the side of my face against its trunk and listened. My whole body shimmered with the energy. (Try it, it's true!) And it said, God is in everything. God is in everything. You've known this for your whole life, this old knowledge, and it's unfurling for you now, again. Recognize the divine in every thing you touch. But particularly on this freezing morning in this ancient oak tree with the black cattle against the skyline, the sun barely rising, my arms hugged tight around it. You can relax, it said. God is in everything.</p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-29183226782506563152021-11-01T15:34:00.001-07:002021-11-01T15:34:06.940-07:00The Charm Offensive: a dozen ways to ingratiate yourself<p>I've been pondering what I can do to be useful in the world -- other than telling people about tree-hugging, baking carrot cakes, spiritual expansion and Italian independent movies --and I've come to the conclusion that what the world needs now is a Charm Offensive. So many young people born after 1980 really haven't been schooled in the importance of manners, and I feel that they are truly missing out on life and the marvelous things that could come their way as a result of good old-fashioned charm. As I was completely obsessed with and flayed myself at the cathedral of Nancy Mitford, I believe really do have an enormous amount to offer. Most of this, of course, I blame on my mother's best friend, Sheila, who was always the life of every party and although jolly naughty in some of her suggestions for us children, managed to bring the most wonderful happy energy into any room she entered. Another huge part I owe to my friend D's ma, who spoke with the mo---st mah---velous drawl, smelled divine, and never failed to make us giggle or engage us in a subject we hadn't known anything about before. You know, like the sex life of the pygmy goat.</p><p>Here, then is the basic premise: If you want to get anywhere in the world, you need to learn to be charming. Charm, one would think, something one is born with, but alas no, because some of the most charming people I know have deeply un-charming, and actually downright surly children. If it doesn't come naturally to you; if you weren't gifted with a family friend with a twinkle in her eye, or haven't had a copy of Emily Post delivered to your office door (I did this, I admit, to a particularly rude agent at William Morris; he thought it frightfully amusing and I never looked back) I've written you a little primer. And just a note on this, charm isn't fake. It's a method one employs to make those around you feel safe and happy and taken care of. It doesn't have to feel false or forced. It's actually a rather sweet form of kindness. So here goes:</p><p>1.<i>Sing for your supper. </i>This is a rather simple notion that states if you have been invited to a dinner party, a lunch or a country weekend, your payment for this gracious invitation is to be witty and amusing, particularly around your host and any elderly family members. Take some time to learn a few anecdotes or funny stories, some jolly facts about lesser-known subjects, and be ready to share them with. Or, make sure you read up on the latest novels or new films in theatres. It's your gift. It's what you're there to do.</p><p>2.<i> The Hostess Gift. </i>Never show up empty-handed. Even if you steal a rose from a hedgerow on your way, don't show up without something for your hostess. Some chocolate, a bottle of wine, a few flowers, a special loaf of bread, a book, whatever you can. Recently, I had lunch with an old friend, and instead of flowers, a vase of beech leaves sat on his dining room table, rather charmingly. Americans are particularly good at hostess gifts, and arrive with embarrassingly large gifts, boxed and wrapped and tied with a pink velvet ribbon. </p><p>3. <i>Manners means making others comfortable. </i>Once, when I was about fifteen, overweight, with Janis Ian skin, and quite awkward, a friend took me to the Fourth of June. Her older brother who was ridiculously handsome, down to his chiselled Elvis lips and tight trousers, offered me a drink first, before anyone else. I had no idea what to say or what the right answer was, and desperately looked around me to see what other people had done. But I was first. I felt paralyzed. He beamed at me, the most charming of smiles, and said nodding at the bottle of champagne in his hand "this looks rather good, don't you think?" Saved. In a moment. The relief.</p><p>4.<i> Speak to the people on each side of you.</i> This means, turn to the left and make conversation with the elderly aunt sitting next to you. Ask her what it was like to grow up in Africa, or whether she grows dahlias, or if she has a particularly good Christmas cake recipe. Look her in the eyes. Engage her. Make sure she has everything she needs, so she doesn't have to ask for salt and pepper. And then turn to the person on the other side of you and do the same. Pay attention to make sure that no-one is being left out or feeling shy and awkward. Another personal anecdote. I think I was about thirteen and it was my first dinner party, and I thought boys were from another planet. I was frozen to the spot, dry mouthed and terrified, drowing in my own un-interestingness when the boy next to me, a not particularly handsome redhead called Simon turned to me and said, "Do you know that the Polar explorers discovered that penguin tastes rather like chicken." And then we laughed and laughed, me from relief.</p><p>5.<i> If you think you have nothing to offer, trying smiling</i>. Nothing can disarm like a smile. Some of the loveliest house guests I've had to stay when I lived in LA - mostly the children of friends - would saunter into the kitchen in with a bright smile and say "Good morning" with such joy that it was hard to focus on the fact that they hadn't come home till 3am the night before. "I'm making some eggs, would you like some" is always a good follow up.</p><p>6. <i>Pass the salt</i>. My father's trick was to say, "would you like some salt" when he wanted it passed to him, because he believed it rude to ask directly. (He also kept a large red Thesaurus next to his plate, just in case.) Or pouring the wine, or water, for the person next to you. And not taking the last potato.</p><p>7. <i>Pick up the plates and offer to do the washing up</i>. You probably won't do the washing up, but it's so incredibly lovely, as the hostess, to hear a guest ask at least. And even if you don't wash up, see if you can stack the plates into the dishwasher, or bring in the pudding plates.</p><p>8. <i>Stand up when someone older than you comes into the room. </i>Oh I know I'm going to be well and truly bashed for being a dinosaur for this one, but it's just so lovely to be in the presence of someone who is paying attention. Once, when I was about eighteen, my mother walked into the room where a few friends and I were sitting, and all but one of the young men got up to say hello. The one dimwit who was still in his chair was approached by my mother who stretched out her hand to shake his, and pulled him fully out of the chair as she said, "I'm Bente, how are you?" I hated her for that then as much as I love her for it now.</p><p>9. <i>Don't drone on</i>. I'm afraid I do this sometimes. I think I'm being witty and charming, but I nervously chatter. I did it yesterday at lunch at a friend's house. I whispered to C across the table "Am I talking too much." "No, of course not" he said kindly. "Actually you're being quite funny." I gulped my water and shut up, remembering a French anglophile who lived near us a few years ago and asked us out to lunch at the local pub. Two and a half hours of non-stop droning on and on and on about the most incredibly dull things. Bored rigid. Eyes propped open with matchsticks.</p><p>10.<i> Remember Thelwell:</i> "Treat your pony as you would like to be treated yourself." This is accompanied by a picture of a pony having a lick of a little girl's ice cream. This is essentially "be kind; everyone is fighting a hard battle." It's not always easy to remember that even the most loutish of people are struggling with something inside, and it's always better to be kind and forgiving. I find it hard. Sometimes I want to punch people on the nose, but I managed to wrestle my fist down with my other hand.</p><p>11. <i>Phones should be turned off at supper time</i>. I mean, is there anything more un-charming than a phone being tapped upon?</p><p>12. <i>Forgive</i>. This should probably be on another list, but it's a lesson I need to learn myself today. It also reminds me of a story about the Queen and the fingerbowl. Apparently at a state dinner, the Queen had an ambassador from a far-off land sitting next to her and there were fingerbowls at each place setting, after a fish course, perhaps. The visitor believe that the little china bowl filled with warm water and a slice of lemon was a tasty English, and heartily tipped the whole thing into his mouth. Without a word, the Queen looked at him, picked up her finger bowl and did the exact same thing, smiling at the gentleman. The whole long table followed suit.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-32959510764303271382021-09-22T22:13:00.000-07:002021-09-22T22:13:01.712-07:00Park Trees<p>This post is from late August, 2006. I'm rather amused at myself because feelings about summer never change:</p><p><br /></p><p><span class="title" style="color: #5e2612; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px;">Park trees</span><br />I can't bear the fact that September is almost upon us and summer is giving way to seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness, or in LA's case, seasons of fruit and mellow smogliness. Childishly, one prepares for and looks forward to summer, imagining great adventures and divine inspirations will be found there. And yet, summer is just a drag in LA when it's too hot almost to live without air conditioning and the flowers wilt in protest and the dogs scratch themselves because of the preponderance of fleas. My fig tree, which I gaze at all year long, hardly able to wait for the sweet fruits to ripen, is looking distinctly sickly and I know I should stick a hose in its direction. We missed the plums and apricots completely because of the feast the squirrels and birds decided to have without us. The familiar rhythm of autumn is returning, with the children going back to school, and stocks of things we like to call "snacks" filling the cupboards and that desperate notion that summer slacking is done with and suddenly a new serious spirit needs to develop.</p><div>I'm praying for that to happen.</div><div><div><br style="background-color: #ccffff; color: #5e2612; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;" /></div></div><p><br /></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-43572515666816077692021-09-22T12:06:00.001-07:002021-09-22T12:08:33.635-07:00Shift<p>The mourning for the end of summer seems misplaced on the autumn equinox. Along with the sun there is a chill in the air. The window in my office is opened a few inches and I can feel the breeze on my ankles, my face, that coldness that catches in your throat, but I can also see the sun behind the magnolia tree. My lone American flag is moving gently, sprinkled with shadows and last rays, underneath the tree. Summer wasn't really summer, or perhaps I missed it. Who knows? I know that every year summer is what I look forward to because I associate it with happiness and abundance and the smell of cut grass, of sweet peas and snappy pea pods and runner beans that you break off in your hands, of bushels of small, red strawberries, and those walks you can do after supper when it's still light. This year hasn't felt like that, and I may have worried about it too much, may have spent too much time focusing on where summer had gone instead of just living in the moment. In fact, I have done exactly that. </p><p>And so here we are on the autumn equinox and I've got a little bit of perspective after having a couple of months which were not good mental health wise. First off, I stopped writing this blog, which made me unhappy. Secondly, I was struggling with the time differential for my work (which is based in LA). And third, and most importantly, I was out of sync with myself and the world, out of alignment, swimming upstream. It didn't feel good at all. I am a generally positive person and suddenly I'm fucking miserable, for no obvious reason. Miserable in the sense that it was an effort to talk to another human being, to get up in the morning, to read, to write, to find joy in the world, and it started to mess with my relationship. I don't know how I got there, how I got so disconnected, so out of my happy place, but I never want to go there again. Honestly, it was a bit of shit show. I was worried. But now I realize it may have been the beginning of a shift. One day I just woke up and felt something had changed and then things were flying out at me from the Universe. Books from friends. Suggestions of things to pay attention too. Vibrating like a top inside a church at a wedding. Tearing up at hymns. Brimming with emotion. Warm and fuzziness.</p><p>Here are some things I have learned, and I'll continue to share them as I am on this journey. I know many of you respond to this place of vulnerability in me, and I am so very grateful for that. The realization that one is not alone is one of the greatest things.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>We are spiritual beings having a human experience.</li><li>We are exactly where we are meant to be.</li><li>The Universe has your back.</li><li>You are never alone.</li><li>We choose the way we see the world through what we think, ie the mental creates the physical and not vice versa.</li><li>We can look at the world from a place of love or a place of fear. Choose love.</li><li>Practise mindfulness daily.</li><li>Ultimately, love is everything.</li></ul><div>This path is self-fulfilling. The further you walk along it the more you desire to go further, absorbing new information along the way, but everything seemingly taking you towards the same place. I believe that all spiritual beliefs and religions lead to the same place. You can call it God or Source or Universe or Higher Self or Buddha or Jesus or whatever you like, but each path may have different scenery but it leads ultimately to the same place. It's all about the name. It's what I've struggled with my whole life and suddenly now it's become clear. A shining white light of clarity. And weirdly (and I know, oh my goodness I know that this will seem soooooo weird to some people reading this, but I really don't feel like a nutcase, just a girl who spent a good part of her life in Laurel Canyon). I know this is the truth. I know intrinsically, intuitively, clearly and without doubt or question that this is the truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, now, how to keep oneself on the path. This is a very good question and it's something I struggle with. I'm a complete work in progress but here's what I know thus far:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. The time between sleeping and waking is sacred. Do not infect it with your phone, with emails, with social media, with the news. This is the most creative and beautiful time. A good time to write or walk or meditate. A good time for quiet.</div><div>2. Spend ten minutes (or as long as you'd like) in the morning meditating. Its benefits will become apparent after the first time you do it. I've already found that it makes me less reactive, more mindful. It's the first thing I've discovered that works almost immediately for anxiety. (*Also see box breath*.)</div><div>3. Get out into nature at the earliest opportunity. Just walking amongst trees will change your energy.</div><div>4. Find what you love and do it often. (I love to ride. This is where I experience my true flow state. This is a whole other blog post, of course...there is so much to say about the connection between women and horses. I do not know of another activity where one's whole mind, body and soul is connected and fully focused in this way with another living creature.)</div><div>5. Drink water. As much of it as you can.</div><div>6. If you experience a thought that is negative or taking you down a path that may become out of control try to focus on stopping it, pivoting, breathing, or moving in a different direction before it becomes a runaway train. I am a mercurial and volatile person and I want to change this.</div><div>7. Surround yourself with beautiful things - flowers, animals, art, books, candles - that make you feel peaceful. For me, it's Kuan Yin. She is in the center of my house, surrounded by candles and flowers and some prayer flags. She makes me feel safe. </div><div>8. Listen and watch for synchronicity, for words that resonate to you, for things that seem significant, or repeated. I've heard about St Francis almost daily, since I unpacked him from my LA boxes. I've placed him in the garden among the roses and just knowing that he is there is calming and happy making.</div><div>9. Remember the gratitude. Actually it was Mary Karr who said that praying helps. Just try it, she said, and you'll see what happens.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm loathe to tell you how down this rabbit hole I am. I'm finding Robert Monroe, Brian L Weiss, Barbara Marciniak, rediscovering Castaneda and Blake and Huxley, embracing Ram Dass. The world is expanding and I'm trying to keep up. No, I'm keeping up! I hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>The strangest part is that I remember this stuff from when I was eighteen or nineteen. I remember being on this journey, knowing these things, because it's all familiar, not strange, and then, somewhere along the way, it all disappeared. Jobs and marriage and babies and making a living all took over, and probably rightly so. But now here we are, and it's all unfolding, and it's the autumn equinox, and I'm excited about the journey. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm saying right here, right now to the universe that my intention is to discover what is my purpose, and I'm prepared to do the work I need to do to make it happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope that this if of some help to you too. My mind is bursting with information, so much that I'm finding it hard to get it down coherently. Every time I write a sentence another appears in my head, and another idea pops. But who ever said that mind blowing couldn't be fun?</div><div><br /></div><div>This poem is lovely, too. I hope you enjoy it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wherever you are in the world, I am grateful to you for showing up here after all these years and telling me I have something to say. I don't know anything but I can promise I will be a good student. You are very much appreciated.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you are never, ever alone.</div><div><br /></div><p></p><p></p><article class="o-article" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-article-bd" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-vr o-vr_9x" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 45px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-grid" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-grid-col o-grid-col_9of12 o-mix-grid-col_offset1of12" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 100px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline; width: 869.984px;"><div class="o-vr o-vr_12x" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 60px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="c-feature" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="c-feature-hd" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 4px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><h1 class="c-hdgSans c-hdgSans_2 c-mix-hdgSans_inline" style="border: 0px; color: black; display: inline; font-family: canada-type-gibson; font-size: 1.75rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: 600; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use</h1></div><div class="c-feature-sub c-feature-sub_vast" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 33px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="c-txt c-txt_attribution" face="canada-type-gibson" style="border: 0px; color: #494949; display: inline-block; font-size: 0.875rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">BY<span> </span><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ada-limon" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; transition: color 0.25s cubic-bezier(0.215, 0.61, 0.355, 1) 0s; vertical-align: baseline;">ADA LIMÓN</a></span></div></div><div class="c-feature-bd" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; font-size: 1.25rem; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.3; margin: 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-poem isActive" data-view="PoemView" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">All these great barns out here in the outskirts,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">You say they look like arks after the sea’s<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and I think of that walk in the valley where<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">No. I believe in this connection we all have<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">to nature, to each other, to the universe.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">though we knew they were really just clouds—<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;">disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.<br /></div><div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; text-indent: -1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></article><div><div class="c-tier c-mix-tier_offset" style="background-color: white; 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box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex: 0 0 33.3333%; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 33.3333%; padding: 30px 0px 0px 60px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="o-card o-card_stretch" style="align-items: stretch; border: 0px; display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; width: 340px;"><div class="o-card-bd" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="c-feature" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.231; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div></div></div></li></ul></li></ul></div></div></div></div></div><p></p><div> </div><p></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-1531189750048611512021-09-14T03:01:00.001-07:002021-09-14T03:01:27.099-07:00The filmiest of screens<span style="font-size: 16px; caret-color: rgb(26, 26, 26); color: rgb(26, 26, 26); font-family: fira-sans; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness, definite types of mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded. How to regard them is the question — for they are so discontinuous with ordinary consciousness. Yet they may determine attitudes though they cannot furnish formulas, and open a region though they fail to give a map. At any rate, they forbid a premature closing of our accounts with reality."</span><br><br>- William James<br><div dir="ltr"><div><br></div><div><div style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><i><br></i></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><br></div></div><div style="orphans: auto; widows: auto; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"></div><div><br></div><div> </div></div>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-55180663857975691342021-08-19T04:49:00.000-07:002021-08-19T04:49:12.268-07:00Let everything happen to you<p>After noon, the sun went away. It was here just long enough to tease the blowzy thistle flowers into the breeze, floating like dust motes in a Fellini movie, and to cajole me into thinking that perhaps summer might not be just an idea remembered by children. I found five fat purple figs on the tree this morning and they were a surprise; I'd begun to believe it was November. And a dahlia the size of my small dog, colored like a Trebor Fruit Salad chew, impossibly beautiful. I had a notion that everything flows through me when I walked through the avenue of oaks back to the house. I know how that sounds, but it was an honest feeling. And then I thought of Rilke.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e6p8PIfKsT0/YR5ExAt-13I/AAAAAAAAMHc/L0N4g9PCxtgdrY--KKgz3bZxwIz4Y35_wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_9035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1794" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e6p8PIfKsT0/YR5ExAt-13I/AAAAAAAAMHc/L0N4g9PCxtgdrY--KKgz3bZxwIz4Y35_wCLcBGAsYHQ/w350-h400/IMG_9035.jpg" width="350" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just keep going. No feeling is final. - Rilke</div><br /><p><br /></p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-52859202323122983022021-08-17T05:08:00.003-07:002021-08-17T05:28:35.628-07:00Picniclust <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hkVcBTsmPPE/YRp5zeJPGGI/AAAAAAAAMHA/epR9-_oJOfUR4InbkFwGONS-x8auTJtWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/cartwheel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="322" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hkVcBTsmPPE/YRp5zeJPGGI/AAAAAAAAMHA/epR9-_oJOfUR4InbkFwGONS-x8auTJtWwCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h322/cartwheel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />It wasn't long ago that I could cartwheel across a lawn and did at every opportunity. I haven't tried lately. This was at Kew a few years ago, with my best friend, and the weather was meh. Shouldn't there be time for cartwheels?<p></p><p>I was reminded of the time I thought I'd write a picnic book. It was in the perma-summer of Los Angeles, when you wake up to sun streaming into the bedroom, and you remind yourself to get up and out quickly before it gets too hot to do so. The girls and I would walk up Laurel Pass before the runners and the actors were awake, before the pavement started to bake, when there was still cold in the shadows. The paths at the top of Mulholland were like the sea, dappled pools of warm and cold. And there, among the dark, cold ancient oaks one would think about English picnics with wicker baskets and silver boxes stuffed with ham sandwiches and green apples and flapjacks. That image must have come from a book because our picnics weren't like that. My mother would bring mountains of Coronation Chicken, created in the Norwegian manner, with great palm-sized mounds of chicken breast bathed in an unctious, silky mayonnaise, served with cold curried rice studded with crunchy bits of cauliflower and red pepper and yolk-yellow corn. She'd wheel it out at school speech days and Royal Ascot. Who doesn't love a picnic, I would ask myself. I even reserved the url...lashingsofgingerbeer.</p><p>Stuck in the cold, November-like August of West Berkshire, with ominous grey-mauve clouds and the need of a fleece or equivalent, I'm re-thinking my picniclust. I only want to wear short-sleeved cotton dresses and do cartwheels across the lawn, when in reality, I'm in thick socks and gumboots and scarves, and I've just taken stock of a couple of new duvets with a higher TOG count (who knew?).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MdbBZhCauVU/YRurN6PxqwI/AAAAAAAAMHI/15G94kAGoe877F8kL7djwbfHBK_Rz1P7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-08-16%2Bat%2B7.39.18%2BPM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="313" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MdbBZhCauVU/YRurN6PxqwI/AAAAAAAAMHI/15G94kAGoe877F8kL7djwbfHBK_Rz1P7gCLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h313/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2021-08-16%2Bat%2B7.39.18%2BPM.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MissWhistle in Fall2021</td></tr></tbody></table><p>"Let's go to the beach" I say to McD. "Let's take the dogs and go early to the coast and walk and paddle and eat a huge breakfast!" I sound suitably Blyton. "But the weather is grim..." he says, always pragmatic, his brow pushing down further towards his eyes.</p><p>I'm dreaming of picnics and cotton dresses and bare, brown legs and cartwheels. Summer hasn't been long enough, or summery enough, or childlike enough. It hasn't been sunny enough or blue enough or carefree enough. It's been filled with bad news, sad things, the collapse of nations, Covid rules, anxiety. Interspersed with small pinpricks of happiness. And I'm one of the lucky ones.</p><p>But here's a radical concept: Perhaps we should behave as if the sun is shining. Fuckin' fake it till you make it, man.</p><p>There are dahlias in the garden now, fistfuls of them, and we have six hens and bushels of raspberries. There is too much garden and we can't keep on top of it. There are tumbling hollyhocks and great walls of roses, cascading tomatoes and wild morning glory and cucumber vine which I rip off bushes as I pass. There is ivy growing on the wall and we snip wildly at the bottoms of it in an attempt to kill it before it affects the integrity of the bricks. Everything is green because of the amount of rain. Radishes are seeding and squirrels and field mice are nibbling on the root bulbs as they crown through the earth. The strawberries and gooseberries have resident rodents, who've become somewhat blasé. To Thistle, the Frenchie, every small furry creature is a squirrel, and despite her intent desire and laser focus, she has never caught one. Useful. I'm thinking of creative ways to manage the garden. Aren't there landscaping students who would love to work in a walled garden? With free cups of tea? And ad hoc picnics sur l'herbe?</p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8371572.post-948870510215892092021-02-22T03:40:00.001-08:002021-02-22T03:40:17.894-08:00Nunc Dimmitis<p><strike> Three </strike> Four things:</p><p>1) Listen to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icjcVr6j8gc" target="_blank">this Nunc Dimittis </a>by Arvo Pärt. Sacred music at its very best.</p><p>2) I've plugged in a calming aromatherapy diffuser for my dog, full of "comforting pheromones for stressful situations." Somehow, they must create one for humans. It feels like what we need now (of course, paired with the Arvo Pärt).</p><p>3) On my walk this morning I was thinking about how boarding school drained all the joy and self esteem from me like a big fat happy balloon that has been pricked in many places with microscopic holes, that let the air out very, very slowly, so that your shoulders begin to round, your mouth starts to turn down, and you fold in on yourself in an attempt at self-protection.</p><p>4) Everyone needs a cheerleader; someone who tells you that you're clever, and smart and beautiful. Many, many years ago, my ex-husband was the one who started to patch over all those tiny holes in my balloon and blew me up again, so I could float smilingly above the world, with the birds, part of the whole, wondrous murmuration.</p><p>Meanwhile, there is a carpet of pale lilac crocii underneath the trees. When the sun comes out, they open their arms and reach out toward it, a million little warmth and light devotees. Daffodils have begun to open, vivid, brilliant golden yellow, the color of Cinderella's dress in my childhood book of fairy tales. There is hope again. We've made it through December and January.</p><p>I hope you are all staying well and that you and your families and loved ones are safe. Sending you all love.</p>Miss Whistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11103831095827005334noreply@blogger.com9