Whassssat?

I’ve been taking a “mindfulness” course at UCSF with the hopes that I can reign in my stress levels a bit. It’s basically scientifically-vetted Buddhist meditation. I know, right? And the text for the course? “Full Catastrophe Living”. It would be hysterical if it wasn’t so true.

It’s a gorgeous sunny day here in San Francisco. The Giants and 49’ers are playing games. There’s a street fair in the Castro. In Golden Gate park, the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival has hundreds of thousands enjoying banjos. There’s a parade in North Beach, I think. In the bay, the America’s Cup boats are racing, trying to be wary of a pod of migrating grey whales. And literally on top of it all, it’s Fleet Week, so the Blue Angels are booming back and forth over all of our homes and children and printed out copies of insurance policies.

But I’m trying to lay low, (again, literally) and not be sick anymore. And practice my meditation.

The meditation practice is me listening to the instructor do a guided “body scan”, stored in iTunes on my laptop, while I just try to focus on “being”.

Today’s meditation notes:

Date: 10/6

Time: 12:45

Duration: 35 min

Notes: I’m not saying that there’s any perfect situation, but I think whole thing might be a lot easier if I didn’t have an impending sinus infection and my dog wasn’t barking at jet planes whose sonic boom is drowning out the meditation tape.

After meditating, I did the basic sort of mindless eating one does when one realizes one has only ingested cold medicine all day; a packet of apple cinnamon oatmeal heated in the microwave, a half a fillet of smoked peppered trout, and 5 squares of salted chocolate toffee.

I found Violet passed out on the couch after returning home from the park with Jack, and Hazel on the deck with dad, watching the planes from her teeter-totter.

“Whoa! Wassaaaaaht?” she asked.

I looked up into the sky and said,

“Oh! Skywriting…”

I’m glad Hazel can’t read. Skywriting is so much more magical when one can’t make out that the words are spelling out a Geico commercial.

I found myself looking up into the blue and wishing instead of white dot matrix style text, I could see black fuzzy cursive, spelling out, “Surrender Dorothy“.

“It would be like Mitt Romney’s message to San Francisco,” I said, explaining it to Jack.

He laughed and accidentally took a photo of some guy’s knee on a balcony instead of the jets.

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