Chapter 179
Someone asked me last week;
“How do you avoid getting bored?”
“Bored of what?” I replied.
I momentarily dwelt in a state of mild flabbergastation. I can’t actually wrap my head around the concept of boredom. Other than being forced to watch purile TV or what passes for ‘entertainment’ on some platforms, there is little that bores me. Even forced into situations where I’m subjected to abovementioned input, there’s always my head. I can retreat inside and wander at will, traveling oceans, skies, times and histories with unlimited permutations.
I write reams of conversations in my head, most often with myself. I revisit things I’ve done and plot ways in which to do them better next time. I plan my next equine interaction and muse on the successes and failures of previous conversations.
I plan marketing and management for the mayhem that is Fantuzzi on the road, permanently provoking magic and mysteriously conjuring confusion and delight wherever he goes. There is always something to be done there.
I think about my good friends, those needing help, making mental notes to reach out, connect, make sure they know I’m still here. I think much on my parents and the times we have together, the times we spend far apart. I thank all the gods and goddesses, the little fishes and the great universes that whirl, that brought us to this unique aggregation of genes, hormones, chemical signals and bizarre coincidences that we call our lives. It’s good, as the man says, to be alive.
I breathe in the fresh, clear air…or hold my breath when smoke drifts south and smothers our landscape. I worry about the prospect of fires close to home and how those directly affected are coping in their time of dire need and soul-wrenching drama.
I practice my music and my art; creating, changing, butting up against the walls of frustration to peel them down piece by piece, rebuilding other creations, changing again.
I clean house. Literally. Today I pulled all fly screens and scrubbed and cleaned them, polished every glass surface inside the house in preparation for those more youthful and nimble to leap about on long ladders cleaning the exteriors, evacuating guttering to allow the intermitent sudden rain to run freely where it should. I planted flowers, herbs, a little salad to be pulled direct from earth to lips, a treat like no other. I planted perennials which, in my gardening fashion relying mainly on neglect, may thrive or not. They may become prey to the deer, who last I saw building big bellies full of new fawns, bursting with new life to admire in the days to come.
Above, sky and tall trees are full of sounds of insects and birds. Calls, songs, chirrups and cheeps entertain me. Sometimes I may be seen head thown back, squinting into the trees, attempting to pinpoint the source of these sounds.
Yesterday I watched the maddened assault by a crowd of red-winged blackbirds fearlessly swooping and wheeling about a raven which was determined to empty small nests and ruthlessly eliminate the lives of little chicks/maturing eggs. The swamp reeds were full of blackbirds, a pair of ravens seemed largely unperturbed by the defensive army, but eventually retreated in the face of unrelenting torment. The air roiled with the angry chinks and shouts of the blackbirds, peace finally returning to the usually tranquil scene of water, golden reeds, brilliant greens of leaves on trees both short and tall. I hope the small birds succeed in their reproductive journey.
And now, it’s time to once again sally forth to work with the horses, doctoring one who’s leg wound has been long in healing, practicing the bodywork that has them sinking into a state of softness and relaxation, a letting go, a connection, a freeing of movement in body and mind. Then there’s the chance to ride my youngster who yesterday gave me such joy in quiet successes that I drive slowly home in an euphoric cloud of satisfaction.
Boredom, what is that?
Look once, look twice,
Listen,
Wait,
Wonder.
Kat Dancer
bodymudra@gmail.com,
+1 415 525 2630 (ph/whatsapp)
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