Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

The decay of anxiety

It has been another wonderful end-of-the-summer day. I went out on a two block walk and the thing that most caught my attention was the wind rustling the leaves. Now, most of the leaves are green though a few forlorn apple trees have lost their dressings, but most of the green maples just shift their leaves in the wind and I look up, catching the underside of seeds yet to twirl down on us.
The wind does move. It is definitely time when feelings are changing and the maples and the oaks and the cottonwoods are anticipating the upcoming autumn. For when the wind passes through the trees, it sounds like all sorts of dryness and I expect a dozen leaves to come lazily catching in my hair after a descent- but they don’t. So it’s some sort of secret that all of us are hiding, this anticipation of the upcoming cold. We whisper it between ourselves but no one says anything outright about it yet. Except the apple trees and they look very bare and quite neglected. They rushed to the party and now they’re burrowing into their darker thoughts, sitting the evening out.
I took another walk this evening, this time, a very short walk. I can’t walk very far still but that’s okay. I can still roam around a little. In my thoughts were possible avenues of escape when a sort of soft-edged anxiety comes bumbling around in my head. It’s not a large sort of panic, really. It’s the grandmother-ly type, the type my mother’s mother and my mother’s grandmother were notorious for. Their mantra was “oh dear, oh dear, oh dear”, in soft sweet chiming tones. My own form of anxiety is something akin to it. It’s the side glance of everything around me. The possible diminish and demise of toilet paper is peril fraught, the cat fur in the carpet is a growing outrage. The dvds taken out from the library cease to be entertainment and turn into duty and the delightful books, that promised so much when I took them from the shelves are now heavy tomes bound around my neck. The simplest, the nicest things turn into chores and it seems that so often, I go around with ashes in my mouth. I throw away so much energy towards work and then stumble around, frantically cleaning and sorting and cleaning and reading and knitting and watching and…everything is a chore. Ashes in the mouth.
And now, it seems, that recovery is like recovery always is: telling yourself something else very distinctly and sticking to it. For me, it is something like…”everything is just fine. Everything has a place.” and pointedly thinking of something else, like a funny line from a book or a particularly nice flower I saw. It’s almost maddening how simple it is to fight anxiety. There’s no artillery, no flying bombs, no helicopters with black suited people getting out with state-of-the-art rifles. It’s just thinking differently and being stubborn about it. And already, just from a simple walk and a simple plan, I was reading an old addition of my favorite magazine and it hit me: “It is pleasant knowing that there are things to do.” It is pleasant knowing that I have to prune the rose bush, sweep the kitchen floor, figure out what to do with my mini shelves that sit out in the rain. It’s not like anything is going anywhere- the rose sure isn’t and the dirt on the kitchen floor is resolved to stick around and the shelves don’t scream in the rain.
If I feel this way tomorrow I don't know, but it is a start.

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Out for a Walk with the Wind and Water

I love being alone in the park along the river. As soon as I step out of my car, I tell that I’m alone by the unusual silence stretching out in all directions. It’s a special sort of hush because instead of human voices dominating the space, it’s the gentle call of birds, animals, wind, and water that fill the air. These are much more gentle and quiet for they represent a continuation of a certain life on this planet, a life much older than humans.

I glow inwardly as I walk the park alone and for the first time in days, I smile to myself. Some Buddha statues wear slight smiles, the internal smile to the eternal world and as the memory of the statues comes back to me, the pleasure of connection causes me to relax even more.

When alone outdoors, I can relate to myself most fully and watch and listen with more mindfulness. I hear the birds first—the chickadees scolding one another and sounding like sweet, soft toy horns and then the cardinals, chirruping and checking up on one another. The sparrows hop and cheep in barren branches, never to be overlooked and always numerous.

Then comes the sound of water, lapping along the riverbank, rolling itself under the bridge.

The wind follows, shifting a blanket of leaves across my path and swaying tree branches overhead. The evergreens branches issue a soft shirrrrr-ing sound as the wind passes through. They retain a green elegance while everything else is brown, stripped down bare.

After I have heard the squirrels cracking walnuts and rustling through the dried weeds, and after I have seen the wind ruffling the river’s top, then finally, I can hear myself. That sound is very low and deep and it takes me a little while to hear it, after the delight of hearing everything else. But it is there and it inevitably opens up what I need to know that day whether it be comfort, direction, an answer, a question, or all of it. It has taken my whole life to hear myself and I have paid a great price for it but I would do it again in a heartbeat. For when a woman has herself, the nightmares slip away back into the inky, black darkness and living life is hers.

And so the wind moves through the evergreens, it plays along the water, and dives between the feathers of the birds. It touches my face and we walk together, two entities atop this impossible blue planet.

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment