I am by nature, not a patient woman. Saying that may be part of the problem. You are what you say you are. I was born premature, pulled from the warmth of the womb before I was really done swimming in there; part of me has spent a lifetime looking for a cozy place to finish up.
This weekend Pete and I watched one of my favorite movies, The Cave of the Yellow Dog. The beautiful portrait of a Mongolian Nomadic family who lives the edge of a traditional lifestyle balancing on the tip of a needle comforts me. Is it the life in a yurt that reassures me that our own life in The Kitchenette, on our way into a traveling home even smaller is possible? Probably. When I sit to watch a film that comforts me I absorb the smallest details of each frame: I notice the colors, shades and shadows the cinematographer has painted for us, I pick up the shape and pitch of the yurt's roof, see the color of the well-worn deel(the loose-fitting tunic) on the mother has torn away in back. I breathe the air of the high mountains and relish in the simple activity of milking the yak, straining the kefir and cutting the block of cheese. The traditions of Buddha are integral in this film, integral to the lives of this Nomadic family. Spiritual practice is life. Reincarnation, honoring the ancestors, blessing and thanksgiving, children asking for clarity, all there everyday. Several times during this film Nandal, the oldest of the three children asks beautifully inquiring questions of her elders. The answers she gets opened the child to the world view her people have. The most potent of those questions, and the one that re-plays often in my mind and heart is, "Grandmother, will I be re-born a human?" In the soft light of the yurt well after sunset Grandmother's answer begins with a priceless grin absent of any teeth, and a cackle that melts all the walls around my protected heart. Grandmother answers by taking handfuls of long raw rice kernels into a rain-fall over a long needle. She asks the young girl to do it, and says, "Tell me when you see a grain of rice balance on the tip of the needle." Nandal does as she's told ... until finally, she sees it will never happen. "It's impossible," she decides, and turns to Grandmother. Grandmother cackles again then says, "See, my child that is why human life is precious." Nearly impossible and yet, here we are.
My brain is having difficulty making connections, my organs, especially my liver seems distended, sore from a collection of too much of a lot of things. Toxins, ill-chosen foods, an ill-absorbed meal. Yet I am here. The Hawaiian phrase, "au a`i" "I am here," comes to me. I was not a patient child and it seems my life offers me countless opportunity to practice patience. Here I am practicing patience and endurance.
P.S. I have hidden the comments link ... any comments from the weekend may hide, too. Hopefully, the comments will show again, this weekend. I'm practicing here, too.