Peace

After getting agitated early in the morning, it was great to dissolve the mind into a full yoga practice and leave the noise and nonsense behind.

The source of this a.m. discomfort was the political right wing, in the person this time of Richard B. Cheney, a.k.a Vlad the Impaler, refusing to let go of their ridiculous and blasphemous contention that torture was "a success." I say "blasphemous" assuming that the foundation of this country involved at least some spiritual (but not religious) principles. But then, I suppose we should thank such people for providing a working definition of moral bankruptcy.

It took some concentration, but I managed to quell the noise in my brain about halfway through the movement (asana) part of the practice, then moved on to a 22-breath, tranquil and disciplined breathing practice (pranayama). That part now includes working to quiet the trembling and shaking of the right hand and arm due to Parkinson's, and rather than considering this a distraction, I've come to regard it as an integral part of the practice.

So with mind and body enhanced, I'm ready to finish getting ready to face the day, and to go on to make something of it. I plan to clean house, write a paper, and sort through a little bit more of the enormous cache of material my mother left behind when she died, determining a final dispensation for some little bit of it.

"Nearly Hit," oil on canvas, by Paul Klee