I'm fine. How are you?
I've been thinking about what happens here, at the retreat centre in the mountains where I'm staying, and why I like it so much. I feel so much a part of the group here and that I don't need to have anything special to offer other than my presence as a human being. If I just begin to think about something I need within minutes someone walks by who can help. And its being helpless that facilitates this.
In London I'm fine. That's my catchphrase. I'm fine because I have my car so if I need to do some shopping or get to a class I drive there. If I need some food I walk out of my front door and I'm on the High Road, metres from the supermarket. If I need to know more about something I google it.
I'm fine. And yet it is a lonely existence, never needing or asking for help. It really hit home for me yesterday when I needed to pitch my tent. I was a little anxious about doing it on my own and finding a good shady spot under the trees. I began to hatch plans as to how I could get this done without asking anyone: pitch it myself in classic super-independent style, look forlorn while carrying the tent past a crowd of people, do without etc. All the indirect, complex ways I am used to concocting.
In the end I simply mentioned it to the friends I was sitting with and soon I had an entourage of three guys, one carrying the tent, one holding my hand and leading the way, the other figuring out the route to a good spot. When we found the spot, after dismissing several less superior possible sites, I began to read the instructions and direct them on how to pitch the tent. But one of the guys just motioned to me to sit down quietly next to him. "Let them do it" he said. And I sat and watched my tent being put up without interfering. It was an uncomfortable experience at first and then I began to relax a little when I saw that the guys didn't mind and perhaps were even happy to help. (Although I couldn't help myself from inspecting the final product.)
In some ways we are isolated here, stuck up a mountain away from the convenience of civilisation, and in others we are a community helping each other get what we need. If we only ask. It's a great lesson for the English, with our excessive politeness and "don't go to any trouble." In our Mr Bean mad way we would rather walk miles into town than ask for a ride and have to, as a frend put it, "push yourself forward".
And yet its these very things, the small things, that make up the satisfaction of life. The moments of real connection with a person, when you really take the time to hear them, the laughter with friends, the gentle wind through the vanilla scented trees that you can hear before it reaches you. These moments give us co-ordinates on the grid from which we can survey the world, they define us as a necessary stitch in the tapestry. They help us sigh an enormous sigh of relief. As in the Arabic/Sufi chant we repeated as a zikr (which means to remember) the other day here. Min ana, ana huna. Who am I? I am here. And that is all.
In London I'm fine. That's my catchphrase. I'm fine because I have my car so if I need to do some shopping or get to a class I drive there. If I need some food I walk out of my front door and I'm on the High Road, metres from the supermarket. If I need to know more about something I google it.
I'm fine. And yet it is a lonely existence, never needing or asking for help. It really hit home for me yesterday when I needed to pitch my tent. I was a little anxious about doing it on my own and finding a good shady spot under the trees. I began to hatch plans as to how I could get this done without asking anyone: pitch it myself in classic super-independent style, look forlorn while carrying the tent past a crowd of people, do without etc. All the indirect, complex ways I am used to concocting.
In the end I simply mentioned it to the friends I was sitting with and soon I had an entourage of three guys, one carrying the tent, one holding my hand and leading the way, the other figuring out the route to a good spot. When we found the spot, after dismissing several less superior possible sites, I began to read the instructions and direct them on how to pitch the tent. But one of the guys just motioned to me to sit down quietly next to him. "Let them do it" he said. And I sat and watched my tent being put up without interfering. It was an uncomfortable experience at first and then I began to relax a little when I saw that the guys didn't mind and perhaps were even happy to help. (Although I couldn't help myself from inspecting the final product.)
In some ways we are isolated here, stuck up a mountain away from the convenience of civilisation, and in others we are a community helping each other get what we need. If we only ask. It's a great lesson for the English, with our excessive politeness and "don't go to any trouble." In our Mr Bean mad way we would rather walk miles into town than ask for a ride and have to, as a frend put it, "push yourself forward".
And yet its these very things, the small things, that make up the satisfaction of life. The moments of real connection with a person, when you really take the time to hear them, the laughter with friends, the gentle wind through the vanilla scented trees that you can hear before it reaches you. These moments give us co-ordinates on the grid from which we can survey the world, they define us as a necessary stitch in the tapestry. They help us sigh an enormous sigh of relief. As in the Arabic/Sufi chant we repeated as a zikr (which means to remember) the other day here. Min ana, ana huna. Who am I? I am here. And that is all.
posted by Accidental Belly Dancer at 7:10 am
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