In the mornings, I meditate in my bedroom—actually I meditate in my bedroom closet. There is just enough room on the floor between my dresses, blouses, and hiking boots, to roll out my yoga mat, sit cross-legged on my meditation pillow and close my eyes. This morning there was a dog. A real dog outside my window, not a dog in my imagination.
It’s been a rough year for a climate warrior. Every day, something new to set us back. So many steps backward that I’ve gone into a surreal denial, shuttling the bad news to some dark corner of my psyche.
Kudos for Max. It takes a kind of chutzpah to intentionally unbalance yourself, to forsake the familiar and the comfortable.
Driving through Beverly Hills yesterday, a large metal sculpture on the median strip caught my eye. From several blocks away, it looked to be a perfect red circle mounted against a white backdrop.
But I worry. I am my father’s daughter and have inherited a number of traits from him. Is it possible that I also unconsciously disparage other people’s experience?