Taking up practice. Again.

The last several months have been a whirlwind. Moving, unpacking, remodeling, painting, working to assure my stepdaughter's safety and sanity...just about everything except practicing.

By practicing, I mean any number of things. The most obvious is meditation. But, as that slipped away, so too did blogging, structured musical work, and just about everything else that wasn't right in front of me. Stress piled up, as have the bills.

So, now I'm moving to turn that around, to reapply not just some structure, but some real engagement and mindfulness. 'Being in the moment' isn't just about immediacy, it's about being aware of one's intentions, and the possible consequences of any given action. When I lose that, I have discovered, panic and avoidance slip in and poison my personal well-being.

Getting back to sitting has been extremely rough. As soon as there's some silence in my head, I can hear all the shrieking, panicked voices, the inchoate existential fears. This is not pleasant, and my mind is very good at slipping away, and my willpower has atrophied to the point that turning my attention and empathy back is very challenging.

Not having a sangha is also difficult, because I feel isolated and alone, which only increases the challenge. In the past, I've compensated by reading various books that I've found inspirational. Since they're all still packed (and will be until more painting is done...) that avenue isn't open to me. And I'm very resistant to getting my spiritual nourishment from books alone. That didn't work to well while I was a Pagan, and it's not a mistake I want to repeat.

Part of the problem is that I'm bloody impatient. I'm not interested so much in The Enlightenment Experience (tm, pat pend). I'm more interested in the trip down the mountain than the journey up. But until I have something to share (or, perhaps more accurately, I am more aware of what I have to share and how better to share it) I need to do the preliminary work.

So, it's back to the cushion, back to running scales, back to searching for that one pure, clear note where bamboo and fingers disappear, and only the burning breath remains.