Menopuggled[men-oh-pug-uld]; the condition of being drained of all power.


One of the things that has caused me stress in recent years is the loss of short-term memory power.  Okay, that's old news for many and just one of the mysteries of aging for a great number of others (is there an echo in here?)

Trouble is…

...No I forget what the trouble is.  That's because there has been an increase in class attendances required this week.  [To fill the gap which just appeared for you, Dear Reader, this intrepid spiritual adventurer decided at the grand old age of 52 to take up formal studies yet again.  This time on an ashram in India.  Yes she did.  No doubt you'll be reading more about that.  Repetition is one of the symptoms of menosoup.]

I love being here.  I love what I am doing.  But there are challenges, which of course there must be.  The greatest challenge, however, has been the greatest stress; the  loss of short-term memory power.  Did I mention it?  I'm not talking about the occasional lapses.  This is large-framework, room-sized, RAM non-existence.  In the short-term.  Try as hard as I might  it has become a near impossibility to retain what was said to me five minutes ago.  A significant part of daily practice in Vedanta is acceptance, forbearance, forgiveness and silence in one's pain.  Like Christ on the cross.  That's fine with me.  Not so fine with the sanskrit tutor.

Oh the pain.  The angst.  I love language, but the fact that I have trouble even with my mother tongue these days, what to expect in learning an ancient code such as this?

The peculiar thing was, although there had been lots of warning signs, it was the rapid fall from the once-per-day lapse into a constant minute-by-minute 'where am I' state which both puzzled and frightened the bejeebers out of me.  By some grace of the Beloved, it was not noticed by the general body of student-hood.  I was able to pick enough clues off the reflections of others to keep the memory auditor at bay.

What kind of hole was this I was digging?  As a certain date approached, the fuggy brain started to sort things out a bit.  A blessing in respect to matters of body management was that menosoup had apparently taken place exactly 12 months prior.  Good news.  Bad news?  That six months leading into the anniversary created one part of my being which separated itself from the rest of what was going on and built it's own private hell.

{okay, I could go back and edit that last sentence but it demonstrates menomonomumal really well so you'll have to live with it.  You were warned.}

You should not for one moment think that I gave up however.  I can be like the dog which forgot where it buried its bone.  Whilst the search, ultimately, may be fruitless, it continues long and hard. Whilst I remain attentive in class and make all attempts at the homework,  I have come to accept that I shall never be a sanskrit scholar.  Same is not true of the core subject, I am relieved to report,  as much of the learning for it lies on preset understanding and experience and things, on the whole, are going very well.  But the days are long.  Sleep is less.  Young bodies are fighting fatigue  therefore what to say of this one? 

So when, finally, it demands what it hasn't been getting and prevents one class attendance, can I, the rider in this body, be blamed.  No.  It's been menopuggled.

Can you drive a car without fuel?

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