Menocarpination [men-oh-car-pin-eh?-shun]; the condition of creating havoc

There are days that the impairment of short-term memory causes a fair bit of strain. 

"Yamini-amma, you'll take the position of discourser on Wednesday."  Very good sir.  Thank you very much for the advance warning sir.  All I have to do now is work out which day this is and plan it out from there.  Sunday.  Excellent.  It's also Maha Shivratri.  Very auspicious - sure to mean good things.

Ashram life is a 24/7, 365/12, 52 out of 52 sort of concept.  Weekend?  Never heard of it.  Holiday?  Oh you mean Holy Day - another opportunity for activity.  Physical activity mind you, not book work this time.  For a crowd of folks who are majority book workers, this can be a bit of a jolt to the system.  Thus, the 24 hour festival that is Shivaratri having got over, it was decreed that the following day would, in fact, be a 'holiday' - classes cancelled due to inability to sit upright.

Went to bed at 6am.  Slept and woke naturally 3.5 hours later.  Hhmmmmmxxxxxoo.  Sigh.

There's a euphoric sort of day-after-the-night-before effect and one lingers on the bed having flung open the curtains to find a glorious early summer day (India has six seasons).  The mind slips out of one's control and recalls hazy lazy days of youth with long Sunday lie-ins.   The one time in the week when one could truly 'switch off' and let all worries slough away.

Naturally, the next day is Monday and the day after that is Tuesday.  Easy.

"Yamini-amma, are you ready?"

………….huh?

Look, don't go on at me about calendars, diaries, sticky notes on backs of doors and under the kettle.  (Don't ask.)

I lost track okay?!  It FELT like Sunday and days have to follow in succession.  Them's the rules.

"Yes sir" she glibly says and glides in her limpy waddly way up to the stage.  Alright, Lord, it's your turn - which verse?

For all apparent mental deficiency I am pretty cool under this type of pressure.  The sanskrit of this topic was of the easier variety so by sticking to that was able to hold my 5+1 minutes comparatively well.  Even raised a laugh here and there.  Come to think of it there was rather a lot of sniggering.  Even Acharya-ji was smirking.

As I returned to my seat through muted applause, the customary rechanting of the verse took place.

Only it wasn't MY verse. 

We are family here.  All sixty plus of us.  There is no such thing as embarrassment.  They all know my challenge.  So when I stopped short and spun round gawping at Acharya-ji, the place erupted.   I thought our revered leader might tumble from his chair. I nearly coughed up a lung.  Some of the little brothers were literally rolling in the aisles.

Laughter is a good medicine.  We are in an intense period of study now.  We are going to need a lot more moments like this.

I'll try and leave it to others to provide them.  

Menoical [men-oyik-ul]; the condition of thinking you've forgotten something.

Call me menoical, but one of the things that has been troubling me in recent years is the interruption to the short term memory facility.  I may have mentioned it.

There are some awfully blank spots up here at the front.  This very morning, our tutor said something that only after class did I realise I couldn't recall.  Had to ask one of the young lads.  I'd write things down.  However this requires the presence of the pen and paper that didn't quite make it into the bag - laid them out on the table so as not to forget them, y'know.  Genius-proof.

Absent-mindedness is cute in others.  Hellish in oneself.  It brings up all sorts of grime.  Self-anger.  Self-loathing. Self-punishment. 

There was a time when I ran my entire clinic by memory alone.  No appointments diary.  No telephone listings.  I always had a bit of trouble with names - but (and now am letting out a BIG secret) I used to number my clients then, by associating the number to their face, it was possible to 99.9% remember their name without having to refer to file.  There was that 0.1% moment where this failed.  I don't want to talk about it.

Then the menosoupal rot started to set in.

Double-bookings.  Not marking the bookings and getting unexpected door knocking.  Marking non-existent bookings and waiting anxiously for expected door knocking.  Not marking bookings and being caught up at the shops by the incoming client…

Emm thought it was time I went digital and bought me an electronic diary.  Lovely girl, Emm. Class 1 organiser type.  Always buying me things she thinks I might need.

Trouble is, in those early onset days, patience was also in short supply.  Could never spend time to get the hang of the thing.  That and I kept forgetting it was there.  It is a testament, perhaps, to my practice, that all clients affected by these aberrations were understanding beyond words.  All remained loyal and not once did I receive any complaint.  That didn't stop the menoia setting-in though.  I began to question how they could all be so tolerant.  Not out loud.  That would never do.  Oh no, I let it fester deep inside.

Consequence was that I was in a constant state of thinking I had forgotten so became an obsessive re-checker of appointments.  At least that's how it looked from my side.  The feedback was that everyone liked having the 'confirmation call' and business increased a bit.  Go figure.  Menoia = moola.

I'd rather have the memory though.

Menoportable [men-oh-port-able]; the condition of adaptability

One of the things that happens when one is in search of menocausality is that one tunes into the Greater Consciousness; the many unnoticed radio signals of the total mind pool which results in common thinking.

Here's a big one for you.  Are you sitting down?

There is no such thing as original thought.

Accha (is that so?)?  Well there WAS one original thought.  Once He'd had that, all other thoughts simply followed suit.  Given that we are all extensions of Him, it follows that thinking is really all His also.  And there you're little ego all this time was thinking "that's my thought…"

That's what makes the land of the writer such a treacherous one.  How to say all the same things over again but in such a way that the Dear Readers are blinded by 'originality'?

In the interests of my quest for menocausality, I 'fess up now.  I had written the posts you have read up till now four weeks ago.  I wanted to have a pool of writings to start the blog off and not being sure how my time could be managed, (given that I truly am engaged in major study work here), I thought it best to stockpile.  Even after this 'stop press' moment, I will likely follow that pattern for a while simply because I really have no option.  Every now and then you will get another 'stop press' - something not more than 12 hours old.  So everything is 'original' , but you are opening it on the 'use-by' date rather than date of manufacture.  As it were. Hhrrmph.

Be assured, each thing written is 'of the moment'.  The moments are just a bit time-warped.  This is one of the 'interesting contortions' I referred to yesterday.  (I daily check, so if you go mad and decide to comment, I will respond within the day.  It was just the writing commitment that worried me.) 

After all, do you really care whether the accident-prone YAM is writing to you from the place of injury, (which she technically is, at the time…  ) or that, as you read, she's in fact recovered and working on the next method of self-mutilation? No. In the long run, for the purposes of most of these things it doesn't really matter.  When all is said and done, this is a 'memoir' which by definition is historical.  No time and motion study here thank you very much.

It also gives me flexibility - or menoportability, as the case may be.  Another aspect of menoportability is the thoughts themselves. (You thought I'd forgotten I'd started on about thoughts didn't you???)  Either I have the thoughts and the total mind picks up on them, or I have somehow tuned into a line of thought and run with it. Either way, it's disconcerting to find the same thoughts turning up all over the place.  So how does one stamp originality on one's writings?

Blind them with personality, that's how.

YAM! Kya? Don't go blinding folk, you need people with vision.

Not at all.  I know for a fact some are listening to this.  The wonders of modern technology.  That's a call-out to my niece - G'day my girl, hear that?  Anyone interested in music and what a young lady with multiple disabilities can create should visit here. 

Now that's what I call true menoportability.

(Anyway, the news now is that I will only be posting up to seven days ahead.  I'll bring it down gradually, I promise.  Am getting the hang of this bloggelty thing.  Having fun too.  Even if you're not.  Well are you?  Speak to me somebody.)

Menocausal [men-oh-coz-ul]; the condition of sitting in truth

Okay, so it has been established that menosoup is not the most fun time in life for any woman.  (MEN - don't think you are immune, but I'll get to that another time.  If I remember.)

It is not all doom and gloom however.  Certain things take place at a deeper, subtler level which must surely be seen as positive.

...oh yeah?  Like what YAM?

Finding oneself.  Think about it.  How many women of a 'certain age' do you know who take to various methodologies of inner searching?  Of course there are those who just don't want to open the box.  Those who try to turn back the years instead of embracing the grace of maturity.  I was guilty of this a bit myself to begin with, so I know what I'm talking about.

If one has always been based in a centre of honesty, though, this doesn't last for long.  For many women, it is also the time of the 'empty nest' and a chance to rediscover talents once cherished in youth, or to nurture those which have been waiting to flourish.

There's a sort of crone-age rebellion that happens for many, letting out the inner hippy.  Trouble is many don't remember even what that actually means.  Throw some colour about, take up yoga stretching (...tai-chi, chai-tea or wherzmaknee),  hang a crystal or three, pink-stripe the boy-cut hair.  That'll do.  Oh let's not forget to have at least two vegetarian meals a week.  Fifty is fun.  Well yes it is my dears and all power to you!

Something I have come to recognise, though, is that in our Western (read UK/Aus/US and maybe Euro too) society, the tradition of aging appropriately has become so distorted, indeed forgotten, that majority of the searching proves unsatisfactory.  There's always something missing.

This is where we hit a subject that can divide audiences.  How deeply does anyone really want to search?  I will leave you considering that each for your own selves.

From here I can only share my own view.  The deepest search is the only valid search. Absolute transparency of being is the goal.  The transparency that ensures I am at one with creation.  Release of the spirit from it's confinement in the physical.  Knowing that in transactional world everything one does or says comes from a place of truth.  Even this right here in front of you.

YAM! Kya? Where's the fun?

Ah well, seeking to sit in truth lends itself to some interesting contortions as one has to 'clean out the cupboard'.  You're getting some of the stuff that's been sitting on the shelves of my being.  Sometimes that will be hilarious.  Other times rather serious.  Always, I hope and pray, leaving you with something to chew upon during your day. Or at least for a minute or two.

If I occasionally cause you to ponder the deeper (or more ridiculous) elements of life, then I have been successfully menocausal.

Menoloopal Tuesday

This is the day I let off a bit of steam about some case of ignorance, stupidity or just plain absurdity.  I leave you to decide which category best fits.

Yesterday I mentioned the designer pet business.

WHAT?!  Is Mother Nature's infinite variety of and diversity within species not sufficient?  There's enough natural "inter-selection " without Man having to poke his finger into the pie.

The very worst are those who manage to couch their advertising in terms of "we are doing you such a favour in producing a disease free/allergen free/hair-drop free anything you want it to be variety".  Why? It's false advertising, that's why.  Just ask your vet. What's it all about?  Greed.  No let's make that capitals.  GREED.  Further, it feeds the tendency to think of pet as accessory.  Therefore disposable.

I am totally menolooopable about this practice.  I can see nothing positive about it in the least and it damages credibility of registered, caring breeders of established species.

Look, if an 'accident' happened, okay fine.  So you got a mixed-breed.  Don't call it 'Handbag Teacup Poopalot' and expect my multidollars for it.

Sorry, Dear Reader. if you find this harsh viewing.  But so is this…  Puppymill.

Leave nature alone.

Monday is Menosukhi Day

This is the one in which I go all sentimental.  For a few weeks this means you are sharing my memories of two darling creatures, Jade Dog MacWoof and Jasper Cat MacMeow.

It is worth mentioning there have always been animals in and around this life.  We're of rural stock so it goes with the territory.  Despite parents' best attempts to dissuade, over the years there have been a variety of cats, fishes, hamster, tortoise, lizards, insects…

When I finally settled in Australia, it felt right that a pet had to complete the picture.  So along came Jet, the monster agouti guinea-pig. Coming in at nearly 12 inches he was indeed a fine specimen.  Three years old when he came to me, a reject from the show circuit due to five brown hairs marring his otherwise all-black perfection.  He knew he was a star, too, coming when called by name, especially if it involved food or grooming.  Yes he loved a wash and brush up.

It is a regret at this point that I did not get all my old print photos scanned into the files, so have no picture to offer you of this wonderful little man.  There is a particularly great one of Jet in the garden with Jasper and Jade.  One happy family.  Maybe you'll get to see it one day, but for now you'll have to trust me that this was a regular occurrence.  A guinea-pig, cat and dog co-existing without strife.  A lesson for life.

That was a digression; but, an important scene setter for the arrival of Jasper Cat MacMeow.  A year into Jet and I being together, we moved into a large home with a fantastic garden and it begged for other animals.  I never actively go looking.  But once such a thought occurs, it generally creates! 

Within the month I heard of a litter of kittens needing homes.  They were part of a controlled breeding programme (which eventually produced the now established 'Australian Mist').  I find such things disturbing.  (Ah! there's my prompt for tomorrow's posting!)  Mother was full Silver Tabby, father was Burmese x Australian Silver Spot.  The 9 kittens for the most part were all throwbacks to standard tabby.  Three were silver.  One of them took a running jump at my shoulder and showed all intent of remaining there.

 

Which he did for 17+ years.  That's him at 18 months (and me at considerable reduction on current years).

A stunningly handsome fellow he had mainly the stripes of the tabby, a few spots from grandmother and a wee patch of buff under the chin in honour of the Burmese connection.  His build was of that Burmese sturdiness - as I suppose was the shoulder sitting tendency also.  His temperament was total Burmese - calm, meditative, mature, forbearing, affectionate - and a roar like a mountain lion.  He didn't use it often, but man! When he did, the entire suburb knew it.

Now, to say that I was tentative about mixing cat with rodent is putting it mildly.  I am, though, a great believer in giving nature its freedom to balance itself out.  As much as possible I am a hands-off carer, wishing rather to empower inherent positivities whether in animal vegetable or mineral.  At no time do I anthropomorphise.  What happens as a result, I have found, is that animals will 'raise' themselves.  Their basic instinct is to please the hand that feeds.  If that means taking on sociable habits for the human, then so be it.

Thus, unlike many of my associates, I was not at all surprised to find Jasper taking on the role of protector for Jet when they were out on the grass.  If the blue tongue lizard came too close, he was shown back to the compost heap with a quiet 'rumble'.  Birds too were given due warning - for some reason Jasper never was inclined to hunt them.

He did, however, prove to be an efficient and worthwhile 'ratter'.  Some of his quarry were nearly his own size with teeth a yard long (YAM exaggeration but you have to understand these were rats of the lean mean variety).

So, there we were happily ensconced.  When along came the event none of us had expected...

Menomonocanticle [men-oh-mon-oh-can-tickle]; the condition of "vanting to be alone"

One of the things that has caused stress in recent years is people.  I like them fine.  In small numbers.

Honestly speaking I have never been a crowds, parties, gatherings kinda gal.  Something to do with being at waist level.  Folk, however pleasant, end up talking over you or down to you.  Quite literally.  Not that this is their intention, I'm sure.  Then there are the Shortists.  Those who appear to believe less than five feet = less than five brain cells.  Majority times I let them go their merry way.  Every now and then I re-educate them.  Nothing like a bit of short-treatment.

Thus to say that I have always tended to the label of 'recluse' is not too far off the truth.  One priceless memory is of mother coming into my bedroom  (me aged fourteen and four fifths), wondering why I wasn't going to the disco with my wee sisters.  Disco!!  Classical music -" who are The Monkees" - me!!

"You are going to end up a hermit my girl" she uttered in exasperation.  As the door closed there was mention of "Perhaps a child psychologist I should call".

She never did that.  My mother was a pretty adept family psychologist herself.  I have a lot more of her in me than, perhaps, I ever wished to admit for far too long.  So it was a wee bit funny that she didn't see her own great long solitary hikes were the equivalents of my withdrawal into a 'cave'.  The need?  Not to deal, for some time at least, with the mad ,mad, mad, mad, world.  Mum's answer to it was physicality.  Mine, introspection.

That is why, probably, she wasn't all that surprised when I showed interest in spiritual and scriptural matters at an early age.  Ours not being a religious family at all, the decision was definitely my own.  Attempts were continually made to have me 'join' with groups that were considered to be better for me - socially speaking.  Needless to say, I am not a joiner.  No matter what different tack my various interests took me, even when part of a larger group, I tended on the whole to be on the periphery.  I'm an observer.  Nothing is more entertaining than watching humans try so very hard to move around each other.  It has to be said, too, that on the occasions when I did get sucked into the middle of any particular whirlpool, the emotional and psychological toll was pretty heavy.  So I usually found my way back to the outside and into the arms of Spirit.

Before any misconception arises,  let me make it clear that the spiritual life is not a contributor to the distancing tendencies.  It does however sit very comfortably with them - and perhaps that was part of the plan all along.  Becoming inwardly focused has not proven a challenge or emotional minefield for me as it has for others here.  It was always there and can now be given full rip.  I can, if I wish, without any sense of judgment or hint of repercussion, withdraw.  This does not mean I wish to run away from the world.  No, no, no.  It means only that I need lots of recharge time in order to deal with it when its there.  Its having become magnified is definitely a symptom of menosoup.

Indeed, the key challenge for me on the ashram has not been the discipline of mind and spirit.  It has been the adjusting to the fact the world sits here too.  So I have to, every now and then, toss my head, don the muffler and declare "I vish to be alone!"

Works a treat.  Could be lying here for days, lifeless and mouldering.  Eventually someone would figure out the smell was coming from 102.

Double-edged sword, the old solitude business.