It sums up my life. It defines my journey. I have sketched this house in my scrap book 'June 2011-2012'.
I used to live through other people. Basing my decisions on expectation and other people's opinion. I observed others and the world around me and then changed.
I sometimes try and take on the world. Believing that I am invincible and unable to shatter. And then I crumble. I try and be super human. And then I find out I'm only human. I tell the world 'YES' and inside I scream 'no no no'. I try and move mountains when I need to climb them to see the view from the top. I try and win at life. And then I realise it's not a game and it's not a race. 'Rome wasn't built in a day' and 'slow and steady wins the race' come to mind. I forgot. The last mountain was the hardest one to climb. But I made it through. Slow and steady. I try to be brave all the time. But no one can be brave all the time. When would we learn if we always succeeded? When would we learn if everything came easily? When would we learn if nothing was a challenge? When would I learn that good things happen to those who love? When will I learn unconditional love?
The House of Changes
Jeni Couzyn
My Body is a wide house
A commune
Of bickering women, hearing
their own breathing
denying each other.
Nearest the door
ready in her black leather
is Vulnerable. She lives in the hall
her face painted with care
her black boots reaching her crotch
her black hair shining
her skin milky and soft as butter.
If you should ring the doorbell
she would answer
and a wound would open across her eyes
as she touched your hand.
On the stairs, glossy and determined
is Mindful. She’s the boss, handing out
Punishments and rations and examination
papers with precise
justice. She keeps her perceptions in a huge
album under her arm
her debts in the garden with the weedkill
friends in card-index
on the windowsill of the sittingroom
and a tape-recording of the world
on earphones
which she plays to herself over and over
assessing her life
writing summaries.
In the kitchen is Commendable.
The only lady in the house who
dresses in florals
she is always busy, always doing something
for someone she had a lot of friends. Her hands are quick and
cunning as blackbirds her pantry is stuffed with loaves and fishes
she knows the times of trains
and mends fuses and makes
a lot of noise with the vacuum cleaner.
In her linen cupboard, newly-ironed and neatly
folded, she keeps her resentments like
wedding presents- each week
takes them out for counting not to
lose any but would never think of
using any being a lady.
Upstairs in a white room is
my favourite. She is Equivocal
has no flesh on her bones
that are changeable as yarrow stalks.
She hears her green plants talking
watches the bad dreams under the world
unfolding
spends all her days and night
arranging her symbols
never sleeps
never eats hamburgers
never lets anyone into her room
never asks for anything.
In the basement is Harmful.
She is the keeper of weapons
the watchdog. Keeps intruders at bay
but the others keep her
locked up in the daytime and when she escapes
she comes out screaming
smoke streaming from her nostrils
flames on her tongue
razor-blades for fingernails
skewers for eyes.
I am Imminent
live out in the street
watching them. I lodge myself in other people’s
heads with a sleeping bag
strapped to my back.
One day I’ll perhaps get to like them enough
those rough, truthful women
to move in. One by one
I’m making friends with them all
unobtrusively, slow and steady
slow and steady.
I have started meditating, sitting still, praying, whatever you'd like to refer to it as. I run up to the highest point on Hong Kong Island. I have two spots, one over looking Aberdeen reservoir, forest stretching for as far as the eye can see, the other, on a rock over looking the whole of HK city, conveniently next to Lovers Rock, a sacred place for blessing marriages and relationships. I have also joined a mindfulness group on a Monday evening. Hong Kong is a busy place and it is hard to slow things down. With work pulling you in one direction, your heart in another, your friends in another, future plans and life pressures. It's important to give yourself an hour, minimum, each day to be. Just to be. To listen to your heart. To remind yourself that you are important. That giving all the time requires caring for yourself. That pushing yourself to extremes now will mean making time for illness later. My well being is important.
I went along to my meditation group, mindfulness at my new found haven in Hong Kong. I sat in a room with around 20 other people and listened to the wise words of the lady running the class. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but after the few weeks I'd just had, I was willing to give it a go. Yoga had become a big part of my life back in England. I haven't found the right yoga class yet, but half of yoga for me was the relaxation and meditation.
The lady who ran the group spoke gently. I liked her immediately. She talked about the heart, the chattering in your head, quantum physics and then read a poem. It reminded me of 'reading time' at school. Around the age of 5, children gather round their teacher to listen to stories. I have been making many connections with this time in my life recently, but that's another story.
It was called The Guest House. It couldn't have been a more perfectly fitting poem to describe the recent few weeks I had just had. It resonated with The Jeni Couzyn poem, The House of Changes and my heart was beating again. We closed our eyes, and she read.
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