“The secret of health for both mind and body is…live the present moment wisely and earnestly.” The Buddha
Well, here goes nothing. I gotta say a quick thing about writing this story, which I know is a kind of annoying habit of mine, writing about the writing. I purposely didn’t think about anything for this week’s tome. I was certain my Thursday doctor’s appointment would preempt anything anyway, so why bother?
The first thing to share is My Old Man Theory of Health. If nothing hurts and there is no blood leaking from any of my various orifices, I’m in great shape. I’m not inclined to regularly visit a Doc, because if I’m feeling good, why look for trouble?
You also need to understand I am an aging Jew from Queens and while we didn’t singlehandedly invent neurosis, we played a critical role in perpetrating the persona Woody Allen made much too famous. I always found that character terribly offensive, subsequently finding him just the same. Your goddamn stepdaughter? Really!
I find it hysterically amusing that I do this sitting-on-a-cushion, Zen thing everyday of my life. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it would make any practitioner a bit more mellow, squeaking out equanimity from between his/her spiritual cheeks. Of course, I’ve totally come to terms with my mortality. If that’s not enough, I am truly living in the moment. I meditate, therefore I am. It would be so cool if any of that was true. Last time I checked, perfection and life don’t go together.
The moment I let my guard down for even a split second, the Dracula of Dread slimes its way into my consciousness. For example, I have been feeling exceptionally good lately, much more athletic than usual. It is vaguely reminiscent of a long ago feeling and it’s fun while it lasts. Then, as if on cue, I will feel a cold breeze choking my thoughts, knowing it’s the Return of the D of D.
The vast majority of cushion sitters make a pretty big deal out of attaining Enlightenment, something I know absolutely nothing about. I kind of hope what it’s really about is embracing the mind-blowing miracle of being alive, all of it, getting lost in your own embrace.
One way to confront the Dread is with facts, whenever possible. Fear thrives on ignorance and no way I came up with that one. I just grew tired of busting my balls about my own goddamn health. Letting it continue would mean that I am happy being miserable, because I won’t do anything about it. I had begun to feel privately embarrassed about subjecting myself to this stupid, self-inflicted abuse.
Months and months ago, I had a 4AM FreakOut and drove myself to the ER. This pure-breed anxiety and I weren’t nearly as comfortable living together then as we are now. They checked me out pretty good and did a fair amount of blood work. Much to my surprise, I was informed I was just fine. I mention this, because I already had a pretty good history that I could bring with me to my Gun Fight At OK Clinic with my informationally armed Doc.
As added punishment, I needed to get additional blood sucked out of a very frightened vein, which I did. I never liked tests, even as a kid. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just don’t like being graded by anyone about anything. Blood tests can tell you all sorts of shit and some of it just ain’t pretty. I hate to think what failing a blood test means, but it would have to be incredibly serious.
Other than the ER episode, I haven’t had my oil checked in a long time. You know what they say, absence makes the heart go ape shit. I was incredibly ill at ease. I was driven there by fear and it still had a strangle hold on me and my appointment with Destiny.
You know how you sit in a very small room waiting for the Doc? It couldn’t hurt to have a nice plant or a small tank with a turtle inside. I was trying to relax, which was made a little easier(NOT) with the wonderfully high BP number I got, just before being shut into the aforementioned box.
I know the suspense is killing you, so there’s no need to waste your time with more small talk. The fairly extensive bloodwork could be that of a 20 year old, he trumpeted into my brain. Are you shitting me? I did what any 20 year old would do, I sat still and quietly cried, smiling at the Doc all the while.
Now, here is where I confess to being a little stuck in the story. The fact that I received some pretty good news for an old guy is dumb luck and that’s all. I know many of us often like to think we have earned some happiness in our lives, some good news. I could think my regimen of meditating and doing yoga and blasting cardio’s everyday and forever, has made a ghost of a difference.
Many years ago, while living here, I suffered a for real, life threatening trauma, involving a seriously infected leg. It took months to even get to a point, where I could start my Hello World Trio of meditation, yoga and running. It hammered home how truly tenuous all this shit is that we call our lives. My personal rehab back then is more personal than I ever imagined a time could be for me. I have no idea where the will to live and thrive came from back then.
The reason why I befriended the Buddha many years ago, is because I liked what he had to so about most everything I have ever given a shit about. To be honest, I can’t believe he even puts up with me sometimes. I am not sure he’d always agree, but I’d say we get along really well, all things considered.
Maybe my lesson is to just let to let these Woody poison pills pass through me, do whatever the fuck it needs to do, and then let it move along. I just lived a fantastic experience with the Doc and I am hugging the memory, not clinging. The story starts all over again in this next moment and the one after that and so on. At its best, life is a series of endless beginnings and endings, joy and sorrow, night and day and on and on.
There is a shit load of stuff that is easier to write than to embody. Sometimes, I need to remember what I have written and live it.