Seijaku: stillness in the midst of activity, is an advanced and powerful form of T’ai Chi Chih.
“The Japanese speak of Seijaku as serenity in the midst of activity. Not escaping from the world to some mountaintop as is taught in the Indian teachings. But finding the real meaning, fulfillment, energy and wisdom in the midst of everyday hustle and bustle – building a silent and imperturbable center while active in the disappointments and triumphs of our busy lives. This is real fulfillment.” Justin Stone Speaks on T’ai Chi Chih®
Seijaku (stillness, tranquility, solitude): The principle of seijaku emphasizes the fundamental Zen theme of emptiness, which implies an inexhaustible spirit.
It is in states of active calm, tranquility, solitude, and quietude that we find the very essence of creative energy. Silent pauses in music, as well as motionlessness in dance and theater, illustrate the power of seijaku.
In meditation, we strive to achieve self-awareness and focus, to learn how to quiet our mind.
I think that’s why it’s called a practice, because it’s a daily exercise to try and attain and actualize that state of being.
Some days it works; often it does NOT, but it’s a life goal. My brain often goes off on a tributary, thinking of funny things like the Seinfeld episode where George Costanza’s dad screams “Serenity, NOW!” (I’m working on that; like I said, it’s a practice…)
I’ve become obsessed with observing how often people say “of course” in response to “thank you” or any other expression of appreciation. Have you noticed it, too?
For example, I was at the market and said thank you to the person who bagged my groceries. He said, “Of course.”
Later, a neighbor gave me a cool puzzle for the grandkids. I texted “thank you.” She responded, “of course”.
Someone else helped me find a particular section of rugs in TJ Maxx and when I told her I appreciated the help, she responded, “of course.”
This all happened in the same day because it seems as if no one says “you’re welcome” EVER –just “of course.”
Is it rude? Is it polite?
OF COURSE I did a little research…
Here’s the query: Is it rude to reply “of course”?
‘Of course’ by itself means obvious, expected. So when someone says ‘of course’ instead of ‘you’re welcome’, the feeling is “it’s obvious that I would do that because I want to do that’. It seems to be a friendly communication, BUT IS IT?
In fact, it’s a big search on Quora…
Why do millennials often say “of course” instead of saying “you’re welcome” when you thank them?
You can respond to someone who says “of course!” after you thank them by expressing your gratitude again or by acknowledging their kindness. For example, you could say “Thank you again, I really appreciate it” or “You’re so kind, thank you.” This shows that you value their response and appreciate their willingness to help.
What about people who respond “no problem” in response to “thank you”?
I like this following points of view:
“You’re welcome,” is the correct short answer. “Of course” implies entitlement. Even the currently popular, “No problem,” implies imposition.
Both of those answers imply “It’s all about me, not you.” I think it’s another sign, indicative of more and more egregious narcissistic behavior creeping into our society on a daily basis.
Regardless of the following ways to respond to “thank you” and you can call me old-fashioned, but I’m going to stick with “you’re welcome.” That’s the only one that feels right to me.
Do you say “no problem” or “of course” or are you like me and reply with a simple “you’re welcome”?
The first Saturday in May is World Naked Gardening Day.
We’re encouraged to wear NOTHING but a sunhat and sunscreen, to pick up a trowel or a rake, and seed and weed au naturale.
Why garden naked? Our culture needs to move toward a healthy sense of both body acceptance and our relation to the natural environment. Gardening naked is not only a simple joy, it reminds us–even if only for those few sunkissed minutes–that we can be honest with who we are as humans and as part of this planet. and that’s also a definitely NOT ME, whether it’s “world wide” or “worldwide”! Curated from https://naturisteducation.org/wngd/
Today, you’ll find me in the garden, fully clothed, planting peas and beans and mixed leafy greens.
However, if YOU choose to celebrate in your birthday suit, DO NOT send pics!
Finally, finally, I have been reconnected with the World Wide Web. The information superhighway has been restored.
It took the technician hours because it wasn’t a simple repair, apparently. Since I’m always interested in learning about pretty much everything, I watched him troubleshoot the problem.
Not my actual box, but similar.
First of all, somehow, there was an actual broken wire in the little junction utility box that houses all the wires on our street. Just mine, not anybody else. Weird, right?
He fixed it but that didn’t resolve the issue. He showed me his Ipad map that pointed to another broken wire seven hundred feet away, down the street and around the corner. He went there, didn’t see a problem, but his map then told him the main issue was a broken wire two more blocks away on the main street.
When he opened up that particular utility box, he had to sort through hundreds of twisted wires of various colors and find the one that eventually connects wifi to my address. When he did that, he discovered that it was broken in half, not connected at all.
He repaired that wire, came back here, we rebooted my router and got a strong connection. After doing a few more tests to make sure everything was successfully in working order, the technician left.
I asked him how often similar things occur and he told me that it happens fairly often because the wires get old and no one ever checks them unless there’s a problem like I experienced.
I’m grateful he didn’t give up!
CRAZY, right?
At some point, I’m going to examine my relationship with the internet. I’m not happy with myself and how I felt about being unplugged cold turkey. It caused emotional and psychological distress. I don’t have an addictive personality but this felt very much like descriptions I’ve read about withdrawals. It’s time to self reflect and try some neuroplasticity.
At some point, I’ll do that, but right now, I’m tap tap tapping away, SO happy to be reconnected.
I have a million seashells, well maybe not actually ONE MILLION, but I have a lot. Some are big, some small; many are so beautiful they’re lovingly displayed on shelves. To me, they’re all enchanted.
During the torrential rain when it was stupidly dangerous to venture out and I was forced to allow my leg to heal, I decided it was the perfect time to dust and rearrange my enchanted treasures.
In the process of relocating one of the seashells, I noticed there was what seemed to be paper stuck deep inside the cavity and that piqued my curiosity.
What was it?
A treasure map? A love note? Jewels?
Tweezers were necessary to extract whatever it was, and when I uncrumpled two pieces of thin yellow paper, I discovered THIS:
It appears to be a receipt from the Chong Hua Hospital pharmacy. It doesn’t say anything else that I can decipher. Google reports that this hospital is located outside of Cebu City in the Philippines.
Crazy, right? From the Philippines? Why was it in a seashell? How did it get there? How did it get HERE?
There was no date, no name, no treasure map, no smuggled diamonds, no love letter.
You can 1000% believe that I’ve peered inside every other seashell around here but they’re all devoid of any surprises.
When we first met (at Trader Joe’s) and fell in love, he whispered to me that a little support would make him happy. Since I love to oblige, it was an easy request to grant, however, this proclivity of mine set the stage for me to become irrevocably injured.
Deep wounds take a long time to heal, but my love for this Giant Monstera will last forever. Pretty soon I’ll need taller poles and more support because he’s growing and thriving under my care.
Love hurts, but isn’t he gorgeous? My monster(a), my soulmate.
Update on my injury: Stitches came out yesterday (after two weeks) but were replaced by a dozen Steri-strips to help the eight-inch gash finish healing, which it is, but at a snail's pace, probably because I'm not a very patient patient. I'm a much better caregiver. The recommendation was no strenuous activity for at least two more weeks or it'll open up again and I'll need more stitches and the doc threatened me with an aircast to immobilize my leg. "Threatened" might be a SLIGHT exaggeration, but that's how I interpreted her words...
How was your Saturday evening? I hope it was better than mine, which you can probably surmise was spent in the emergency room.
Since I’m relegated to enforced rest at the present time, this might be a longish and rambling post…sorry in advance!
Here’s a little background to set the scene:
Lately, I’ve become obsessed with houseplants. It started gradually and before I knew it, I was fully engulfed in collecting, rescuing, propagating, and growing everything from Fiddle Leaf Figs to Calatheas to flowering cacti, and finally, MONSTERA. Yes, I’ve gone completely bonkers for Monstera.
I bought a giant specimen and had finally found the perfect feng shui location for it to thrive, but noticed that it could really benefit from some support.
I ordered a set of moss sticks from Amazon. They were due to arrive yesterday in the late afternoon and as I DO, I kept refreshing the tracking updates.
It was raining heavily when I finally heard the delivery truck.
I was so excited for those stupid moss poles that I FLEW down the flight of oak steps to the front door, wearing my favorite warm but very SLIPPERY socks; a gift from the original Angel Boy…
Without warning, because of course that’s how these things happen, I slipped and fell HARD. I mean really hard because I had been running, so my entire body weight slammed into the last few steps.
Since I’m no stranger to accidents, I sat there for a minute to triage the damage, upset with my stupidity and carelessness, When I ascertained that I hadn’t broken any major bones like a hip, I got up, went outside and picked up my package.
At that point, I had no idea what really happened.
The only part of me that had sustained the major hit was my left shin and I got an ice pack and lay down on the sofa. The pain was intensifying and when I lifted the ice pack, I saw a lot of blood seeping through my leggings.
WARNING: THE REST OF THE STORY IS KIND OF GROSS, not for the faint of heart.
You know how you have a feeling of impending doom? That’s what was going on with me.
I went to the bathroom, and before I looked at my leg, I brought out all my first aid stuff; gauze, tape, compression pads — just in case.
I washed my hands and gingerly and gently pulled up the bottom of my leggings and almost fainted (or threw up) at what I saw.
My leg looked like someone had slashed it with a hatchet and there was an open, gaping wound on my shin, all the way down to the tibia. I saw muscle and BONE. For real. Definitely not for the faint of heart, but I was trained by a wonderful nurse, and knew what to do.
I didn’t bother cleaning it at this point. I ripped open a large sterile gauze square with my teeth because I needed BOTH HANDS to close the two sides of the laceration. I did the same with the tape. After I placed a compression pad over the gauze and secured it with more tape, I knew this was no easy fix and I’d have to endure a visit to the emergency room.
I drove to the better of my two ER options, walked up to the desk and explained that I had a deep laceration that needed to be sutured.
They actually took me to a room immediately. I’m grateful that it was a slow evening and not very many people were there.
From the moment I arrived, everyone was helpful and lovely. Also since it was a slow night, many people came in the room to look at my leg. They praised my initial bandaging, and made jokes about why didn’t I sew it up myself, since it looked like I knew what I was doing.
At a time like this, humor is a great quality to possess, and I enjoy a good joke to lighten the atmosphere. I showed off pics of the grandkids, we discussed football playoffs, and they shared some of their more grisly ER injuries.
One person said she came in to see my leg because of how calm I was when I explained why I was there and she didn’t expect to see an eight-inch gash that must have hurt like hell, but I told her I’m always calm in the face of disaster and it didn’t hurt that much. (It does now, though. A lot.)
Because of the severity of the wound, I needed to have an x-ray to rule out any damage to my tibia before it got sutured. Luckily, my bone wasn’t compromised; no breaks or chips or blood vessel issues.
Other parts of my body are bruised from the impact, but my poor leg took the brunt of the fall from these beautiful but apparently now deadly oak stairs…no one has ever slipped before; I guess it was my lucky day, right?
More people came in to observe this AMAZING trauma surgeon repair the laceration. His wife was a doc too, an ophthalmologist, and we chatted about medical things while we waited for the suture cart and he determined how he was going to sew me up.
After the lidocaine injections, I couldn’t feel a thing, so I watched him work. It was kind of like an out-of-body experience. I probably bothered him with a million questions (like I always do) but he also taught medicine and he was patient and pleased to provide me with detailed answers.
A wound like that (think sharp hatchet splitting wood) needs layers of internal sutures as well as the exterior ones.
I had a total of twelve sutures and a few internal ones. After finishing the job, the doc told me how very lucky I was, because if the wound had been even a couple inches to the right, tendons and muscles would have had to be surgically repaired. Yup, I was lucky.
The tech came back in to dress my leg, adding about fifteen Steri-Strips between the sutures.
The nurse took a bunch of pics that are too graphic to post here and I know it’s going to leave an ugly scar, but I don’t mind because it’s a constant reminder to NEVER again wear slippery socks on those oak steps. EVER. NEVER. Lesson learned.
Not too long ago, the Angel Kids’ parents went to a social function. They weren’t too happy about Mom and Dad leaving because they rarely do, but as soon as the door closed, everything was OK ‘cos Grandma was there.
The kids have a solid bedtime routine: bath, night snack, brush teeth, read, and sleep. After their baths and a bowl of yogurt and applesauce, teeth were brushed and we snuggled together for reading time, my favorite part.
We began with a book for Angel Girl about a ballerina who loves to wear sparkly tiaras. I was peppered with questions and comments, “You love to wear a tiara, don’t you, Grandma!” “I have a sparkly tiara, too.” After her book, she turned on her side, clutching her stuffed unicorn, ready to drift off to sleep.
When it was time to read to Angel Boy, Dad had kindly left me with a chapter book they were halfway through, and I planned to read to the lovely child who was curled up against me.
I wasn’t prepared for what came next…and I can genuinely say that it was one of the happiest moments of my entire life…
“Hey, Grandma, how about if I read to YOU this time instead of YOU reading to ME?”
That had NEVER happened before. He’s gifted in math, but reading was sometimes frustrating for him, totally unlike his dad, who was an early and brilliant reader. T tested at grade level in school, but it wasn’t with the joy that reading brings to our lives. I always told him that reading was the gateway to the world. In my opinion, reading is EVERYTHING.
So of course I said that would be the most wonderful idea EVER in the history of wonderful ideas.
He read four chapters of his book while I watched; eagle-eyed, to observe (scrutinize) his reading prowess as a second grader, and his ability to successfully sound out words that weren’t familiar. The best part was that he didn’t want to stop reading; he wanted to keep going, but he was so tired, he agreed to finish the book the next day.
I was absolutely blown away, not only by his skills, but the way he read with humor and expression.
“Did you like that, Grandma? I knew you would because you love reading so much.”
“T, I am so incredibly proud of you! C is too, and we both loved to hear you read. How did it make you feel to read to US?”
“Grandma, I was reading and the words were like, just in my head as I saw them, and I couldn’t believe it, they came out so fast!”
At that moment, I think I almost squeezed the very life out of him, and I was more than grateful to be able to experience his “lightbulb” moment where everything clicked into place.
“T, that is what’s called REAL READING! I told you it would happen soon, where words you see instantly translate from your eyes to your brain — and you totally GOT IT!”
“I wanted to make you happy, Grandma.”
And he did. That was an understatement!
T whispered, “I love you, Grandma.”
“I love you too, so, so much. See you in the morning for buckwheat pancakes!” I whispered back to him.
For me, this definitely qualifies as a memorable, momentous watershed event.
I feel like I’m the luckiest grandma in the whole world.
Angel Girl asks the question as she squeezes the back of my upper arm.
“Is that FAT?”
“Why is your arm so FAT right there?”
“Hey, T, come see Grandma’s FAT!”
That’s a call to action no big brother could resist. Angel Boy runs in, takes a hunk of the back of my upper arm and confirms his sister’s diagnosis.
“That’s a lot of fat, Grandma!”
I hear the unmistakeable sound of the original Angel Boy snickering in the other room. I bet it’s all deja vu for him as he must recall torturing me the same way.
Out of the mouths of babes, right?
I’m shaking my head; the apple definitely doesn’t fall far from the tree, not with these guys.
“Oh jeez, it’s SKIN, girl. Everyone has SKIN.”
She lifts her own perfectly formed and toned upper arm to show me. “I don’t. My arm doesn’t look like that.”
Mom chimes in, “Wait until you’re older. Come here and help me with breakfast. Let Grandma finish dressing!”
Her brother lifts his wiry arm (built just like his dad)… “Not me either, Grandma. See MY arm?”
I query the other grownups, “Where did she learn all this fat shaming? Sheesh, I thought nowadays children learned to be inclusive and accepting of all of our differences. What’s up with this?”
While I’m speaking, Angel Girl is following me around, squeezing my arms and laughing hysterically. I can’t help it, now I’m laughing, too–because, at the end of the day, it’s just funny. She’s always been hyperfocused and hypercritical of my each and every detail –from my hair to my shoes, and this is no different.
She’s not being rude, if that’s your conclusion–she would never intend to hurt my feelings – it’s simply a case of speaking her truth. I’m one thousand percent sure that she would naturally censor herself with her pre-K classmates, but I’m different, and it’s OK to practice life skills on me.
I’m her pet project, the Little Grandma, with apparently endless patience.
Both of the Angel Kids are fascinated by my diminutive size…
“My hands are almost as big as yours, Grandma!” (This is a continual hand-to-hand ritual measurement every time we see each other to gauge how much they’ve grown.) “Look, I can wear your shoes now!” “Can I have your Hello Kitty shirt, Grandma! It fits ME!” “Why are you so small?” “Stand still! I am LITERALLY almost as tall as you are!” And that’s true. I’m five feet and that 7.5 year-old truly is nearly my size.
That’s the time I tell them that the best presents come in small packages, but since that’s not their life experience, they shake their heads and laugh.
Thanks to Angel Girl’s eagle eyes, I have to silently agree that I need to focus more work on my triceps.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 