Skål

Sometimes my foot cramps up when I do yoga, and it’s taught me something about life.

 Aside from staying hydrated, that is. It’s not good to let your blood and other viscous humours get all thick and pasty as it tends to make one prone to sluggishness and cantankerism, which is never good. The Latin origin of humour is humor, which is unexciting, not to mention unsurprising, but the old Norse relative is vokr (I don’t know how to put the two little dots about the ‘O’ yet) which means moist, and though nobody really likes to be moist, it’s still good to accomplish a largely fluid state as much as possible. Sometimes, when not adequately and moistly humoured, my lower back gets sore too.

 I spend a lot of time these days sitting in my chair writing and doing school work, so that is a contributing factor to my sore backness, enough that, even when I have the time to, I rarely play video games anymore. Not playing video games isn’t a huge loss of life quality, but I like playing video games; they help me detach, or moderate myself, which can be a good thing sometimes.

Before I quit drinking I used to play video games a lot. It was one of the means by which I disassociated, one of many, and at that time, and in that volume, it was not a good thing, but in the cold plunge shock of reality, and enforced self-realization that followed clarity of thought into the chilly waters of sobriety with me, playing games was a soothing endeavour. For a time.

 I don’t think anyone believes that they are wrong, not in the moment, but after that moment, after the fire of passion, or indignation, or hubris has moved on, one often discovers the truth. That truth is, with some unsettling regularity, that you could have behaved better. But it’s now too late, and the needle on your pride vs courage gauge is bent, and instead of reflecting and repairing, you soothe and remain self-righteous and intransigent, if that’s your particular knock in the engine, but soothing may not be what you think it is. I like soothing, I like being soothed; it feels good, but it’s not what I thought it was.

 We once had an Indian gentleman stay at our house for a while when I was a kid. His name was Salva Raj, and I remember two things about him aside from the fact that he was very pleasant. He was shocked that we left an attendant unattended to fill the car with gas, as, in India, such an attendant would take advantage of you as it is your responsibility to ensure that very thing did not happen, and the introduction to a single bible verse that I have never forgotten. Numbers 32:23 says, in the version I have, “But if you will not do this, then you have surely sinned against the lord, and you may be sure that your sin will catch up with you.” For the last 40 years or so I haven’t been able to reliably recall if it was 32:23 or 23:32, but there was always a 50/50 chance that I’d get it right, and that’s not too bad. What I so clearly remember him saying, in his charming accent, was, “be sure, your sin will find you out.”

 You can’t soothe forever. Do you know why? It’s because soothing, like comfort, is a place you go to reveal the truth, not hide from it. The path of soothe runs like this: middle English(before 950) sothen- to bear witness, confirm, verify, then sothian- to prove true, then to verify becomes to support (someone’s word), and finally, to calm, and I find that a very interesting progression. Truth first, foremost, and always. Truth, as it is often so glibly recited, will set you free, but truth is hard and unyielding, and freedom comes after.

 You can’t hide from the truth, and I don’t think that anyone ever thinks that they’re doing that, just like no one thinks that they’re wrong in the moment, but the moment passes, and your truth is showing; it’s best if you know what your truth is if your want to stay on top of things.

 But I don’t always, and my feet cramp up when I do yoga, or when I’m trying to sleep. It’s my humours, they’re too viscous on account of the fact that I often don’t drink enough water. It’s not even that I FORGET to drink enough water, it’s just that I don’t, and that’s weird because life is so much better when I do, and I know that, but, in the moment, I have something more important to do. But I don’t, in truth.

Think about it, what is that more important thing’s value on the scale against the ability to do it better, and for longer?

In conversation with my blessed, and thankfully, focused counsellor, we came around to the concept of gratitude being to the emotional mind what H20 is to the body. Vital. And yet, as I am sure you know, we FORGET because there is something more important to do. In the moment.

In the moment, while I’m settling into a wonderfully deep child’s pose, and both my feet are cramping up in thirsty, angry little knots, just like me, I acknowledge them. They hurt, and it’s because I made poor choices, and because my passion, or my pride, or my hubris were more important to me. In the moment. But that moment has passed, and my feet hurt, but I really want the rest of the stretch, so I let the pain be. I let it reside in me, commune with me, teach me, and when it’s done, it goes away. My body relaxes, and I am able then, while still breathing through parched airways, to take comfort in the soothing strength of will to let go. It’s like...forgiveness.

We endure our own mistakes as much as anyone else, maybe more, and it doesn’t seem right to expect what we can’t give, but it’s hard to give to yourself when you’ve behaved badly, because you don’t believe that you deserve it, but you do.

And after that, you can do better.

 Skål!