I’ve got a survival plan worked out to help me through the closing days of the election. I stole the idea from “Eat, Pray, Love”. My version is: work, exercise, meditate, booze.
Instead of binging on political news and commentary to feed my adrenaline addiction, I’m going to focus on work. Getting things done eases the nagging feeling of burden that builds during the week. Crossing items off a to-do list creates an illusion of control during a chaotic time.
My classes are all on-line, however. Working on the computer involves remembering how to upload videos, send e-mails with content embedded within documents, take and edit pictures of demonstration drawings, etc. These activities tax my patience and test my confidence.
Exercise relieves some the negative effects brought on by work. I do a set of stretches and isometric exercises recommended by the Indian guru, Yogananda. These clear my head and rearrange kinks in my spine. Yardwork helps also. Pulling cat’s claw and skunk vines, trimming bushes, and digging up invasive camphor seedlings provides an outlet for aggression. The battle never ends in Florida: there’s never a time when my property nears a manicured presentation.
Meditation takes me further toward a peaceful attitude. I can accurately read my stress level during initial stages of quiet centering. Representations of buried irritations, of bad memories, and of the cumulative weight of daily responsibilities parade across the mind’s eye. The procession eventually runs out of floats. The tinny music lingers sometimes but gets fainter and fainter. Then a sense of calm and well-being descends. For a few minutes, I can let go and commune with a deeper presence. I view my worries with a better sense of proportion.
Meditation doesn’t always take me far enough. I’m not that adept. Agitation and tension remain only partially relieved. And failure to take enough time to come out of a deep meditation sends me into a sensitized state where minor annoyances magnify, and the subconscious muck stirred to the surface during beginning stages returns to torment me with the manic insistence of a carload of evil clowns. A traditional remedy calls to me then.
A bottle of whiskey, like a glass-enclosed fire alarm, can be broken into during emergencies. Coping isn’t the therapeutic strategy at this point. Anesthetization is. I prefer a Russian stout for initial treatment. Bourbon or Irish whiskey is applied to deeper wounds. Truly desperate times call for the addition of a cigar.
If you pass my house and see me seated beneath a magnolia tree, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in other hand, do not attempt to engage me in friendly conversation. If communication is absolutely necessary, approach with caution. Tobacco smoke is my defensive force field. The stink is your official warning.
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