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| India, mid-morning |
At a recently attended talk entitled “Chinese Medicine: Aging in Hot, Dry Weather,” I left with one piece of information that was of concern to me: the body needs to experience all seasons of hot, cold, wet, and dry. I left wondering how I could experience cold. I also considered that Eskimos don’t live in heat and at the equator there is no cold, but I was born in a temperate zone and remembered enjoying the fall and the winter.
One morning after the talk, waking at five—wishing it were at least six—I turned off the front security light and opened the door just to look out. But for a bright streetlight all was in darkness. To my surprise a fresh coolness brushed over my face. Immediately my mind said it’s too early—but my body sense said, “Walk.”
By six my flashlight shifted with every step as it led me on the dirt lane through a field to the road. Stones, ruts, and cow dung were to be avoided.
Once on the old, slightly rounded asphalt connecting two villages, I stopped, for in the east I saw a planet, then looking west I saw a second planet and a waxing moon. For a moment I held, as I had felt an inner quiet come, then I started off. Four ladies in sarees and head kerchiefs quickly, quietly passed me. But I walked slowly, mindfully. The tin house nearest to my lane was brightly lit. I saw the cows standing out back, and had a glimpse of a man squatting, milking them. The same ladies were now seated on the road spaced apart but talking; I didn’t understand their Marathi and wished for quiet. Next was a lengthy, four-sided, irregular line of five-foot tall cement posts strung with barbed wire. They marked a property—each post by its whiteness diminished the dark. A man further on sat in prayer or meditation; another at a distance listened to low music. All faced the east.
Against the chill when leaving, I had pulled my hat far down and covered my lower face with a scarf. Only my eyes showed, and I kept them mostly lowered watching for rocks and stony depressions. While familiar with their pattern when driving, I needed to walk carefully to avoid unknowingly stepping into their unevenness. It was good that I had a flashlight, but I was the only one. The longer I walked the happier I felt; I was outside in fresh, cool air. Two young men ran by in shorts and tops, immune to the chill. A teen boy greeted me, and I turned, but only nodded slightly. A thrumming behind me caused me to glance and see a motorbike’s round light warning of its approach. Then I was home.
I knew that I’d found not only a way for my body to experience coolness, but that I’d also ended a displeasure that I’d been unable to overcome—that of not sleeping until the sun was up. Now throughout my body I was eagerly anticipating early morning, and I reset my alarm.
My realization is, “It may take time to discover that a change of pattern that feels upsetting may in reality be the beginning of something new—and a gift.”
By six my flashlight shifted with every step as it led me on the dirt lane through a field to the road. Stones, ruts, and cow dung were to be avoided.
Once on the old, slightly rounded asphalt connecting two villages, I stopped, for in the east I saw a planet, then looking west I saw a second planet and a waxing moon. For a moment I held, as I had felt an inner quiet come, then I started off. Four ladies in sarees and head kerchiefs quickly, quietly passed me. But I walked slowly, mindfully. The tin house nearest to my lane was brightly lit. I saw the cows standing out back, and had a glimpse of a man squatting, milking them. The same ladies were now seated on the road spaced apart but talking; I didn’t understand their Marathi and wished for quiet. Next was a lengthy, four-sided, irregular line of five-foot tall cement posts strung with barbed wire. They marked a property—each post by its whiteness diminished the dark. A man further on sat in prayer or meditation; another at a distance listened to low music. All faced the east.
Against the chill when leaving, I had pulled my hat far down and covered my lower face with a scarf. Only my eyes showed, and I kept them mostly lowered watching for rocks and stony depressions. While familiar with their pattern when driving, I needed to walk carefully to avoid unknowingly stepping into their unevenness. It was good that I had a flashlight, but I was the only one. The longer I walked the happier I felt; I was outside in fresh, cool air. Two young men ran by in shorts and tops, immune to the chill. A teen boy greeted me, and I turned, but only nodded slightly. A thrumming behind me caused me to glance and see a motorbike’s round light warning of its approach. Then I was home.
I knew that I’d found not only a way for my body to experience coolness, but that I’d also ended a displeasure that I’d been unable to overcome—that of not sleeping until the sun was up. Now throughout my body I was eagerly anticipating early morning, and I reset my alarm.
My realization is, “It may take time to discover that a change of pattern that feels upsetting may in reality be the beginning of something new—and a gift.”