Seeking Stillness
13. May, 2008 
9 Comments
I’m in Brenham, Texas today after a marathon sequence of flights that began at 3:00 a.m. Eastern time and ended at 5:00 p.m. whatever-you-call-Texas-time. I’m tired (who wouldn’t be?), and I ache all over, not the least in the area of my serratus, which feels searing hot and painful.
I’m pretty sure it was dragging my carry-on around for all those hours and sitting in an airplane seat designed to fit everyone-but-no one, even the most heroic set of healing ribs and muscles would protest.
So I’m sitting in the Comfort Suites in Brenham, at a lovely little desk, with *gasp* high speed internet (a luxury I don’t normally have access to), typing with one hand and TTouching my rib/serratus area with the other.
I bought a pair of noise-canceling headphones today in Philadelphia, and man alive, are they great. Instant isolation from unintentional eavesdropping and engine noise, both of which I find to be the most exhausting part of travel.
I slept most of the way from Philadelphia to Houston, in spite of being seated next to a man so large that I only had half a seat. I hope he didn’t feel too badly about that. I just kept trying to get smaller and smaller.
Never a big fan of close proximity with my fellow man (hence my preference for animals), I’m overstimulated and over-touched.
During the past two weeks while I’ve been participating in one Tellington TTouch® training after another, I’ve been thinking a lot about how some people seek privacy and stillness.
I see I’ve really tried hard to become a modern day hermit. I position myself so that I’m away from crowds, noise and most kinds of stimulation associated with modern life. I don’t watch TV. I don’t listen to the radio (unless I need an NPR fix). I live out in the country with no neighbors, and I like it that way. You’ll never see me with an iPod jammed in my ears. More than five minutes of any kind of music and my brain starts to rattle. If I weren’t such a spoiled girl, I might be tempted to go off the grid. I avoid crowds, and if I have to be among a lot of people all at the same time, I find myself frequently escaping for a breath of fresh air and space. I’m that loser you see standing on the porch alone at parties. It is often said that the typical American has a personal space of roughly 3 feet. I think mine must be about three yards.
I’m aware that this external seeking of privacy, of no stimulation, is barely half the equation. Real stillness wells up from within.
I remember reading James Clavell’s Shogun at around the age of 14 and being struck by how the character Mariko explains the way Edo-era Japanese maintain a sense of stillness in the face of overcrowding in what is now Tokyo. I’m unable to find the exact quote, but Mariko says that Japanese people have developed the unique skill of being alone in crowds: of finding an inner stillness among chaos, of experiencing silence in the midst of all manner of noise. It is this inner stillness, she says, that reflects outward in the elegance and beauty of the culture.
I often find myself wishing I were in Edo-period Japan as I’m sitting next to some smelly person smacking gum and shouting into their cellphone for all to hear At least then we’d both have a sense of decorum and share similar ideas of how to behave in public. Clearly most people were not raised by my Southern mother, who always taught us to take up as little physical and metaphorical space as possible.
This irritation at others and my desire to be “away,” are telltale signs that I have a lot of work to do. Seeking stillness from the outside by simply moving away and eliminating stimuli have been useful in that it has allowed me to concentrate on what was going on in my head, rather than what was going on with the world outside. But it hasn’t been enough.
I still feel bombarded by stimuli. Going to the grocery store can be just too much. I get inside and feel overwhelmed by the subtle flickering of the fluorescent lights, the sheer volume of choice, the people and their carts. I remember a friend from the tiny Caribbean island of Bequia saying of trips to St. Vincent, a slightly larger, more developed Caribbean island, four miles away: “I get a headache every time I go.” He was referring to the traffic, exhaust fumes, busy markets. etc. There is nothing like that on Bequia. I know what he means!
I have to remember that I’m working on the second half of the equation.
The quiet I’m looking for is in me, and cannot be reached by manipulating outside circumstances.
Time to sit, listen, breathe.
And experience the joy of seeing my beautiful, miraculous daughter tomorrow. If I get any pictures, I’ll post them, along with her story.
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You should take a drive out on 389 or go south on Hwy 36 and just take a right on any of the highways along the way…you will get expansive views of rolling pastures, cows, horses and not a whole lot of people….welcome to Brenham…
So under the 290 overpass at Palais Royal and straight through 36. Thanks! This is our new plan for tomorrow late afternoon at thunderstorm hour.
…I like Brenham!
we did just as you suggested last night–beautiful almost-tropical air and light, cows. rolling land. perfection.
we also looked for your farm but were unable to locate it.
where are you?
re anti-stimulation:
I lived on a farm for a few years. By the time I moved away, I was walking so slowly everywhere I went that when I visited the city, I literally could not get across the street before the light changed, stranding me in oblivion mid-pavement. True.
which state do you prefer?
from your site, I see that you create wit from chaos.
were you able to create wit from stillness as well?
love your site, btw.
Which state? Um, I prefer Montana. Oh, silly me. I get it. I prefer the state of stillness. Once, in a department store, I was standing waiting for someone, and a woman walked up and started feeling the sleeve of my jacket. She was totally into it. I let her continue for, oh, 7 seconds, and then I moved my head an inch and looked at her. She jumped backward, startled. She thought I was a mannequin. True.
How’s your serratus these days? Still sore?
Melanie mentioned that you have pointy toes. Or that you wear pointy shoes. Or something. I hope your toes aren’t sore inside that pointy footwear.
You certainly know a lot about horses. I’m worried about that crack in Big Brown’s hoof. Apparently it’s sore. Perhaps he’s wearing pointy shoes.
If this comment is too long, sorry. You can mail me at horatiosalt AT gmail DOTCOM if your toes aren’t giving you too much trouble.
I prefer Montana too!
Though I’ve never been so outwardly still that one might mistake me for a
dummymannequin.Serratus status: healing but painful. Thank you for asking.
And Mel’s correct, I am a former proponent of pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes, though we don’t have much use for them these days out in the paddocks.
On occasion, frivolity prevails, and I wear neon polka-dotted plastic muck boots out into the field, to much acclaim.
Rest assured, there is no residual anatomical pointiness. In fact, in the interim between eschewing pointy-toed shoes and succumbing to the barn-swallow look, my feet have also come to resemble those of Big Brown.
Who the hell is Big Brown, anyway?
ah, you’re foolin’ with me, thinkin’ i’m a (dummy). big brown, racehorse extraordinaire, winner of the kentucky derby and preakness, one step from the triple crown if his cracked hoof doesn’t block his run at the belmont. but you know that…
gotcha.