Picking Up My Underwear With My Feet

Last thing at night, as I prepare myself for bed, I follow the same ritual of releasing my body from its clothes.

As my underwear are help by my hands down to my knees, they then make the journey onward alone, brushing over my calves and ankles to land on my feet.

I have become adept at stepping out of my underwear with my right foot, and then flicking the said item with my left foot, so that they fly through the air to be caught by my right hand, before being marched to the laundry basket and unceremoniously dumped, without so much as a goodbye.

This flick of the foot to the wrist, speaks to me of how my body has the capacity to work between its many parts to support itself, and find ways to be efficient and creative and agile in the problems with which it is faced.

The act of bending to the floor to retrieve my fallen heroes puts a strain on my back which is prone to spasms of pain if the act of bending down is not executed with care.

Much safer then, to flick and catch and save my poor back the trouble.

I’ve been wondering whether my mind has the same mental agility as the body to metaphorically dispose of the worn out underwear of my thinking in such a way, as to use its inherent skill, to spare itself unnecessary strain and to dispose of my worn out thoughts efficiently, unceremoniously and effectively.

My conclusion, at the current time , is that in certain circumstances it does have that agility, but it has taken years to train it to learn the process by which it moves with a flick from old ways of responding to events to new ways of being present, being compassionate, being less judgmental of self and others.

I think that to be able to reflect, is to rehearse the steps needed to flick the foot and twist the wrist so that the mood is caught and dumped quickly especially when its contents are a risk to my health and well-being .

I think to pray is to connect with the synapses and nerves which control my propensity to  wallow in the suffering, to revel in the mood of victim, and the culture of blame.

If I am observed by my wife flicking my underpants into my hand, and I catch her eye, there is smile, an unspoken connection between us of witnessing something which is clever and ridiculous and this response is my hope for the training of my mind to know and love self.

My next blog will be:  A Storm Of All The Old Stuff

William Defoe

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