Joshua's weblog

today when I left the office, it was properly angry outside. this is, of course, as distinct from just "gloomy", which is high-30s or maybe low-40s, low overcast, cold, and maybe starting to rain (despite the air feeling dry, because of how cold it is); the net result, perhaps, is the same, but the feeling is definitely not. you don't want to go outside when it's gloomy.

instead, when I got on my bike, it was in the mid-50s. 75% of the sky was clouded (to the east was, inexplicably, clear), and the clouds were roiling clumps and mixtures of dark grey and light. the air was soakingly, suffocatingly wet, a threatening guillotine of precipitation. the wind was at odds with itself, too, facing entirely the wrong direction; my usual five mile an hour headwind had turned into a fifteen mile an hour tailwind. the atmosphere was so angry, in every conceivable way. it cursed and raged and occasionally spit a few droplets at me, almost taunting. if it knew how to thunder and lightning here in California, it would've. the fury and the discontent summoned: "come and get it! you just gonna stand there?"

it was tempting to go rocketing straight to escape velocity, point the bike into the hills and just keep moving until my lungs and chest were burning.

but yet, for some reason, I didn't. is that what being an adult is like? maybe I should have after all; to hell with being an adult.

oh, well. it'll be there next time.

I hope.

The thing that you've got to understand about this country is how deadly serious they are about their ice cream.

For instance, yesterday evening, I went to Island Gelato Company (4.3* on Google Maps), a four minute walk from MELT (also 4.3*), where I went the night before. Despite it being 55 degrees out (Fahrenheit, for I have not at all assimilated in my two-and-a-half days here), and raining, there was a line; the small glass storefront was full. The presentation of the choices was gorgeous, enough that you'd assume that the place is a chain, with so many options; as it turns out, it is a chain, but of only two stores. For my NZ$9.50 (that's US$6 or so), I got two scoops, for I needed to try two different flavors, see. The gelato I got (half Darkest Chocolate & Sour Cherry, half Buttermilk & Dulce) was, if not truly exceptional, certainly very good. The night before, when I got the national flavor of ice cream, Hokey Pokey (that's vanilla with honeycomb toffee -- and no, I am not joking about New Zealand having a national flavor of ice cream), I found, also to be excellent.

But the most surprising thing, perhaps, is that these two were not a fluke: I have reason to believe that there are, perhaps, tens, if not hundreds, of ice cream shops in and around Auckland of such quality.

Perhaps I should skip lunch today. And dinner, too, for that matter.

Deadly serious, indeed.

Just as I left the office this evening and got on my bike to head home, the sun was taking its last gasps, making its way down behind the hills. I didn't know this until I turned out of the parking lot, and saw the sky positively on fire, with tantalizingly brilliant hues of pink and orange and gold descending behind the recycling plant, and into the trees; I skidded my back tire briefly while deciding whether to take a photo then, and then figured I'd grab it when I had an unobstructed view around the corner.

I pedaled down the road, waiting for the opportunity to see it in its full glory, but there was always something in the way. I turned facing down the foothills, but by now, just a few minutes later, it had faded to just a dull glow. I took the picture anyway.

By the time I was nearly home, I stopped at a red light, and the sky betrayed no sign at all that anything had happened between me and it, now cold, grey, and unfeeling. "As is its nature", I thought.

But I knew, too, that even as it turned to black now, it would surely awaken again in all its radiant warmth, even if only for moments at a time.

Tomorrow afternoon, I'm scheduled to get LASIK. I have some trepidation about this. Not, like, worried about the outcome: I'm pretty sure that, on the whole, having a LASIK flap is going to be much safer and much less of a liability than being dependent on corrective optics while I'm outside exploring. To tell the truth, I was planning on doing this last year, and backed off at the last second -- like, the day before I was supposed to come in for measurements. I've worn glasses since I was 6 or so (so, 22 years!), and glasses have just kind of become part of who I am. Who would I be if I didn't have my glasses? Who would I be if I couldn't choose to see or not see?

Tonight, I went and practiced asana at Planet Granite. The same studio I have practiced at for years, the same class I have taken for quite some time, with a teacher I knew well. Sometimes when I practice, I put my glasses on, and see through my glasses. Sometimes when I practice, I very intentionally take my glasses off: let my vision be blurred, as a way of turning inwards. I did today: today would be my last opportunity to do that. It felt like a turning point, and I tried to savor it when I could. The soft defocused view, the warm color temperature of the filtered floor lights, the knowledge that I was practicing in the company of many others, but without the distraction of any in particular ...

Some time ago, I used the metaphor of avidya for glasses with scars on them. When I have my glasses on and I see the outside world with crystalline sharpness, am I seeing reality more clearly, or less clearly? When I take my glasses off, and the outside world is blurred, am I now seeing reality more clearly, or less clearly?

In April, I talked about my experience of a morning practice. I promised myself that I would be honest when I talk about my experience of yoga, rather than trying to cultivate an image, and so it is only right to say: I haven't been doing it recently. In fact, I haven't been sitting at all recently. I've gotten out of the habit of it. Or, really, I couldn't make myself do it. For a while, I was beating myself up about it, feeling guilty after every day that I didn't sit. Then, the weeks went by, with my mala sitting on my cushion, untouched, but at least not unnoticed.

I'm given to believe that it is a very rare individual indeed who does not, at times, struggle with the practice of meditation -- or yoga, in general. I'm certainly not one of them.

I don't know when I'll come back to it. I take some comfort, though, in the knowledge that, like an old friend, it will be there for me when I return.