It took a few days. I could feel the shift when I attended Fibre Night, which is held in the warehouse/nightclub district of our city. Mr. DD dropped me off and expressed some concern about the location. He claimed he was looking out for my safety, but I know it was because he was worried that I was actually headed to the clubs, drawn to the glimmer of mirror balls and disco dancing, which I'm sure haven't changed much since the last time I was in a club, which was sometime after the Earth cooled, but before the dinosaurs departed.
Even if he actually was exercising caution on my behalf, there was no cause for alarm, because, well, would you mess with a room full of women carrying caseloads of shiny, pointy things like this (and who know how to use them in oh, so many ways)?:
It was far more likely that the clubbers would be flocking to join us, especially after Michelle's stirring rendition of "Patricia the Stripper," the choral version of which is, I understand, in the works for our next meeting. I was sure that one of us would have to stop what she was doing in order to act as bouncer for crowd control and admissions. Thankfully, this didn't happen, but only because the doors to our building were locked from the inside.
I left the gathering at the fantastically late hour of 9 pm and went home, heading off to bed after a wee nip of wine. I woke up the next morning feeling rather unwell, but since no one, not even me, gets a hangover from a glass and a half of organic white wine, I must have had a touch of flu, brought on by my impossibly wild goings on the night before. I rallied by noon and had a walk and a chat over lunch with Joan, a lovely, kind friend whose perspective always leaves me refreshed and restored. I could feel things levelling out by late afternoon, but balance was not quite there. So, I waited, knowing that lifelines show up when you least expect them.
Sure enough, the final slide of the scale came last night when I clicked on a link posted by a group called, "Completely Pointless and Arbitrary," because how could I not? Besides, I am hip and cutting edge, always open to new discoveries, even if they come in the form of an already 2 year old blog post from The Bloggess, who bills herself as "Like Mother Theresa, Only Better," and who is one of the funniest women on the planet (The Bloggess, not Mother Theresa, although I'm sure she had a fine sense of humour, too). It was through this post that I was introduced to Beyonce, the giant metal chicken and his (yes, his) adventures. (Put down your beverage and click on the link.)
Beyonce is not quite as inappropriate as the seat cushion bearing the Buddha's smiling face (on both sides) which I came across a few years back and which gave new meaning to the saying, "If you meet the Buddha, kill him." A giant metal chicken ringing one's front doorbell is clearly better placed than the ceramic Buddha statue in my fibre room, innocently given to me by a friend on my birthday a while ago, after I admired it in, of all places, a thrift shop in Olds, Alberta, neither one of us understanding the symbolism of this particular statue, which is "fertility." By the time this statue came to me, all concerns about my fertility were long passed, but Buddha works in mysterious ways. Since he took up residency in the fibre room, I swear that its contents are becoming fruitful and multiplying; every time I step through the doorway, there are more books, more papers and more fibres. It's reached the point where I have to clear a spot for my meditation cushion, at which point, I often say, "Never mind," and do my practice flat on my back, spread out on the couch, because, as skilled meditators know, you can meditate anywhere, any time, even while you're snoring.
What any of this really has to do with fibre and meditation, I'll never know, but I do know this: I'm feeling much better now.
Balance-I haz it.
Namaste.
(This one is for all those special ladies. And Beyonce. Him, not Her, although I'm sure she's just dandy.)
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