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The Restoration of Order
Have you ever taken an intelligence test that starts with: ‘this test is about such and such; it will take you about 10 minutes to complete; please read through the instructions and all the questions before beginning.’
You think you have things under control, so you race through the questions only to find that the last one says: ‘Please write your name at the top of this test, then set your pencil down. Ignore all preceding questions, and just wait quietly until others have finished’. This last question shows you the only thing you need to do to pass this test.
If you followed instructions and proceeded according to the designated order of the assignment, you got to that point and wrote your name on the test sheet, and then waited. You wasted no time and no energy on the other questions. Those who did not follow the proper sequence of the request expended useless energy, and were frustrated or angry when they reached the end to discover that doing things their old familiar way wasn’t what was asked of them. Everyone else was pleased. It was a simple mind exercise. Simple for those whose minds were sharp.
When I realized I’d redecorated the apartment with the bagua upside down, I was as frustrated as those who ignored directions and wasted time and energy. Though I had experience with feng shui, I had made certain assumptions, let thoughts race ahead, and did things my way. I was running an old program, spinning off an adaptation from weak mental notes. Yes, when it came to feng shui, my mind had dulled. Realizing the error, I could only laugh at myself, at my haste in completing something that I thought was familiar to me.
In a way, I failed to read the instructions. I didn’t review the proper order of what I was attempting to do. Worse yet: I didn’t think. I did eventually reverse the bagua and resumed in proper sequence the harmonizing of the space. Two hours later, I’d finished, and although I can’t say the rooms felt that much different, I certainly did. I felt somehow ordered within myself, and I felt satisfied to have completed my original effort.
Organizing is a skill at which I excel. Usually. Whether it’s a room or a bundle of thoughts. Over many years, I’ve learned how to remove clutter and arrange the space within a home so that it always feels harmonious. When I began applying these skills to my thoughts, I discovered how I could also create harmony in my life.
Have you ever asked yourself, “How do I want to decorate my mind?”
Imagine your mind as your dream home. What color is it? Is it built of stone or wood? Where is it located? How is it shaped overall, and how are the rooms inside shaped? What treasures do you collect to keep in its rooms? What lines the walls? How is it lit? Is there a fountain in the center? An open courtyard? How many rooms do you have to keep clean? Is it so small that clutter might amass too easily? Are there dark corners that need help? Is there a garden? A place of sanctuary where you can rest awhile? Is there a view? Is the home situated on a mountaintop, in a valley, or a forest? Is it on a street where everything looks the same, or does yours stand out with unique appeal? Where’s the entrance? Is there a security system, or do you feel safe and happy with no need of one? How does it feel to stand in this dream home? How big is it? Are the rooms expansive, or do you need to push out a few walls to make more room? What aligns when you lay your bagua over it? Does everything line up harmoniously or will you need to do a major remodel before moving in?
A writer must order her thoughts to communicate clearly. An initial step is clearing the clutter from her mind to locate the treasure within it. Writing an article or a book is really no different from decorating the rooms of your home. You pick and choose the items you want it to contain, and you order them in a way you find pleasing.
Before I embark on a new story, I empty my mind completely. I have techniques I use to make sure I do this well. Gradually, I begin to color my thoughts with the light from the different rooms I have created from my history. The family room will elicit stories of adventure and humor and challenges that marked shared events. The laundry room is where I wash out old ways of thinking, rinse off stale ideas, shake out the wrinkles and iron fresh sheets over outdated patterns. The kitchen is where I try new recipes, maybe a totally new genre to stir with cinnamon. I linger in the garden, or idle in the library, pulling out a fact from my experience or referring to a detail filed away long ago. My rooms are round, and are like chambers in an immense, iridescent Nautilus.
Chambered Nautilus – © Northstargallery.com
At some point in my pre-teen years, I thought of time as a spiral. I wondered why calendars always showed time in lines and boxes. Clocks were round, but time seemed to move along a straight line between point A and point B. I hated that. In my mind, time spiraled out, and spiraled back in, but it was endless. I’ve since learned a lot about the illusion of time, and utilize that when assembling thoughts for a project.
My emotions often determine if my mind will yield terse, hardened foils or sprawling lawns of sweet-smelling grass. I keep a good watch on my emotions, and choose the thoughts that make me feel good. It’s my form of security system – I have mental codes that set off little alarms so I don’t waste efforts on clumpy, doubting, angry detours.
I have found that by keeping my thoughts tidy, letting in nothing that creates disharmony, or dealing with such immediately, my writing flows easily and follows a course with few snags or disruptions. That’s not to say I won’t let off reams of steam if the only thoughts that come are reactionary – I need to express them and let the dust settle. Or they will just block the bigger picture of what it is I want to say. It’s been a very long time since I’ve needed a vent release. Interestingly, I can write dramatic, even harsh dialogue, much more easily if I start from one of my tidy, round mind-rooms.
In The Artist’s Way, a book I greatly enjoyed, Julia Cameron shares an exercise for the artist to do at the start of each day. The morning pages. Three pages of longhand, stream of consciousness writing that will clear the cobwebs from your mind and get your day rolling. Years ago, when I first read the book, I did the morning pages religiously. I found them a useful tool. I kept it up for about nine months until I made a bizarre but major mental leap. I no longer needed to do the morning pages with paper and pen.
I had simultaneously been reading about other mental techniques and spiritual concepts. These subjects had one thing in common: the human mind. I gleaned as much material as was sensible and manageable, then began some mental house-cleaning, dusting and rearranging the furnishings until everything felt quite harmonious. Combining the most meaningful and useful aspects of what I felt worked for me, I soon found that EVERYTHING came down to what I let take up residence in my mind. I tested the theory. I created a bagua for my mind. If I flip it and reverse everything now, it’s on purpose. I know I can easily flip it back and re-order everything.
I can draw on the pretty centered yellow when I need to write about those sunny afternoons with the Oracle at Delphi. I can fire up the reds and bang gongs when I need to recreate the tension of lovers lambasting one another at the restaurant in Culver City. I spiral over to mind chamber seven, where the raw material waits for me to add feathers and paint an eagle, soaring over the fiord at Princess Louisa Inlet.
I build, I rearrange, I rethink. I rebuild, I tear down, I rearrange. I destroy. I create. I restore.
All in perfect order.
It’s my story. It’s my bagua. It’s my house. It’s my mind.
I simply have to put things in order. I don’t always want to, but (as a writer) …
I must.
© Debra J. Rigas and Jellyfish Clouds, 2010
Feng Shui for Those Without A Compass
Enter the dragon, but stay hidden behind the beige love-seat until ready to pounce, pointing a claw, and laughing hysterically.
I’ve lived in a few lovely cities over the past twenty years: Seattle, Sherman Oaks, Culver City, Malibu. Whenever I move in to a new place, the first thing I intend to create is harmony. A welcoming environment in a large house, apartment or room brings a sense of peace and relief from the rat race. A dear friend of mine once referred to my home as ‘the cozone’, stating it was always cozy, and visitors felt at ease. Warmed my heart to hear that. Much as the fireplace once did on Queen Anne.
I can attribute my success with living environments to three things:
- owning a strong intuition,
- being a conscious Virgo,
- and Feng Shui.
The first of those – intuition – has taken years to hone through trial and error. I was born a Virgo, though only hold to astrology as one might the weather channel, i.e. do I need an umbrella today or should I wear sunscreen. As for Feng Shui, I’ve frequently applied key concepts, never wholeheartedly, and only by lifting a few bits from a book here or a website there.
Today, I thought I’d really give it a solid go.
Feng Shui is pronounced a number of ways, but the one I’ve heard most often spoken is fawng shway, with a little breath between the sh and way.
Four thousand years before Jesus, heaven and earth met in the right layout, orientation, and coloring of a dynastic living room. Logically, countless variations on these themes have since arisen, but the primary focus on which all seem to agree is harmony. Letting the yin and yang / feminine and masculine energies of a place move into a state of balance allows inhabitants of a dwelling or office optimum functionality in life, with little interference.
Should you wish to conduct a search online, try ‘Feng Shui Master’. At last glance, over 139 million of them have web pages. And that’s just in the United States.
Feng Shui has many forms. Pop, classical, and country top the list. Also popular are the eight house and flying star traditions, and those who rely on a compass. Feng Shui often features geomancy – divination by lines, figures and geography. And if the master is really worth his oolong, he’ll have an intuition sharp as his dadao to complete the perfect layout.
With millenia behind it, most of the hard work is already done in Feng Shui, so all a newcomer need do is follow a few simple instructions to apply the key elements to her own abode. This is most swiftly done with a clear bagua: a chart showing directions, colors and materials and how they are best placed in any particular environment.
A Bagua - the chart used for Feng Shui
Well, I’ve a solid background in compass reading, as well as with water and wind – the literal meaning of feng and shui - so I confidently grabbed the bagua and commenced plotting.
I am temporarily living in a relative’s spare one bedroom apartment. It’s had very little use, vacant for several months, and ideal for my purposes at this time. Furnished minimally, with bare walls, it screamed for plants and artwork, color, and life. I may be travelling, however, I could easily get creative with what’s on hand, what I brought with me, or what I’ve accrued from friends or in shops along the way. And wouldn’t it be nice to have everything feeling cozy, with the energy flowing freely and good healthy vibes in abundance?
The first snag I hit was not being able to print out the bagua. I found hundreds in Google images, and the masters say one needs to work with the bagua in hand. Well, I’d just have to keep the browser open and refer to the drawing as needed.
Second glitch I encountered when I realized I’d left my compass on a boat I’d last sailed in Puget Sound. Darn! What to do but rethink recently observed celestial body motion. The sun sets to the right of the front door, it rises from the left, therefore west and east a given, south must be straight ahead.
Assured of the cardinal directions, I had only to begin working my way around the bagua’s nine areas. That’s when I grew slightly concerned because the bagua is square shaped and this apartment is long and narrow. Should I stretch the Health and Family box? Or reduce Fame and Reputation? I lit a few candles and shuffled some things around, adding pinks and reds to the front right corner, some green near the hall doorway, a cluster of willow branches for the wood element behind my desk, a crystal bowl of water in the living room. I dug around and found a piece of shiny gold costume jewelry and hung it on the front door. I shut the bathroom door, already knowing one is supposed to leave the lid down. Draped a silky scarf by some feathers, put everything blue in the back, to the right. Coins and shells and a pretty picture and I was nearly done. I’ll pick up some lighter color towels tomorrow, and borrow a table fountain from a friend who has an extra. Get a couple small, fast-growing plants for outside the door, and I’ll be all set.
My final challenge arose when I could no longer deny the center of the bagua, the center of the home, the place of key importance where a bright yellow would join everything together and fulfill every goal I sought was in this case located in the large hall closet, cut off by folding doors, and backed by the water heater. This is also the one and only place to easily store the upright vacuum cleaner. Should I throw some yellow fabric over it? Do I leave the doors open? Put a bowl of lemons on the top shelf? I’d already been at my Feng Shui cures for three hours, and wanted to finish so I could sit back and bask in all the sweet Chi.
Standing in the closet between my boots and sandals, hand weights, boxes and clothes, I knew I’d have to call a Feng Shui master. Having to hide my yellow felt terribly wrong. Perhaps I could return to that first online search, and consult someone right away. Maybe if I could just paint the front door red? Wouldn’t that solve everything? Actually, I think that’s verboten – every door on every apartment of every building in this neighborhood is hunter green.
When I sat back down at the computer, and looked at the bagua again, a little window popped up with details on proper orientation of the bagua to an environment.
Holding the bagua, the bottom of it should line up with the front door.
Uh oh.
Let me recheck that.
The lower center edge of the bagua should be the front of the dwelling.
Repeat… the front of the dwelling.
Not the back.
The apartment faces south.
I had the bagua set up so that south – the top of the chart – was the front door.
That is totally backwards.
As in upside down.
As in everything I’d spent the last several hours working on with such TLC needs to be reversed, flipped, turned over.
Dang.
Maybe I should have baked brownies. Maybe I can still paint the door red. Maybe if I weren’t a Virgo, these things wouldn’t seem so important. Methodical completion is a strong suit, right?
I never thought I’d have to track down the owner of that sailboat back in Seattle to ask him to return my pretty yellow compass.
But
I must. . .
© Debra J. Rigas and Jellyfish Clouds, 2010
Blog 0000000001
So, here I Am.
A new member to the wonderful world of serious blogging. At least I hope it’s wonderful, because everywhere one turns these days, there it is – the word ‘blog’. Might as well jump in. Join the other 4,793,618 people who think they have something to say.
I’ve read a few. Blogs. Good ones. Meaty, interesting, thorough. Funny, odd, informative. And the rest? Not to my liking. Though who could really ever get around to reading them all to truly decide? I don’t fantasize about that. I DO fantasize about reading every book ever written …. before 1954. The year I was born.
(I have no clue how to run this thing, but I don’t care. Not now – it’s too soon. I’m a blog rookie. Blookie? {The urban dictionary doesn’t apply here.} I’ll figure it out soon enough.)
My daughter is in Istanbul, having just missed the 8.8 magnitude earthquake in Chile. I fret a little, but don’t waste much time on what-coulda-happened. I pause and send prayers to other countries.
The moon’s nearly full. The thermometer reads 24 degrees Fahrenheit. The ice maker sounds like a siren for a toy firetruck.
(I spent an hour trying to learn how to operate my dashboard. Chose the red template because it kind of matches my writing coach website. Decided to stick to UTC because I move around too much. Not just on my swivel chair, but around the country. Or countries. Depending on who’s paying, who’s talking about paying, or how long it’s been since I saw snow.)
Here, it was about two weeks ago. Five full inches that melted the next evening.
I just upped and crossed the country, taking a road trip. Maybe not the wisest decision in what seems to have been one of the coldest winters on record. But I wanted to spend the holidays with family and visit friends I hadn’t seen in 35 years. I logged over 8,000 miles, a lot of which were on side roads. Back roads. Little two-laners where you don’t see another car for hours. Just birds and cows and haystacks. I like that.
I came across the south. From Nor Cal up to Oregon, then back to LA, on to Phoenix, Houston, Dallas, Mobile, Tallahassee, Columbus, Palm Beach, Key West. With a lot of stops in towns I’d never heard of.
But that’s not what I’m writing about. Not yet anyway.
I’m just writing. I’m a writer. It comes with the territory. And because my website’s up now, I better get on the ball and start producing content, right? Isn’t it expected of me? Won’t clients be asking me, “Hey, where’s your blog?”
I’ll soon add why I chose Jellyfish Clouds. Not that I need to explain myself, but I know someone’s gonna ask about that, too.
I’ve dawdled for days on some projects I’m undertaking with a partner who is currently in China. I’d considered moving to Shanghai for a year, then sent that thought down with the food scrapings from last night’s dinner. Why? I learned it’s nearly impossible to get to the beach.
And I need the beach.
The seashore. Ocean. Water. Long, wide, gaping areas of blank space.
Preferably far away from the general populace. I can handle another beach comber, maybe two, but I prefer beaches far from the madding crowd.
(Where’s the thing on here that let’s me widen my column? Maybe I should have downloaded that other software. Later.)
I hear two people outside my door talking.
I turned off the news because I grew weary from the constant commenting. Same stories over and over with a few new photographs. I used to leave the TV tuned to CNN – all day, every day. I wanted to be informed, kept up to date – and not just so I could be entertaining or appear smart at social functions. I genuinely wanted to KNOW.
I no longer watch TV. Except when I’m traveling, and even then it’s very rare. I’d only turned it on today because my mother had phoned to express her great relief that her granddaughter had left Chile ‘just in time’. Hadn’t I seen the news?!
Obligingly, I clicked it on. CNN. Disaster. My heart went out. Then pulled back like the water does before the tsunami hits.
I’ve been through some potent earthquakes. In California and Seattle, a couple good tremors in Hawaii. I felt a strange mix of relief, naturally, then that grief that comes when you know a lot of people far away are hurting and there’s virtually nothing you can do about it.
Oh, dear. Now there’s crying outside the door. I think the couple is breaking up. A door slams. She’s weeping loudly. A car skids around the corner. I am in no mood to play Sherlock.
But I must……
© Debra J. Rigas and Jellyfish Clouds, 2010
