What was I saying?

My memory is going. Sometimes it’s embarrassing and a little frightening. When you can’t remember where you are going, or what you were going to do, or the password you just created, no, not even the username. I still have the presence of mind to write such things down so I can find them, but there’s a moment of panic when I forget that I’ve written them down. It’s getting harder to get through the day.

I’m going to need to get a whole lot more organized, be stricter about putting things away. No more leaving the filing in piles that get transported to boxes and then shoved in closets and under desks and then have to be dragged out and sifted through every time you need a document. You should have seen me trying to do my taxes today.

At least I didn’t forget them.

Sunday morning, off to the Santa Rosa Farmers Market to tout Clean Money. Couldn’t seem to remember what to tell people as I tried to get them to accept a handout, to sign the petition, to engage in some way. So I stumbled all over the place. I’m not sure Linda did a whole lot better, though. Still, I'm grateful. This woman has been a stalwart, the only one to volunteer for the two farmers market tablings. It's such an important cause, and so hard to drum up enthusiasm for it.

Then to Forestville to meet with the ladies, the cherished cousins in the sangha and detritus from its meltdown, the ones who said, enough, and got out. It was the usual "power-corrupts scenario," and nowhere more so than in a zendo. We have that bond, that we’re refugees from something that was once really important to us. It’s where we all met each other, struggled with our demons together. We used to get together and eat cookies, drink tea, write, and read out loud what we’d written.

So why don’t we keep in touch better?

It used to be I had to get offline when I went to bed. Now with DSL and wireless, I can take the Internet to bed with me. Get up in the morning and read the New York Times with my coffee, a cherished practice I had given up when I stopped all the print newspapers.

I’m a little concerned about this. I don’t know if it’s good for your soul to be always chasing the latest in cyberspace. Honestly, Steve spent six hours today and maybe ten yesterday sitting in front of the computer. He has to read, and maybe respond to, the Poor Man, the Cosmic Iguana, Thom Hartmann, Truthout, Talking Points Memo, Strongbad; and then all the links from each one. He sends me the links. Then I have to read them and THEIR links, in addition to the stuff I read and all its links. There’s too much to know. Information overload!

Yesterday Jane told of having quite a profound religious experience. What precipitated it? Sitting down and doing nothing! Walking across the grass with no motive, meeting the grass with each step. KAZAAM!