That was the sound feeling last week as my mind opened up, once more, due to sickness.
Among all the Mandela-dying, Zuma-lying activity of the past week, I almost forgot that I had suffered a return of the dreaded inner ear infection – which seems to have all the signs of Meniere’s disease attached to it this time, including one ear totally deaf and an episode of hitting the kitchen floor in terror as my brain gyroscopes lost all their moorings and tumbled, sending me to my doctor straight away in an absolute funk.
I spent three full days at home – two of them waiting for my medication after my medical aid dropped the ball – and, as has become my way, learning from the expanded, although definitely altered, consciousness which so often attends upon bodily sickness.
I felt under control enough to return to work on Friday, and since I knew there was fresh data waiting for me, you could hardly have kept me away longer.
Well, the major point my altered consciousness was trying to make this time seems to have been concerned with attachment;how it’s not so good, and letting go;how it should be sought.
Those sound effects at the top of this post were pretty much how it felt. Opening up a cosmic vacuum cleaner in my spiritual West, letting the strands of over-attachment, obsessive-compulsive behaviour ( and here I’m specially thinking about my knee-jerk attempts to clean, tidy and put away at home) just snap and break.
Don’t think this is some spur-of-the-moment idea, either. I’ve driven myself and my partner almost crazy with this tidy anxiety. It has to stop. And besides – what’s it all for? Does it make me happy, to have a dust-free and neat house? Not really. Mild satisfaction is the most I could say it gives me, to see swept, hoovered and mopped tiled floors and carpets, and everything in a place (not necessarily its own place, just a place will do).
And is it not written – by the marvelous soul John Lennon, no less – that being happy is what life should be largely about?