Zen and Bugs

It's been a while since I posted, and I blame it on the bugs.

One of the main problems with being "mindful" and "achieving oneness" and even "going to your happy place," is that pretty much all the techniques I've been able to find involve withdrawing from the world -- physically, mentally, emotionally. We're supposed to find quiet within and without. This works fine, IMO, for somebody on a mountaintop, or in a temple, or someone like, say, a long-distance runner.

But my life is full of little bugs. Yesterday morning, for example, I was feeling pretty good, making my morning cup of coffee, when there was a GIANT COCKROACH in the damn sink. Ew.

Just.

Ew.

It is simply beyond me to look at all those legs and that little head and those long feelers and feel at one with the universe. Instead, I got the hand-sprayer and turned on the disposal and tried to shoot it down the drain. It didn't want to go, frantically jumping up and away from the drain. I was reminded, because I'm a big ole nerd, of the giant pit in the Star Wars movie where our heroes were to be slowly digested.

Eventually, I got the roach down and the disposal ground it up. So much for zen.

I work from home mostly now, which is wonderful, but requires that I actually put in the hours while surrounded by all my toys. The only person watching out for me is me, which isn't the greatest thing in the world when you're a world-class procrastinator. I even put off putting things off.

I'll be working hard, and a little bug will come buzz in my ear, "The kitchen is so dirty. You should take a break and wash up." or "Hey! Deadliest Catch is having a marathon! Let's watch!" or "It's been forever since you went to Ravelry."

Stomping on these bugs is particularly difficult, since they only quiet down for a moment, instead of dying. Frankly, like the real cockroaches, they play possum for a while, then spring back to life with a reminder that I have some of the yummy yogurt in the 'fridge. Just a little push, and I can be a mouse potato all day long. If I could only be paid to sit around on my spreading butt all day, I'd be a millionaire.

But the biggest bug is fear, always fear. Movies make fear glamorous, exciting like an amusement park ride. But the bad fears aren't of monsters, they're of all-too-ordinary little bugs, like failure, disappointing others, making mistakes, achieving nothing. Sometimes, reading Dilbert just depresses me.

And the worst thing about bugs is that you can just be sitting there, minding your own business, being good, and one comes doodling along, getting in your stuff, nibbling at your ear, crawling up your nose. Perhaps the only worse thing is when you have to go looking for them. Open one drawer and -- Yipes! Hundreds of the little crawly things.

Zen tells me to embrace the bugs, to recognize that they aren't evil or deserving of being sprayed down the disposal. But my hatred and fears are instinctive, even, I have to say, healthy.

Bugs are full of germs, you know. Embrace the wrong germ and you die -- the ultimate non-productive act that leaves you food for more bugs.

As a knitter living in New Orleans, I have been waging a war against wool moths for some time now. I know, as long as I value my wools and mohairs and alpacas, that the wool moths will never really go away. At least the cockroaches are just disgusting. The wool moths cost me money. If I try to embrace them, they'll eat my sweater.

My idea of a zen temple always places it on top of a rocky mountain far above the world. Not a lot of wool moths or cockroaches on top of a rocky mountain, either.

It's raining outside now, and I have a damp spot on my ceiling in the closet. I have a friend coming over for dinner tonight who's allergic to my cat, and I have cat hair everywhere (which the wool moths also love to eat) that I need to vacuum up. I think I'll make raspberry tilapia, so I'll have to buy some more raspberries. Bugs got in the last ones.