Getting to know Bhutan it struck me that the sense of design doesn't stop at the houses hotels, or restaurants. No, they have a gorgeous gas stations and ornate bathrooms on the side of the road. It reminded me of a line in the Steve Jobs biography on how he cared about the design of the circuit board no one ever saw, the way his dad cared about the backside of the newly carpendered wardrobe. A sense of design that reaches beyond the surface, beyond the obvious to become a way of life.
At dinner tonight (sitting alone with my thoughts), I wanted to record my days here. Reading back over my journal the other day it was ridiculously obvious which entries pre-compose in my mind. The others read like the small child sitting across the restaurant from me tonight sounded - that almost-cry - just a tone let out to let the world know that you're alive. The kind of noise you want to shush.
I started composing, from the art surrounding me. A serpent dragon that formed the spine of the pillar; billowing clouds exhaled from the mouth embrace the ceiling in the series of rolling ringlet and peaked valleys. I admired the way Bhutanese art compliments the curve of a circle with this sharp lines of the square or rectangle. It somehow evokes the way life can flow out of you like a Sarah McLaughlin song, and then, how all that love and hurt and raw emotion can seem surreal or unimportant next to career choices or whether today is a monday morning works day or a Sunday afternoon laze.
Composing lines changes the way I observe things changes the observed, like a photon no longer exhibiting the interference of wave, yielding under observation to become just a single particle. I've been watching my thoughts in preparation for a day of meditation, and over dinner, I started wondering how much my life, my story, my everyday interpretation of the world would change if I started composing lines all the time. Using it as a way to mark my path across this world - written, memorized, or just recited to myself in moment. I wonder if I can do it like the Bhutanese build their towns: meticulous, a way of life. As I learned to meditate, can I also learn to continuously compose in my mind's eye? A recited composition of meaning, told every moment by me to me.
At dinner tonight (sitting alone with my thoughts), I wanted to record my days here. Reading back over my journal the other day it was ridiculously obvious which entries pre-compose in my mind. The others read like the small child sitting across the restaurant from me tonight sounded - that almost-cry - just a tone let out to let the world know that you're alive. The kind of noise you want to shush.
I started composing, from the art surrounding me. A serpent dragon that formed the spine of the pillar; billowing clouds exhaled from the mouth embrace the ceiling in the series of rolling ringlet and peaked valleys. I admired the way Bhutanese art compliments the curve of a circle with this sharp lines of the square or rectangle. It somehow evokes the way life can flow out of you like a Sarah McLaughlin song, and then, how all that love and hurt and raw emotion can seem surreal or unimportant next to career choices or whether today is a monday morning works day or a Sunday afternoon laze.
Composing lines changes the way I observe things changes the observed, like a photon no longer exhibiting the interference of wave, yielding under observation to become just a single particle. I've been watching my thoughts in preparation for a day of meditation, and over dinner, I started wondering how much my life, my story, my everyday interpretation of the world would change if I started composing lines all the time. Using it as a way to mark my path across this world - written, memorized, or just recited to myself in moment. I wonder if I can do it like the Bhutanese build their towns: meticulous, a way of life. As I learned to meditate, can I also learn to continuously compose in my mind's eye? A recited composition of meaning, told every moment by me to me.
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