Watermarks
I’m drawing a blank.
I’m just sitting at my new desk, looking around, sliding my finger across the touchpad of my laptop, wiping off a layer of fine dust which is possibly been sitting there for a long time, but under this new spotlight, it’s showing itself off in its full glory. I anxiously touch the perfectly sharpened tip of a pencil, currently looking cosy in the arms of a plush toy orangutan, both housed inside another new addition, a pencil holder. I love well-sharpened pencils. And I especially love the ones they keep in the conference rooms with the intention that people will be taking notes and contributing passionately to the meeting, which inevitably, albeit slowly, eats into the lunch hour. But those perfect pencils often end up being used to create some of the most creative doodles you’d find in conference rooms. I like to bring a pencil back from those conferences. I like the fact that those pencils were the chosen ones, and now one of them gets to come and sit in my pencil holder. And one night, I’d be admiring its perfection while trying to push my way through a manic episode.
About 30 minutes ago, my mind spiralled into panic mode. I felt my chest churning like the dinner I had eaten earlier was packing its way back up. The television was on and felt louder than ever. It’s always at 8, the volume. But today, it felt like every decibel from those 2.1 speakers was designed to disorient me, one brain cell at a time. I was pacing up and down, telling myself a story that I was uneasy because I ate too much. A few minutes later, I was sitting at the edge of my bed, hyperventilating and shaking back and forth. Everything that was around me felt loud. Objects sitting silently around me were screaming for attention and telling me things about me I wasn’t willing to listen.
I’m told that one must be the observer of the mind. Not become the mind itself. It’s a tricky concept to comprehend and tougher to live with and practise. So, I knew I needed to get out of my mind and step back. With every word I type right now, I’m taking a step away. My mind is the object, and I describe it. I might need to reword this. The mind is an object, and now it is being described. Letting go of any possession. Even the possession of one’s own mind. Fascinating.
The said mind is a very generous and accommodating space. It invites and lets all forms of thoughts, emotions, questions, afterthoughts, judgements, and more inside, feeds them all, hot-water them, and nurtures them for a long time until they grow bigger and stronger. How charitable!
But the uncharitable observer had to let these long-stay leeches out. And, the mind feels a bit calmer now. No more racing thoughts, and it’s also allowed the heart and lungs to rest a little. The gut feels like it can relax, too, and unload the brick it was holding.
Returning to the blank canvas, which looks a bit like a bathroom mirror now, there are plenty of watermarks. Every morning, when you walk up to the mirror in your bathroom, you can see yourself, but it could be a bit clearer. Perhaps a clean canvas is not such a bad thing. Not when the mind is eager to splash it with colours of all hues and painting tools that are not quite. But how can the mind admire something which is not? The emptiness gets filled before it is even felt. More often, with colours that come from anger or frustration, confusion or dissatisfaction. Like the giant mop-broom from the classic Mickey Mouse Wizard series, soaking up the water and bouncing itself onto the canvas. No rhythm and a mind of its own. Like the orangutan chilling in the pencil holder.
With this watermarked canvas, the mind will rest tonight. Until tomorrow, when it finds new couch surfers.
