Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

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The Least Snarky Moment of My Life

In homage to the flower photo and retreat-theme of the last post, I’d like to share the moment when I burst into tears over an ant.

An ant.

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Discernment or the Bitch Train?

Well, as of this blog’s maiden post, I have gained three followers. Dual response: 1. Great! Be an influence! 2. Well that’s just peachy. Now you can’t cock this up, you know.

The topic of the day: May I Mindfully Judge?

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The Raisin Cult

Welcome to the Sarcastic Sangha, the Compassionate Cynics, the Mordant Meditators, otherwise known as the Raisin Cult.

Population: me. Your Humble Narrator.

My therapist of late (J) told me a couple years ago that I should attend her mindfulness group on Wednesday afternoons for an hour or so. I had just been released from a hospital whose idea of mindfulness was: “Look at your feet. WHERE ARE THEY?!” and the subsequent repetitions until you had named several possibilities for the location of your feet (under my ankles, on the linoleum, in my non-slip socks…), so I was skeptical. Sardonic. Scornful.

I thought it was a moronic thing to do. The most I’d heard about it at the time involved close examinations of raisins and the squeaky noises they make. I doubted that a raisin squeaking could fix my crabby mood, never mind my battery of acronyms pulled from the DSM IV.

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