TO HELL WITH SANTA: HOW BAT SH*T CRAZY AND FAR OUT IS THAT?

 

And there I was on a crisp Autumn evening sipping my London Fog in Wascana Park, Regina, Saskatchewan, CANADA, when Santa pulled up – he was driving a Coca-Cola truck!  As soon as he stepped down from his truck, Santa walked over to me and gave me a high five!  Holly jolly!  Of course, I decided to snap a few Santa pictures!

In the ready and perfect position for taking my last picture, I was assailed by a passer-by. “Taking pictures of Satan Claus!” She screamed at me. (Yes, "Satan" Claus, she called him.)  

How batsh*t crazy and far out is that?

“Actually, I’m finished with real Santa,” I said, “and now I’m taking pics of Coca-Cola Santa.”  Why I offered such information I do not know. 

“F*&#@ing people who drink Coca-Cola do love their Satan Claus!” she retorted.  I noticed she then joined a small group of anti-vaxxers picketing in front of the Saskatchewan Legislative Building. 

Reflecting on this encounter, I am empirically guessing that in her conspiratorial mind, I was but another simple member of the brain-washed human herd, whereas she and her picketing invidious ilk will continue to gather and congratulate themselves on penetrating and exposing the real intentions of socially constructed sinister Santa Claus.  I am also guessing that during this Christmastime any children in her immediate orbit will be quite disappointed.

To her and other anti-vaxxers, I dedicate this Christmas card:

Moving backward …

Geologists in Poland have just uncovered hundreds of dinosaur footprints, so well preserved that even the scaly skin of these reptiles can be seen.  Such a find gives greater insight into a complex ecosystem that existed over 200 million years ago!

Going forward …

Astronomers, sighting through a very large telescope in Chile, have discovered a massive planet ten times the size of Jupiter.  This planet is situated 325 light years (10 trillion kilometers) from Earth. 

How far away is that?  For regular people comprehension, to travel just one light year would take 37,200 human years!

Meanwhile back on Earth …

Being ever the existentialist and suffering existential dread as of late (I am 70 years of age and know my time left is temporal and not eternal), I still love to contemplate certain questions of the human condition. 

Two such questions, especially, come to mind:  Where did we come from? and Where are we going?

And the answers to both:  We do not know.

But here is what I know:  Collectively and historically, both the philosopher camp and followers of the camp faithful, have sought and not yet expressed satisfactory answers from their searching from within.  Because of the legion of non-suffice answers offered by either camp, the science camp has extended the searching from within to that of searching without.  According to astronomers, the answers we seek but cannot find on earth will be aborn in space!

Meanwhile, back to sipping London Fogs in Wascana Park …

People, there is no Satan Claus -- YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

 

 

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS: MY BRAIN, BY BODY, MY BUSKING

STRUMMING AND SINGING AT THE CONEXUS ARTS CENTRE

 The start of my snappy title was stolen, or rather, borrowed from the most well-known and enduring song of Randy Bachman (Bachman-Turner Overdrive, 1973). I should mention, too, that this same song title was employed prolifically by fellow Regina resident, Kevin Holness, half-back for the Canadian National Soccer team (1990-92, 1995-96), who named his local Regina team, TCOB (Taking Care of Business).  But I digress …

As everyone else, I, too, am taking care of business.  Today, selfishly, I am my writing about my brain, my body, and my busking.  And in a definite order of importance, shall my racing and writing thoughts begin!

• MY BRAIN …

Taking care of my brain I have always the urge to write.  Writing, I believe, is the natural extension of thinking.  As stated in the paragraph above, I am one with continual racing thoughts.  In delusional fashion, I am convinced that I have more control of these thoughts when I put them onto paper, rather than just be pestered by them all day long.  In this regard I am privileged and lucky.  I love to write songs (I am a local singer-songwriter); I love to write therapeutic scripts (I am a hypnotherapist); I love to write essays (I am a blogger).

For every season for every year, I have a singer-songwriter gig the BUSHWAKKER BREW PUB.  This has been the case for the last eight years.  To prepare for this and for my own personal amusement, I write original folk songs, lots of them, some even on demand.

For my private hypnotherapy practice, to induce my clients are into a state of trance, the scenes they enact are written mostly by me, whereas, the newly minted behaviour scripts are a collaboration of both my clients and myself.  In any case (pun intended), creative thinking, creative writing, and creative scripting are of utmost importance.  It is during a period of introspection after not having great success with any client, that I tend to re-think and re-create and re-write ideas and scripts.

For my blog, starting with a creative snappy title and closing with my Chaucerian Parade, and all the words in-between, are written by me.  In my blog beginnings, I used to write, without fail, one entry each week.  And now many years since, having now readers from 151 countries, I have become somewhat complacent.  Whenever a topic or a snappy title jumps at me, I write another entry.  The frequency now of such happenchance is usually bi-weekly.

• MY BODY …

I know that I have only one body for which I take complete responsibility.  Hmmm … my body my temple metaphor has too much that divine connotation.  Perhaps, more suitable (pun intended again) metaphor would be, with absolutely no choice, in this skin is the only place that I must reside.

In the 70’s and 80’s I was a swimmer (a miles of laps every morning all through my university years);  in the early 80’s I became a long-distance runner;  in the late 80’s I became a weight lifter; a decade into the 2000’s I became a Muay Thai guy.

And to follow up on these activities:  I taught swimming and high diving and scuba introduction for over 10 years; I have run a couple of marathons and many, many half marathons; I have taught weight training, and am presently teaching fundamental Muay Thai on my current education contract.

Swimming and running have been great for my cardio; weightlifting have been great for my physique my social capital.  Parallel to my having a master’s degree in psychology and people thinking I am intelligent, being a pseudo-martial artist people think I am tough.  And admittedly ingloriously, I very seldom dissuade others of imagining these two social perceptions.

Factoid: My privilege began at my birthday.  Now at a waning 70 years of age and reflecting on my life-to-death continuum, deservedly or undeservedly, I am lucky that I have been genetically gifted with a mop-shock of hair, a six-foot stature, 20-20 hot hazel eyes, and a singing and speaking voice that is basso-profundo.  And that is all I must declare about my physical presence.

• MY BUSKING …

Soon after the turn of the century I became a busker.  One summer day, July 1^st, 2003, my son, Baron, and I loaded our van and we drove west to Victoria, British Columbia on buskation.  We chose Victoria because two of my children, my oldest and my youngest, were attending the University of Victoria at the time.  Baron and I rented a small house on the edge of downtown and went busking on the mean streets of Victoria for one month.  Our daily timetable in Victoria:  On awakening, we would lift weights at the Phoenix club, after which we would eat our breakfast at some downtown hole-in-the-wall diner.  Then we would walk home (to our rental), wash up, and change into our busking duds.  Our busking schedule, by our design, was matched to that of the cruise ships.  Every time a cruise ship stopped, at least a thousand passengers would unload and walk and shop about the Inner Harbour in downtown Victoria.

Returning to Saskatchewan we spent some time busking in Kamloops, in Salmon Arm, in Medicine Hat, and in Moose Jaw.  I must mention that Baron and I have ridden that busking trail more than a few times since.  Busking has become a pastime passion, and my ultimate plan is to become a planetary busker.  I have a wanderlust, and not just in a Walter Mitty fashion. I have strummed my guitar on streets in the Netherlands, Ireland, and Morocco. And wherever I have strummed, I have also brought out my pencil, my persona changing to that of a street portrait artist busker.  I love both alterities!

I have bracketed this essay into three sections, My Brain, My Body, My Busking, and have presented them, for the economy of writing convenience, as separate entities.  Accordingly, they could be recognized as being disparate, but this is not necessarily so.  I do have that creative esemplastic literary power to make a case for blending them, for harmonizing them, and for in fact, treating them as being synonymous.  Ah, but that is another ship to sail, another essay to float.

In this essay I have presented that I am a martinet in my personal regimens about my brain, my body, and my busking.  And indeed, I am, but only when it comes to weight training.  My other mentioned actions are frequent, but not so over-fastidious.

In this essay I have also suggested that I am the quintessential Brainiac, the quintessential Beef Cake, the quintessential Busker, all of which I shall emphatically state -- I am not.

But I would like to be!

 

 

 

NYET TO THE STAGE -- YES TO THE STREET

 

This is a blog about busking.  There are times, however, that I do write about the glories of gigging; today is not one of them.  When I think about going busking, I think about the love and the freedom and the fun.  When I think about performing on stage, these tenets do come to mind, but only in a modified fashion.  I shall elaborate. 

• THE LOVE

There is certainly love on the stage, but not all the time.  Stage gigs come with considerable angst.  Getting the gig is easy; soliciting for bandmates is not so easy.  Sure, I have a cache of ever-faithful guitar-slingers who are positively just a text away.  For example, one confidante gig-mate of mine, Trent, is a guitar virtuoso, and has NEVER missed a gig with me at the BUSHWAKKER BREWPUB! For the last eight years have had four singer-songwriter Bushwakker stage appearances every year, one for each season!   

Like Trent, all my gig-mates are just great to be around. However, a significant piece of my imaginary and unwritten gig mandate, is to recruit new and raw talent for the Bushwakker stage; therefore, I am always on the hunt for new members. Being a busker, I know that the biggest bush to beat in search of local talent is in front of liquor stores!  I have recruited many a young and fresh guitar-slinger-songwriter from this very challenging and gritty venue. 

Other stage angst includes creating playlists, practicing songs, and being politically motivated to keep everyone happy.  Keeping everyone happy includes the bar staff, the sound technician, fellow performers, and of course, the bar crowd of imbibers!  The bigger the crowd, the bigger the loot.  The daily loot for a busker is always a guesstimate, whereas the amount of money for a gigger has a guaranteed minimum.

• THE FREEDOM

On stage I am tethered to a written contract.  I show up at such-and-such a time, perform two or three sets on a prescribed time, and close on a set time. 

Busking I am unbound.  In time I am unstuck.  Busking I can show up whenever I want.  If, for example, I know that in Victoria, B.C. that the thickest crowds are those that take leave of their cruise ship to shop downtown, then I play according to the ship schedules.  Or if it is sunny and windless, I sometimes thrum all day.  No matter the locale if I am in the mood I stay and strum.  If I am not in the mood, I go elsewhere and do other things.

On stage the gigs are weatherproof.  Just like the gig take, the temperature is pretty much a constant.  Sometimes, though, under the stage lights, the temperature rises.  Sweating while strumming and singing on stage is not uncommon. 

Busking on the street, one must weather the elements.  A brutto-tempo busker, purportedly by me to be sometimes, in truth I am not.  I am a very weathered busker, but this measure according to time spent rather than weather persevered.  Quite unlike the postal person who delivers the mail in rain and snow and sleet and hail, I suffer the elements only by choice, my choice!

Factoid:  Magnificent weather makes for munificent gestures from my passer-by consumers.

• THE FUN

Meeting up with my gig mates four times at year at the BUSHWAKKER BREW PUB gives me the opportunity to transcend time!   Four times a year I molt all my infirm and self-alchemize to be a thirty-something beer-chugger with my guitar-slinger half-my-age stage-mates.  Yes, I am that delusional.

And it is fun, too, in delusional fashion busking and morphing into that stranger-comes-to-town persona.  In real time I get to embellish that road theme that I love so much in novels and movies and real life!  Whenever I am traveling down that busker road in new surroundings and meeting new and perfect strangers, as always, people approach me with phatic chit chat on their mind.  And whenever such chats are over I always imagine these perfect strangers, saying as they re-connect with whomever, “See that guy over there, Martha,” as they point at me, “well I’ve just had a chat with him.  He looks good; he speaks well; he seems bright. I just wonder what the hell his story his.  I wonder how he has been reduced to this.”  

Though I fancy myself as being that stranger-comes-to-town planetary-busker, certainly there are those, who see me as a guttersnipe rather than as a globe trotter.

These are just my imaginings; I am sure as my coping rationalization to reinforce my notion of being the main character in the continuing road theme romantic saga.

To close, a dram of delight can be wrought from a stage, whereas a magnum of mirth can be got from the street.  

A STAGE IS A GEMSTONE; THE STREET IS THE LODESTONE!

However, if I’ve ever the urge to perform on stage, THE BUSHWAKKER BREW PUB is certainly the place to be!

 

 

 

ZEN AND THE ART OF BUSKING

 

 (My busker portrait of Nik at the Cornwall Centre)

My blog title today was stolen from my favorite book to date, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Robert Pirsig, 1974).  Having read this book more than a few times, with each reading I have come away with a deeper understanding of Pirsig’s theme and speaks, too, to my own theme, that of existential dread.  Purportedly, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is an inquiry into values; even more specifically, an inquiry into the imagined harmony between Eastern and Western values, hence the Zen word in the title.

Consequential to my existential dreading after each reading, I always self-mand to embrace more Zen in my life, promising myself to effect more Zen into my intricate day-to-day doings, to embrace quality in all that I do with what time I have left.  Such attempts are almost all-for-naught and produce rather zero-sum outcomes for the most part.  Not so, though, at least with a couple of activities, my private hypnotherapy practice, and my busking.

During all the stages, the Zen is key in the art of hypnosis.  In hypnotherapy it begins with the prologue, as I explain to my clients exactly the procedures for their sessions, what to expect during each stage in their sessions.  It is very necessary for both client and self to be focused on this pre-hypnosis chat. 

Immediately following this procedures chat, is the induction stage, in which I deliver my cap-a-pie body countdown, whilst continually reminding my clients to focus, focus, focus on their “big and deep inhalations,” and their “long and slow exhalations,” while “breathing deeply, breathing slowly, breathing rhythmically.”  During this induction is when I know whether the clients are focused.  I know this by listening to their breathing.  This is the beginning of trance. 

Then during the deepening, the second stage of trance, I know, too, when my clients are focused.  I know this because of their sky-to-ground elucidations, as they describe their imaginary sensations of sights and sounds and scents, along with imaginary touches and tastes.

Such thick sensory descriptions continue from the deepening stage through to the client/counsellor collaborated scenarios, their imaginary and newly therapeutic behaviours, first described by the clients in my office, then enacted by the clients in real time right after leaving my office.   

Focus, focus, focus.  This is key to hypnotherapy.  It is this Zen-like focus is that makes hypnotherapy so successful.

And now to my Zen and the art of busking.  Unlike my hypnotherapy sessions where the clients and myself must be in absolute sync with one another, guitar busking is all Me, ME, ME.  When I am guitar-busking I can continually and unilaterally spend my strumming time woolgathering on whatever I want.  Quite in contrast to strumming, my time spent portrait-busking forces me to focus on my consumer’s visage, but only for the 15 minutes that it takes me to draw the likeness.  For either, guitar or drawing pencil, the Zen in the art of busking is all about the preparation and presentation.  Not wanting to be a goldbrick, I strive to be over-fastidious in this regard.

Of course, now I am referring to self-preparation, not client-preparation.  While busking I really do not have clients; for the sake of cataloguing, I have what I call passer-by consumers.  My clients schedule appointments, my passer-by consumers do not even know they are consumers until they pass by.  Only when they toss a coin into my guitar case, or stop for a pencil portrait, do they become consumers.  Even though my encounters with the bulk of these people is but a blink in time, I do prepare, prepare, prepare for them.

My first check is the weather.  And this is what I know, generally:  There is never bad weather – there is only bad dress.  Just because I know this does not mean I adhere to this.  I have always wanted to fancy myself as a brutto-tempo busker, but I cannot.  I am a fair-weather busker.  If it is windy, I do not busk – the money will just blow away.  If it is rainy, I do not busk – my guitar will get wrecked; or my drawing paper will get soaked.

When I go, I adhere to a regimen.  If I pack my guitar and harp, I always tune before I hit the pavement.  If I pack my sketchpad and pencils, I always re-stock my paper and sharpen all my pencils.  Never do I rush doing anything preparatory. 

When I go, I always look the part.  Head-to-toe I always have my designed messy hair, under hat if the air is cool, bare headed if it is hot.  I wear a long-sleeved and collared shirt if it is cool, a tight t-shirt if it is hot.  I wear faded blue jeans if it is cool, cargo hiking shorts if it is hot.  My footwear is always leather working boots if it is cool, sandals if it is hot. 

I remind the reader, that my busker alterity is a self-confessed narcissist, one who really wants to look good.  For example, my tight t-shirt if it is hot.  I lift weights five days a week at a downtown gym.  I have been doing this for over twenty years.  I do this because I do want to ever avoid that quaggy look – (my existential dread is haunting). I do this because I want to look good and yah, if I do say so myself, I do look good! 

Sidebar:  Looking good has its perks.  Achieving a model-like physique demands a daily strain of time and effort, of which and not by happenchance, offers a lifetime of positivity in the realms of physiological and psychological health.  But tongue in cheek for the first part, I digress …

When I am thrumming and harpooning I have mainly two playlists; I have the hard copies of original songs that I can rehearse for my next paying gig (yes, I can be that capitalist mercernary musician), and I have imaginary copies of which I just experiment, strumming experimental notes for experimental riffs for imaginary-to-real buskspots.

Both these playlists demand some concentration, but certainly not Zen-like concentration.  I like to people watch as I busk.  Looking passers-by in the eye, but not disconcertingly too long, is relaxing and fun.  Similarly, to the people-freaking trend in the 60’s, even imagining where they’re from and where they work can be fun.  To every coin-tossing consumer I always stop strumming and harping to say, “Thanks, man” or “Thanks, ma’am.”  And I always smile while saying such.  In my busker world, I really believe that this acknowledgment is huge.  Ignoring a patron is a socially inappropriate slight.  Oft times, especially when I am travelling, I toss coins to lots of buskers.  And if any particular busker, to whom I have just given any of my hard-earned money, neglects to acknowledge my very existence, without so much as a “thank-you,” it certainly sucks the joy out of what could have been a gracious Zen moment. 

For me, Zen and the art of busking is a yin yang experience.  Without a busker there is no consumer, and without a consumer there is no busker.  This entry today on busking has taken only a thousand words for me to precis; the actual art of busking has taken me more than a thousand days to perfect. 

Over the years of mindful contemplating while busking, the more I understand Robert Pirsig’s point in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The more times I go busking the more experiences I gather; the more experiences I gather the better my trade; the better my trade the more quality my performance.  This is not a megillah.  This is but a simple formula.  These are the moments in the making of Zen.

The skinny of Zen is “To live is to suffer.”

Here is another skinny, I have concluded from busking:

Quantity begets Experience – Experience begets Quality – Quality begets Zen.

Strumming and singing in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week are my guitar-slinger mates from my gig last night at the BUSHWAKKER BREW PUB in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada.  

Top row L - R: Cori, Self, Nathan 

Bottom row L - R: Trent, Albert, John, Cecil  

 

 

FLY ME TO THE MOON: OR FROM HERE TO ETERNITY

Should any potential clients want to fly to the moon and play among the stars, they need only to book an appointment, settle into my office and adventurously fly backwards into the past or jet forwards into the future. Past life regressions and Future life progressions are becoming commonplace and quite in demand in my hypnotherapy private practice. 

Crazy you say! Admittedly I, too, used to think so. I thought especially crazy after I read a couple books by Brian Weiss M.D., MANY LIVES MANY MASTERS (1988) and MESSAGES FROM THE MASTERS (2000). When I first read these books I discerned them to be corny and quite non-academic; my second readings years later, I discovered I quite liked the concepts and themes but alas, still somewhat corny and still quite non-academic. But so what. Who am I to judge Brian Weiss in any regard. 

Factoid: Besides his medico creds of being a psychiatrist and now hypnotherapist, he’s also a best selling author who writes mainly about past life regressions. I’ve read that his consumer queue to schedule an appointment with Brian is over a thousand clients long. Can you imagine! To seek counsel from Brian Weiss you’re in a line with over a thousand others in front of you!  

Another (obvious) factoid: Brian Weiss is the readers’ guru of past life regression. And I must admit, dear reader, that I’ve given his books to some my past life regression clients as gifts, and also that I’ve read even more of his books as of late. 

Crazy again you say? Well, dear reader, if you think past life regression is too far out-there, then what do you think of the beliefs of most major world religions. Astral travel and other out-of-body experiences that transcend both time and space seem key to the faithful followers of most, if not all, the world religions. Whether it be the resurrection of an actual body in the flesh, or an eternal reckoning for a wandering soul, life after death is the fundamental concept for our world religions. 

Let’s dance, or rather, trip the light fantastic over a few examples. Over two billion followers of the Christian faith believe that physical death does happen, and when it does, those who live a good life and believe in Jesus Christ will be rewarded with life eternal in Heaven. And those who reject Jesus Christ will be sentenced to a life eternal in Hell. (Catholic Christians also believe in Purgatory, the place where one’s sins are stayed and purified before entering Heaven.) All this is written in the Christian good book, the Bible. 

Two billion followers of Islam, too, believe in life after death.  They refer to this as Akhirah. In the Muslim faith it is Allah who decides when a person dies. Similarly, as in Christianity, those who’ve performed more good deeds than bad deeds, get an eternal pass into Paradise, a place of no sickness, no pain, no sadness; while those who’ve performed more bad deeds than good deeds shall enter an eternal Hell, a place of forever physical and spiritual suffering. The Muslim book of religious authority is the Qur’an. 

Hinduism, too, teaches an afterlife. Most Hindus believe that when a person dies, their atman (soul) is reborn into a different body. Some Hindus belief that this rebirth happens directly at death, while others believe that an atman may exist in other realms or even other animal forms. Whatever the case, a positive or negative rebirth is the consequence of good or bad actions in the present life. This is called Karma, and explained more in The Vedas, the religious writings of Hinduism. 

Shuffling my last card in this religious dance, I’ll briefly discuss the fifteen million people following Judaism. Jewish followers, too, believe in life after death. Living the good life, according to their scriptures, results in the human soul returning to God. Again, those faithful to Judaism are of the belief that the human body can transcend both time and space, the Jewish notion of a soul and an afterlife, just being a couple confirmations. Dedicated Jews follow the readings in the Torah. 

So much for the world religions. 

Transcending time and space, as a consequence in life after death is not restricted to the religious faithful. The secular, too, experience out-of-body experiences. Whether this be a study in neuroscience or the paranormal, or dabbling in any of the mystical arts, any intentional out-of-body experiences having an astral traveller visiting other realms, can all be achieved through mind power. Such altered states of consciousness, including even remote viewing, as coined by the military and mentalists, are very possible. This not-so-strange ability to travel through time and space and other dimensions, where one’s ethereal body (or soul) can leave a breathing, existing physical vessel to explore in another vessel, other worldly planes, is readily and often consummated via such practices as meditation and HYPNOTHERAPY! 

Meanwhile back in the physics and philosophy departments … 

Physicists, generally, believe that the dimension of time is as real as the dimension of space.  Einstein thought time to be an illusion. He calculated that the only real time is the present, whilst the past and future are imaginary. Our past is but a memory, often hazed through romantic nostalgia; whereas, the future is but a supposition, often times a delusional or uncertain belief. Without such practices as meditation and hypnotherapy, our time on earth would really be just a one-way street. But by employing hypnotherapy, we are able to have our return-flight travel tickets stamped for all past, present, and future destinations. 

To simplify, this mode of direct travel is a linear flight plan on the human continuum starting left of the present to memory recall, and further left to past life regression. Still travelling along this continuum, directly to the right of the present we have memory forecast, and then even further to the right, future life progression. And so, from the extreme left to the extreme right on our linear continuum we have in this order: Past Life Regression, Memory Recall, the Present, Memory Forecast, Future Life Progression. 

Note, dear readers, that all of the aforementioned travellers, as referenced from the labels of their experiences, believe, too, in life after death. Here are the logical assumptions: A past life suggests a life that has passed. A present life suggests a life as distinguished from a life elsewhere. A future life suggests that another life will exist after the demise of the present one. 

Past Life Regression is the method using hypnosis to recover memories of past lives or incarnations. Past Life Regression is typically undertaken for either a spiritual experience or some psychotherapeutic elucidation. In my own private practice, most of my past life regression clients are simply seeking adventure, reminding me of Arnie Schwarzenegger on his virtual vacation to Mars in the movie, Total Recall. (And total recall could be certainly an apt descriptor, and also the perfect synonym, for past life regression.) Arnie, however, kept the same body in his Total Recall; whereas, my clients having past life regressions are never in the same skin as the one seated before me in the session. 

Memory Recall, moving more toward the middle toward the present, represents any memory of the past, but in the same body. So far in my practice, this has always been a memory from yesterday or yesteryear. My very first client who sought me for a memory recall, during our session, travelled back from his present state of being a 70-something male, to when he was a ten-year-old adolescent, living in England. It just happens that my very first time with this client was my very first success story in the delivery of memory recall. 

As quickly as one is aware of it, one blink and the Present is gone and in the past. Now you read it, and now you’re reading the next sentence. Being in the present is especially important for anyone seeking the way of Zen, or to bring this thinking into the current and commercial enterprises, for anyone seeking Mindfulness. Call it Zen or call it Mindfulness, the focus of both being on the contemporaneous now, and right now is already gone. 

Memory Forecast can be simply defined as practically anything you know that is about to happen. Such forecasts can be for just around the corner or somewhere down the line. When I’m climbing the stairs I can predict with (almost) certainty my destination. When I am walking home from work, I can envision where I’m going. I can also predict that darkness will end this day and a morning light will start a new tomorrow. Our age, too, is in progression. Every dawn begins a new day and every new day ages us chronologically and biologically; thus, maybe the essential reason for seeking other lives. 

Future Life Progression is to reappear into the future in another body. So far I’ve nary a client seeking a future life progression. But when this client does come along, I’m guessing the purpose shall be to determine or confirm the fate of a loved one. Whether this loved one is a spouse or an offspring, this search will be prompted by love; hence my phrase, loved one. Or it could be that this client may simply be seeking adventure. And I would be certainly up for that. 

Admittedly, this particular topic is for a rather esoteric readership that can link the notion of time travel directly to the religious notion of life after death. Factoid: To appreciate this type of link demands more than just a routine perfunctory, moment of wonder. Fortunately for me, such a client-hypermnesia can be achieved, the particulars of any recalls becoming very popular in my private hypnotherapy practice. 

To conclude, I’ve a couple personal proclamations with respect to hypnotic time travel:  

We can choose to be here or there or anywhere we’ve ever been or will be, backward into eternity or forward into forever. 

We are aging – yet we are ageless; our bodies are finite – yet our minds are evermore. 

“Fly me to the moon 

Let me play up there with those stars, 

Let me see what life is like On a-Jupiter and Mars.” 

 

ECOTHERAPY AND EGRETS: IN THE COMPANY OF TREES

THE EGRET

A few days ago during my morning run I stopped to snap a photo of a tall, white bird standing in the shallows of Wascana Lake. Not recognizing the species, I sent the pic to my birder, photographer friend, Cathy, who identified it as an egret. As our chat continued, we also discussed our Wascana consumer habits, my running and her walking and birding in general. Not-so-strangely, Ecotherapy quickly came into the conversation and thus, the title, ECOTHERAPY AND EGRETS: BEING MINDFUL OF NATURE. 

Ecotherapy embraces the principles of Ecopsychology, the psychology that suggests clients can improve their mental health by way of reconnecting with nature. Ecotherapists utilize outdoor settings for their therapy sessions, in an attempt to cultivate fresh solutions for their clients’ long-standing problems. 

Purportedly, the benefits of ecotherapy, too, effect the physical health of clients, movement improving mood, so to speak. Also, for any clients having angst about attending therapy sessions in same ol’ same ol’ clinical settings, ecotherapy definitely fits the bill (pun intended) by providing a new and natural surrounding. 

Ecotherapy is often referred to as Nature Therapy, Green Therapy, Forest Therapy, Forest Bathing, Earthing, Shimrin-Yoku, and Sami Lok. However, to connect this type of therapy to my current hypnotherapy practice, I am contemplating a new tag for it. 

Ecotherapy sounds technical and scientific, suggesting that one needs a certain knowledge that is much more than a pedestrian awareness of our ecosystems. Nature Therapy and Green Therapy sound like laundry or body soap commercials, while Forest Therapy, has an artsy and ethereal hippy vibe, smacking for tree-hugging. Forest Bathing could be a marketing line for a nudist camp, a warm and steamy midsummer night’s dream populated with gamboling wood nymphs; whereas, Earthing could be a body wash of gritty behaviour, a roll in the leaves and the mud instead of the hay. Shimrin-Yoku or Sami Lok could be some pop-up studio, another dojo promoting the latest discovery of some ancient hard-core martial art. 

Because I love hiking, I was thinking about Hiking Therapy! But alas, Hiking Therapy suggests a pre-requisite fitness component to partake. Hmmm. Maybe Excursion Therapy? Nope. The notion of Excursion suggests more of a trip or journey. Maybe Ramble Therapy? Nope. To Ramble suggests a quick and physical spurt or scramble of sorts. At a session yesterday evening I proposed the new handle to a new client, Amble Therapy. He said he liked it. But he was a new client and upon reflection, he might have agreed to liking any of my above mentioned labels, and probably any other I could have put forth. Oh well and so what. I like it and I’m going to stick with it … for now. 

And here is my plan: I’ll not jettison my principal practice of Hypnotherapy to start up a practice of Amble Therapy. I am seriously thinking, though, of employing Amble Therapy as my go-to-imagery for at least most of my Deepening stages. Not coincidentally, because of my hiking, I have often suggested forest scenes for my clients in trance. Also, I’ve decided that for any of my clients who are needing a tweak to strengthen any scenario from a previous session, a literal walk in the park may be the natural way to go. And lastly, for any potential clients who are too angst-ridden, struggling either mentally or physically, to actually travel to my office for a session vis-à-vis, offering Amble Therapy along with my current offering of Face-time, could be a soliciting strategy. 

Factoid: On my website I do offer home visits, but have had only one taker to date. And during that one-time home-visit, during the hypnotherapy session there was a door bell rung soon followed by a heavy, heavy knock on the door. And that session abruptly concluded when the husband walked in and demanded, “What the hell is going on here!” Needless to say it was not my finest hour. 

I thought that Amble Therapy would have been free of intrusions, but it wasn’t. My client and I met in a parking lot on the edge of the forest in Wascana Park. It was cold and rainy and we were bundled up accordingly. (I’m of the belief that there is no such thing as bad weather, there is only bad dress. I had suggested that my client pack along a rain coat.) Our nidus for the occasion would be the first picnic table we ambled upon entering the forest. Such a spot I thought would be tranquil enough for our session. I was wrong. 

Almost immediately as we sat down there were, literally, trumpets blowing. And from a gargantuan tent situated a couple hundred feet away, evangelicals were delivering revival sermons to a throng of hallelujah listeners, all of which being transmitted through microphones. Also, there happened to be a provincial marathon race, hundreds of runners pounding along the Devonian Pathway, so close we could hear them grunting as they passed by. 

No. My client did not have the chance to notice the crackling of leaves under his shoes as we meandered to the picnic table. No.  My client did not see or feel or smell any of the cacophony of clichés I am about to present. He did not hear the whispering winds or the murmuring trees. Neither did he hear the chattering of squirrels nor the chirping of birds. He did not have a whiff of the aromatic pines or the slight and musty scent emanating from the lake. Instead, my client did feel the bites of the rain on his face, and he did feel the clammy and soggy rain-resistant, not rain-proof, windbreaker clinging around the skin on his arms. 

Note, dear readers, Wascana Park is the second largest urban park in North America! So this setting should have been the perfect test for my Amble Therapy debut! Reflecting on this soon after saying adieu to my client, I knew that if any of my clients could focus on the natural things emitting from the forest, rather than these other uncommon and unnatural noises, then I would have reason to celebrate not only the success of this session, but future suggested hypnotic musings as well. 

In my typical fashion I did a follow-up with my client the very next day. I texted him an emoji, a hand with fingers-crossed followed by a question mark. He responded with an emoji having a straight-mouthed, not a smiley face. I translated his response to infer that it was not a success. Hmmm. 

Over the years I continually experiment and adapt new methodologies for my private practice. Needless to say I have experienced non-success before and so I decided this particular Amber Therapy session to be just more grist for the mill, just another counter-pattern to acknowledge and overcome, from which to learn and therefore strengthen my practice. Instead of stewing, I began writing. (When I really want to think about something, I write about it.) 

Here is my first written epiphany with regard to Amble Therapy: 

No matter how loud the other barks in the forest be, 

tune in especially to the bark on your neighbouring tree! 

And here is my wry attempt in parting humour for today: 

May the forest be with you!

Those marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week:

MY COUSIN, DAVE

 

BUSKING WITH MY NEW HARPING BUDDY, WHO WAS PASSING THROUGH TOWN

TAKE A HIKE! AND TAKE ANOTHER LOOK!

I love hiking up a mountain and into a forest. Such a hike is straightforward and uncomplicated. Writing today about hiking up mountains and through forests, I’ve reduced it to three elements: the physical, the financial, and the psychological. And before I ask my readers to actually weather any of these elements, I shall open with a couple of notions on what this essay is not about – a prologue if you will. 

This essay is not about cliff-hanger cliches referencing the ascension of a mountain as being a climb onto the edge of space and time. Nor is this essay a Zen adventure of the necessary tramping into a deep and dark wood with the sole purpose of getting lost only to find one’s real self. This essay is only about certain elements of hiking and certain facts about the footfalls in the forests where I’m hiking.   

The physical element: 

Spending time in Nature, in especially uncultivated and inhospitable regions, is both daunting and exhilarating. It is so cool to be splashing my face in a mountain stream; it is so wonderful to feel the spray ‘neath a mountain waterfall; it is so gripping to navigate a rugged ridge-line, knowing that any misstep could be life threatening. It is always invigorating spending time in Nature.

Hiking, especially the designated moderate to strenuous mountain hiking, demands a certain level of fitness. Spending at least an hour a day, five days a week in a local gym, I am ever striving to be ever-ready for hiking. Even though in fair weather I run three miles every day around my favourite lake (Wascana), still, my legs need the gym workouts to be hike-ready.  

The financial element: 

Hiking has a back-load of financial realities that need to be reckoned with. Travel costs money; travelling to anywhere is expensive. I live on the Canadian Prairies and therefore a means of good transportation is a must for the eight-hour trip to the Canadian Rockies. Also, I need a place of lodging when I get there. Reliable vehicles and quality lodgings cost money, never mind the added costs of park passes and parking fees. Food need not be included into the budget because, hike or not hike, I still have to eat. 

Hiking also demands certain gear and equipment. Hiking is about ditching the powder blue suit or skirt, along with the bruin leather pointed oxfords or heels, and replacing these corporate costumes with cap-a-pie hiking garb. For even the most middling hike, every hiker needs a cap or hat, sunglasses, a long-sleeved shirt, walking shorts, hiking shoes or boots, a backpack, and poles; most of which, save for the footwear and poles, can likely and readily be gotten (cheaply) from one’s own armoire. If you must buy something, when buying anything actually to go hiking, brand names are best. Quality pays. Quality gear and equipment will last through most anyone's hiking years. 

The psychological element: 

Hobby hiking is a freedom from the hobbles of work. When I hike the weight of work is not in my backpack. When I hike I’ve no team meetings, no client interviews, no end-of-day deadlines. When I hike I've no home duties of vacuuming the floors or scrubbing the decks. When I hike I always attempt to appreciate the nature of things in the forest. I am referring to things as the chipmunks and hares, the birds and the bears (yikes), and the flowers and trees, and the waterfalls and streams. 

Walking any trail is therapy for me, but trekking into forests deep can Zen-like. Walking between old trees, especially, offers that Zen sense of space and time. (But as I stated earlier, this essay is not about that. Just know that for me, every hike up a mountain is another page in my bildungsroman, appending another character script to my alterity.)

And speaking of alterity, as in all things in life ... 

IN THE FOREST, THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS AS THEY SEEM! 

The following three pictures were taken with my iPhone while tramping the mountain trails near Banff, Alberta, Canada.  Please note, the first photo is not a real bear (no kidding!); the second photo is not a real rodent; the third photo is not a real bird.  

Factoid:  All three photos are really just optical illusions that I felt compelled to "click" and share!

                                                                  WATER-BEAR

                                                               WOODEN RODENT

                                                               DRIFTWOOD BIRD 

THE MORNING PNEUMA: THE PEDESTRIAN PERSONALITY PROFILE

 

Every morning I run a three-mile loop on the Devonian Pathway which surrounds the urban side of Wascana Lake.  Every morning I say, “Morning” to everyone I meet on these runs.  This blog entry is simply a conjecture on what these morning recipients are thinking, my inductive approach to measuring the responses, and then bracketing these responses into four different personality traits.  Of course I could be wrong about everyone in this morning regard.

I could have followed the Greek physician, Hippocrates “father of medicine” (400 BC) theory that we are either sanguine (pleasure seeking and sociable), or choleric (ambitious and leader-like), or melancholic (analytical and literal), or phlegmatic (relaxed and thoughtful). 

I could have followed the early 1900’s personality theory of American writer, Katherine Cook Briggs, and her daughter, Isabel Briggs Myers, the Myers-Briggs Personality Test insisting on the four categories of people being: introversion/extroversion, or sensing/intuition, or thinking/feeling, or judging/perceiving.

I could have followed the personality theory of Swedish writer, Thomas Erikson, suggesting that people belong to the Reds (dominant and commanding), or the Yellows (social and optimistic), or the Greens (laid back and friendly), or the Blues (analytical and precise).

Instead of following any of the above I chose to create my own psychology test, The Morning Pneuma: The Pedestrian Personality Profile, which is based upon my morning runs.  “Morning” is a wordplay.  I do run every morning and while running I say “morning” to everyone I meet on the path.

Pneuma, which in Latin means air in motion or simply, breath, is a word I’ve chosen, too, for the title because it is alliterative (the P is silent), and because of the connotation of air in motion for a runner and the short greeting by anyone responding requires just a breath to deliver.  (And it so happens that Pneuma, too, refers to spirit, mind, soul, self, and subconscious, also anima, psyche, and personality.  It’s the perfect word!)

Like any other psychology test, the Morning Pneuma only measures one moment of behaviour in a person’s life.  The Morning Pneuma is simply one snapshot of one personality caught in a mere moment in life.  It would be wrong to suggest that this moment represents this person’s whole personality.  It would be wrong to inductively reason that from one isolated moment of behaviour reflects one’s entire persona.  Saying this, however, if someone’s behaviour is consistently cheery or grumpy or fastidious or flaky in test after test, whatever test being administered to measure this personality would for certain have some validity and/or credibility.

• ·         ADMINISTRATION

Instructions for the standardized administration of the MORNING PNEUMA: THE PEDESTRIAN PERSONALITY PROFILE are simple, simple.

Because I’m a regular morning runner, I tend to meet the same people on every run.  You know what I mean?  At the gym every day I meet the same people who go to my gym at that same hour.  As I pass a couple of bus stops on my walk to my workplace every day I meet the same people standing at those bus stops.  In the world of psychology, such people who are predicatively present in places you frequently visit at the same particular hours, those people who share the same space and times as yourself, are referred to as familiar strangers.   

• ·         METHOD

On the morning of the fourth of July, a usually busy, busy holiday but because of the Covid restrictions in my city, Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, I said, “morning,” to just 31 people walking down the path.  (I could’ve greeted people other than walkers but I didn’t.)  The length of my run was three miles; the entire testing time took 33 minutes.  This is my typical running speed – 11 minutes per mile.)

For my test I ran.  To deliver my “mornings” I could’ve walked or I could’ve ridden my bike, with likely the same test results. 

Also, to conduct my test, I could’ve picked anywhere, could've picked most any day, could've picked most any time of day, or most anytime in any season. There are some obvious exceptions:  Anytime after dark would be ridiculous.  During heat waves or frigid temperatures would be ridiculous.  In a mall or down the midway would be ridiculous.  Anywhere in the boonies too far from the madding crowd would have been ridiculous.  

• ·         RESULTS

Essentially, I have bracketed these “morning” recipients into four pseudo-psychological personality types:  Cheerios (the rather sunny group), Grumpos (the surly group), Perfunctos (the austere group), and Astros (the somewhat abstracted group).  For the purposes of my points today, four such personality types shall suffice.  Those sunny Cheerios are sweet and cheerful; those surly Grumpos are menacing and even threatening; those austere Perfunctos are serious and stern; those abstracted Astros are out of touch and lost in La-La land.

Of the thirty-one morning recipients, I discerned thirteen Cheerios, four Grumpos, eleven Perfunctos, and three Astros.  Thirteen cheers for the Cheerios -- 

HIP HIP HOORAY! HIP HIP HOORAY! HIP HIP HOORAY ...

And here are four of the familiar strangers that fit the bill of those personality groups I am presenting.  I shall refer to them by nickname to protect their true identity, though I must confess I’ve no clue of their true identities anyway.

Saint Nick is an older man who looks exactly like the 50’s and 60’s Coca-Cola Santa Claus.  He is balding and sporting a long white beard.  He even dresses in red most of the time.  I have seen him in a red t-shirt and I have noticed he wears red socks in his sandals.  Saint Nick always says “hi there” or “hello” to me before I morning him.   Definitely a Cheerio, Saint Nick always smiles while he greets me.   

Mister Tattoo is thirty-something, with shoulder-length hair and shirtless, seemingly showing off his tattooed skinny arms, tattooed moobs, and even his tattooed pot belly. Mister Tattoo glares at me whenever we pass one another.  To my morning greeting, Grumpo, Mister Tattoo, never nods or orally responds; instead, he just sneers.

Red is always walking her two dogs.  To my “mornings” she simply nods her head with an expressionless visage.  I have noticed one thing, especially, about her.  She is always rifling through the dumpsters on the pathway, not looking for cans or bottles, but for food for her dogs.  I have seen her grab a box from the garbage, empty the contents into her hand, then toss the food contents to the ground for her mutts.  Red is of the Perfunctos ilk.

Twist and Shout is always shakin’ it up and workin’ it on out as he meanders down the path.   Twist and Shout seems in no shape to recognize, never mind acknowledge, my morning greeting.  Always wearing a set of headphones, Twist and Shout belongs to my Astros.

• ·         CONCLUSIONS

Basing my MORNING PNEUMA results upon the responses from my cache of familiar strangers, here is my skinny comparison to the other aforementioned published psychological personality types:

My Cheerios would align with Erikson’s Yellows and Hippocrates’ Sanguines.  My Grumpos would align with Erikson’s Reds and Hippocrates’ Cholerics.  The Perfunctos could be compared to Erikson’s Blues and Hippocrates’ Melancholics.  Those I’ve bracketed as Astros can be compared to Erikson’s Greens and Hippocrates’ Phlegmatics.

None of my groups can easily be compared to those in the Myers-Briggs.  Neither can Erikson’s nor Hippocrates’ personality types be easily compared to any in the Myers-Briggs.  This is my educated guess.

Another educated guess is that my MORNING PNEUMA can be closely replicated while I'm thrumming at my next buskspot.  Within the next day or two whilst on a busk with my banjo, I shall greet the first 31 passers-by with a "Morning" and keep a record of their responses.  

Hmmm ...  

STRUMMING SO, MY BUSKING WILL SOON BE TRANSFORMED FROM RECREATIONAL TO A MENSURABLE AVANT-GARDE ADVENTURE IN ACADEMIA!

• ·         REFLECTIONS

Psychological tests/inventories measure only person/s in a particular moment.  Any behaviour before or after the testing moments are very independent of the testing moment.  Should the same test be replicated frequently with the same results, the more reliable and the more valid do the test results become.

Some theorists have suggested that one’s true personality is only expressed under emergency situations or expressed when a person knows that no one else is around to observe one’s personal behaviour.  Such an emergency situation could include a heart attack or stroke, or a natural disaster such as a flood or tornado.  Such behaviours occurring when no one else is around could include picking one’s nose or being a litter bug.

I shall add a point of personal reflection:  The Cheerios could have been high on drugs.  The Grumpos might have been having just a bad day.  The Astros might have been rehearsing for a play or stage presentation somewhere.  The Perfunctos might have just been absorbed in thoughts elsewhere, yet still knowingly be sociable enough to treat me with a morning respect.

While administering any academic psychological test that is credible, one has to adhere to a code of ethics.  However, with regard to ethics while conducting my Morning Pneuma, having people unwittingly be subjected a rather non-intrusive morning greeting to determine some patterns of human behaviour, then attaching such behaviours to certain personality types, I believe, is okey- dokey.  No person is identified.  No person is personality criticized or humiliated.  Every unknowing participant is just another ghost in the morning pneuma machinery.

Speaking of which, are we not all just ghosts in any stranger’s life.  Of course I am not referring to haunting ghosts – I am referring only to friendly ghosts. 

IN THE WORLD OF GHOSTS WE ARE MOSTLY CASPERS.

Not-so-strangely, here are some movie ghosts making a shadowy appearance in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE today:

 POLLYANNA - CHEERIO - POLLYANNA MOVIE

 

MEAN GIRL - GRUMPO - MEAN GIRLS MOVIE

 

MR. SPOCK - PERFUNCTO - STAR TREK MOVIE

 

JEFF SPICOLI - ASTRO - FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH MOVIE