"Beautiful Catastrophe" Days

“There must be quite a few things
that a hot bath won't cure,
but I don't know many of them.”


~Sylvia Plath~

Every writer has a ritual. For the great inspirational mentor of my heart (Mr. Leonard Cohen himself), it was to sketch every day before he started to write. This was one of the gateways to his higher art. 

So, fancying myself a quasi-writer at least, I realized that I too had my own ritual. A bath. Not just any bath, but a well planned, finely tuned bath.  First of all, I turn on the power to my wireless speakers, and then I putz around in the kitchen getting a glass of wine, or cup of tea, or, on those rare occasions when I'm desperate for a bath time-getaway-fantasy, I pour a tumbler full of pre-mixed Mai-Tai. 

I then connect a well chosen playlist, maybe some Leonard Cohen, maybe some John Mayer or a mix of "McDishy's Old Skool" (ok, I'm a geek), and  I make my towel-clad way to the bathroom where I fiddle around trying to get my wireless speakers to work.

Last night, as I watched one of the most depressing movies on the planet, I thought, "Gee, that lady looks like my neighbour. I should go and take her some Christmas cookies or something neighbourly like that." 

So, tonight when I was mid-ritual, trying to get my speaker to receive the lovely jazz Christmas playlist I had selected, instead of hearing music come out of the speaker, I heard my neighbour's voice.  Standing in the candlelit bathroom naked, it just felt a little weird.

Standing in the bathroom naked the same day I went to dharma class, unwittingly eavesdropping on a private telephone conversation,  just felt, well, kinda wrong.  I pressed the little frequency button (or whatever the hell that thing is), only to get a more clearly amplified continuation of the same private conversation.  Holy crap!  I was inadvertently hearing another woman's ranting about the man in her life. This didn't just feel wrong, it felt a little dirty.

I hit the button again. And again. And again. I felt like I was caught in a twilight zone episode, where any moment, my neighbour would find out I could hear her private conversation about how angry she was that  her boyfriend is an emotionally unavailable channel surfer and she was going to come bursting through my locked door to find me standing naked in my candlelit bathroom, clutching my speaker and looking, well, naked and pathetic.

After abusing the channel button, and hearing WAY more about her flubbed Friday night with this dude, I turned the darn thing off, and decided I would just play my Christmas jazz music really loud.  As I toddled my naked chubby self back to the bathtub, I imagined that if I turned my "spy speaker" back on I would hear my neighbour go on about what an ass her neighbour was because she played Christmas jazz music way too loud, way too late at night.

To top it all off, I had to leave the bathroom door open in order to hear the music, and I knew that as I relaxed in the tub with my head back and eyes closed,  my cat would be perched on the side of the bathtub staring at me like he was burning a hole in my third eye. Creepy and oddly enough, an assault on my privacy. Besides that, this cat's crazy and I'm always afraid he's going to chew my nipple off as I float there, eyes closed and unaware. 

When he was a kitten, Leonard the cat set his outrageously enormous tail on fire, and ran around our apartment with me wet and naked chasing him, all the while my six year old child yelling from the bunk bed, "What's that smell mommy? It smells like something's burning". To which I answered as any great mom would, "It's ok honey. It's just the kitty. Don't come out mommy's not dressed. Go to sleep baby." Yes, there will be many reasons my child needs therapy when he's my age.

So, although tonight wasn't a typical ritual bath, you get the picture. I soak, listen to some great tunes in my poor man's candlelit sanctuary, and let my mind go.

Tonight my bath-soaked mind drifted to temple, and what a beautiful catastrophe it was that my plans to go downtown to see the latest art gallery exhibit fell through.  After all, the cover of the Globe and Mail featured a piece on the exhibit, which I plan to read tomorrow morning in my favourite coffee spot, right before I knuckle down and study for my impending exam. Because my gallery trip was a bust,  I turned around and lunched with my classmates discussing consciousness and karma and all of those things that are rare conversational indulgence.

My evening plans took a massive dump last night, and I was upset about that to say the least.  Broken hearted and sad, I was relieved when one of my friends asked me to go with her and her young daughter to a local Christmas parade. At the last minute, I put on my grandma's Christmas socks, and bundled up.  We watched the parade, and caught up with old colleagues. I got to spoil a little four year old girl who was wiggly-giggly happy to see Santa Claus, and who shared my affinity for cotton candy, hot chocolate, and marching bands. 

So, my plans for the day went to hell in a hand basket, but as I soaked in the tub, with my freaky cat staring at me, I was incredibly grateful for my life and everyone in it. 

Maybe these rituals aren't just for writers or artists, but for everyone. A chance to slow down, take a few deep breaths - breathing in gratitude, breathing out our sorrows.