Mind Air
What the Spirit Breathes
The color and taste of our mental space is the air the spirit breathes
You have to wind down a bit. Relax. Corral your thoughts. Abandon them. Deep breath. Have some air. Easier said than breathed, though. Still, give it a go. Better, no?
Air, about four-fifths nitrogen and one-fifth oxygen, plus a small percentage (as in around 1%) of other stuff, such as hydrogen, carbon dioxide, and, yes, some water as well.
All that in with every breath. The oxygen-hungry lungs grab all they can and pass it on to the equally oxygen-hungry blood for immediate forwarding to the oxygen-hungry rest of the body.
Then we breathe out: away with all the stuff the body didn’t need, plus the one thing plants thirst for, i.e., carbon dioxide. They’re all grateful that us walking critters provide the stuff, and we’re all grateful that plants (all the way from plankton to redwoods) renew our oxygen all the time. Symbiosis. Nature’s amazing win-win.
And all these goings-on just on their own. No Self in there supervising and executing things. Just breathe, nature takes care of the rest.
As for the spirit: not that the spirit needs air to live, nor does it need the complex mix of stuff that floats around in our minds, but this is what it nonetheless breathes, when it breathes, which it mostly does, deeper sometimes than others. Sometimes even gasping for it.
My mind-air (yes, let’s call it that) is sometimes so thick as to be nothing but fog (hence the expression “feeling foggy”). Spirit-breathing (yes, let’s call it that), this mind-air can be toxic (as in mind-numbingly intoxicating). Sometimes I wake up that way: residue from a night’s worth of weird dreams would be my guess. The fog settled on a dream battle field. Corpses (both men and horses) scattered everywhere. Gustavus Adolphus returned home to Stockholm. Just one or two brave souls checking the dead (both soldiers and horses) for valuables (even though stealing from the dead will lead you straight to hell, courtesy of the hangman — still, hunger is after all hunger, and hanging to death sometimes feels like a much-preferred option to starving to death.
So, into this morning fog I rise, deep, involuntary, spirit-breaths as I grapple my way to the bathroom to do my morning bathroom things, after which (somewhat restored, and about five ounces lighter) I grapple my way back to my bedroom and built-in closet to don today’s uniform — which color sweat suit today (my motto as regards clothes: comfort before style)?
The fog is dissipating a little, and with the fog, so do the corpses (both men and horses and corpse-thieves). I saunter into the kitchen (I think of it as my galley since my little cabin is not much larger than a thirty-six-foot sloop — well, quite a bit larger, but not as large as a house.
Tea. Green and strong. And warm. I can feel this heaven-sent liquid slide down my throat and enter my stomach (which I, again, surprisingly, find far higher in my chest than expected — not at all in my gut as it were, but just under my heart). Ah… fog lifting altogether on a brand-new day.
Mind-air fresh and clear now.
Spirit-breathing quite pleasant.
Sometimes, especially during my morning walks, the mind-air mirrors the air-air pretty much. A little breezy, but fresh, and gulls not screaming as they sail at speed with the wind. They seem to enjoy this. I read somewhere that ravens like sailing on the wind as well, whereas crows don’t, they flap all the time. I think that ravens and crows should come with small signs that specify which species they belong to. A divine oversight not have label-furnished these birds, methinks.
Head, though, clear and fresh and a little breezy. Then, up percolates some thought or other and depending on subject my mind-air colors accordingly: light pastels for notions or hopes, thicker oil for memories, yellows and whites for surprises, light green for poetry, very light blue for ocean (of which I have a trillion acres just a few feet away during my walks), and here comes another mighty breeze and all colors take cover or scram and my head is all fresh and color-free again.
Deep, translucent spirit-breath.
Some colors come with flavor.
Some colors constitute garments.
Some colors are very soothing (I love those).
Some colors are challenging (I sometimes meet them, sometimes ignore, sometimes tell them to behave).
Immersing myself in language sometimes tastes like licorice. Sticks to my teeth. Good thing I like language, and licorice.
Music has a taste all its own — transcending taste.
Bach transcends music.
Music transcends language.
Licorice makes me brush my teeth extra well.
And here comes Bugge Wesseltoft with another amazing message from Norway — I think he is somehow related to JSB.
And now I think I’ll step outside to let the wind clear my mind-air again.
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© Wolfstuff