Maggi Nimmo

The run up to Christmas, one step at a time… waking in the quiet first light for some reason I hold my hands up and wonder just why my nails have dirt under them. I don’t remember doing any thing to pull the dirt in, but there it is. Then the stumble to the kettle, nooooo I don’t wake up all perky and nice, I shuffle to the kettle amongst other things and while it does its boil thing I stretch tall, locking my legs into place with strong muscular contractions, then exhausted I take a cup of tea back to bed, I’m not a fan of bounciness in the morning.

The day got weird after that, the local shopping centre with its up-tempo Christmasy loud musac, its announcements, its general retail buzz augmented with an Asian sensibility of general Babylonian cadence left me sensitised and reeling. The bus, the rain, the air of distraction I carry my parcel and letter to the postoffice, and there was attended by a Postal counter hopper who complained that she had lost her umbrella yesterday, a designer umbrella, no less, and then said unexpectedly, ”I try to be patient especially this time of year.” I replied “Yes its a sign of great love.” She grinned at me, I breathed in aware that I was breathing and let out a long slow breath as I jostled through the lines towards the exit.

I try to keep it quiet these days but at the same time feel like I’m disappearing. I went to see the eccentric artist Grayson Perry’s exhibition at the MCA and there’s a man who cannot but make an impression, he is in no danger of disappearing, and the social commentary is sharp, funny, irreverent, ribald and arty. Lots of fun and easy access to a rather jaundiced and wayward view of English culture, it taints your spirit and it is impossible to move through a crowd the same way after experiencing Grayson’s take on the massed human experience. That is the object of art to change,colour, taint and impress your spirit with irrational and surprising emotions and feelings.

So where does it come from this impatience and unhappiness, this dirt in the tendrils of your spirit that irritates and is there for no good reason?

I offer this breathing exercise from Thich Nhat Hanh to ameliorate the the creeping irritations of the days to come:
Breathing in I know I am breathing in. Breathing out I know I am breathing out.
Breathing in my breath goes deep. Breathing out my breath goes slowly.
Breathing in I feel calm. Breathing out I feel ease.
Breathing in I smile. Breathing out I release.
Breathing in I dwell in the present moment. Breathing out I know it’s a wonderful moment.
I’m in Sydney for another few weeks, then I will return to Cambodia. If anyone wishes to see me for an appointment or have a private movement session contact me on 0403095779.

My head was dreaming of taking a step, lying curled on my left side. The dream was in yellow tones and there were noises, people happy talking and somewhere the music of Built to Spill. I guess dreams work by association. I looked down and saw a yellow slick of oil, my foot, in an orange shoe, slipped, my legs jerked and I woke without completing the fall.

That was the end of sleep for a while; my muscles shuddered for a few seconds but the reverberations streamed into old loves and houses I had once lived in. I tried to remember their smells. The old love smelt of cigarettes and musk, while my old house smelt of jasmine in the summer and sandalwood in the winter. I remember most vividly the dinner parties where the house would echo with laughter and smell of roasting garlic.

I struggled to sleep and finally remembered my breath, it had grown jagged with memories. The short precise and filling inhale and the long exhale sent me again dreaming into the tropical night. This time I dreamt of birds and murmurs of starlings swirling into the dawn.

I’ll be returning to Sydney soon and on Sunday the 13th December I will hold a free Foundation Training Introduction event at Mort Bay Park Balmain. We will meet near the Balmain Ferry Terminal situated at the end of Thames Street Balmain. Apparently the weather has been variable in Sydney so I have a few Weather Witches ordering up a fine cool morning. In any event bring sunscreen, water and whatever protective clothing you deem necessary. Bring a yoga mat or towel so we can get to do some of the prone or supine strengthening and lengthening work.

I have attached a copy of the poster for the event, please let me know either by return email or on the day of the event if you have any difficulties, pains etc so you get looked after. I suggest you arrive ten minutes early to orient, exchange information, chat, meet and greet.

The class will teach you simple breath and postural decompressions and  introduce you a basic Founder, a back strengthener like no other. Here are two links to introduction to The Foundation Movement and Founder movement as it is affectionately known:
http://www.foundationtraining.com/videos_and_blog/our-back-pain-solution-the-founder/
http://www.foundationtraining.com/videos_and_blog/free-foundation-training-with-dr-eric-goodman-master-the-basics-of-movement/

It will help you if you, at least, have some prior knowledge. I really look forward to seeing you at the park on Sunday.

Regards and love Maggi.

Mosquitoes buzz around my ankles like hummingbirds around nectar. I wear long skirts and repellent lotions and still they kamikaze fly into the chemical haze of my lower extremities and take one last bite. They dance in little fairy rings with their stinging noses sniffing the sweet blood in my veins.

Meals outdoors are a minor disaster for me, while my companion’s sup and dialogue I jiggle and itch and scratch and have to leave meals early, great for my waistline but my social life suffers.

Great red wheals of bites, great soaring fevers as the dengue plague hits my blood, great fear and irregular breathing, panic. I went the route once many years ago, of allowing myself to be bitten and to be present with the experience of mosquito bites. I watched the black suckers on my arm and felt them on my leg and within a few seconds on my eyelid and I went into the routine of the mozzie dance sweeping my limbs with flaying hands and retreating to netted safety.

Fish lie limp and shining on Formica bench tops, bones are hacked into smaller soup stock sizes. Strong hands shred long lotus flower stems of its outer skin and fish disintegrate in big boiling aluminum pots.

The house is permeated with savory smells of cooking. The hot steamy kitchen, lit by the harsh single fluro light is a condensation of steam and illuminates piles of finely chopped green vegetables ready to dash into the soup.

Big plastic dishes of tofu, diced pumpkin and bok choy wait next to the rice steamer and in this mix, the more than healthy handfuls of salt tossed into the soup stock are balanced by the national obsession sugar.
Every meal marks a fine line between satiation and sugar toxicity.

It was clear from the beginning that my latest endeavour would be fraught with difficulty. The comment, “Not having sugar.” As I was offered a plate of cake/biscuits/sugar laden fish sauce, was not going to go down well.

The rich salad in front of me tasted of earthly delights. The red capsicum crunched vigorously in my mouth, olive oil ran over my tongue, made all the more piquant by sharp vinegar. Munching with zest the small lettuce leaves, the sharp taste and texture of Greek feta cheese mingling made mouthwatering delight.

Still the biscuits and sugar came with every coffee and still the looks of incredulity on people’s faces when I decline their sugar. Formerly I would take the offered sweet and play with it on my plate and no one was any the wiser but now I’ve decided to step out of the sugar free closet and will go to great lengths to avoid the sugar traps.

I love lighting shops, hanging gardens of light. Cities with a certain amount of pizzazz engender amazing ceramic and glass masterpieces, and the Nordic design ethic of foldable and affordable has birthed wonderful paper creations that surround a multitude of expensive designer bulbs.

On the other hand, Asia has a heavy handed design ethic. The Chinese love large, heavy, dark, overly carved furniture. The lighting shops spawned are, a blur of light in impossible chandeliers, more bling and sparkle than even the most enlightened Buddha has experienced. It’s light heaven or hell depending on your taste. The chandelier shops are full of switches and fans, the hanging crystals and baubles often tinkle in the fan blasts.

As I walked into the light shop my eyes were, of course, drawn to the ceiling, I cringed at the onslaught of extravagant, ostentatious design. The myriad blue cool lights, the blinking colored lights, the mellow yellow bulbs hiding amongst the glare.

I reached out to look at the price of a particularly offensive layer cake light and the price was as high as the taste was poor. The shop was suddenly plunged into darkness, all the more shocking because of the contrast. I could hear the road sounds and shuffling of the staff. Within seconds my eyes adjusted and the lights became dull shapes above me and the dim light from the distant street windows shone gentle and forgiving into the room.

The air is full of petrol fumes and dust. Phnom Penh is having a building boom and every block has its ugly high security fence and pavements are littered with building debris and left over ideas. Dirt, concrete, tiles, random steps. Cars are parked across the pavements, disabled access friendly this city is not. It appears you can build whatever obstacles you like.

Much as I love the subtle flavors of Khmer food, I sometimes just hafta find something familiar, something coffee fueled and peaceful. It’s a bit of a Tuk Tuk ride but the calm garden hippy café, Farm to Table, is heaven. The beetroot salad with honey dressing with good coffee, that felt and tasted like liquid love, soothed my addled tropo mind.

Turtles idled in a pond, bantams with fantastic feathered leggings wondered about. Today being Saturday the kiddies squealed and burst balloons while climbing over the old red tractor next to the turtle pond and herb seedling stands.

 

 

 

The fetid heat has started to crush the lungs of Phnom Penh. The monsoon wind rushes into the streets and squabbles with itself lifting dust and grit into unwary eyes.

The sky is stained with inky black clouds that loom and send spears of lightening into the sprawling city and thunder rolls around the skies. The Tuk Tuk drivers quickly tie plastic covers over their cabs and don their thin orange or pink raincoats. It’s a colourful season.

The thick plopping rain starts. Dry concrete is temporally decorated with wet leopard’s spots suddenly obliterated by the soaking deluge.

The locals a week or so after the September full moon visit the temples to make offerings to the orange and maroon clad priests at the gold Buddha’s feet. Old women offer packets of Paracetamol to the Buddha for the priests who like the rest of this city have spiking fevers and dry coughs.

This new world is full of hope and despair. The Golden Calf is still the object of our prayers. How to get rich, create financial success, manifest money, refine your purpose to include riches…. Hummmm… How did we get so far from the truth of relationships, with 95% of the assets and money in the hands of 1 or 2 % of our earth’s population.

We cannot sit comfortably with ourselves if one person starves let alone millions. I certainly am not content with a world where conflict over beliefs escalates into blaming hate and killing.  The more poverty we engender the more likely people are to express themselves by survival driven fearful acts of desperation.

So how can little old you or me start to act differently, err on the side of generosity instead of suspicion? It is not asked of many of us to make sacrifices for the common good but you and I can support those who feel so called.

Each individual has an area of interest, whether it be climate change, sustainable housing or agriculture, cultural enrichment, feeding the starving or supporting recovery from addiction. My area of expertise is consciousness and its development.

The development of awareness, compassion and the presence of our own connection to humanity’s choices and our contribution to the direction we will go.  What  inheritance we will leave our children?

The world is at a turning point, we cannot waste any more time or resources on clothing the rich and despoiling the poor and the lands they inhabit. The solution lies in each of us to spark compassion and act from that place no matter how seemingly insignificant.

Yep act locally think globally. Awareness and developing a sensitivity of yourself and others is crucial.
To that end I am running the ART Of WALKING this Sunday 9:30am at Yoga Phnom Penh
http://www.yogaphnompenh.com/yoga-workshops–courses.html

Today we celebrate the Chung-Yuan Festival feast, we fed the Hungry Ghosts. In this 7th lunar month the dead ancestors are allowed to visit their living relatives.

Moggallana was one of the Buddha’s best students. He had various supernormal powers and “owned the divine eyes”. One day, he saw that his deceased mother had been born among hungry ghosts. He went down the Hell, filled a bowl with food to provide for his mother. Before reaching his mother’s month, the food turned into burning coals which couldn’t be eaten.

Moggallana cried sorrowfully and asked for help from Buddha. Buddha said the sins of his mother were deep and firmly rooted, it couldn’t be forgiven just using divine power, it required the combined power of a thousand monks to get rid of her sins. Buddha told Moggallana that, “the 15th day of the 7th lunar month is the Pavarana Day for the assembled monks of all directions. You should prepare an offering of clean basins full of hundreds of flavours and the five fruits, and other offerings of incense, oil, lamp, candles.

Following Buddha’s instructions, Moggallana’s mother obtained liberation from sufferings as a hungry host by receiving the power of the merit and virtue form the awesome spiritual power of assembled monks on 15th day of the 7th lunar month.

Today in Phnom Penh we had a feast, prepared and laid out. While we waited outside for the hungry ghosts to eat we burnt paper symbols of money, cars, rolex watches, passports, unlimited visa cards for our ancestors to use on their journey. After the ritual fire and paper offerings we ate a feast like no other.