“Contentment is a dynamic and constructive attitude that brings us to look at things in a new way.” – Bouchard
“A woman needs to feel good to do good.” –Anonymous
Over the seven years they have been in my care, my cats have been my gurus. One of their primary teachings is santosa or contentment. They gaze at me with blinky, half-closed eyes, trusting that I won’t step on a tail or accidently kick them during my mad morning dash through the kitchen and out to work. In spite of myself, I am calmed by their implicit faith in a kind and loving universe.
Of course they have a stable home, save for the sporadic kibble-munching, muddy lunching raccoon. Their job is to be well fed, frequently stroked, worshipped, and carried from room to room in mostly-tolerated snuggles. All of this results in a generally cheerful temperament, contrasting with that of their mother, as she hurtles about her life, usually seeking santosa outside herself. Glimpsing it for a nanosecond on the mat. Grasping at it. Grieving its loss.
My opinion has always been that I need my life to be like my cats’ in order to be happy—no worries about money, no need to dash off to a job that seals me into a fluorescent-klieged, germ-riddled environment for 40 hours a week.
Much to my surprise, my life hasn’t turned out to be that of a lady of leisure. Which brings up this other concept of sourcing santosa within oneself, and then living it in your life. Sort of like being solar powered from within.
I am having a particularly difficult time with that concept this winter, as I arrive at the not-so-blessed place of midlife. Having just experienced reverse-puberty, characterized by extreme teenage behavior, my hormones are now just crabby and wonky. My body wants to rest and recover from the strangeness roiling within.
I always want to take time out and contemplate each winter, but the urge for hibernation or just plain doing my own thing is striking particularly strong right now. My screenplay screams to be worked on. My novel niggles for attention. All the craft projects I have done with my hands over the years—and long to do again—languor; their materials tucked away and stored out of sight, mind, and inspiration, in our cramped starter home. Paint is packed. Fabric is stacked. I am making money. Money that flows in slowly and gets sucked out of my bank account so quickly, it always feels like low tide in the Bay of Fundy.
Yet all is not so bleak . . . shortly I’ll be taking a pilgrimage to Mexico for Toltec inspiration, shamanic training, and even sacred Aztec yoga with some of that money, so the glass isn’t really half empty. I just have a lot on my plate.
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We live in a culture of complaint. From an early age, we’re taught the squeaky wheel wins. It is often only when I travel that I realize just how fortunate I am. Travel takes me out of my chitta vrittis.
I journeyed to Bali in 2008, with a group of spiritual friends, to immerse myself in the nuance of ritual at Hindu temples, the grace and beauty of legong dance, the clang and clatter of gamelon, the wonder and complexity of a two-years-in-the-making ikat textile, and the pervading peace of a gentle culture. We’d arranged for a stopover/sleepover in Tokyo en route, to break up the otherwise insanely long flight. Festively attired for a tropical climate, many of the ladies wore bright, thin cotton sarongs and flip flops on the plane, and didn’t bring a change of clothes in their carry on.
A freak snow storm hit Tokyo prior to our arrival. For some reason, the airport didn’t have de-icing equipment or snow plows. We emerged from the airport in summer garb, marveling at the drifting, unplowed whiteness, and boarded the bus to our hotel. Once there, we were informed that our rooms had been given away, because we were late. Some were told to take a voucher to redeem for a room at another, local hotel. This piece of information never reached me. I exited the hotel, voucherless, with my dejected group. At the second hotel, we were told there were only a couple rooms for those with vouchers. The alpha gals in our group began to seize entire rooms just for themselves until they turned around and remembered that we were indeed a spiritual community, and would have to double up. My turn came and the attendant told me there was no room for me without a voucher. Period. With a sinking feeling, I gazed out at the swirling flakes. I felt like crying.
A woman behind me from our group started yelling at the desk clerk in English, in a very unsettling and racist way. I intervened, as this was going nowhere, and luckily, my roommate-to-be in Bali offered to share her closet-sized room with me. By then it was 2 a.m.
The walls of the room were metal, with cheesy steel closets that reminded me of a military bunker. Susan and I slept briefly, spooning each other, out of necessity, on the twin bed.
In the morning, grumbling and cold, we returned to the airport, and only then realized just how lucky we had been. All the vast, terminal floor space was covered with blanketed bodies. Those who had been unable to get a room, and who had delayed or cancelled flights, had spent the night right here where we now stepped over and past them.
Griping changed to gratitude. Reframed, the incident created a sense of santosa. Contentment with what I did have. I’d worn warm traveling clothes. I’d slept in a relatively proper bed the previous night.
We take our everyday luxuries so for granted in our first world culture. It’s good to be reminded of our abundance from time to time.
Is santosa an attitude we bring to our activities, or is it an effect of our actions? It can obviously be both. And of course, proactive, rather than reactive or retroactive santosa would seem to contribute to a more peaceful life. In general, I’ve often practiced the reactive kind, as evidenced in my second quote at the start of this piece—or at least that’s how I’ve always understood that saying.
I’m awakening to the empowerment a temporal shift in serenity might bring. And I intend to practice more proactive santosa in my life. After all, a woman needs to feel good to do good.
