It's so easy and comfortable here. I pay no rent. I'm fed. I function on my own schedule. No one disturbs me. No one imposes on me. I sit twice a day for 45 minutes. I read to my heart's content. I'm memorizing the 10 novice precepts for Deer Park Monastery (and trying not to criticize them from my legal writing trained perspective). I go on bike rides on sunny days. I go watch matinees when there's a good one. I ride into Manhattan. I have my own room. I have a kick ass stereo. I watch sunsets and squirrels on the lawn. I practice guitar. I practice shakuhachi. I blog.
But this isn't freedom, either. It's my parents' house where tension is a form of communication. I have to function within their parameters. I have to be sensitive to their wants and needs having no way of knowing or finding out what they are. I have no social life. I have no friends. I'm completely useless and unproductive. All take, no give. I'm worse than a parasite. And my parents know that. They're not interested in how I fill my days. All they know is that I don't have a job.
It's come to a head. It's so easy to fall into entropy, to not move if nothing is moving me. I hadn't heard from my contact at Deer Park for a while, undoubtedly because he's been busy preparing for an extended retreat that starts this weekend. So I sent off a general email to the monastery trying to get information to plan out when to begin my trial period. I got a reply right back from my contact, and things are clearing through – not much left to stop me from going *starts hyperventilating*.
It's a game of trust. Close my eyes. Hold my arms out. Shift weight backwards and start to fall . . .
