Hate is born of pain.
Pain is born of injury.
Injury has two mothers. They are Randomness and Cruelty. One unavoidable, they other unconscionable.
The wheel will continue to turn until the circle is broken.
In the meantime, perhaps it may be helpful to recognize that while the hateful welcome war, what they unknowingly hunger for is redemption.
An acquaintance from my skydiving days recently posted the following on social media;
“I’ll lick the handles of all the buggies at Walmart before I’ll vote for Biden.”
Well then, in the name of saving this country…get lickin’ bro.
P.S. For you yankees and westerners “buggy” is Southern speak for “shopping cart.”
The Weight of the World. Shoulder it. Drop it. Either way, the world continues, likely in a form very near to that in which it appeared prior to the decision.
The pressure of carrying the weight of the world may well crush one’s spirit. The guilt born of sloughing it can be emotionally corosive as well. The understanding that no one is born capable of managing such a burden is omitted from the Standard Operating Manual for Human Consciousness. Struggle, blame, shame, regret, recrimination all take center stage when someone decides there is “hell to pay!” Of course, there are also those who care nothing for the world or the others in it, but that topic is for another time.
So precious this opportunity to exist. And yet preciousness is, um, well, hmm, born of personal perspective. Once we’ve had the good fortune of life we will all in turn have the good fortune of passing beyond this time of living, to rest. How much will acute concerns about the pressing issues of the day matter in that eternal light?
It is neither positive nor negative.
It is simply a state of being.
Buddhists seek it.
The rest try to fill it.
Alas, relentless pouring yields no brimming of the cup, and in time reveals the true meaning of “infinite.”
Impressions made by that or those who are no longer with us claim a homestead in memory. The aroma of perfume. The furrowed shape left on a pillow. The now absent sound of laughter, breath, words, or shared silence. These empty spaces are footprints on a rain-soaked path in late spring. When the rains subside, the touch points left by those who traveled leave whispers. As summer comes on, these impressions are set in our memories by sun rays of connectedness and loss.
If one is making progress toward a given goal, no matter how slowly, self-affirmation is due in abundance. If one has a goal but is making no progress toward it, both the aim and the reasons for lack of progress are to be called into question. If one has no goals, yet lives with discontent, the reason, however elusive, is ultimately self. If one has no goals and lives in bliss, then all steps of the ladder of life lay behind them.
It’s weird that I have time to fix the kitchen sink drain, and all the other broken shit in my house.
It’s painful that I rarely see my friends, and when I do, it’s at a distance.
It’s disquieting that I’ve worked two days in the last four weeks.
It’s alarming that my bank account is in free fall.
It’s a strange gift that we must somehow learn to embrace this limbo.
It was bound to happen. History shows us that it is inevitable. Thankfully we are further along now than the poor souls who faced the Spanish Flu or the Bubonic Plague. We know what to do, what must be done. Self-imposed isolation is the selfless choice, whether we like it or not.
Social distancing is no stranger to this house. In fact, it is our de facto natural state. Anyone who follows my social feeds sees picture after picture of solitary moments captured in the wilderness. My sons occasionally join me on these ventures into humanlessness. However, left to their own devices, they tend to interact with their world virtually. This is not always my favorite, but for now, I am grateful for that proclivity.
Except for the complete lack of income that accompanies a worldwide economic shutdown, not much has changed here. Well, not much except that I am pinching pennies like a leprechaun pinching the greenless on St. Patty’s day. That and the fact that I suddenly find myself qualmless about gratefully consuming slightly expired foodstuffs. The house is cleaner than it has been in a decade. Oh, and I’m torturing Netflix incessantly with my indecisiveness about best viewing options.
Thanks to the tireless work of our healthcare, transportation, and food supply communities, most of us will survive this, bearing away little more than a story to tell our grandchildren. The silver lining will be that despite the best efforts of those who would wish us divided, we may finally come to see ourselves as part of an indivisible, global community.
Please be smart, be safe, be well. Please think of others before you act. We who carry on will have much to be thankful for, much to have learned, and much to share from our time here in the era of social distancing.
The past is just that.
The future is a mystery.
The present is you, and me and all the rest, fleeting, precious, open to being embraced.
We carry the sum of our experiences in the vessel of memory.
We imagine the future in the vessel of hope.
We honor the present by knowing it fully, in becoming the vessel itself each and every moment. We become the witness, and if so inclined, the fountainhead of gratitude for all we could easily if accidentally take for granted.
Tranquility. A state of consciousness defined not by a lack of drama but by the lack of attachment to it. We cannot control that which surrounds and infuses our living story. We can, however, decide how it affect us. In most cases, we can choose whether to allow monsters under the bed or show them the door. Also, in most cases, we are unaware that this choice is ours.
Bad things happen. Good things happen. Again and again, the wave rises and falls. We may be in the habit of riding to the crest then plummeting to the depth holding on for dear life. Or we may decide to let the wave roll through and past us. Holding and taking breaths in due time. Choosing stillness in the knowledge that all highs and lows eventually pass to leave there spent energy on the shores of our lifetimes.
Sitting quietly, hearing each inhale, each exhale, knowing them with the full focus of mind, shows chaos the door. This simple practice can calm thoughts that would otherwise grow into tsunami waves turning what could be a storm into gentle lapping of harmless water on the shore.
When a real storm comes no amount of mental stillness will quell its fury. However, presence of mind may allow for minimal damage in its wake. Equanimity is an elusive treasure. It is also oddly a choice, a fact that makes its rarity comical in a dark sort of way. In this big beautiful, terrible world of love and chaos, we decide, if so inclined to seek, find, and nurture the gift of personal tranquility.