I. If it, like a stone, could be set down when one leaves at four and picked up again the next morning at eight. If it could be solidified, objectified, made discrete, and then dropped, left behind, in a drawer, or at the bottom of a stream, instead of pervading the body like a droplet of dye in a glass of water: through osmosis, invading every molecule, every pore, every muscle and organ, every thought made black or at least tinged with grey. II.
The thought that struck me at 12:35 when I was crossing the parking lot returning to work from a brief and unsatisfying lunch – white sun on grey concrete: If I died today, I would have no regrets except for having made myself so terribly unhappy. III. Where does it originate? Grooves carved into tissue from tires driven by repeated thoughts begun much before my birth by great-great grandmothers I have never known. And continued. Taken up like an unwilling relay.
IV. When my fear is a red bird and my dread a sweating beast and my sorrow this room, languishing in orange light, then there is nothing to do but sit in my cage, an ape behind bars, self-imprisoned.
V. Where do they come from, these cheerful people? With joy bubbling up as if from some everlasting spring? An equilibrium unmoved by great waves of emotion. How does one learn this skill? Can it be taught? Passed on? It all comes back to the mind: a question of training, they say. An elephant – massive, unpredictable, uncontrollable, that must be tamed. Put into chains. Made docile.
VI.
Such an anxious and unpleasant struggle life has been.
Burdened by compulsions,
drowned by anguish,
suffocated by phobias.
A mind made heavy with judgments, expectations,
disappointments, inadequacies.
In essence, worrying about the self.
Fear is in the body, beneath the mind. Ancient.
And tomorrow you die. Was any of it worthwhile?
No one teaches you how to be happy.
If the only meaning of my life is to reduce suffering for others,
why exhaust energy in hating myself?
If we create our own meaning, then let us be artists.
Connect to the energy source, awaken the dead.
Let go of sadness and happiness.
Slow down. Release all content.
Love the other as yourself.
Be as forgiving with yourself as you would a friend.
When unity is understood, not intellectually,
but by the body, profoundly,
only then will hope and grief, recognized for what they truly are –
waves rising up from the great ocean and returning again –
clouds temporarily obscuring the sun –
the inevitable burden that accompanies a thinking mind,
only then will peace arise from the depths:
immovable and inextinguishable.
All truth has already been found, been stated, been written.
Its meaning must simply be recognized.
The symbol must be made known. The dead must be awoken.
I am not ready, oh God. Please help me prepare.
How my heart yearns for you.
