There are some days I truly wonder if I understand anything at all about what makes things tick in our world. It has been my aspiration to make some sense of the world, but that may just be another brand of insanity. I am even still naïve enough sometimes to think the world might in some fashion be just, but really find very little evidence that this is true.
There is a radio in my head, one channel playing the You Are The Best station (on the Top Ten: "The World Revolves Around You"), the other the You Are Scum Network. (I borrow the metaphor from Anne Lamott). Sometimes one channel is louder than the other, sometimes it seems as if one or the other has permanently gone off the air, only to come back louder than ever. I woke up the day before yesterday with the hit song "Failure, Failure, Failure, Failure, Failure" playing in my head. Not a favorite, exactly, but a Golden Oldie for sure. I can never be a good enough ______________; fill in the blank--son, brother, nurse, man, Buddhist, human being....
Here's the thing: I know better. But the feelings are very, very real.
Sometimes it seems to me that I have glimpsed THE answer, but can't articulate it. Some days it feels as if the answer is, "No", some days "Yes", some days "I don't know". There are times I am convinced it is "Acceptance" and others when it seems it might be, "Oh, no you don't, you son of a bitch!" Oddly enough, when I am what appears to me to be most in tune with the universe, the answer often looks like All Of The Above, not that all are separately true but that, antithetical as it may seem, they are all the same answer.
Part of the mythology of Buddhism is that we are all serene beings, but there are as many different kinds of us as there are people, which is to say no two are truly the same as far as I can tell. The more honest we are, the more bewildered. Shouldn't one simply be able to decide to be kind? Choose calm? I don't think I'm cut out to be the serene type. I try for kindness and get there more often than I used to, but admit that's a bit paltry, even if it is the best I can do. What events make of us such solid stuff? We are born as soft as butter and harden to obsidian and no one asked of us which shape we will take."O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt". Please, I'll have a dollop more patience and a soupçon less judgment; thank you very much. But I have never even been offered the menu. I suppose it's just as well; if anyone thought I chose this life intentionally they would only shake their heads.
But this much I know to be true: as uncomfortable as it sometimes may be, the uncertainty is more true than the certainty. Being a solid self is a fantasy; I am forever in flux and to cling to the reality of the previous moment is to miss out entirely on this one. At the core, the Buddha was trying to say little other than this. I am less certain every day who I am. Why does such a good thing feel so dangerous?
There is a radio in my head, one channel playing the You Are The Best station (on the Top Ten: "The World Revolves Around You"), the other the You Are Scum Network. (I borrow the metaphor from Anne Lamott). Sometimes one channel is louder than the other, sometimes it seems as if one or the other has permanently gone off the air, only to come back louder than ever. I woke up the day before yesterday with the hit song "Failure, Failure, Failure, Failure, Failure" playing in my head. Not a favorite, exactly, but a Golden Oldie for sure. I can never be a good enough ______________; fill in the blank--son, brother, nurse, man, Buddhist, human being....
Here's the thing: I know better. But the feelings are very, very real.
Sometimes it seems to me that I have glimpsed THE answer, but can't articulate it. Some days it feels as if the answer is, "No", some days "Yes", some days "I don't know". There are times I am convinced it is "Acceptance" and others when it seems it might be, "Oh, no you don't, you son of a bitch!" Oddly enough, when I am what appears to me to be most in tune with the universe, the answer often looks like All Of The Above, not that all are separately true but that, antithetical as it may seem, they are all the same answer.
Part of the mythology of Buddhism is that we are all serene beings, but there are as many different kinds of us as there are people, which is to say no two are truly the same as far as I can tell. The more honest we are, the more bewildered. Shouldn't one simply be able to decide to be kind? Choose calm? I don't think I'm cut out to be the serene type. I try for kindness and get there more often than I used to, but admit that's a bit paltry, even if it is the best I can do. What events make of us such solid stuff? We are born as soft as butter and harden to obsidian and no one asked of us which shape we will take."O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt". Please, I'll have a dollop more patience and a soupçon less judgment; thank you very much. But I have never even been offered the menu. I suppose it's just as well; if anyone thought I chose this life intentionally they would only shake their heads.
But this much I know to be true: as uncomfortable as it sometimes may be, the uncertainty is more true than the certainty. Being a solid self is a fantasy; I am forever in flux and to cling to the reality of the previous moment is to miss out entirely on this one. At the core, the Buddha was trying to say little other than this. I am less certain every day who I am. Why does such a good thing feel so dangerous?
No comments:
Post a Comment