I don't kill spiders. It's not from a strict adherence to non-violence. I kill mosquitos and the occasional gnat or centipede, I eat fish and other fleshy creatures (though it is rare and sadly with a burden of guilt, which is a gustatory downer). I just don't kill spiders. I talk to them. If they are dangerous, they go outside, otherwise we live side by side in companionable tolerance. They walk across the floor, the tub, the counter, leisurely and with an air of belonging. Today I saw one scurry, eight legs literally racing across the kitchen rug over the cool spanish tiles, speeding toward a dark space beneath Bodhi's wooden step stool. It was such a strange occurrence after years of spiders creeping from place to place. This spider looked scared, though no doubt I am anthropomorphosizing. I stood for some time wondering how often I feel like that spider looked, imagining the world I inhabit dangerous, frightening and ominous. How often do I hurry pell mell from one protected corner to the next, all the while inhabiting a benevolent universe, without a giant, fearful foot eager to squash me. What would it be like to cease hurry, breathe and just inhabit. There is a web unique to me, each thread new. I carry my home and purpose with me, where ever I go. We all do.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
Comments