Skip to main content
Okay, why have I posted a picture of myself studying in my meditation corner?  I recently read a quote from the Buddha, "The moment you see how important it is to love yourself, you will stop making others suffer."  It has been like a koan, stripping away my terra firma and leaving me uncertain.  In our humanness we determine what is good and just and right within us and we lean toward it, grasping, hoping to convey our worthiness in some measure to the world.  All the while we kick, bind, hush and hide the qualities deemed unworthy, leaning as far from them as we can.  When someone mentions them in conversation, we bristle and rail, "Who are you calling controling?".  Our emotional reaction loudly proclaims our resistence.  Are we the grasping or resisting?  Is there a vantage point devoid of charge?  Does it matter if we are patient or impatient? good or bad? neither or both?  What does it mean to love ourselves.  I have often bent toward my "spiritual" self, my generosity, my open heart, my sensitivity, my intelligence and creativity.  I have wanted to sculpt my projected image to best ensure a positive reception and a judgement of "Ah yes, you ARE worthy, capable and deserving".  It is a subtle violence toward self and other.  What if instead I told you that I can be controlling, material, manipulative, unkind and ungenerous?  Would that be more true.  Hardly.  That would exchange violence for violence.  Perhaps we love ourselves best when the weight falls squarely in the middle, when we hold the pendulum in midswing as it is right now, not tomorrow or next week or when we become holier than holy.  Perhaps the life arising and expressing now IS enough.  Regardless, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is all there is.
Perhaps.

Comments

Anonymous said…
I just want to say Hi to Everyone!

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...