A strange desire to write.
There hasn’t been much of this lately. In fact, there has been a slight emphasis to not write, to instead think (really think, as in give yourself a thought and stick with it for ten, twenty, thirty minutes…to not let go of it; to ask the same questions over and over and again hoping for new answers, hoping for some new understanding to arise up within you), to meditate and grow your own compassion, to sometimes cry at the mistakes you have made in your years, or to focus and absorb the things around you rather than turn inside yourself to the emotions and creations of fantasy in your head.
You’ve been convinced to go and find the Real, and the fantasy, the encouragement of supposition: Oh man, you’ve decided that has got to go. Oh man—is that right?
This actually all began with emotion.
Today, coming back from a day of simplicity and complexity at work—ease in too well-trained knowledge, ease in my impending departure—a friend offered up one of his favorite covers, that of Bon Iver’s,“Pretty Love”, and offered to play it for me while I drove. Music has always played perhaps a too sentimental role in my life, songs forever associated with places and times and emotions, and the moment notes filled the car I was over five years in the past, thinking of a girl that had left me, and spending a terrible, terrible night listening to this album and drinking wine until I couldn’t anymore, knowing that it was all over. That working toward love, inherent and obvious and crippling love to me, meant nothing without the other doing the same. That I was leaving soon. That her voice would leave with me.
There’s an intellectual side of me that analyzes all of this and tries to find the universal compassion that is inherent in it. There is now a part of me that rejects such emotion’s attachment to situations or others, and instead searches only in the power that the emotion itself has. One, studied in Tibetan Buddhism, might say that I am searching for the Rigpa. One might say I am simply still coping. You can pick which one you assign to me—it doesn’t matter what you choose. There is the principle and the others: I know what I know, and you know your own. The rest is simply dark waves hitting the beach with an incomprehensible forever.
There’s a beautiful myth in many cultures that has the hero sinking into the belly of the whale. Those of us in the Western culture think of Jonah, but Christianity doesn’t have a monopoly on the unconscious. Going lower, going deeper, whether in correspondence or in my own thoughts and writings, forced in the morning or organic in the evening, these are all moments of humanity that I am trying to understand. And, in many ways, I feel as though I am still there, even five years after the fact. I pray and I meditate. I change in countless ways to others around me. I notice myself changing and am pleased even as I remind myself to never expect applause. Changes are recognitions—changes are growth—there is only one growth toward which we can thoughtfully and lovingly change.
Deepening. More of the inwards of the world to explore. Music to settle my soul in the meantime.
Oh, how I love the world and my stupid, insignificant place in it.
It’s time to go home. And it’s time to realize that home doesn’t exist anywhere but within.