230822 - Paradoxes
I come to realize that what we do actually makes a difference. What a scary thought. Or is it liberating? Yesterday I gave 500rs to a couple on the street; they touched my heart. It took me an hour to find a working atm, but when I came back to give them more they were gone. I pray they found a place to sleep and food to fill their stomach. “Bless me into usefulness”, everyday I pray - But being a westerner in India, money is what makes a difference. I curse its burden. I walak around with no shoes, mala in hand. Then I meet a monk who tells me they couldn’t afford shoes when he was young. What does that make me? A man without shoes, is all. Karmic debt is owed. I see my privilege. Every day I thank the Lord. A precious human rebirth. It is then from a place of privilege that I can say: The Dhamma is worth more than all the rest. Money I would easily depart; If I had to choose, in a heartbeat I would give it all up. But when I meet people who don’t know where their next meal is coming from, money is what I give them. Buddhas words do not fill an empty stomach.
It’s all empty. Groundless. When I die, what is it that will leave this earth? Could anything that has really been, truly be gone? Sometimes I look at my hands, and a memory, long-forgotten, slips by. Usually I am shocked by what I see. When I was 16, I could not imagine growing up. I was sure that I’d be dead by 20. I’m not sure, honestly, if I even wanted to go on. This was how I lived my life, and for sure my escapades were seconds, centimeters, from fulfilling that prophecy. Now every day is a blessing. Even, perhaps especially, the bad ones. I AM. But I have been, also. Is this not the point upon which we find ourselves, always? I am that which, having been, now am. We find ourselves enveloped by, in the midst of, fascinated by, the world. But it is never of our choosing. Close your eyes. Listen for a few seconds. There you are. There was never any solid ground with which we based our lives upon. I am that which finds myself, thrown into the world. Existentially, I am falling. Trying not to look myself in the eye, because it would admit that I was never in control. I find myself having been. From THIS point I work. I cannot rule what was. I cannot rule karma, the causes and conditions that will shape my life. I surrender to it. With humbleness I work with what arises. With what IS. From wherever I find myself, I work. Life is but a dream. We think we’re in control. The greatest illusion is believing the walls we touch are solid. That tomorrow, the sun will rise above our heads the same as yesterday.
Melancholy sets in. The oppression it brings; the need to do something about it, this is its power. Why must I act? Eventually I succumb, to this too. Thinking I’ve gotten somewhere, this is what it uses. If I’ve gotten somewhere, why should I feel this? BUT I AM ALREADY INSIDE OF IT. From here I work. Everyday I remind myself. Yet I forget. The work is not really work, either. It’s not doing something about it. I want to laugh but I feel sad. Why must I suffer? Because I do not accept the sadness. I wish my writing was profound. I wish I had something to say. I wish that all these words amounted to something more than contrast on a screen. I know they do. But I wish so, too.