prayerful journey

Gimme, gimme

Sugar, sugar. Money, money. A brain. A heart. Courage.

We all want so much. Or do we? Better, I should say, I want so much. Or do I?

A friend recently wrote me (in an actual paper letter!) that our greatest joys are inextricably linked to our greatest sorrows--as genesis/creator, companion, reflection, afterbirth. That we recognize the difference--perceive the zenith of the high, the depth of the low--is only because the dualism exists...opposing labels we ascribe to what amounts to the very same thing...life.

So, in the midst of this ever expanding and contracting amalgam/illusion of particle vibrations, when every duck still incures a slap...every unconscious action careens the same as a deliberate choice, how do we make progress, gain ground, evolve, much less do no harm?

I've had more time to think in past year than perhaps I ought. My keeper in Ahmedabad often, in the few English words she knew, would command me from across the kitchen floor to, "Stop Thinking!" And yet no matter how many fancy meditation techniques I learn or philosophies I imbibe, I haven't managed to overcome. This double edged sword of mine has been both liberator and executioner, looming it seems, with a perfect hari-kari blade. And lately it taunts--in my waking consciousness and in the hands of all who knew me..."What is it that you want?"

So, what do I want? I say, "Well, many things," or "The things I want are so ephemeral," as if I've already attained Enlightenment, and practical things like "Plenty of money to live on" and "the respect of others" would be too mundane, too pedestrian, too...commercial. Because what I really "want:" love, security, acceptance, ease of existence...how do you possible quantify those into attainable goals? Reduce them to points on a line graph, barometer marks on a fund-raising chart, or motivating slogans on a break-room poster? You can't. Or maybe I can't because I'm still to scared to really look closely enough...to commit to what it is I want...or more acutely, commit to the fight which will have to be waged in order to conquer said goal, still unclaimed, languishing in the shadows.

I have begun many New Days in my life. Had many Brand New Starts. And yet here I am. Again. Circular. One. ? I am my body, but my body is not me. Am I a slave to my karma, or is my karma a slave to me?

In my latest attempt at New Incarnation, (which, I should also admit, is actually my second stabbing at said program), the Practice asks: Do you want to Change, or do you want to Transform? Change in this context meaning modification, while Transform[ation], with its sexy additional syllable [+], promising complete, irrevocable, over-haul...no mere cosmetic tweaking, but Six-Million-Dollar-Bionic-Being-Re-building. And who wouldn't want that? I certainly think I want the latter....badly....so then why do I find myself here again? In a place, a position, which lit a fire under my ass 18 months ago, but which now just smolders...Just theatrically enough to convince others that in all my fannying about, I am just as likely to be passing gas as blowing smoke.

And yet, what does all this constant contemplation get me? Of what factors do I have control? What chance does my Wanting have to move What is? I wasted many a gorgeous Indian morning, staring at filthy ceiling fans and grimy plaster chips through bleary, teary eyes. I've vanquished 5 months of return--not in earning or accumulating or healing, but in constant sputtering, plotting, and fizzling. For what gain? Certainly none in the clarity department.

And so, Sarah, Darling, what is it that you want? Today I want some quite. Today, in my self created, self-condemned shelter of sorrow, I want to feel happy again. To feel lighter. To feel part of the world that is kinder in my retrospective, Green-grass memory than it ever was in reality. So I walk. Not to get any where, not for any constructive purpose, or exercise or calorie manipulation. But just to walk. And today, on this road, past this arid, earthy corn field, though the butterflies no longer mate and congregate, the birds still chirp. The long grass gleams a lush, vibrant green. Turned trees rest in jewelled tones against azure skies, vibrant raspberry tops, ripe for the picking. Leaves dance on a cool, constant breeze, balanced by golden sunlight, strong enough to warm my body, my cheeks, and magical enough to replace my eyelashes with a fringe of rainbow-flecked feather-down. For all the uncertainty, for all the incompetence observable at any moment...for all my misgivings, forgivings, indecision...today, right now, seems a perfect opportunity to be ALIVE. And all the choices are reduced to one inevitability. Simple. Easy.

For a soundtrack to this post, please listen to the incredible Pete Rothbart of The Poem Adept at http://www.poemadept.com/, listen to "Fighting with Myself" off the Sight of Any Bird album under the MUSIC section. Then buy the album. By both of them. Preferably at a FOUND Magazine Concert/Happening, listed under EVENTS. Even if you get lost, take the wrong ferry, and only get to the bar in time to hear "The Booty Don't Stop," it's well worth everything--gas, lost time, and all.....