I’m mentally disturbed by how quickly I forget the things I know.
Only by the patient curiosity of the finger twirling creation ringlets in its hair (and thus into my life), do I get the opportunity to wake up (again and again) in the same bed, to the same set of realizations, wondering, “…didn’t I already come to these conclusions?” and if so, where did they go?
They fell into my life like Siddhartha’s stone; plunk! Sinking to my soul and, in the process, making waves against my physical shores. I thought those stones sat stacked, at my core, like little sacred cairns pointing clearly toward this or that permanent direction.
But now I look in, and am shocked (or am I just covering my blush with feigned surprise?) — to find that these cairns have crumbled! But why should I be surprised? I too have contemplated the nature of Siddhartha’s river: I’ve seen storms, above and below, come and go, push and pull, and know that no cairn stands forever, not even – well, especially not – on the bed of a pond or river.
Oh. Unorganized, sticky webs of words. I do that too, when I’m confused. But I’ve been left alone, to my own, and now this is what you get…
For I’m on the fifth day of a silent meditation retreat at a Buddhist teaching center.
The gong rings: time for me to return to the teachings.
We’ll see what settles when my mind has fully spun out…
(this, by the way, is the “spinning out” part; if my sentence spirals dizzy you, know that it’s only my “I” sitting storm-center)