I Don't Have To

"My whole life is have to." - Steve Martin's character in Parenthood.

Day 96. Day 96. Day 96. I can think of nothing else to write.

I missed something I really wanted to attend today. I could have meditated with my teacher. I looked forward to it for the past two weeks. I was woken by a bird on whom I would buckle a tiny little muzzle if given half the chance. I'm only saying that because popping it with a firearm is not in keeping with honoring all sentient beings. It woke me because I couldn't summon the energy to reach under my pillow and insert my ear plugs. Whatever is remiss with my chemical self must be righted soon. I have no tolerance for feeling like this. When responding to others' pain, I can be infinitely patient. My attention span is much shorter when something ails me.

My man-child is on the brink of heart break, which I realize does not distinguish him from about ninety percent of all other 19-year-olds on the planet. I have no desire whatsoever to repeat parenting him at any age other than his present one, however, some things were much easier when he was three. There weren't many problems that couldn't be solved by an episode of Power Rangers. Two at the most. Standing on the brink of adulthood is no piece of cake. Coming of age in this era of cyber-suffering ain't no picnic, either.

I know a thousand different ways of climbing back up from the cliffs of despair. Presently, I feel not the slightest inclination to employ a single one of them. I think, instead, I will paddle around here in the sea of despondency. Surf the waves of wretchedness. Sift the sands of suffering. Glide through the glades of gloom. Sorry. I never can resist an opportunity to toss a word salad.

I can't remember the exact context, but it seems in the movie "Julie/Julia" there was a Hollywoodesque crisis somewhere in her year of French cooking. I think something burned or turned putrid or similarly required being scraped down the garbage disposal. She ended up in a pile of emotional jello on her kitchen floor and was promptly comforted by her man. I don't feel in crisis, and if I collapsed onto my kitchen floor I would likely disappear into layers of dog hair. I also don't feel like writing in detail about my psychological or physical condition. That's not the purpose of this blog.

I think I am simply going to default to good old Buddhist acceptance. Acceptance and impermanence. I'm not going to think or analyze or discuss or apply any of my arsenal of coping mechanisms. I think I'll just wait this out. On the cushion and off. Nothing lasts forever, and in time, even misery goes away.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc