There can be no real distinction between the geological phenomenon we’re promulgating and the broad socio-political drama unfolding daily. We have become the monster under our own bed.
After yesterday, I’m inclined to reorganize the atoms of Donald Trump, to return them to their original form as earth, composting his nutrients, if there were any, to regenerate new beginnings? Would that be part of the natural order of things?
At the heart of extremist Christianity is an absolutist belief that all events are choreographed by the Hand of God. So it’s not a stretch to go from believing in God’s Plan to the belief in intentional coordination of a Hidden Hand behind phenomena that don’t conform to one’s view of God’s Plan.
It is so painful that now, given the helplessness of it all, whatever humor there may once have been in the infinite variety of human foibles is subsumed by the poignancy and terror, the desperation and bewildered hatred at the heart of mass delusion.
This is the imperative of evolving spirituality, realizing Sufism’s unity of fanaa and baqaa & of Buddhism’s Two Truths, to be here and everywhere at all times, to simultaneously be emptiness and embodiment.
Bodhicitta is a way of connecting to other lives, of saying we are nothing without that connection and that our connection to each other is deeper than we can ever truly know.
These two ways of experiencing the world, Being and Becoming, either by assuming human centrality which doesn’t exist or by de-centralizing humanity and recovering a capacity to experience our deep entanglement with all of life, are not so much mutually exclusive as they are a continuum.
Maybe I could see it if I had eyes on the side of my head instead of looking straight, as if I’m a fish, perpetually suspicious about the possibility of water—as if I once knew of it but have forgotten. That is, if I, a fish, believed in existence.
Grief is a way of loving what has slipped from view. Love is a way of grieving what has not
America is under racist assault. It has been this way for centuries—as though a cult of the undead, the empty