Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in the eyes of the Divine. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed … I suppose the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship each other. –Thomas Merton
Things are incredibly sad here.
When I look at the sky some days it is piercingly blue, which seems a mockery to the state of it all. Other days, like today, it is a shroud, milk tainted by one drop of squid ink. I imagine the sun trudging across its congested home, sweating and exhausted. I can commiserate. The simplest things, throwing off the duvet this morning, assembling the ingredients for matcha, take more time than they should. Why bother?
This soft, dull light of today lulls me to disinterest. I want nothing but to continue laying in my warm bed daydreaming of another world that is warm, inviting and viscous with honey’d love. I’m drunk on love, floating contentedly in its golden sea. There’s nowhere to be, no other person to invite in. It’s all exactly enough.
I’ve longed to be delivered to this world since my first grown-up taste of absolute love in the form of my first love. We sucked each other bone dry and then kept coming back for more, hoping for one more hit of delicious connectedness. When that ended I searched for another to take his place, then another, and another. Any pain or heartache could be endured if we could just go there. I’ve searched for this other. I’ve forsaken this other. How dare you not come to me? How dare you not deliver us from the pain of our solitary, lonely, suffering!
Perhaps it is because of my mother’s love that I’ve believed that love arrives from an outside source. She nursed and cradled me when I cried, kissed my wounds and held my hand. For my first few years on this planet, she was my world. Any moments of contentedness arrived through her. This imprinting is deep, and it remains. Though I’m grown my experience of love remains infantile. There was never a class to show me that that love actually comes from my own connection to what is; that the viscous honey’d world I dream of surrounds me once I stop looking for it. Maybe then I could see it in Fall’s impossibly variegated leaves, late-afternoon dancing shadows, and creeping green-eyed kittens. I could taste in the macaroni and cheese sampled from the stove, and salted peanuts found in a linty pocket. I could smell it in the crisp burnt air, swirling incense and steaming rice-y matcha. And yes, maybe in these moments of alone, I could find it in the beauty of all humans, even just myself.