Wonderment
I was thinking yesterday about failure as I bumped along a Tibetan road in a vomit laden bus. I was thinking that I would write a book about it. It is interesting how this thought came to mind. I was first thinking about how I had wasted the last seven years of my life. Then I thought I could salve that wound by doing something monumental: writing a book. Then I thought that I could further salve that waste by writing the book about that failure.
All this may seem dramatic. And it was at the time I conceived it. I was sitting on that bus jolting up and down, left and right, inhaling ubiquitous cigarette smoke, listening to the woman behind me vomit into a plastic bag, and most powerfully, reaping some angry karma.
It was the angry karma that was rocking my world...for the worse. I hated with every inch of my body and the depth of passion in mind that bus ride. Only the last two hours, which, of course, felt like a day and a half.
The failure of the last seven years, I will not detail here. Why, I don't know. But, it seems to cut too deep for right now. Especially since this blog is linked to my website.
What I will describe is the insidious revelation of anger and the way it creeps up and overwhelms.
I think, in this case, it has a lot to do with body sensitivity and the crass way the bus and the road conspired to attack me kinesthetically. Studying yoga and Buddhism trains body sensitivity. Ultimately the idea is to more closely know and observe the relationship betwen consciousness and bodily presence. That work does a lot to train understanding of those connections and also draws one into a red pill scenario where one is more sensitive of everything, including suffering.
While being cramped, congested, and harrassed by the raucous behavior of the bus and its lover, the road, my body was jostled in a violent way. I think, I did not prepare for that well and it resulted in quick translation of that material violence to emotion. I hated. I hated the bus, I hated the smokers, I hated the chinese speakers, I hated the Tibetan that wanted to cuddle with me, I hated everything.
Those brutal, hateful facts swelled over me and drowned my weakened yogic defenses in a sea of anger. There I was, in suffering.
In better news, I am not in a bus, but in a lovely little guesthouse that provides the perfect ward in which to recover from that trauma.
All this may seem dramatic. And it was at the time I conceived it. I was sitting on that bus jolting up and down, left and right, inhaling ubiquitous cigarette smoke, listening to the woman behind me vomit into a plastic bag, and most powerfully, reaping some angry karma.
It was the angry karma that was rocking my world...for the worse. I hated with every inch of my body and the depth of passion in mind that bus ride. Only the last two hours, which, of course, felt like a day and a half.
The failure of the last seven years, I will not detail here. Why, I don't know. But, it seems to cut too deep for right now. Especially since this blog is linked to my website.
What I will describe is the insidious revelation of anger and the way it creeps up and overwhelms.
I think, in this case, it has a lot to do with body sensitivity and the crass way the bus and the road conspired to attack me kinesthetically. Studying yoga and Buddhism trains body sensitivity. Ultimately the idea is to more closely know and observe the relationship betwen consciousness and bodily presence. That work does a lot to train understanding of those connections and also draws one into a red pill scenario where one is more sensitive of everything, including suffering.
While being cramped, congested, and harrassed by the raucous behavior of the bus and its lover, the road, my body was jostled in a violent way. I think, I did not prepare for that well and it resulted in quick translation of that material violence to emotion. I hated. I hated the bus, I hated the smokers, I hated the chinese speakers, I hated the Tibetan that wanted to cuddle with me, I hated everything.
Those brutal, hateful facts swelled over me and drowned my weakened yogic defenses in a sea of anger. There I was, in suffering.
In better news, I am not in a bus, but in a lovely little guesthouse that provides the perfect ward in which to recover from that trauma.
posted by Breathing at 5:41 PM
1 Comments:
I read your blog because I like your voice as a writer. I can't say I really have a consistent one of my own yet but as I try and cultivate it I like reading others that do. Your blog is one of those. I don't know what I think of you writing a book about failure. I'm guessing you're not sure either yet. But, whatever the topic I'm confident you have the skill and élan to deliver your reader safely and satisfyingly to the last page.
It is also nice to read about your Adventure with a capital "A" and know that you are safe if not entirely well and presumably having something like fun even if your body betrays you so. Get well soon. Or is that hoping for too much and the same as saying get down from the mountain? In any case, take care.
A-
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