Oh Happy Day

When we realize we are going to be okay, or even that we are okay, right now, no matter what happens. Nothing has to be figured out, no decisions have to be made, no terrifying changes are on the day's schedule. When for whatever reason the serenity of accepting things I cannot change simply pays a visit. 

Do you find this inspirational? I have questions. Like- why is she in her underwear? Does serenity not only include being half naked, but also the possibility of plunging to one's death? Does she believe she can fly? I am simultaneously inspired, curious and deeply concerned

It's funny-strange, because within the freedom that comes from accepting what can't be changed, there is that seed of complete despair. And deep within the deepest despair, there is also, in my experience, the seed of radical acceptance. In a darkly humorous way, that is probably why the lyrics from "Don't Let's Start" by They Might Be Giants make perfect sense in spite of the apparent paradox:

"No one in the world ever gets what they want,

And that is beautiful. 

Everybody dies frustrated and sad,

And that is beautiful."

Exactly how everybody saying "Deputy dawg dog a ding dang a depa depa" (twice) fits into this, I am not sure. 

I know I am prone to exaggeration (ya think haha) but yesterday I felt like a strange dull rusty blade was jammed into my duodenum, a weird numinous blade of grief that doesn't do enough damage to cause a person to bleed out, but causes chronic, constant sickening pain. I was walking after my 5K run and reflecting with compassion on those of us who decide to just make a fucking exit from this goddamned planet. Because when we humans are faced with waking up to that dagger every day and that is the best it is going to get, simply in chronic pain at all times, things get bleak. I have lived many days, months and even years in a state of pain like this, and I'm sure my drinking and drugging was an understandable but delusional way of seeking relief. Not my alcoholism and addiction, mind you-- that's a different disease. Long story, not important at this time. 

One for each day of the week! Except Sunday, a day of rest

I know these passages have deep value along the path. For one thing, I am usually forced to reconnect with my Higher Power in the midst of getting beat to shit in this way. My fancy prayers get real fucking simple: "Please. Help me," gasping out loud. But that is often the most effective prayer. I am also forced to reorient myself to how I can think of and help other people. It is one of the most potent antidotes to gut-lacerating despair that I know of. Calling another alcoholic, going to a meeting. 

Or, in the case of the love of my fucking life, letting go of not getting what I want and asking the Universe, capital U, "How can I best be of service to this other person who is also hurting?" In fact, I think the most fundamental problem with "romantic love," or with "being in love," is not the mutual projection, the strong emotions or the other psychic and spiritual and emotional potency. I think it's that the basic condition of being so fucking in love with someone that you can barely breathe is that it also becomes easy to forget to ask how you can actually help them. So much feels at stake, so much in myself feels naked, absolutely vulnerable and tender, that my self-centered fear goes through the roof and I lose sight of the more global, general, truly loving compassion toward the other person. How many times have I professed love for a woman but then sought to burn her fucking life down? Or refused to accept her the way she is? Or wished her ill when she betrayed me or hurt me? Clearly, love is a verb. Fearless on my breath.  




One of the great leaps of spiritual progress for me has been to remember to love someone unconditionally, when possible. One of the things that freed that up for me was realizing that I could still remove myself and get space, if I felt hurt, angry, jealous, abandoned, terrified. That one of the most loving things I can do is retreat when I am about to lash out. 

Anyway, partly because I went to a speaker meeting last night and heard Kate B share her experience strength and hope of 51 years of sobriety, today the rusty dagger has morphed into a gouty bit of uric acid grit under my belly button, still painful but much less alarming. More along the lines of ordinary pain. 

The kind of grit from which a strange, numinous oddly shaped pearl could form, if given a chance.