Samsara
On Friday I attended my first Hindu temple wedding. And I didn't really know anyone that well apart from the bride (who was obviously preoccupied with more important things than keeping me company, though she did give me a wink over the photographer's shoulder, which left me quite chuffed). So I ended up talking to one of the other guests, a stranger. The conversation through lunch cycled through issues of reincarnation, meditation, faith, goodness, prayer. For a person who likes their spirituality separate from organised religion, I found it very pleasant to speak to a believer who wasn't interested in whether I believed, but who just wanted to exchange ideas. For the privacy of persons involved I won't elaborate on why this particular wedding had a poignant edge to it, but the conversation felt fated, somehow. And I don't really believe in fate. \:) Am I contradicting myself? Of course.
Fast forward to me sitting here, poring over a bundle of memorabilia I saved from the last World Cup. In between scraps of paper gloating over Italy's loss to South Korea, I find... post-it notes, telephone pad scribbles. Weird. There are letters. There are ticket stubs. All things that survived merely by being in the same mess as that FIFA ephemera, or is their survival evidence of subconscious sentimentality? Maybe.
Requests for help, barings of the soul, suppressed anger. It surprises me how vulnerable people can be, how blind they are to their successes, how anguished by their failures. They, their, we, our, you, yours, I, mine. It surprises me how vulnerable we are to others' vulnerability.
But all this must go into the recycling bin. It's 2006 and everyone's become more stable since then, or at least, learnt how to present a facade of stability. It must be a symptom of getting older that I'd rather believe in that kind of stability. One could either make an ill-gotten fortune from returning the memories of others, one could end up with fewer friends than before.
Avidya, avidya!
Fast forward to me sitting here, poring over a bundle of memorabilia I saved from the last World Cup. In between scraps of paper gloating over Italy's loss to South Korea, I find... post-it notes, telephone pad scribbles. Weird. There are letters. There are ticket stubs. All things that survived merely by being in the same mess as that FIFA ephemera, or is their survival evidence of subconscious sentimentality? Maybe.
Requests for help, barings of the soul, suppressed anger. It surprises me how vulnerable people can be, how blind they are to their successes, how anguished by their failures. They, their, we, our, you, yours, I, mine. It surprises me how vulnerable we are to others' vulnerability.
But all this must go into the recycling bin. It's 2006 and everyone's become more stable since then, or at least, learnt how to present a facade of stability. It must be a symptom of getting older that I'd rather believe in that kind of stability. One could either make an ill-gotten fortune from returning the memories of others, one could end up with fewer friends than before.
Avidya, avidya!