Back again
Just got back from Mount Ireneaus Thursday. Right now I'm in the guest bedroom--because my brother is in my actual bedroom--recovering after 14 hours of movie making with my friends. Exhausted, warm, but wired. Not sure what it is.
I haven't written today, so that could be the culprit. Next question: what to write about? After spending 9 weeks living with a few friars in the midst of a small forest away from home, seeing only one friend the whole time--for a total of three hours--I should have a lot to write about. The 108 hours we spent praying. The 270 hours we spent working. The guests. The distance. The personal struggles and drama. My keyboard should be sprouting all sorts of contemplative gold.
But right now, all I can write about is dukkha.
"Vanity, vanity, all is vanity and chasing after wind," reads Ecclesiastes--or something like that. To me, vanity and dukkha are similar. Dukkha is the Sanskrit word for suffering, but it can also refer to the general impermanence and lack-luster feelings inherent to life. Life can feel hollow when one stops to smell the roses.
I suppose one thing I noticed at the Mountain is my tendency to gravitate toward the extremes of nihilism and cynicism as a defence mechanism. It's often easier to quote psalm 49 and say, 'We die like beasts," then it is to say that life is both joy and sorrow, but the more one opens to joy, the more one opens to pain. If one can say all is sorrow and impermanence--without remembering openness or compassion--it is easy to put on armor and retreat back to the phrase, "vanity, vanity, all is vanity and the chasing after of wind." Call it positive nihilism if you will: Life is too meaningless and hollow to get pained.
What does that even mean? It's rife with contradictions, but it resonates through my memory and fears and hopes. How could hollowness bring comfort? Yet it does.
Nevertheless, if I walk away with a single quote this summer, it is from Brother Kevin: "The more you love, the more human you are," or something like that. That grows with me each day. Definitions of love, which I once formulated with precision and distinction are foggy and dirty. Is it a divine gift? A hormonal reaction? A psychological need? I have no clue.
But it does counter my retreat into positive nihilism. When one loves I think, one automatically puts hope into something as if it is not meaningless. I mean, who would really go through the bullshit and hell of love unless it had meaning? Or love and life could be an even sicker joke than I thought--which I won't rule out it the slightest.
I just spent some time with my family. We talked about our problems, then the world's problems. We drank wine, we laughed, we drank more wine. I couldn't help but feel that the whole thing was meaningless, from our laughter to our laments. I couldn't help but think, "we die like beasts," whenever a problem came up. We all live short, often insignificant lives, then die, leaving nothing but memories and titles to the earth.
Sad but true? Harold-and Maud-style morbid? Probably both.
I could feel it interfere with my love. I didn't care about what anyone was saying. All I could think was, you guessed it, "we die like bests." My brother's problems meant nothing to me, but I should still be open to them because I love him.
I guess that's a lifelong trial for me, balancing a healthy realism with a morbid attachment to death. What can I bear? What is realistic? I don't know. But most important of all, when does it become an escape from love--because love is pretty damn hard. I mean, I don't know what it is, but if it's anything like what I think it is, hell no. I might as well try to move the ocean with teaspoons, like Gandhi said.
I've always been a perfectionist, but perfect love is not not possible. Romantic love has all sorts of twists and turns. Family love is like Sisyphus pushing up his boulder. And unconditional love, how can I love someone who hurts so much? Who has no designs to love? I might as well just give up and retreat back into the truth: "we die like beasts" and "all is vanity and chasing after wind." That's pretty straight-forward.
In Francis' prayer, I always remember the line, "Let me not so much seek to be loved, but to love." That is so hard. Most of the fun from loving someone is being loved back. Like held verses holding. I need to feel the strength of another keeping me together. But what if you can't feel that love--or worse--they don't love you back? I don't want that. I might as well just love a brick wall. At least it won't hurt so much.
So what can I do? The answer seems simple: love people. It just sounds like the right thing to do. But it flies in the face of so much: the lack of control in our lives, death, emotion, dukkha. I don't know. To be more theological, I think relationships would be a pretty accurate representation of how God (if real) would feel, especially between parent and offspring. The parent wants the kid to make good choices, avoid suffering, live a moral life. In short, do what he or she wants them to do.
But love cannot control. It seems to gain it's power by utter surrender and trust. So many questions come up. How much freedom should I allow? How much should I trust them? Are they safe? Are they happy? Many times, those questions have bad answers, but we can't do much. One can't force love.
So, it seems like a Catch-22 situation. We all die. Those who love suffer more, but in our neediness we cry out for relationship. Death verses suffering. Both suck.
I guess it comes down to, I can't help but love. I want to strangle my nephew sometimes when he cries at 3:15 in the morning, but when I see his calm smile as he drifts to sleep again, I love him. I feel so happy and nurturing. In the same way, my mom drives me crazy, but it's only because I care about her.
I'd rather have the vitality of suffering than the stiff chill of death. I know because I have lived with death for many years. He is a cunning friend.
I haven't written today, so that could be the culprit. Next question: what to write about? After spending 9 weeks living with a few friars in the midst of a small forest away from home, seeing only one friend the whole time--for a total of three hours--I should have a lot to write about. The 108 hours we spent praying. The 270 hours we spent working. The guests. The distance. The personal struggles and drama. My keyboard should be sprouting all sorts of contemplative gold.
But right now, all I can write about is dukkha.
"Vanity, vanity, all is vanity and chasing after wind," reads Ecclesiastes--or something like that. To me, vanity and dukkha are similar. Dukkha is the Sanskrit word for suffering, but it can also refer to the general impermanence and lack-luster feelings inherent to life. Life can feel hollow when one stops to smell the roses.
I suppose one thing I noticed at the Mountain is my tendency to gravitate toward the extremes of nihilism and cynicism as a defence mechanism. It's often easier to quote psalm 49 and say, 'We die like beasts," then it is to say that life is both joy and sorrow, but the more one opens to joy, the more one opens to pain. If one can say all is sorrow and impermanence--without remembering openness or compassion--it is easy to put on armor and retreat back to the phrase, "vanity, vanity, all is vanity and the chasing after of wind." Call it positive nihilism if you will: Life is too meaningless and hollow to get pained.
What does that even mean? It's rife with contradictions, but it resonates through my memory and fears and hopes. How could hollowness bring comfort? Yet it does.
Nevertheless, if I walk away with a single quote this summer, it is from Brother Kevin: "The more you love, the more human you are," or something like that. That grows with me each day. Definitions of love, which I once formulated with precision and distinction are foggy and dirty. Is it a divine gift? A hormonal reaction? A psychological need? I have no clue.
But it does counter my retreat into positive nihilism. When one loves I think, one automatically puts hope into something as if it is not meaningless. I mean, who would really go through the bullshit and hell of love unless it had meaning? Or love and life could be an even sicker joke than I thought--which I won't rule out it the slightest.
I just spent some time with my family. We talked about our problems, then the world's problems. We drank wine, we laughed, we drank more wine. I couldn't help but feel that the whole thing was meaningless, from our laughter to our laments. I couldn't help but think, "we die like beasts," whenever a problem came up. We all live short, often insignificant lives, then die, leaving nothing but memories and titles to the earth.
Sad but true? Harold-and Maud-style morbid? Probably both.
I could feel it interfere with my love. I didn't care about what anyone was saying. All I could think was, you guessed it, "we die like bests." My brother's problems meant nothing to me, but I should still be open to them because I love him.
I guess that's a lifelong trial for me, balancing a healthy realism with a morbid attachment to death. What can I bear? What is realistic? I don't know. But most important of all, when does it become an escape from love--because love is pretty damn hard. I mean, I don't know what it is, but if it's anything like what I think it is, hell no. I might as well try to move the ocean with teaspoons, like Gandhi said.
I've always been a perfectionist, but perfect love is not not possible. Romantic love has all sorts of twists and turns. Family love is like Sisyphus pushing up his boulder. And unconditional love, how can I love someone who hurts so much? Who has no designs to love? I might as well just give up and retreat back into the truth: "we die like beasts" and "all is vanity and chasing after wind." That's pretty straight-forward.
In Francis' prayer, I always remember the line, "Let me not so much seek to be loved, but to love." That is so hard. Most of the fun from loving someone is being loved back. Like held verses holding. I need to feel the strength of another keeping me together. But what if you can't feel that love--or worse--they don't love you back? I don't want that. I might as well just love a brick wall. At least it won't hurt so much.
So what can I do? The answer seems simple: love people. It just sounds like the right thing to do. But it flies in the face of so much: the lack of control in our lives, death, emotion, dukkha. I don't know. To be more theological, I think relationships would be a pretty accurate representation of how God (if real) would feel, especially between parent and offspring. The parent wants the kid to make good choices, avoid suffering, live a moral life. In short, do what he or she wants them to do.
But love cannot control. It seems to gain it's power by utter surrender and trust. So many questions come up. How much freedom should I allow? How much should I trust them? Are they safe? Are they happy? Many times, those questions have bad answers, but we can't do much. One can't force love.
So, it seems like a Catch-22 situation. We all die. Those who love suffer more, but in our neediness we cry out for relationship. Death verses suffering. Both suck.
I guess it comes down to, I can't help but love. I want to strangle my nephew sometimes when he cries at 3:15 in the morning, but when I see his calm smile as he drifts to sleep again, I love him. I feel so happy and nurturing. In the same way, my mom drives me crazy, but it's only because I care about her.
I'd rather have the vitality of suffering than the stiff chill of death. I know because I have lived with death for many years. He is a cunning friend.