hospital parables
how calm i have grown in the tranquility and reduction of illness. i am one of those blessed deepest by loss. when the clamor of the city is stilled, when the ticking of clocks and the low electric hum of a household are silenced, when a hush falls upon the constant, varied music of birds and insects, when we neither speak nor are spoken to, we hear, finally, the soft miracle of breath and pulse. the distracting cacophony of the everyday is muted by this loss; let us rejoice in the reprieve even if it is not of our choosing. we are the guests of this silence. let not our lamentations rise above the whisper of the heart. because i am ill, i am quieted, serene, my existence narrowed until it begins and ends in the word "love."
*
the lessons of dependence. it is difficult to sit, walk, cook, clean, carry. i am made helpless; i am given the blessings and agencies of the helpless. i wish for someone to bathe me, and in this moment my illusions of separateness disappear. suddenly there is only the wholeness and vividness of my trusting, the utterness of my connection, the consuming tenderness of compassion. all sorrow looks the same. all those who have borne grief live in me, and i in them. from the same roots do we reach ever upward.
*
detachment is not merely the absence of suffering, but also the purest devotion to joy. the seedling grows toward the sun, drawn to the warmth by its nature, born of fruit and holding within itself the fruited fullness of life. there is no other purpose but this, to reach for the heavens. the graceful green unfurling of stem and leaf, the microcosmic aqueducts of sap and water, the alchemy of photosynthesis, the incipient buds and exuberant flowers: all are not gained for their own sake, but are rather the unwitting manifestations of a singular striving toward sky. it is thus that the joyful receive and create the pleasures of their lives, without attachment, without myopic toil. in this way, too, do the joyful receive difficulties as the advocates of growth, which obscure all light but the sun. facing only sunward, we suffer not from shadow. we must hope less for a change of inevitable circumstance than for a change of self. each vein a tragedy in the delicately patterned, pale underside of a sunned leaf; each leaf a triumph.
*
i know now that even our breathing is a prayer. it is in this way that we chant the names of god.
*
the lessons of dependence. it is difficult to sit, walk, cook, clean, carry. i am made helpless; i am given the blessings and agencies of the helpless. i wish for someone to bathe me, and in this moment my illusions of separateness disappear. suddenly there is only the wholeness and vividness of my trusting, the utterness of my connection, the consuming tenderness of compassion. all sorrow looks the same. all those who have borne grief live in me, and i in them. from the same roots do we reach ever upward.
*
detachment is not merely the absence of suffering, but also the purest devotion to joy. the seedling grows toward the sun, drawn to the warmth by its nature, born of fruit and holding within itself the fruited fullness of life. there is no other purpose but this, to reach for the heavens. the graceful green unfurling of stem and leaf, the microcosmic aqueducts of sap and water, the alchemy of photosynthesis, the incipient buds and exuberant flowers: all are not gained for their own sake, but are rather the unwitting manifestations of a singular striving toward sky. it is thus that the joyful receive and create the pleasures of their lives, without attachment, without myopic toil. in this way, too, do the joyful receive difficulties as the advocates of growth, which obscure all light but the sun. facing only sunward, we suffer not from shadow. we must hope less for a change of inevitable circumstance than for a change of self. each vein a tragedy in the delicately patterned, pale underside of a sunned leaf; each leaf a triumph.
*
i know now that even our breathing is a prayer. it is in this way that we chant the names of god.