Monday, 25 May 2009
Never Pray More; Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.
There is suffering, close, and although it is seen that there is simply suffering, no one suffers, and there is no one to help and no one helping, the urge to write something helpful arises. Whether, in the story, it is of help, is of no consequence. It can seem that life is hellish, and all the thoughts and sensations and emotions are negative, and nearly unbearable. Yet horrible is bearable, and though difficult to recognise, just another face of love, oneness, consciousness, whatever we're calling it this morning. It really doesn't matter what any story has seemed to be, for what is, is this, sometimes with the memory of pain, what happened, and often, healing. The story can include the encounter with a healer, or many healers, and the crucible of healing is acceptance, tolerance, non-judgement, and love. Or pain of life can be seen as a gift, and as life on the front line, truly living, without filter, with intensity. If there is a message here, it's that there is never anything wrong, and there is never anything wrong with you. It doesn't matter what the life story is, or how villainous or indifferent the character is; nothing, and no one, is a mistake. All the fear and hatred and shame and regret and remorse, all the unhealthy acting out that can seem to happen, no matter how heinous the crime seems, it is just as it must be; and it is a gift, and a miracle. What sometimes seems to happen is a story of great redemption, of the love and care of others internalised, of the validation of others being believed, until the self is loved, and others are loved, and finally the whole world is loved, the flawed, incomprehensible world, a macrocosm of every flawed, incomprehensible individual. And sometimes, this loved creature can slip away, and the story loses its despotic hold, none of it is taken, by no one, very seriously. The crushing aloneness of the human condition is seen as all-one-ness, each crucible of humanity the one crucible, each figment the perfect thing it is. So whatever it is that seems to be happening to you, but is in fact just happening, whatever it is, is a rare and priceless gift. Suffering is a gift as much as bliss. In the story, this appearance, there is always balance, and it is likely to change; what appears is always new. Whatever it is that seems unbearable, the unbearableness itself is the gift. It is all a gift. It is more than that. Whatever words are used to point merely box it in. But hang in there; joy is likely to be around the corner, as it is in every good story.