In no way am I living “a normal life.” There is no such thing. Society urges us to conform, adapt and behave like happy campers. But we are weary pilgrims. I woke up this morning, having had a bad dream. I won’t go into the details, but it was sad. At the end, someone was saying something about a bird flying over many different points and at every point there was only love.
I have been behind the eight ball energy-wise for the last two months. Not enough physical or emotional energy to accomplish anything but the simplest tasks. But the winter months are for resting and going within as best we can. So I sit here typing with a cup of instant coffee on the kitchen counter. Today I hope to do my own form of puttering therapy. To begin the week with remembering what needs to be done.
No, “normal” is something that sociologists and admen dream up. In reality we are snow-flakily different, each beautiful in our own bizarre ways. I think I shall drink a toast to that, me with my mug of instant coffee and a realization that normal is just a word in the dictionary.
What if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other because that is all I CAN do. What if I breathe and show myself mercy? What if I just post this essay and know that it will reach the right people….
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It is normal for that hill to stand above the suburban green and to look radiant upon it. A river winds by.They call it holy. High up on the hill a temple stood.There the passenger met a sage and they discussed the end of action.How every action could be the final one.On his way back the passenger rested for a while in a hall erected in memory of a dead saint. The cymbals sounded intermittantly.There was silence and sounds. Sound and silence. Listen deeply. Hear every sound and its final echo.The total sound. Hear the sound of sounds. Madathil_raja@redif.com