Another cold morning. Seeing my own helplessness in the face of forces much greater than myself.
Many years of searching, punctuated by occasions where help was sent, have left me in the position of seeing how even my search itself has to be offered up.
I truly do attempt to press myself against the cloud of unknowing, but I realize that I don't even know how to do that. I am left in the position of being able to do no more than to offer, and to try and remain open.
I labor under the perpetual delusion that I can do something. Even after this persistent imagination has been conclusively and repeatedly falsified by the arrival of something real, I continue to believe in it. I am reminded, in my own life, of the characters in Tolstoy's "War and Peace" who firmly believe that they are in charge of events, when in reality, they are swept along like so many bits of wood in a tsunami. It occurs to me that if a man next to me were blown apart by a cannonball, I would probably continue to believe in my own immortality.
The only hope for me, in my work, is to continue to return to the touchstone of the organism, and to seek a connection with something that will remind me of the actual conditions I labor under, as opposed to my dreams about myself and my life.
Those moments are the moments where I see that I truly do press against the cloud of unknowing, and that there is no other recourse if I wish to grow.
To be helpless is not a bad thing. It is becoming as a child; it is truly sensing oneself as a child, as an infant that needs the help of the parent in order to grow. In the midst of my adulthood, my professional competence, my abilities in the creative field, I am intermittently touched by a force that suggests an organic humility; a humility that is born of truly seeing how small I am, how sacred this planet -- which we are relentlessly destroying -- is, and how each and every one of us is equally inadequate in the art of relationship.
The art of recognizing this situation is reflected in the Lord's prayer: "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."
Am I willing to surrender my expertise in the art of criticizing others? Unlikely. But perhaps I can remember, once in a while, that this sharp blade has no handle. When I pick it up, it cuts both ways. I am unable to see this from within my ordinary self. Only when a more three centered demand arrives do I see how abiding in silence would serve us all much better.
Well, that sounds good, but I'm a noisy type. I need to return a thousand times to the effort.
There is very little I can do other than to offer all of what I am, and where I am, up; to make an effort to remain in a constant state of preparation, in case help should arrive -- of course, from directions I am unfamiliar with, and at a time that I least expect it.
May our hearts be opened, and our prayers be heard.