It is of some comfort to label the painful emotions by their names and attempt to let them pass like clouds on a windy day . . .oh, but when one's wind ceases and doldrums remain for weeks, or months, or longer, what then? When the clouds just sit there, taunting, raining and raining, teasing with spells of dry weather, then pouring rain on one's parade again and again, what then?
The answer, my friends, is not blowin' in the wind. (There isn't any wind, remember?) The answer is: I don't know. All I know is: it still hurts.
There was another poem read at the meditation retreat yesterday, and I laughed at it. I laughed at its TRUTH, shouting at me. Though it needn't have shouted, it was helpful to hear, and I didn't mind the volume. If it hadn't shouted, perhaps I wouldn't have listened. If only listening would ease the pain . . .
THE GUEST HOUSE
This being human is a guest-house.
some momentary awareness comes