Beijing, China, Chinese government brutality, Constitution of the People's Republic of China, Dalai Lama, Lhasa, Occupy the Internet, self-immolations, Tibet, Tibetan people
10 Saturday Mar 2012
05 Monday Mar 2012
Here we all are, in a Time of Division (TD) upon the Wheel of Life—that infinitous cycle of crumbs of happiness and suffering on every street corner.
So TD is upon us corroding any fine thread of connection between you and me. With the number of divorces, fights, calls to kill the enemy!—brought down to a personal level, the sacred net of Inter-being is torn (Vietnamese Theravadan (Zen?) monk Thich Nhat Hahn‘s word) to shreds.
The sacred net of Inter-being is torn. O the particular sadness with a close relative . . . to watch your lives with each other shred, as if you’d never met. And to let it happen, passively, yet finally, Impartially. Walk away.
Families become scattered strangers. O yes, a degenerate time. And children, we Baby-Boomers born of such universal ignorance and dysfunctionality, have (as of yet) been silent, as if we were spit out as beings born to man and woman culturally-entrenched in an era of Permissivity. Unstructured. Children raised bereft of values. Nearly anarchist. Do what you want. Free free love. Playtime.
Hence, logically, this Baby-Boomer began to wander and kept wandering . . . and wandering . . . where did I come from? Where do I belong? Tori rode with me all the way . . . for 14,000 miles in one year. Phenomena rushing past like 50 mph winds. O wondrous America with the greatest number of single households in the world (I think). Relationally and spiritually bereft. Where is my real home? I don’t know where I belong.
You and I know we are all the Walking Wounded, secreting our pain as we were raised, i.e., stifle any personal expression for fear of imminent threat or rejection; becoming attached to our pain. We culturally can’t escape it . . . the scenarios are different but the essence is the same. We are left holding our stillborn creations, where all walk away in boredom.
Drawers, files, cabinets filled with renderings of this delusive writer. Why? Since 1974. Why? My only legacy for my son: hundreds of stillborn voices. Silent.
Would that my words would bring Dharma in some small way to someone in the future.
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