Wednesday, February 15, 2017
A poem for me
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Kindness of strangers
I smile at the person at the checkout stand, chatting amicably. I am polite at intersections, waving the other car along. I say "good morning" to people I pass on a walk. I try to cultivate kindness in my every day, non personal interactions. It makes me think I am a good person. It is a facade.
When riled, I fight dirty. I bring up old things once thought put behind, but actually make an arsenal for me to use. I turn to phrases that begin with words like Always and Never. Kindness, compassion and gentleness slip away to see the real me, a more vicious me, a backed in a corner, teeth bared me.
Which is real? Both or maybe neither. They are conventions of circumstance. Some days I am empathetic, other days apathetic. I desire to be my authentic self, but which self is that? The one that feels everything or the one that feels nothing?
Years ago, I took a Vipassana Meditation course, the only time I have been even moderately successful at meditation. There was a common theme to let it go, to respond thoughtfully rather than emotionally. I had a difficult time moving past the emotional self. But I think I understand the idea, to not be ruled by my own impulses, which are emotion driven. Can I be compassionate without emotion? I can't be angry without emotion, that I know.
But hurt stays with me. It gets under my skin and rests there. It becomes another skin, keeping me from others, keeping me safe, or that is what it is supposed to do. But it doesn't. It cultivates apathy and distance. But the idea of removing its protection scares me beyond measure and paralyzes me.
So I am polite. It diffuses the hurt. I don't think it makes it go away, but it makes it so I can live with it. I know that my life, if not a lie, is untrue. But I cannot be any other way. I believe we all modify our impulses or we would road rage routinely. We breath it out, blow it off, run it out. But sometimes it sticks like ash to our skin until we are only pale versions of our selves. Maybe I do not want to know my authentic self. I fear she would be the snarling one.
When riled, I fight dirty. I bring up old things once thought put behind, but actually make an arsenal for me to use. I turn to phrases that begin with words like Always and Never. Kindness, compassion and gentleness slip away to see the real me, a more vicious me, a backed in a corner, teeth bared me.
Which is real? Both or maybe neither. They are conventions of circumstance. Some days I am empathetic, other days apathetic. I desire to be my authentic self, but which self is that? The one that feels everything or the one that feels nothing?
Years ago, I took a Vipassana Meditation course, the only time I have been even moderately successful at meditation. There was a common theme to let it go, to respond thoughtfully rather than emotionally. I had a difficult time moving past the emotional self. But I think I understand the idea, to not be ruled by my own impulses, which are emotion driven. Can I be compassionate without emotion? I can't be angry without emotion, that I know.
But hurt stays with me. It gets under my skin and rests there. It becomes another skin, keeping me from others, keeping me safe, or that is what it is supposed to do. But it doesn't. It cultivates apathy and distance. But the idea of removing its protection scares me beyond measure and paralyzes me.
So I am polite. It diffuses the hurt. I don't think it makes it go away, but it makes it so I can live with it. I know that my life, if not a lie, is untrue. But I cannot be any other way. I believe we all modify our impulses or we would road rage routinely. We breath it out, blow it off, run it out. But sometimes it sticks like ash to our skin until we are only pale versions of our selves. Maybe I do not want to know my authentic self. I fear she would be the snarling one.
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