I’ve been carrying the sad for so long I don’t know if I exist without it. I can’t separate myself from it because it has become so intrinsically a fiber of my being that it is sometimes the only thing that feels true. For years I’ve looked to others to fix this: to hide in their joy, to mistake their happiness with my deeds as my own happiness.
But I struggle. And I realize that we all struggle, but I struggle to maintain a sense of caring. I do often paint myself the victim in my story because I overreact to others criticism. I view their displeasure as my short coming but then blame the situation on them and talk about these people and their horrible ways as a way to exonerate myself from my own inner sense of justice. It’s no way to live. I don’t suggest it.
I’ve read a children’s book over and over to my daughter: Zen Shorts. Stillwater, a panda who has moved in next door teaches a young family of morals and mindful thinking through parables, the author explores giving, good and bad luck and carrying negativity. They are such simple tales and they make so much sense, but only a priori, at least for me. I tend to complicate.
So I sit here in this hot bath, after bedtime went so well, then so poorly and then came to a screeching halt. My sinuses are achy and stuffed, my body tired from another week of giving and seldom taking. And when I do, feeling guilty about it.
I don’t feel built for what I’m doing. But like Alan Watts attempting to define Zen, I find it easier to name what I am not built for than what I am built for.
And so I sit here attempting to carry the zero.