Cultivating Bliss
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I sometimes wonder if "cultivating bliss" isn't the wrong approach. I think that would be my wife's position on the matter. If you are trying to be happy, there is a measure of falsity to the endeavor. It's not organic, but imposed.
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Therefore, suspect.
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Certainly any attempt at cultivating bliss that insists or tries to insist on bliss being some kind of constant state must be suspect. But given a field that is barren and weed-choked, is there not some benefit to clearing away the weeds, amending the hard soil with compost, and planting some vegetables and some flowers?
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That's what seems a better approach to me.
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Still going to be worms and gophers and rabbits and birds, and not enough rain or not enough sunshine sometimes.
But go on out there anyway.
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Pull a few weeds.
Prop up the tomato with a little cage for it.
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Get a floppy hat and a book and a drink and go sit out there.
Listen to the birds!
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I am an anxious creature. I'm always after it, like a dog with a bone. I can't barely sit still for three minutes in a row, but you're lucky to get any real work out of me. I'd rather pace and whine, wring my hands.
Peace like a river in my soul.
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Not hardly.
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But at forty three I am learning, by god. The great blessing of growing older is the way things moderate. I mean emotions primarily. I know if I feel bad I'll feel better in a little while, even if conditions don't change. My mind just can't keep it up forever. It'll get distracted by some other condition, start obsessing about that instead.
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I am not my mind.
I am not any of the things I am so convinced are me.
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I am some other thing altogether.
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So are you.
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The tearful dishwasher made this for dinner:
Zuppa di pesca alla Romana and a roasted beet salad with caramelized onions, feta cheese, and toasted pine nuts. A bottle of Castoro Zinfindel to go with.
A hard little loaf of crusty whole grain bread.
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This is the kind of meal, when you are stove up somewhere dying all alone, you'll say: "Well, at least I had that for dinner one night."
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That shit was good.
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Namaste.
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posted by tearful dishwasher at 2:14 PM
2 Comments:
I don't know nuthin' 'bout Buddhism or cultivating bliss, Miss Scarlet, but it seems to me that the field might already be existing in a state of bliss and might not want any of its weeds pulled.
Outside my back window, there's an expanse of grass that separates my apartment complex from the bordering street. This grass is never mowed. This grass is where the dogs from the neighboring townhouses do all their business. Right now, the grass is about knee-high in places, and there are dandelions and patches of queen Anne's lace and yellow and purple wild flowers growing. If someone came along and mowed that all down and tore out all of the "weeds" I'd be seriously bummed out.
One man's weed is another man's flower, dude.
Isn't bliss like Dorothy's quest in the Wizard of Oz? It's probably right there in the backyard right now if we'd just pause for a second and breathe and take a look around.
Maybe bliss shouldn't ever be cultivated. Maybe we should just let it spring up wherever and whenever it chooses and fully embrace it when we happen to stumble upon it.
I'm not saying anything you don't already know, bro.
Boy! sounds like you're some Cook! did you by happen stance graduate from the Cullinary Institute America San francisco?
I'd like out of the buffet, jimmy -- perhaps the hubby, the teacher and me could mosey on down and partake of one of those fine cooking last meals like that..wichya sumtime.. all's I got's comfort food Great Scott!;(
but they say
whip up a mean noodle salad
orzo
spinitch
no pressure.
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