I yelled at my wife. I never yell at my wife. I wasn’t nasty. I was just bombastic for 10 long seconds. She didn’t mind. She knew what was going on. I was struggling, unsuccessfully, to manage the grief that we as a world community almost seem to be drowning in. It was a humbling reminder: Trump, and the soulless assaults on human dignity his presidency incites, are not responsible for single thing I think or feel.
addiction to beliefs
I honor the grotesque world that would be D.T. TrumpenCruz, President of the U.S. of A. I don’t seek it, but I honor it. I do so for the same reason I honor every other way that we, souls awakening, are abusing ourselves, one another, and our planetary home. The blood of unkindness colors the road to a healthy life. What spills that blood is ignorance, the mother of all suffering––and a sacred teacher.
If life’s purpose is to grow our capacity to love (as I feel it is), and every moment, every situation, serves that purpose (as I feel it does), then the specter of D.T. TrumpenCruz is a ripe reminder that our tenacity to make loving choices usually takes hold only after the consequences of unlove become excruciating. Who would bet the farm, or even a nickel, we’re at that point today? If D.T. TrumpenCruz were abducted by aliens and never heard from again, what problem would really be solved?
My Other Website
"The push to change the words “nigger” and “injun” in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, because the so-called offensive nature of those terms might limit today’s readership and appreciation of that literary classic, is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on how we avoid taking responsibility for our feelings––and therefore miss the chance to become more awake, more whole, more useful friends to one another."
The Essay: The Gold in Niggers and Injuns
