You can’t cure the mind with the mind.
In other words, thinking is useless.
Okay, it’s not useless. You need it to bake bread, till the earth, work at the corporation.
But here I am, back investigating the nature of the world ala Buddhism.
So…you can’t think your way out of a paper bag. Or a pattern of bad relationships. Or an inability to tolerate ticking clocks (yes, of course that one is me!).
I am enraptured by thinking about samskara, knowing it won’t do any good. But still, I have to find some way to spend my time.
Seriously, we’re all in the business of repeating–in relationships, in work, in decisions. Somehow, we make the same mistakes again and again. Somehow, we keep walking down the same street. The utter powerlessness and frustration, the inability to change at will, the way the flaws in our own characters persist and persist.
When I stop fighting it, it’s just samskara. The Jungian complex. The human condition. The very thing that puts money in therapists pockets.
I like to image it like wood-burning kits you get when you’re a kid. A metaphor: etching lines into the wood, making patterns, labyrinths. You can’t erase them. Life burns them into your brain–what they call neural pathways–and they become your fate as much as anything else. The first relationships, the first losses, the way we say, “Never again,” and yet when relationships and losses come, they are eerily similar, always.
Why, you might ask, would anyone be enjoying thinking about such things? Maybe because I’m starting to see that there is only surrender, and surrender is such a relief. All my life, I keep trying to wrestle my samskara to the earth with will and force, with the hatred of the repetition, and now I’ve just let go and it’s suddenly okay. I’ll relive it or I won’t. I don’t have to know how it’s going to turn out. I can just wait and see, and trust that in the moment, I will know.
Of course, there must be effort, at times. There must be an attempt at something. But if I wait until I know, then perhaps that will be right effort.
There may be such a thing as right effort, instead of effort flung around at everything, diligently working every moment, trying, trying to get it right, make it right, prove some thing that no one wants you to prove anyhow.
This is my brain on meditation.
This is my remembering Don, and his last two phone calls to me, and the feel of his hand, swollen, as he lay in his hospital bed. This is my gratitude for no samskara with Don, for the newness of knowing him, for how honest we both were.
The terrible letting go of loss, the necessity, the continuing to love.
The letting go of who we once were, not knowing who we will be. The enough of that, the relief, the moment rising up and filling everything.
Good-bye Don, again and again. May you be free from all samskara, well-loved and loving. May you be free. May you be welcoming, as I am, the unknown into your heart, curious, if nothing else, at how it might change your fate.