Another day. Another joyous, glorious day.
I no longer have to ask myself if I’m doing it right. For I am living in accordance with my nature, in harmony with life: as the bird sings, so too, I sing.
I was almost perfect today, save a creeping weakness or two. I sent a fool-hearted text to a former girlfriend this morning, to which she did not respond. I wanted to share my bliss after a walk.
Ego bruises but does not break, but a bruised ego often prompts a bruised reaction. The self is self-preserving; for a moment I cursed her under my breath tonight as I walked to tea. Then I remembered that I ought to base my standards off those morally superior to myself, just as Ben Franklin did. “Imitate Jesus and Socrates,” he wrote. Surely they too had to let things go.
I wanted to share some happy with her, as was our custom. That’s me whining over it, but her reticence to my joy hurt my feelings. I admitted that as soon as I had admonished myself for silently rebuking her.
And why am I sharing this?
Because I am human. And the human thing is to feel.
As uncouth and uncool as it is in our time; the human thing is to express, to work through the feeling rather than deny it, bury it, and leave it masked in emotion.
Sometimes we need to take hold of the things we need to let go of. We need to grasp what touches us so we can pull what we cannot control into our sphere of existence, if only to acknowledge our powerlessness over it. Only then have we rightfully honored the depth of our feelings and admitted what we must thank G-d for the grace to let go of.
To do otherwise is to betray the soul.
Why wind-tight the things that perturb us – knowing they call for more space than we have to give? Why carry burdens we needn’t bear? Why wish for things we cannot change? It’s madness.
But they don’t teach you sanity in school. There is no inner-peace 101.
The modern canon of thought offers no model for a systematic adherence to reason and logic; only madness. Socially acceptable self-pity.
We’re it not for my knowing better – as I so lived months and years ago – I would have gone to sleep sorry for myself, embittered and wounded.
Yes, I have aired a little laundry out tonight. But that’s who I am. And if I should fall in love again and should her and my life no longer run parallel one day, I will again be slow in letting go. That’s my nature. And I’m no longer at war with it. So I write my wrongs and everything is alright.