Tuesday, March 30, 2021
65 years ago my bike tire got caught in a crack in the middle of the paved alley in Chicago. I came home with skinned knees. My mom explained that the reason for my accident was because I wanted attention since all the attention had been on my cousin Noel who died in an accident 6 months earlier. How is it that we look at what happened and are confused until we make up a story like my mom always did? Is it ever so simple as the story suggests? Buddha holds up a flower and Kashyapa smiles. Usually when one is giving a talk to 80000 monks they would say something. When there are no words, one makes up a story. Our minds resist resting in not knowing, so we come up with one explanation after another. But is anything that simple? Is it possible to really know? Freud believed that there was a method to our madness. I wonder if his method came from an insecurity he had with not knowing. But that’s my story.
Where do I dwell? In anger, in forgiveness, in peace, in privilege, in emptiness, in self, in stories, in my house, in l...