Soften my heart, Source of my Being, so that I may live. Help me to lose this tendency I have toward anger, first off. When the memories of being bullied, treated badly, abused are fresh, still, in my cells, it is so hard to not feel hardened and angry. I fathom the anger of those who lash out. About the only way to not end up in a corner, back against the wall, on the defense against all these demons, is to submit.
My childhood and youth and most of my adulthood I spent living in submission. It was the only way I seemed to escape more persecution from others, and in the end, have a well of anger that overflows. As the rain falls and disappears into the ground, so must this anger somehow fade away, be absorbed into nothingness. Death is not the answer, although, in one sense, it is. Death of this ego, this transitory state of being that is fed by thought and reaction to other egos, must occur. But that idea is just that: an idea. True death, how does it occur? Better, perhaps, to embrace the illusory pain this ego creates, year after year, and then, as the petals drop away from a dying flower, may it also drop away into being nothing. How else may one keep going?
The fear of being alone is always a known. We are each of us, alone. It is only when I think of how alone I live do I feel sad at this way of living. How would I have it be different? Living with others simply amplifies how alone each of us actually is, for there is always the tendency of egos to compete and fight for power over others. We delude ourselves if we think we have transcended the base need to assert power over another, because this urge will always poke its little green head up into what is, in the subtlest of ways. I refuse to delude myself any longer.
I have no faith in mankind. If man was created in the image of God, then man has failed to recognize this and knows not how to love fearlessly, impersonally, unconditionally, as we are supposedly loved by our Creator. My only recourse is to withdraw even further, to let go attachments, and greet each new day as though it is my last, and in this way, be open to the loveliness of this earth, this small part of the world wherein I live. I release the expectation and hope for knowing love between myself and others, as it apparently asks too much of all of us. Better to love the peony as it grows forth anew from the soil, makes new dark green leaves, blossoms into a most amazing flower with its dizzying scent, is present for a short time and then loses all of its petals to the ground. I must remember that it is for a short time I am here, no matter how or where, simply here, of no particular consequence except to feed the cats and the dogs, plant peach trees and tomatoes, pick the greens for lunch, fall asleep to the sound of rain on the roof, and forget the anger that is buried in my cells, so that I may live.