It doesn’t help, of course, that I’m listening to The Cure and the song Alone. As the first phrase goes, “This is the end of every song that I sing…” as the grandiose and melancholy orchestration echoes and Robert Smith’s voice yearning each plaintive line, I’m trapped in this world the Cure have created, tears on the edge of my eyes. In this sonic world, the music demands that you listen as the drum beats hard against skins (or electronic matter) and the strangely urgent and poignant lyrics weave the story of our collective end.
I’m caught up in the madness of this world as Smith shapes the words in such a way that we recognize through his language that we are at an end. “We were always sure that we would never change,” he cries, bringing us to a question that resonates in our hearts and minds: “Where did it go (where did it go)?” I’m both mesmerized and horrified at once, and in this moment, I feel every single choice gone wrong, decision made in haste and anger, thrown at me. The tears flow as the song touches a place in my heart that weeps for my lost self, my understanding that despite all of my best efforts, it’s all just going to be gone. Gone. Gone. Gate Gate Paragate parasamgate bodhisvaha.
The song cut me deep on this night, and I looked back on the year as my father’s death anniversary is coming in a week. Sadness grips me on this night, and in the full moon of this evening, a clear sky shone resplendent in a night sky filled with stars in a New Mexico sky. I’m lost in these moments, and worldly things cannot bring me back from the edge.
I have no words, in reality, to describe what I am feeling. As Robert Smith has shown me, it is an ache of massive proportions, a crushing blow to my fragile ego, imagining that I can overcome this feeling in this moment. The truth is, I cannot. There is no escape from this feeling, in fact. While it may ebb and flow, I am caught up in it.
I’m thrown back into my parents’ bedroom, one year ago. My Dad is lying on the bed, barely able to move, still mentally awake and aware. He’s thirsty and cannot slake his thirst. He is hungry and cannot find succor. He moves as he can, and I reach under his back and gently sit him up. Moments later, he’s lying again.
That week of my life just before his passing was incredibly beautiful and horribly sad.
“Where did it go (where did it go)?”
I took refuge today (again) and felt revived until I didn’t. Like my father, I lay in bed (metaphorically).
With all of these thoughts rattling through my mind, I sit. Meditation does not come easy and I cannot settle as I usually can. I’m distracted. So, I lean in. I wait. The release doesn’t come, and so rather than forcing it, I let go of the intention to release and instead try to open my heart to love. As soon as I do, past trauma fills the space, and while I can freely give love, I am not able to receive it. The trap of wanting to love and not being able to love is a excrutiating place to be. “Where did it go (where did it go)?”
In a few weeks, I’m headed to Bhutan to see my friend Namgay and to breathe in the rich air of that place. The vibe is incredible if you’re open to receiving it. At the same time, I’m having a hard time tapping into those past memories and experiences. I remember, rationally, the feeling, and I cannot feel it today. I reach for it in all kinds of ways, the photograph I took when I walked across the tarmac on my second trip. I literally cried tears of joy. “Where did it go (where did it go)?”
Blocking me are the demands of daily life; work and an MSW occupy almost all of my time, and with everything raging in my mind, I’m like the elephant stomping through the forest, unable to rein in my crazy thoughts.
Lest, dear reader, you think this moment is bereft of any joy, worry not. I bring to you moments from sunset in the Bosque last night. The cold air, my nearly frozen hands, walking in shorts (yeah, I know), I found something in the moon rise and sunset. It’s there. Can you see it? It’s the beauty of this world. The mournful, beautiful ode to our tragic lives still echoes in my mind, and the beauty of the magical Albuquerque sky shakes me back into the walking world.
As long as these seconds of beauty exist, I will, ultimately, be OK.
Reflections on the Path 