If I knew I would die on a Thursday, would I be so anxious to get to Friday?
I often ask myself this question, sitting and waiting for our house to sell; waiting for our lives to move into the next chapter. It is hard to wait, tough to feel as though we don’t have any control over the movement or freedom in our lives.
Living in this fragile economy, month to month wondering if we’re making the right choices – we could just walk away as many have done, and lose more money than most people amass in a lifetime. It simply seems irresponsible in a kind of grown-up way. And yet in these times, none of us knows if or when anymore. Kind of puts us on par with most of the world’s inhabitants, occupying the same shaky ground on which they stand.
Embedded within this realization lies the inevitable bevy of opportunities: the gift of enlarging our compassionate nature. The advantage of deepening our inner practice, of learning to practice what we preach; of discovering stillness in the valley of distress, of ferreting out what’s truly of value amidst the rubble of the mind’s landfill.
Part of the condition we find ourselves enduring feels right – certainly the collective aspect where it’s easy to assume there is rightness in the timing. Americans have been full of hubris for as long as I’ve drawn breath; preaching equality while vehemently opposing illegal border crossings of souls desperate and unselfish enough to leave those they love in order to earn pittance they can send home to support a family’s survival.
Yet how many of us can say our ancestors came from here?
