I suppose there is some bad out there. I confess to being a party to it, and I much-more-than-imagine that I have been the recipient of part of it. But who’s counting? I gave up the practice a while ago to the point that I really have a hard time thinking of anything bad that has been done to me. All of it, for the most part, seems about right and anything that might have been painful is seen now with deeper perpsective so that it has become a blessing. There is no record of wrongs. That is a personal truth and a cosmic reality.
Besides, there is too much good. I am not keeping track of how long ago, but ever since that time I first heard something and then turned around to see what it was, I simply don’t see a lot of bad. It was and is lyrical beauty. Immediately present and distant, a rose with thorns containing an injection, a pure-strained vaccination against hopelessness, with a side effect of joy. Period.
It is there, I know, the bad is, and I am likely in the center of it or even the cause of it sometimes. But this sound that I hear washes away the noise; the vision is a candle in the darkest night; and I could go on and on . . .
“First blossom. Tea soon?” © 2019 Timothy Waugh