I slept on the cement floor last night, as I have so many times before.
I did so because my body ached and hurt all over.
It sounds counter, I know, but I knew that what I needed was a dose of monastic discipline, something to stimulate denial. I had originally thought I would go to a big drag party benefit last night, but I realized I could never get back from that indulgence into my own heart, so it was on the floor.
Yesterday was frustrating. Seven hours waiting for a dryer repairman at my sister’s house, time I needed. A $23 dollar 2 Gb Sansa Express coupled with a $9 2Gb MicroSD that I opened, loaded with music I thought would help, but then seemed to die, frustration overnight, damn customer service. I was stuck with Edward Hermann reading David Halberstam’s The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War, a powerful subject, not a joyous one.
Still in all this, there is light. Sarah has made a most generous offer, powerful because it represents her belief in the value and power of what I do. I am still moved by Grace’s second breath taking comment. “I am angry with myself, as you know. I am sorry I took it out on you.” She speaks about her own knowledge of her own pain, affirming both my knowledge and my hit, gracefully facing herself. I know how hard that is to do, know what it takes to do that.
I stay silent so much because I know that my experience of pain is not useful to most people, no matter how much I feel hurt. I never took a sick day in school after second grade because I knew however bad I felt, staying home with my mother would always be worse. My sister suffers her own way, lives in her own monastic denial, and my pain, well, not someplace she can go.
So I have 24 hours to get a lot done before for my parents, and the only way to do it is bull, head down and pushing. Aching don’t get the carpets cleaned.
Hit the floor and leave heaven alone, at least for now. An injunction for humans, not for spirit living a human life.