Decisions Decisions

Been reading the Bhagavad Gita. The other day I am sure it saved me from being mean to a coworker. Today...

Its the story of a man (Arjuna)  in a moment of great doubt concerning a decision. He asks his friend Krishna, who is also God, what he should do.  Krishna says he should act (wisely). Arjuna isn't satisfied, he wants to know how and why, he questions the path, and how he should know which is the right path. He asks about far more than the question at hand, he wants the answers to the Universe.  Krishna continues to indulge Arjuna, answering each question.

Arjuna eventually begins to question God, he attempts to do so respectfully, but he wants to know why he should trust the answers he is being given. Arjuna says "Let me see you" and Krishna allows him to see what no man has ever seen.  Arjuna describes it simultaneously as terrifying and joyous "A thousand suns exploding in the sky" he says he sees his enemies and loved ones alike being gnashed in Krishna's teeth and Krishna concurs that all things begin and end according to him, so their deaths and rebirths are already swirling in his thousands of mouths. Arjuna begs forgiveness for questioning his fate, his choices, his path and most of all Krishna, but Krishna reminds him that is why he is there... he comes to meet the faithful, to help them come to him.

A few days ago I turned 32, the culmination of decisions both active and passive.

I applied to Grad School officially the night before, with the hope that it might shed some light on my purpose.

Today

My Step Brother asked if I wanted to look for a place to live with him and Lacey told me she was engaged.

Life continues to swirl in and out of God's mouth, and I continue to question the path... the right path, the myriad paths in each stranger's eyes.  I am comforted by my small world, and simultaneously concerned that I am falling further and further into a darkness, an isolation, a place I might not ever return from.

I choose little things, like grad schools, and church services, as attempts to keep me anchored in the larger world, but I don't really want to commit to either.  I also want to ignore emails, texts, voice-mails, conversations... I want to sit alone in my room with my bloated stomach, nauseous from candy while I lose myself in mindless entertainment. I want to wake or not wake, and shuffle to a coffee shop and tapper out a story, a shifting, ever-ongoing path for make believe characters.

My mind is reluctant to clutch at shared meaning, my hands even more so for clothed shoulders.

I find a bit of voyeuristic pleasure in the faces that pass before me, but the more I study them, the more convinced I become that I don't share enough in common, that the pleasure would fade, and witness it fade as I consider it. In the moment I wonder if the path subtly chose me, or if I subtly chose the path.

Do I feel detached because that is where I am supposed to be? Witnessing myself, reassessing, considering, writing... Or do I feel detached because I chose these things over serving others?

and which is the path, and how do I know which is right, and how do I know I should trust that answer?

Most people have been reassuring me, but I often get the impression they are actually reassuring themselves. "Mike, you aren't really gone, because I don't want you to be."

Sometimes I believe them. Most of the time I don't.
Most of the time I am pretty comfortable with where I am at, I just dislike that I am. 

Generational Cycles

I was thinking about the conversation I had with Gabi a few days ago. About the disillusionment we both felt with the system and how perhaps its not so different than the generations of the past. That perhaps as a young educated 20 something with not a lot of responsibilities - a person feels idealistic and empowered and ready to take on a big mean world, and make it better... but by their 30s and 40s they've realized just how big and unwilling to change the world truly is, how heavy their responsibilities will be. That their individual impact wont be as big as they hoped. That their defeats, their mistakes, their failures have a much bigger impact on their bodies and minds and relationships the older they get.  
You'd think we become better at dealing, but perhaps like our brains narrowing down the scope of what we are capable of learning easily, our person, our perception of what is possible also narrows into the path of least resistance. We choose comfort and security because they are the natural choice for those who have exhausted themselves... but perhaps it is also naive to think our 20s will be the only time we have the energy to make change. 

Maybe we can be radicals in our 50s when we've amassed some security to fall back on?

Just don't let your pessimism today keep you from being an optimist tomorrow. I've met some badass hopeful people in their 70s.

First post of the year

Sorry it may seem depressing.

When I returned home about 6 months ago I had a sense of optimism despite the fact that I knew I would be choosing a fairly limited sort of life.

I still want that life, or part of me does. I dream of a quiet, safe, clean home. I want friends who I trust and who relate or inspire me. I want time to practice my hobbies, to get lost in them, to watch Netflix or whatever. I want a partner. And financial security and all these white picket fence dreams... 

But when asked what I lost last year, my answer was my sense of purpose. And though I want those other things, I'm wondering if I've given up far too much by not pursuing purpose rather than self protection.

I realized this morning that I'm not just cynical, I'm angry. I am angry that there are a world of problems out there with simple solutions that we don't choose. That there are ways to make life better for other people, and we collectively choose not to. That we hide our heads in the sand when facing environmental catastrophe. That we make it easier for people to self protect, miserable and lonely and selfishly, rather than reward those who choose to make life better. 

I spent 6 years trying to make life better and burnt out. Despite being surrounded by lovely people who cared deeply about me, it wasn't enough. The burden was too much and I felt it slipping further each day and lost my confidence in both myself and the system to hold it up again. And I'm not just dissatisfied with that, I'm hurt by it, and I'm angry about it.

I'm angry at our society which chooses death over life. Chooses the easy choices which devastate, over the difficult one which could heal us. I'm angry at individuals who live the way I'm choosing to right now, like there isn't something better, like caring is too hard. I'm angry at myself for wanting it all, and for needing security, for needing healing, for needing the things the system chooses not to share... And I'm angry at God, or the universe or whatever... Not because it makes us selfish, but because it makes us care and doesn't provide the solutions. The breakthroughs.  Gives us huge hearts and not enough string to stitch them back together after each and every moment of heartbreak. 

It would be ok if we were all poison, if the human race was the virus that needed to be wiped out, if we were evil monsters, sociopaths who didn't care about anyone but ourselves... But we're not. 

We're beautiful, loving, creative and compassionate... And so deeply wounded, so deeply convinced the world is sorrow and pain, and not worth the effort. 

My response was to write. I know I need to write... I want to write. 

But I also want purpose.  I want a heart that reaches instead of always hiding. I want reassurance that it matters. 

I've lost it, and I'm waiting, not patiently for it to come back.