Every day I read something that makes me think of the consequences of having blind spots.
Success is thought of as having substance and tangibility: ‘look at my big fat job, my big fat bank account, my big fat audience, by big fat self [sorry, make that, my big thin self].
Failure, in contrast, is seen as having no substance, at best, a ‘lesson in mistakes’, which is as intangible as anything.
The good news is that whether tangible or intangible, either success or failure has no substance. The bad news is that no one believes it.
Granted, what would people do without the stories in their heads? Achieve peace of mind? Who the hell wants that?
So people keep telling themselves stories, of love and family, of hatred and enemies, and it all HAS TO HAVE SUBSTANCE. Why? Because there’s the illusion of purpose. Shit has to go somewhere. Our lives have to have purpose…
I’m having a lusciously mean, red wine, sitting right next to my calligraphy sheet featuring the last line in the Heart Sutra done by Zen master Nonin Chowaney, the mantra that isn’t going anywhere, just beyond.
I’m also shooting a selfie for good measure to get the best of the light coming into the living room. Hell yes. I’m sure it has deep meaning. And purpose. And a storyline.
I’m surrendering to people’s stories of failure and success. I ‘relate’ to all of them. They ‘resonate’ with me. I’m surrounded by so much ‘meaningfulness.’
Damn, the wine is so good.