Saturday, February 28, 2004

An old grief, an old rage.

But I hadn't been here for a long time. The poison of anger sitting in my belly, moving slowly through my veins. So angry that I can't think straight. I just have to stop. If I let my mind off the leash it starts building up elaborate lies to try to justify the anger. Stupid lies, obvious falsehoods.

So I just wait. Maybe I'll be able to think eventually. Because I do need to think. It's not possible, I think, to get this angry without having gotten something wrong.

It's like being ill. Exactly like being ill. Unable to enjoy anything, unable to do anything important. Just having to wait, because I know that any exertion of discursive mind is likely to make it worse, and that anything I undertake I will do wrong. Shantideva says -- wait.

So. I think of everyone suffering from anger right now, and wish that I could take on all that suffering, take it off of them and take it on myself. (What the hell. How can it get worse?)

I practice. Every time I notice the constriction, the congestion of anger, I try to release it. Open my hands. Breathe. Nothing holds still in the mind unless I hold it still. If I just wait, and release the clutch when I become aware of it, it will change. It has to.

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