Grateful for a Life in Ruins

Day 2 for #215800.

Today I am overly tired from being up quite late for two nights in a row.
I had to be at work very early to plunge into a day so full of activity there’s been no down time for me to consider the thoughts in my own head. I have gone through the day in a sort of hazy daze- thinking, “what ever will I write about when it comes time for those 800 words?”

Still being under the impression that each day's writing is to be posted in blog format, it's a little daunting. So much of what wants to come out is deeply personal and involves people still living; it would be uncouth to publicize it without discernment and so I refrain for the time being.

It’s conceivable that listening to a Tom Robbins book on cd while driving home would have led me to wander off to create fantastical constructions of alternate or overlapping realities, or to drive myself to the limits of the most stunning array of linguistic gymnastics of which I am capable in my present state (his deftness and cunning in that arena are almost tangibly felt and I hold him in high regard for this capacity).

What triggered the switch on the  ol’ write-ometer, though, while it was inspired by the novel in question, has set me in a much more ponderous direction. To wit: 
A character is explaining to someone who has done her wrong that, without the disruption wrought by his wrongdoing, her life would never have taken the sudden and surprising turns (for which she ultimately is grateful) that it had.  Having spoken with other women who’d had the same experience, she concludes her narrative by saying, “we are so grateful to you for having ruined us”. 

The part of my mind that was just passively gliding along on the spoken words, being blithely entertained, suddenly stuck an elbow in the ribs of the part responsible for discerning cues from life from which to enrich or enliven writing.  (I’m always stymied by the axiom, “write what you know”, because I know such disparate things that I can rarely choose one thing on which to focus).

More than once in this life I’ve seen all the pillars of my existence come crashing down around me.  Each time I’ve dwelt in shame, rage, blame, guilt, desolation, remorse, and finally fortitude while searching out the cause for collapse and locating the tools for rebuilding. It is no news to most who would ever identify themselves as a seeker that seemingly bad or difficult circumstances ultimately serve us on our journey.  They are part of what ripens and seasons (and some would add, cooks) us, and they are vitally important to a genuine journey.

This expression of gratitude for having been ruined, though.  Look deeper.  The most devastating pillar from which I’ve ever been thrust was one I’d constructed myself, and I’d made it from some of the most valuable things in my possession: profound devotion, a keen intellect, a seeming ease of grasping rather obtuse principles and explaining them in accessible language, and a burning desire to put all of these into the service of mankind by expounding on them- after validating my right, privilege, and perceived duty to speak on such things by first obtaining an Ivy-League degree to prove I was worthy. Never mind that I was already in my 30’s and had no savings and therefore worked full-time while learning sanskrit and trying to remember enough math to do physics while home, relationships, and sanity unravelled under the weight of it all, and that the focus required to stay on the Dean’s list meant that other things became secondary (such as eating, sleeping, paying bills).  Not being on the Dean’s List was not an option; an as-yet unidentified component of the ptsd from my childhood was eventually revealed to be a paralyzing terror around achieving academic excellence.

When the strain became too much and the weak spots began to show in the seams of my world, I kept on because I believed it was my calling, and a higher calling at that. When it was finally suggested that a sabbatical might keep me alive until Spring I gave in to the impending collapse in a swoon of such desperate self-loathing that I was sure I’d never recover.  I’d flung myself into the mission of scholarship with the fervent belief that it was my sacred duty, and to have come away not only with the goal unattained but to also be a certifiable mess in the bargain, I felt was certain proof that my spiritual life was in ruins.  I’d allowed myself to be deluded into thinking I was worthy of such a task, and had been reduced to rubble in the bargain.  All thoughts of myself were disparaging and I stalwartly believed those views must be shared even by the most compassionate of beings, the spiritual head of my tradition, with whose blessings I’d begun the pursuit in the first place.

It has been eight years of rebuilding from the monumental “shattering of all my dreams”.
In that time I’ve gone from being a puddle of a wreck to a business owner and valued member of a rather progressive community.  I offer the work of my mind and hands to bettering and protecting the world each day, and I remember that the only “calling” that matters is the inner work we do day by day, in our own inner sanctum.

Recently, I recalled a certain moment early in my spiritual journey: I am on a shuttle bus taking me to a sacred meditation retreat site, one that has been home to a lineage of spiritual masters for decades.  It is my first time there, and I know it is an incredibly auspicious event.  I’ve been told that, in order to fully harness the power of the place and the practices, it is strongly recommended to set an intention for my time there.

It is one of those unspeakably holy moments, when the deepest, knowing  inner core of the seeker ignites in a flash with the untapped fearlessness, that reckless craving for the state that is beyond all other states and causes the sincerest of vows to spontaneously spill forth- “Whatever it takes, give me the humility to attain my true goal”. 

Ahhhh. 

“Whatever it takes” is apparently seeker-speak for, “Ruin me, and I will be most grateful”.