Proverbs 12, Verse 22
"God loves those who keep their promises,
and hates those who don't."
---
CHIPPED WISDOM:
I'm supposed to be meditating right now, but this is far more fun.
AIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHOOPIEDOOP-DOOPATY!
Look at me, way up high, suddenly, here am I, I'm blogging!!!
I mean, seriously. Meditating? What's that going to get me? Inner peace? Christ. What do I need that for? And chances are, I wouldn't get it from meditating-- that's what I eat corned beef for.
I feel bad, though, because I promised my therapist two weeks ago (well, two weeks ago tomorrow) that I would listen to a Tara Brach podcast and meditate. Actually-- no, that's not even true. I promised him that I would listen to a lecture by Tara Brach: not even one of her guided visualization meditation exercise.
"Because," I now remember my therapist saying, "I know you won't do that." I guess he figured he would try to get out of me what he could. Sometimes, I don't know what I'm striving for: to be the best patient, or the worst. Maybe it's both. I can't quite accept that it might be neither.
I made the mistake of reading Tara Brach's Wiki. It all went downhill from there.
Apparently, Tara Brach is an "American psychologist and is well informed about Buddhist meditation. She set up an Insight Meditation Community in Washington. It is a spiritual community that teaches and practices Vipassana meditation. This group's Wednesday night meeting in Bethesda, Maryland, which is taught by Dr. Brach, regularly attracts hundreds of people per week."
Did you read that last part?
"regularly attracts hundreds of people per week."
I know, that's supposed to engender confidence, because hundreds of people who learn at her sandal-enshrouded feet every Wednesday must be onto something. In my head, though, it says "cult leader."
In sandals.
Want more?
"Brach's talks are downloaded free nearly 200,000 times each month by people in more than 150 countries."
UH-OH!
I'm sure, if David Koresh were around today, his podcasts would be pretty popular, too. You know, with a certain se(c)t.
I'm sorry, I know I'm being a penis-pimple about all of this, and I also know that a huge part of my reticence has to do with how popular this woman is and my ardent belief that anything lots of people get gooey in the pants over must automatically be full of shit, but it is a philosophy that is so terribly hard to break free from. I mean, remember how many people liked "Titanic"?
(Estimates have it at between 200-250 million people saw it in theatres, and 60-100 million saw it on DVD. Sorry, Sandals; you've got some catching up to do.)
I think there is, too, a little bit of the oppositional streak in me at work, too. I don't like it when people tell me what to do, even if they couch it as a suggestion-- especially if they believe that suggestion is going to be "good for me". But, my tiny hamster mind thinks, if I've lived with me for thirty-three years and I don't know what's good for me, how the fuck does some handsome guy with a knit bison on his shirt who isn't even half Jewish going to know what's good for me? Because he has Psy.D. after his name? Believe me, I have MAEd after my name, but I know sure as shit I shouldn't be let anywhere near a classroom. Even if hundreds of people wanted to flock to it every Wednesday.
I don't know. Lying down on somebody's floor kicking and screaming, "I DON'T WANNA!" till your face turns as red as a hemorrhoid just isn't acceptable at my age, even if you've just paid the guy $50 and he's got the sound machine on, but that's what I want to do during my sessions. I don't wanna take meds, I don't wanna do meditation, I don't wanna "find my inner sanctuary of peace and wisdom in the midst of difficulty" because that's what DIFFICULTY IS. It's supposed to feel difficult. Difficulty isn't supposed to feel peaceful and you're not supposed to find wisdom in getting fucked over at work or sprinkling your pants with pee-pee dribble right before a meeting or when some cocksmoke is tailgating you and your family is in the car and everybody has a gun and the lights are all red and the waiter fucks it up and the house is too cold and the money is tight and the girls are all hot and the idiots just want to talk about "Titanic" and how Leo has matured and really come into his own and Vipassana meditation and mindfulness and finding the core and finding center and finding Neverland and Johnny Depp's another one and God give me a fucking break already.
Please.
I don't wanna.
I know I'm going to disappoint my therapist tomorrow when I tell him I haven't done my homework. Or maybe he won't care one way or the other. In school, I did the homework I was excited about, and the other homework I either did on the bus on the way to school, and it looked like it was done by my great-grandfather who had advanced stage Parkinson's-- or I just didn't do it at all. No one ever called my parents, or, if they did, my parents never told me about it. My teachers were all pretty chill. They must have meditated like motherfuckers.
Did you read that last part?
"regularly attracts hundreds of people per week."
I know, that's supposed to engender confidence, because hundreds of people who learn at her sandal-enshrouded feet every Wednesday must be onto something. In my head, though, it says "cult leader."
In sandals.
Want more?
"Brach's talks are downloaded free nearly 200,000 times each month by people in more than 150 countries."
UH-OH!
I'm sure, if David Koresh were around today, his podcasts would be pretty popular, too. You know, with a certain se(c)t.
I'm sorry, I know I'm being a penis-pimple about all of this, and I also know that a huge part of my reticence has to do with how popular this woman is and my ardent belief that anything lots of people get gooey in the pants over must automatically be full of shit, but it is a philosophy that is so terribly hard to break free from. I mean, remember how many people liked "Titanic"?
(Estimates have it at between 200-250 million people saw it in theatres, and 60-100 million saw it on DVD. Sorry, Sandals; you've got some catching up to do.)
I think there is, too, a little bit of the oppositional streak in me at work, too. I don't like it when people tell me what to do, even if they couch it as a suggestion-- especially if they believe that suggestion is going to be "good for me". But, my tiny hamster mind thinks, if I've lived with me for thirty-three years and I don't know what's good for me, how the fuck does some handsome guy with a knit bison on his shirt who isn't even half Jewish going to know what's good for me? Because he has Psy.D. after his name? Believe me, I have MAEd after my name, but I know sure as shit I shouldn't be let anywhere near a classroom. Even if hundreds of people wanted to flock to it every Wednesday.
I don't know. Lying down on somebody's floor kicking and screaming, "I DON'T WANNA!" till your face turns as red as a hemorrhoid just isn't acceptable at my age, even if you've just paid the guy $50 and he's got the sound machine on, but that's what I want to do during my sessions. I don't wanna take meds, I don't wanna do meditation, I don't wanna "find my inner sanctuary of peace and wisdom in the midst of difficulty" because that's what DIFFICULTY IS. It's supposed to feel difficult. Difficulty isn't supposed to feel peaceful and you're not supposed to find wisdom in getting fucked over at work or sprinkling your pants with pee-pee dribble right before a meeting or when some cocksmoke is tailgating you and your family is in the car and everybody has a gun and the lights are all red and the waiter fucks it up and the house is too cold and the money is tight and the girls are all hot and the idiots just want to talk about "Titanic" and how Leo has matured and really come into his own and Vipassana meditation and mindfulness and finding the core and finding center and finding Neverland and Johnny Depp's another one and God give me a fucking break already.
Please.
I don't wanna.
I know I'm going to disappoint my therapist tomorrow when I tell him I haven't done my homework. Or maybe he won't care one way or the other. In school, I did the homework I was excited about, and the other homework I either did on the bus on the way to school, and it looked like it was done by my great-grandfather who had advanced stage Parkinson's-- or I just didn't do it at all. No one ever called my parents, or, if they did, my parents never told me about it. My teachers were all pretty chill. They must have meditated like motherfuckers.
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