Remembering Regrets:
I do not remember changing the oil in my car in my 20s.
Meaningless forced social interaction.
Rhythm grammer.
Appreciation / care / gratitude.
Compassion that is: The compassionate moment.
I often miss the compassionate moment to be kind and helpful.
Because of fear, rejection, pick any human condition on this side of the scale - I look away, and steer away - instead of walking into someone's life for that moment of need. Simply - how often do we ask "Do you need a blanket?" - and are told, “Not really." Instead of kindly gifting.
When asked "How are you?" And, we simply shrug off the kindness by saying, “I’m okay" - when it is obvious to both that something is at hand.
I believe in the practice of ebb and flow that is working within the heart of kindness, there is an easy give and take.
Coming back to Blake now and again has always been entering into the slipstream. I’m remembering part of the Four Zoas written by Willi Blake, but I need to find it … I am good at drawing, also at drawing blanks.
"What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children.
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,
And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain.
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn.
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted,
To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer,
To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs.
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements,
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;
To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast;
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, and the sickness that cuts off his children,
While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door, and our children bring fruits and flowers.
Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten, and the slave grinding at the mill,
And the captive in chains, and the poor in the prison, and the soldier in the field
When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead.
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:
Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.”
I believe this to be a confession and an apology. The ‘easy’ part is feeling good when the good is going. It is in those moments we feel invincible, and the dark side of fate cannot touch you... and in this feeling, while on the other side of compassion, beware of the revenge that may spring up that rejoicing in others pain ... "but it is not so with me."
It is poetry, it is telescoped, this is only part of the work, there is much more...
