Must the world always break our hearts?
Maybe it must.
Maybe it is the function of the world to break our hearts. To break us open, again and again. To expose us and keep us exposed.
We are so adept at forming scar tissue, so eager to heal. Perhaps the function of the world is to keep us from healing too quickly, to hold us in a state of receptivity for as long as we can bear it.
Brokenness may be less a wound from which we must recover than an invitation to be with our pain, our confusion, our not-knowing, to feel it all without the overlay of narrative and story, without explanation or assignment of agency. Without closure.
It’s hard to do. We want the narrative.
I want the narrative.
I told my meditation teacher that I began my practice with the thought that it would help me deal with my shit so I could get on with my life.
I’m beginning to suspect that dealing with my shit is my life, insofar as dealing with my shit means staying in that state of receptivity.
It’s a vast space. There is room for so much.
The world breaks my heart on a daily basis. That’s how the light gets in.