The Blue Bird’s Song
I remember one Easter celebration when my aunt and uncle had illegal satellite reception, and my grandmother accidentally turned the television to the adult channel—I recall on the screen there were two women and whip cream. And I recall, that on this particular Easter, we all sat together gathered in the living room and analyzed the film. I miss my extended family. I miss them much. I couldn’t readily appreciate my relatives when I was younger. I was too concerned with being normal and right, and enough. Too concerned with being loved.
Now I am changed. I recognize there is no normal, no right, no enough. I no longer hanker to be loved. I no longer long to be extraordinary. I am fine with being ordinary. I like how OSHO in The Buddha Said talks about one being capable of extraordinary measures in the plight to be plain ordinary. I mean if everyone else is trying to be special, or secretly thinking she is, then I like the idea of going against the grain, and striving for the rare ordinary. Beyond that nothing and invisible seems pleasing, too.
I was always the cheerleader for the striving underdog. Still am. There is something about the eyes of someone who has truly suffered. In comparison to a silver-spoon feed mamma’s boy, the sufferer, well he just seems like he has a soul I can climb into and rest. I’d like to do that—just spend a day climbing into people’s eyes.
I think I am weird in some ways—in my extreme need to connect. I mean when I read about the path of a particular type of Buddha, the one who wants to stick around and endure the earth so he can bring others to enlightenment, instead of just to himself, that makes perfect sense. It’s a no-brainer. Why would I want to gain complete enlightenment, if others were still suffering? I don’t get it. I don’t get how some things that are supposed to be the harder path, seem like the only path to me.
Today, I got a little bit sad. I wanted to be normal, just for a stretch of time—that freedom of oblivion. To have a brain that truly thinks shopping and fine dining is fun. To have a mind that believes animated comedy is hilarious. To take refuge in the ordinary and obvious. To just be like the crowd.
Many people have fixations and special interests. They might like sports cars or collect dolls, or perhaps fancy a sport. Me, on the other hand, my passions have always been eccentric and deep. Too deep, really. For example, my current fixation is in finding the meaning of existence and in the understanding of the Buddha’s path. I just am not simple. There is no part about me that is simple. I find peace in intelligent endeavors with deep complexities and the plausibility of opportunities leading to the scaffolding off of the old and sometimes new to form brilliant conclusions. I love the mind and all its parts. I love how my imagination explodes and abounds; how I can tap into the collective unconscious and spout out abundance meanderings that actually make sense.
Still, I grow sad at moments that I am the one seeking deep pleasure in intellect instead of what have you. There is a definite separation that occurs between me and others; even in my immediate family. I am sad at moments because, as silly as it sounds, I cannot understand how others aren’t like me. Not in a selfish, prideful way, just in I-don’t-understand-any-other-way-to-be way. I cannot comprehend another type of wanting and yearning, is all.
I got over my guilt about myself and the way I am in this world months ago. All in all, for the most part, I like what I do. I like the love I represent. And I think if I was a spokesperson for the product of inner me, I’d be authentically representing myself enough to please my client—perhaps even pull in a whole new account based on my dedication.
As I am the way I am, I like to learn. I don’t like to learn to prove anything to anyone, or to build platforms and ammunition for debate, and I am long past the want or desire to write a paper citing sources. I like to read only for me. I like to be enlightened and filled with new information, or the same information read by a me on a different time line, someone more matured and learned; I like to see how my own perspective has changed, how I have grown, how I have transitioned. When I am reading non-fiction, particularly spiritual texts, I dive deep. I dive into the dynamics of the language used, the heart of the author, the rhythm of the words, the meaning behind the meaning, and the hypothesis rendered. I inch my way into what the mind of the worker might have been, and into his heart, if feasible, and if kind it be. I like to sit there, inside the other, and imagine his world as he wrote—his fear, his misgivings, his intention. I like when the intention feels authentic and pure, without want or need of recognition. I love nibbling on the words of humility; I particularly love the nutty flavor of confession and humor pointed at self. I love the display of frailty, confusion, contradiction, and savor the omission of dogma and opinionated banter.
I no longer choose sides on topics or subjects, or anything presented to me in written or spoken form. I have no ability and no need to do so.
I see now. I see through the veil and through the predicaments. I see straight to the core of people’s fear. So much fear everywhere. It is troubling and it is freeing. I like that fear is out in the open, exposed and no longer hidden, but right there—pliable so I can almost touch and reshape it. Almost make fear disappear. Fear is so evident. I hear it in people’s voices; I see it in their eyes; I watch them unravel the fear as they complain about this or that, or about someone they supposedly love.
Along with the fear I see the falsehoods. I see the false-love. I understand all that is not love. It is a wonder that not everyone can see the world in regards to the falsehoods and false love. I know I couldn’t just a month ago, but still it seems I always could somehow, somewhere, to some degree.
I guess if I find anything hard anymore in regards to fear, it is in the wanting to fit in; the wanting to be like the rest and commiserate in misery—to complain, to whine, to panic, to anticipate, to get worked up, to put others down, to fret, to over-plan, to rush, to let thoughts consume me. Truthfully, I don’t really want any of that; frankly I had more than my share. But I want the avenue the fear provides for feasible connection. Just the avenue, not what travels through.
Now that I have stepped out of fear, the state of fear doesn’t entice me—whether in my own self or witnessed through another. And in this way I am sad; mostly, because I am standing here with this abundant plate of love and I know not how to serve it and whom to serve it to, when others’ plates are already filled with fear they want to spill upon me and then quickly reload with more fear. I want to hold a hand. I want to cuddle and snuggle. I want to have a slumber party with my dear-hearted ones; I just don’t want to connect through the fear. It doesn’t fill me now. It never did. Only seemed like it did. It was a commonality. An illusion that served.
I always wondered why people seemed to connect more through misery than joy. I understand now. It’s impossible to feel connected to someone’s joy unless you love your own self. Otherwise jealousy or greed or many a number of fear’s brethren slither in. People might pretend—but they don’t really feel love for the one celebrating. But they feel for the pained one, for the panged, for the suffering. They know suffering. They walk and breathe and live it. That’s all there is when the light is dim. When the walking flame has forgotten his very fire.
Ironically, though I am much changed I am still unsure about how to respond in typical conversation. I don’t worry about the communication skills anymore, or how to act, or what to say, or what people think of me. Now in conversation it is the fear that gets in the way. Not mine, the others’ fear. And the intention behind the words that comes forward in a blatant way. So much is spun from the core of fear: want, need, expectation, demand, etc. It hurts to listen sometimes. To know what I hear is entirely birthed from illusion. “Love me, I am not enough.” “Show me you love me, so I can feel enough.” “Tell me I am special, that I am wonderful.” “Validate me.” That is usually what I hear. I hear the truths. I hear the pain of not knowing love. I hear the pain of fear.
I want to say to another, “Look, this is fear. If it isn’t love, it’s fear. That’s all it is. The illusion of fear.” But who am I to say? And I know enough to know that no one can hear me, anyhow. The only thing anyone can here is her own self, and that through the filter of defense, question, heightened alertness, and possible judgment—well most of it is judgment, I suppose.
I feel very much a little blue bird on a perch outside a window. There is a bright candle inside, and I am looking in. The person comes to the window carrying the burning flame. And I am happy to be there, happy to be a part of this glimpse into the world. But then the person starts dripping hot wax on his arms or sticking his finger in the flame, and I want to gently say, “Stop; don’t do that; stop hurting yourself; that’s not how to use your light—that’s not how to carry your fire.” But I can’t. If I dare speak I sound like a chirping animal. And it hurts. It’s not the fact that I am unheard that hurts. It is the fact that I can do nothing but watch.
I can’t be blamed that the blindfold is off of me and therefore I can see where to pin the tail on the proverbial donkey. I can’t be blamed, but I am. Not by you, not by another, but by self. I play this game in my head that I ought not know, that I ought to find my way back to where the illusion didn’t make sense but still kept me blinded.
I want to know all about the light. But I really don’t want to know about the pain anymore. I don’t want to hear about the quibbles and the struggles with other people. I don’t want to see the anger, the blame, the righteousness, the dogma, the blindness.
And so I come across, I suppose, to some people as living in a dream world, or being aloof, or being changed, or being cold, or perhaps disinterested, or not loving. But the truth is I have never felt real love until now. I never knew love. Today I can love for no other reason but to love. I want nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. No attention, no reward, no karma, no benefit, no accumulation. All profit seems imaginary to me. Like play money, if even that. Something a kid fancies for a short while before it is forgotten, out grown, or lost. If anything I want more capacity to love. That is all I want. I want to be dug deeper through my own suffering, so I can be filled with more love. I want to give of my whole self to be that which is love. I know love now. I know it so dearly and so truly.
I guess temporarily I am lonely. All words feel the same. Whether praise or hate—it feels very much the same illusion. I can hear real love—love that is from the depth of a soul who knows nothing but love. Someone who too walks with blinders lifted; another dreamer awakened. I can hear him when he speaks; I can even hear him in his silence. I recognize the bird outside my window clearly. I see him and adore his song. But all the rest, the sounds of fear roar like thunder, calling out in warning that the fire has arrived still trapped in the darkest of clouds.