The-Deep-Water-copy

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The deep water is unmerciful.

The deep water is unmerciful.

The deep water is unmerciful.

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Bitterness and ruin. The self-inflicted gunshot wound of your own life.

There’s a meanness fueled by despair growing in a dark corner of my soul.

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May I feel this feeling fully. May I take it on without reservation, and may I also have all of the despair and bitterness that you are feeling now or have ever felt. Yours, and yours as well.

Fact of business, would you all please give me all of your suffering? I am suffering already, so pile it on and then you can go on your way a little lighter, perhaps.

And let me give you a little something to take with you in exchange.

Take this small happiness I have.

Go ahead. It may come in useful.

It seems like a tiny amount, but I can give you each the same amount and it won’t run out. Give me your pain, and help yourself to my happiness.

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My happiness yesterday was a dream. My despair today is a dream. My love, my grief, my loneliness, my strength and courage, my stubbornness and failures, all dreams.

No more to them than smoke on a foggy morning.

The phenomenon of thoughts and emotions arise and I take them as real, as existing, as kind of solid things outside myself or inside myself, but compelling and real.

But last night I dreamed that I was on the deck of a burning ship, flames and explosions all around. I manned a hose, flooding the inferno with icy cold seawater. Hoping I could put out the flames without sinking the ship.

My skin burned with the heat and my hands ached with the cold from the seawater coursing through the thick canvas hose. The ship heaved under my feat, the flames roared, the hull groaned.

It seemed pretty damn compelling.

It’s the same thing when I’m awake. All these events happen and I believe in them. But a little while later, the whole thing has changed, just like in a dream. I was at work, trying to solve some murder. Then I was in the bathroom, giving the grandbaby a bath, trying to hold him still so I could scrub his ears. Then I was in the back yard, fixing the fence, feeling the sun beating down on my neck, swinging a hammer. Bees in the garden droning. Then you were holding my hand. Then I was sobbing and you were angry. Then I was washing the dishes.

On and on.

None of it adhering.

Try to go back and get one of those moments, they’re gone as smoke, impossible to grasp.

Peer into the future and see one coming. You can’t. You’re wrong about it every time.

Just this one moment, arising like a dream out of some vast bed of potentiality, blossoming, breaking, erupting into being, then dissolving away. One after the next, in an endless cascade.

Real pretty to watch, even if it’s sometimes ugly.

Even if it was always ugly, still beautiful and astounding.

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That’s how I can take all your suffering onto myself. It’s just an illusion. Same with giving all my happiness away.

It’s an illusion, but a vivid one.

A magic show.

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You don’t need to go around taking it so serious.

I mean, of course, me.

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namaste.

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