I was outside this morning, as I am most mornings, enjoying the air and the tranquility I could find in the sounds around me. My residence is surrounded by busy roads and the sound of the glorious heater permeates the still air. My acceptance of the space I was in was disturbed only by my thought of how I should write about this.
I found that rather ironic.
I was raised in a household that held Buddhism very highly. I grew up knowing that inner peace was something I should strive for. I always looked up to identities like the Dalai Lama, and aspired to be like him. I now see the ironies of thinking that way.
Inspired by a friends recent post, some soul searching was performed, and I am now at peace with the idea that it is the wrong way to go about things. One should look deep within themselves and just be content.
I looked to meditation with an end goal: to use it to feel happy, to use it to be at peace, to use it to be healthy… Now, I realize that it should just be. There is no use for inner peace accept just that: Peace.
It is hard for me to write about a thought in that regard. To write about how we should celebrate our existence. To write about how great life is. MOSTLY because I constantly point out how bleak and disgusting everything is with a tone of jest and humour. It is not so much a coping mechanism as it acceptance that everything is broken. I am not trying to fix everything so much as trying to find my place in the mess that it creates.
I do not really know where I am trying to go with this. It was just on my mind, and I thought I would share. My cue was empty, anyway.