Smells like team spirit

If Nirvana has an address, I don’t think denial is the road to it. I’m not talking about the band. I’m talking about the Sanskrit word for “extinction,” as applied to turbulent emotions. There’s an assumption going that if we rid ourselves of lust, anger and craving, it’ll all be good… very, very good.

That might be so, but there’s no shortcut. Lust, anger and craving are not to be subdued, because when they are, they’re transformed into what is commonly referred to as “American culture.” No, I think the way to mollify the Buddhist mind contaminants is to step right into the middle of them. That’s not to suggest we should act on every urge; quite the contrary. De Sade exercised his frightful thoughts with a quill, not by lopping off breasts. Had he attempted to subdue his obsessions, however, they very well may have manifested in a much more gruesome way.

The libertine is an extreme example. Most of us just crave the usual stuff—attention, love, enduring fame and omnipotent power. But we’re also usually stuck in less than ideal circumstances, politely making the best of them. As with any population, a certain percentage of us crack and stuff $90,000 in the freezer, invade countries, take automatic weapons to work or wear a diaper to confront the younger woman. Those who crack are derided by those who haven’t yet cracked and who cannot imagine that their fear of doing so drives their vindictiveness.

How else is a multibillion dollar industry built upon the humiliation of fragile young women? What else could possibly turn the suffering of Anna Nicole and Britney Spears into mockery? Are they somehow less deserving of mercy because of the enduring fame thing? If anything, I think moreso, especially when I consider the times I put out the trash wearing baggy sweats, a ripped t-shirt and a Frownies stuck to my forehead. I do this without a hoard of photographers on my doorstep.

And my erstwhile relationships with people who are completely inappropriate are not the stuff of “Access Hollywood.” I am not subject to having my premenstrually bloated stomach displayed on every grocery store aisle in the nation with the words “baby bump?”

No, I am merely a middle-aged woman in the spiritual wasteland that is suburban Washington, D.C., where I’ve been politely making the best of things and dancing precariously with my anger, lust and craving, with only occasional outbursts at the qwerty. (Quills are hard to find.)

And even though my first thought every morning when I wake up is “thank you,” and the sun streaming through my windows is transcendent and the sound of my piano wraps itself around me; even though I’ve met people I’ll always love and witnessed great events here… I also hate it here.

I hate the isolation of suburbs. I hate that none of the people I love are within walking distance. I hate that there’s almost nothing within walking distance. I hate that my job sometimes bores me beyond all human imagination, and I hate that my office building is the architectural equivalent of Love Canal. I hate that every time I ride my bike to work, someone in a vehicle tries to kill me.

Making the best of things does not mean I don’t have these feelings, and answering every one them with a counted blessing results in nothing but a tie. I think objectively and openly counting our curses is just as important as counting our blessings. Perhaps the road to Nirvana is macadamed with the occasional rant.

I know I feel better.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

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