On this day in 1942 Anne Frank turned thirteen. She was given a diary.
Later this morning I’m being interviewed about my views concerning ecology and buddhism.
The interviewer is pretty much convinced we’ve passed the tipping point and we are facing a world of hurt. In general I agree.
One of my teachers is the Buddhist activist Joanna Macy. She teaches that we don’t ignore the feelings of despair, but turn toward them, and then reach out to others from that space.
In that reaching out to others and then turning outward something is born, to use one more metaphor for something so elusive, a seed is planted and it begins to sprout.
And with that action that turning in and that double reaching out, there is a chance.
Will there be a turning from the madness?
There may be a chance, but it precious small.
And so…
Probably not.
But, then I think of that girl in such terrible circumstances, and the hope that bubbles up with her youth, and pouring forth from her pen like life-giving waters.
And, me, long past youthful enthusiasm, to shift the image one more time, trying to find the metaphor for that experience that eludes precise description, I still feel a smoldering coal.
Covered in ash, but still alive.
And with it a two-fold sense.
One, death comes to us all, even to worlds. Everything made of parts will surely come apart.
And, two, as long as we live, we humans, as foolish and violent and self-centered as we are, also carry within us that burning center,
Even in the face of death.
joy at life.
And with that.
hope for it all.
Hope for us all.
Enough?
Who is to say what is enough?
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