Malas and City Walks

Tuesday’s Truth

I juggle so much. Like all the time. I’m not saying this to toot my own horn, but just as an honest admission. There’s a lot that I try to cram into every single day. I consistently strive to make revisions to my character, my fortitude, my determination and my drive. Regular and routine self-assessment offer me the kind of benchmarks that I need to ensure that what I’m doing is effective, worthwhile, and ultimately will lead me to the goals I seek. Dedication to my writing and my personal goals often usurp other interests and my attention span is often fleeting. Terrible, right? I know.

While I go through phases with laser focus and can accomplish many of the tasks that I set out to do, there are times when I just feel like it’s all too much. I think this is probably a universal human condition. But when I experience it, I go through an entire cycle of self-bashing, when I review every reason why I suck and none of the reasons why I’m a pretty decent human.

Over the weekend, I was in Chicago. The trip was interesting, fruitful and offered me introspection, truth and pause. On Saturday, I spent some time writing, working on my novel and some poetry. It was heavenly for a good few hours. And then I started to look around.

Everyone who passed by me seemed so content, so thoroughly pleased with themselves and their lives. It was fucking frustrating. Surely I can’t be the only one who wants more, who wants to supersede her boundaries and push for something greater. Or am I really alone in this? How is it possible that everyone who passed looked so full when I’m routinely left feeling as if there is something else to achieve, something new to master, some greater goal to seek?

Feeling pretty bummy, I returned to my hotel. I thought a quiet afternoon in would be what I needed to process emotions and emerge a better human. I was chatting with a dear friend who reminded me that I should get out, see the city, breathe the air. In essence, the reminder was to stop wallowing and live a bit. I hemmed and hawed, but ultimately gave in to the suggestion, donned a fresh dress and set out for a walk.

On my walk, I met a Buddhist monk. Over all of my traipsing in Chicago, I saw no monks. And yet, there he was standing on the sidewalk as if he had been waiting for me all along. Benevolently, he smiled and we started chatting. He reminded me that it’s just as easy to be compassionate as it is to be bitter. Both emotions come from the same root. I marveled at the brevity and truth in his proclamation, and just stood there grinning. #wordygirl had no words. The monk pressed a prayer card in my hand and gifted me a bracelet that is so close to being a mala, I have to believe it was a divine gift. I accepted the gifts graciously, and he told me he would pray for my peace before ushering me along my way.

Renewed, I resumed my walk, fingers the beads of this bracelet, listening to good tunes and feeling the renewal of sun on my skin. The combination of the urging of my friend and the visit from the monk impacted me so greatly inasmuch because each independent action fed into the other as because without that guidance and introspection, I never would have had such a beautiful and impacting experience. Namaste.