pjthompson: (Default)
I know it's not hip in some circles to believe in hell, and I don't believe in the classic hell of Christian mythology, but I do believe that when we die, we are forced to go through a complete life review with no filters, no rationalizations, and face up to who we have truly been. Our sins, if you will.*

That in itself would be truly hellish, having to face up to things, to uncork all the muck of our shadow selves. We're all in store for it, I believe, to a greater or lesser degree. Perhaps children are exempt since they have so little life to review. I read a book by a mystic/psychic** who said that was how he perceived of hell, and it really resonated with me. He also said that the worse our misdeeds the more darkness we face in the afterlife, and it was only as we came to terms with what we had done and who we had been, own up to it, that we were able to move closer to the light. Someone like Hitler, he said, would be alone in complete cold and darkness until he came to terms with what he had done.

He didn't believe in eternal damnation, just damnation that lasted as long as we clung to our old worldview. I don't believe in eternal damnation, either. I think the Universe is more nuanced than that, that the worst hell is the one we impose upon ourselves, here and hereafter. I know this won't be popular with those who want everlasting retribution against people they hate but think about how awful it would be to be stuck in the cold and dark, screaming alone in a void until you acknowledge the wrong you've done. Far worse than fire in my opinion. The agony of that fire would give you little time to think on and acknowledge the wrong you have done. It makes no sense.

Of course, there ain't no guarantee that the mystical side of the universe makes any sense, but I do take comfort from the notion.

I guess I do believe in karma, but definitely not the way the New Age defines it: if you do something heinous in one life you’ll be born into horrible circumstances in your next life. This is essentially victim-blaming, and I reject it utterly. The Eastern concept of karma is more nuanced (and if I’ve gotten what follows wrong, I’d be very happy if someone corrected me): if you do something heinous in one life, you have the opportunity to make amends and change your ways in the same life, but if you don’t you will be born over and over again into the same circumstances, living out the same patterns until you learn to break free of them. That’s somewhat more palatable, but it doesn’t have enough retribution for my liking. (So, I will probably have to mend my ways and get rid of my need for retribution along the line somewhere.)

All this is just my own eccentric take on things, borrowed here and there from various mystical and religious texts. My own personal gnosis, if you will. It may not be pagan enough for someone who calls herself a pagan, but there it is.

I've been trying to do some of that reconciliation work on this side of the divide, acknowledging my past misdeeds, stripping away as much rationalization and excuses as possible. You know, dealing with my shadow side here rather than there. It isn’t easy and it's very uncomfortable sometimes but when I do accomplish it, it's quite liberating. I feel myself inching microscopically closer to the light.




*What is sin? I don’t think it’s about having sex outside “permitted” channels, or self-identity, or sloth, or any of the other minor venalities of conventional hell and brimstone religions. To me, sin is about doing physical, mental, or emotional harm to fellow creatures and the planet.

**I want to say it was George Anderson’s Lessons from the Light but it was a long time ago and I can’t be sure. I downloaded a Kindle sample and read the start of the book and it seems like the one but, as I say, it was a long time ago.

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Apr. 10th, 2020 02:10 pm
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)
Random quote of the day:

“I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions, born of my actions, related through my actions, and have my actions as my arbitrator. Whatever I do, for good or for evil, to that will I fall heir.”

—Buddha, Upajjhatthana Sutta: Subjects for Contemplation
(tr. Thanissaro Bhikkhu)



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Key and Peele, Celine Dion, or Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.
pjthompson: quotes (quotei)

Random quote of the day:

“My actions are my only true belongings: I cannot escape their consequences. My actions are the ground on which I stand.”

—Thich Nhat Hanh, The Heart of Buddha’s Teaching

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Lucy and Ethel, Justin Bieber, or the Kardashian Klan. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

Ten dollars

Jul. 6th, 2005 05:36 pm
pjthompson: (Default)
Strange event of the day: So I'm in the cafeteria and a guy says, "I think you dropped your money." I look down and there's a severely wadded up bill on the ground, so wadded I couldn't even see the denomination. I'm pretty sure it isn't mine because my money is neatly folded in my pocket, but I pick it up, of course. I unfurl it and wow! It's a ten dollar bill. I check my pocket and my own ten is still there. "This isn't yours?" I ask the guy. "No." "It isn't mine, either." He laughs and looks a little disappointed. "It is now." He turns and walks away, as if wishing he hadn't been a nice guy and had grabbed it himself.

"Wow, found money!" I think, but immediately afterwards, as always happens these days when I find money, I think about a time I lost $15 that I desperately needed—it was all the money I had for the week. And I think about how desolate I was and I remember that finding money is a good thing, but always predicated on a bad thing happening to someone else. That always takes the glee off the moment. What if the person who lost that ten needed it as much as I needed that $15 way back when?

As it happens, I could really use that ten myself, so I'm trying not to be too big of a nerd about this and enjoy my good fortune. But I do think it's important to think of the other guy, too—in a karmically balancingly kind of way.

Irony of the day: Today is the birthday of the President of the United States and of Nancy Reagan. It is also the birthday of my friend, Lynn, who hates Bush with the heat of a thousand bonfires and likes Nancy only somewhat better. "What kind of weird cosmic projection is that all about?" she wonders.

Other irony of the day: This has been a point of much hilarity to all of us who know Lynn. This morning when NPR mentioned it was Dubya's birthday I laughed and said, "Ha ha! And Lynn's. Oh sh*t! I forgot to mail her birthday card!"

I don't share a birthday with anyone infamous, that I know of: Tommy LaSorda, Scott Baio, and Elizabeth Bear. Oh, and of course Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.

Cliché du jour: gore-encrusted claws (Don't worry, it didn't even survive the sub-first draft.)

Darling du jour: n/a - Nothing really floated in my moat.

Typo of note: his death's group wouldn't loosen

Words of the day: A miraculous (for me) 1250—the push to finish chapter 23. And ah, it's finished.

Socks of the day: Dark green with little white dots.
pjthompson: (Default)
Mutant from hell of the day: the woman here at work who likes to stir the pot and cause trouble with whoever is handy. (Unless you're male and then she's all flirty.) Not as bad as some work mutants I've known, but still an irritant. Most times I pretend she doesn't exist which vexes her mightily, but late in the day yesterday I succumbed, I'm afraid. She yelled at me for going through some printouts looking for a stray job of mine because I "wrinkled her papers." (I didn't.) Then when I said, "I didn't wrinkle your damned papers," she asked, "Why are you always so rude?" I wish I could say I walked away and didn't continue in this three-year-old vein, but I'm afraid I said, "I'm rude because you're you," before I walked away. Not one of my best zingers, but I want to progress beyond the need for delivering zingers.

*sigh* Why do some people get their rocks off by conflict? Life is short enough as it is. And I don't want to give this incident more importance then it's worth. It was a petty interaction, nothing more. But it brought up some associations from the past that got me thinking.

Because it's times like those where a ghost from my childhood springs up, puts her hands on her hips and starts trash talking. It's a Pavlovian response dredged up from the tough school in the tough neighborhood I grew up in. I like to think I have progressed beyond that little person who could lay schoolyard bullies low with my razor-sharp mouth. But apparently my amygdala has other ideas. I was reading how the amygdala is the center of the brain that takes fear, anxiety, stress and the like, and develops aggressive behaviors in response. Press button A, get response Number Three.

The meat centers of the brain, the pure animal inside the struggling-to-be-civilized human, don't give a fig for karma or grownupness or enlightenment. On the meat level, it's all about an eye for an eye. I guess that explains a lot of the world's heartburn, probably including the behavior of the Mutant from Hell. Her misplaced aggression is clearly something she learned early as a response to something that made her feel small and unimportant. She has succored her mutation in her black little heart with glee ever since.

But there's meat level response and there's meat level response...I still maintain that it's better to regret being a meat puppet than to think it's a valid way of conducting one's life. I guess it's that glee in doing mischief that separates the Mutant from the schoolyard trash talking kid.

Or I could be wrong and rationalizing the hell out of my own behavior.

TGIF.
pjthompson: (Default)
Okay, I have to say in my defense that I am not the one who ratted on Girlfriend and Boyfriend in apartment 207 and got them Talked To. If I have a problem with a neighbor, I prefer to talk politely to them myself as that's the adult thing to do and these situations always seem to get uglier once the manager gets involved. (Plus, you can never be sure the manager will be on your side or want to get involved.) This principle of mine will probably lead to me being shot dead one day or beaten with a bat, but I'm just not a stoolie, see. My other neighbors had no such compunctions, however. They turned the 207s in for all their carrying on. A real group effort.

And trouble is, since I'm the one who talked to them about noise, the 207s assume it was me who ratted them out, and I guess they figure I've got some Incredible Mojo Power for the manager to have come down on them so strongly on my say-so. Since they were practicing Extreme Aversion towards me before they got Talked To, this has not appreciably changed my relationship with them—but it sure has been peaceful since our Russian manager gave them the former-Soviet strong arm. I can actually get some sleep on weeknights. Yay for my team!

As karma would have it, 207 and I have assigned parking right next to each other in the parking garage. I've always found that very funny for some reason. Anyway, as I'm pulling into my space the other night, Boyfriend (who just got back from a long time out of town) opened the door and stepped into the garage. He looked up, saw me and got the most startled and chagrined look on his face. He averted his eyes as if my Incredible Stare of Death might shrivel something delicate just by a look. He did a rubber-legged double-take and swerved behind his truck to hide on the opposite side from my space. I found the whole thing so funny I almost drove the car into the wall laughing. Maybe that's what Boyfriend was so afraid of—that I was such a Gorgon of Anger I'd run him over given half the chance.

Whatever. I got out of the car suppressing my giggles as best I could and the jackass was still hiding behind his truck, the part of the cabin between the window and the truck bed where my Incredible Stare of Death couldn't reach him. He froze, like a tiny mammal waiting for the T-Rex to move on by. I got the groceries out of the trunk of my car and he was still back there, not moving, and I'm sorry but I just couldn't help myself. I started whistling really loud, "My Boyfriend's Back."

I admit that was probably wrong, probably bitchy, but he was acting like such a damned goofball I just couldn't help it.

After retrieving my groceries, I switched my whistling over to "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life" from the Life of Brian crucifixion scene. Not that I was thinking of crucifying anyone, I'd just heard a report on Life of Brian on the radio and somehow it seemed appropriate. But I was laughing all the way upstairs in the elevator and wondering what the hell could have caused such really strange behavior in Boyfriend.

This morning a possible explanation occurred to me. Boyfriend's odd behavior happened Wednesday night. Tuesday morning was the hideous sink incident. As I recall the traumatic events of that morning, I remember that at a certain point the post-Soviet manager's post-Soviet wife and I got into a real shouting match. It was about 7:30 in the morning and the water was coming over the sink onto the carpet and I had to bail the sink to keep the carpet from getting more soaked and she refused to call the plumber out on an emergency basis.

"It's not an emergency. Only your apartment is involved." (Neecheevo, comrade.)

Then she had the nerve to wag her finger at me and tell me that if I'd put anything down the sink, I was going to pay the plumbing bill. I explained to her—in a rather loud voice, I'll admit—that I hadn't put anything down the damned sink. I explained that because my apartment was the last in line before the gunk left the building, I was the one who always got nailed with the backups.

"Anyone upstairs could have put something in this sink!" I yelled—and by this time I was furious because she'd wagged her finger at me several times and still insisted this wasn't an emergency. My volume was right up there with Mr. Karaoke.

"Someone upstairs put something in the sink?"

"I don't know! But it wasn't me!"

"Who lives directly above you? Apartment 206?"

"No! It's apartment 207!" I shouted, causing the building to wobble on its axis, I think.

It occurs to me that before this shouting match, I'd heard them moving around upstairs. Afterwards, the quiet of the tomb up there. I'll bet they thought I was complaining about them again, going all medieval, all postal, all psychobitch on the manager's wife because of something I claimed they'd done. No wonder Boyfriend cowered under my Incredible Stare of Death.

Sometimes my life seems like the script of a really bad sitcom. Which is just about the scariest thought I've ever had.

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