I have randomly collected disasters: monk burning, war evacuation, nuclear melt-down, boat people exodus, LA riot and earthquake, 9/11, Katrina relief and lately, my Penn State.
Living in disaster zones.
Affected by but not addicted to them.
So I cherish a quiet Sunday morning…until the Euro soccer game starts.
There will only be one winning team.
We will see tears of joy and tears of sorrow.
Of grown men’s faces.
The Italian men perhaps will cry either way. You can count on it.
Months of living in economic disaster zones. Tears of catharsis.
Half way through 2012. Half way through economic recovery I hope.
Half way through living the process called life.
Life on disaster zones. Maybe Branson and cohorts were right after all.
The only real vacation is to escape into orbit, for however long.
Away from it all, gravity included.
One action begets an opposite and equal response.
Are we called to sit still and be monkish?
I saw the monk do just that, in the middle of a busy intersection.
Until gasoline was poured on him .
Then, in the light of day, flame and fuel just exploded, burning hot.
People postured and prayed Buddhist chants. There were noise but there was also silence. Awe and willful defiance. Collective statement but individual suffering.
Live together and die alone. No randomness there, because history flows only one-way: from chaos to control and vice versa.
For me, I don’t go collecting disasters. Enough to last a lifetime.
Let the game begin, on screen. It’s safer that way, for me, at least.
The players in the field, however, will face random collision and pain.
Part of the game. Part of life. Part of the price one pays to be best in class.