I wanted to write a post on the Connecticut shootings that reflected some critical thought about the tragedy. I wanted to respond to some of the reactions and opinions that are spilling out all over social media. I had wondered what it might look like to offer a spiritual perspective on the shootings, and the abhorrent treatment of virtual reality headset children all over the planet. I sensed a tirade attempting to make its way in to print that for a few moments felt like my most important offering to this world of heartbreak. That tirade has swelled in me a few times over the last few days, and yet.
Thich Nhat Hanh I take my daughter for a walk every morning. Sometimes I listen to audiobooks on my IPod in one ear while I walk. Recently I have been listening to Thich Nhat Hanh’s Mindfulness and Psychotherapy which is actually a recording of lectures this Buddhist monk gave years back to a group of psychotherapists. At one point he was talking about the anger he felt during the Vietnam war when a village he had helped rebuild four times was bombed again. He said he wrote a poem about his experience. I became immediately more engaged as some part of me figured that monk’s never actually feel anger – I was eager.
Every once in a while I get sick of trying to make myself feel better with yoga. Yesterday was such a day. After a small argument with my husband I prepared to enter the haven of my practice and I couldn’t. Every time I approached my mat a well of anger rose up in me. I could have simply trudged through the thick wall of irritation that paralyzed my movements, as some approaches to yoga advise. Instead I fell onto my bed, face stuffed cock-eyed into a pillow and stared blankly into the mess of my ensuite bathroom. Blink. “What the hell’s going on?” Blink. “I only have an hour until Rowan wakes.