Volume 31. September 4, 2022

Monumental complainer Falstaff in Shakespeare’s Henry IV bellowed, “I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion!”
In our fast-paced society, sometimes we all need a rest.
Meditation provides serenity, peace, calm and tranquility.
But even during peaceful periods of meditation our minds seem to be “scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.”
Thoughts, doubts, worries, anxieties, plans, schemes, agendas — there is no end to our demented deliberations and ruinous ruminations. Consciousness is a cacophony.
Perhaps the most insidious parasite of peace is worry.
As soothing summer shifts into agitated autumn, worry bugs nibble away at our repose. Preying on our mind, niggling away, bedeviling any balm, worry turn us into warts.
Spiritual giants have tackled this tough problem.
Jesus Christ advised, “Which of you by worrying can add a moment to your lifespan? Learn a lesson from the wild flowers. They neither spin nor sow, but I assure you that even Solomon in all his splendor was not arrayed like one of these.”
Rastafarian Bob Marley was more succinct. Bob sang, “Don’t worry about a thing. Oh, every little thing gonna be all right.”
Jack Kerouac hit the nail on the head. “There’s nothing to worry about. And to worry about no-thing ain’t worry.”
Whatever we see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and think about resembles an illusion. We mistake a dream-like state for reality. We brood over this false reality. Result: Continued suffering, anxiety, lost sleep, agony and unease … over nothing!
How can we get back to what is really real?
Meditate.

You don’t have to be a Buddhist monk or a zen master to be aware of your breath.
Set aside dream-like thoughts of unreality. Banish the demons.
Enjoy nirvana.
I asked my daughter if she is nervous about starting fourth grade. She fretted, “Yes. Last year some fourth grade boys went into the girls’ bathroom. It might happen again.”
Cute, but no-thing to lose sleep over.
When we allow our minds to dwell on difficulty and troubles, we stew, brood and agonize. When we perceive that all things are empty, we return to peace.
Twenty-five centuries worth of Buddhist peace can’t be wrong.
As Falstaff put it:
“Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.”



















You must be logged in to post a comment.