Being home

I was just back from another world and floating into the fog, and when the air cleared, I was submerged in work. The work is mechanistic and impersonal, but needs attention. More attention than I have to spare. The other world still held me and re-entry was hard. Still, January could be far worse with nothing happening. Work flows in, time passes and finally the mornings are bright. It’s probably better that way. The days pass more quickly and there’s a sense of purpose, even when the purpose is meaningless – other than making a crust.
I read about impending doom with a world teetering on the brink of financial ruin. I read about the Irish economic bubble (deja vu). That would be the sort of bubble which forms in the mouth of a rotting corpse perhaps. Ah, no! Come on now! Sure, we only just pulled ourselves out of a six year recession by dint of diligent hard work and austerity. Doesn’t that word make you think of monks? I’ve stared in the faces of the Irish workers and seen few monastic features. We seem to be fine. We’re cloaked in local comforts, local worries. We examine ourselves for blemishes and they are there. We examine the world around us for warts, and sure, they’re there too – but it’s all within the comfortable space we occupy. We don’t want to see anything bigger.
And that other world is not what it seemed, all exotica and mystery. It’s dry and hard and hungry. It’s enveloped in subjugation. They aren’t insulated from the world. In fact, they’re more encroached by it than we are, in the monastery here. Get a grip and take the heat of the kitchen. Focus on what’s in front of you and not on what you left behind. Did the astronauts look at the world at a distance once they climbed out of the capsule? Nope. They got wet in the Pacific or wherever.

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