I’m a volcano. I may be dormant, but I’m fuming inside.
I read newspapers. I watch MSNBC, CNN, Democracy Now, The Young Turks, and FOX (a little). I listen to my friends (a lot).
Puffs of smoke belch from my skull.
I unroll my yoga mat. Settle down. Cross my legs. Follow my breathing.
In. Hold. Hold. Hold.
Out.
In. Hold. Hold. Hold.
Out.
In. Hold. Hold. Hold.
Out.
I lose myself.
I feel better, even though there’s no self left. Ah, the paradox of Buddhism. (And Christianity at its Buddha best.)
The prophets tell me—self or no self—I live in an empire. Its current face is clownish.
The next face could be urbane. Still, just another mask—a mask on an empire of crushing militarism, rampant materialism, corporate greed, and endless entertainment.
I’m told this is our “Hong Kong moment.” Marches, letters, petitions, and sham trials aren’t getting it done. It’s time to flood the streets and stay until the revolution is over—until the beast is driven into the sea.
I get it.
I’m living in the belly of the beast.
I get it.
Love is not enough.
I get it.
If not now, when? If not here, where? If not me, who?
I get it.
But I really don’t want to miss the Super Bowl or the next episode of Mrs. Maisel.
Each week I will post one of Paula’s photographs as the featured image on the home page. This week it’s Sleeping Man, Albuquerque, NM.