Pointing the Finger at Myself

On a discussion board, there is a new member. He says he is a Buddhist monk and poet. Over the past few days, he has posted at least ten poems. At first, I was thrilled and interested. “Here is a true wise hermit,” I thought. But today, I became angry at the poet and the plethora of poems he posted today.

I’ve spent several hours questioning my reaction and asking Jesus to help me with my ego. You see, it is my ego that became angry and wanted to attack the poet. I finally figured as follows. All of his poems go something like: I live alone on this beautiful mountain, my spirit soars into the clouds and I have nothing to do with you dirty normal humans.

Ummm…does that not sound exactly like my own ego? Yes, that is frequently how I think and feel and blog. Yet God gifted me today with this knowledge: what ever I happen to think in my small ego mind, I must be sharing with others in a way helpful to them.

I attend 12 step meetings and I went to one today. At the meeting was a young man I hadn’t seen for awhile. At the end of these meetings, we normally stand in a circle, hold hands and say a prayer. Today, this young man walked around the room to me and asked if he could hold my hand. Then, after the prayer, he talked about how he had got rid of his TV, found some other things to do; and had woken up to the fact that he had been anesthetized in front of that TV for several hours a day. Even in that meeting, two other people appreciated me for what I had said about Step 11 today.

So I had the Buddhist poet one the one hand, and the grateful young man on the other. I looked at my ego and my own arrogance and disdain. I suddenly became grateful that I live in a normal house, with a washer and dryer and weeds to hoe. I go to work whether I want to or not. I have a boss who is desperate to make sure I don’t leave. I do a good job even though I have no commitment to that company. Yes, I am on a spiritual quest, for knowledge of The Beyond; but I have no glory to show for it. What I have is a bag of dead peony bushes and a hoed peony bed ready for spring; and a young man who wants to hold my hand. For once, I am grateful to be me: nothing special, just an average good person.

"I wanna hold your ha ah an ah nd...I waaaana hold your handdddd" (The Beatles)