Mirage of Homage

I'm pretty sure I can't take reading one more collection of words some man has written about his devotion for the woman he loves. Usually, I well up with mudita, but tonight I feel very delicate and tender, raw. I am maybe even a little envious (although envy is fairly foreign to me).

My memory echoes with words which were whispered and even shouted to me, words that I know are now whispered and shouted to another. And I wonder why I'm so far past that section of road now, so far I can't even remember what they sounded like.

I wonder if that place was like the shimmery illusion one sees during summer when the heat rises off the asphalt and everything seems magical for just a moment. Were those words even spoken? If I went back to that spot in time, would I hear them, disembodied, repeating like a scratched record, over and over? ~~GH

[Tomorrow: Give Freely]

Only the Beginning

Such a wonderful, integral, fluid thing our Lives are. Whether we think it's a good or bad thing, each completion is merely the beginning of the next leg of the Journey. It's like water, really. There is no ending, no beginning, only Is.

Anglo English is so inadequate a language. I guess I need to become like Ambrose Bierce and create my own dictionary, providing words for the many, many concepts we lack words for.

Here is one: Mudita. Something I spend a great deal of time experiencing.

Mudita (Pāli and Sanskrit: मुदित) in Buddhism is joy. It is especially sympathetic or vicarious joy, the pleasure that comes from delighting in

 other people's well-being rather than begrudging it.[1] The traditional paradigmatic example of this mind-state is the attitude of a parent observing a growing child's accomplishments and successes, but it is not to be confounded with proudness as the person feeling mudita must not have any interest or direct income from the accomplishments of the other. [Wikipedia]

So, Dear Reader, let us experience mudita for one another, knowing it is never finished. Until tomorrow. ~~GHC