This seems to be the overarching narrative coming down from above. It’s hard to pinpoint because we’re so interdependent. Battles between tribes were long ago. World wars had identifiable parties and patriotic narratives. Now the overarching narratives get scrambled by supposed advanced communications, now AI, the very connectivity that rightfully should produce greater understanding, the ability to experience the world from afar and be able to expand our consciousness of what our planet is asking of us. That’s a big “ask.”
The big truths have been apparent for a very long time. They get projected from every angle, every event. They’re hanging out above us while we blunder our way sometimes forward sometimes backwards. We claw our way out of darkness and then find ourselves immersed in it. The fight for power leads us on egomaniacal tangents. We’re taught it’s a hard struggle to survive in a world in which certainties can become chimeras and the winners are rich and the losers are left behind. The eternal verities depend on our self- control.
And wisdom. It’s hard to talk about wisdom. At 83, I ask myself if I’m living my highest potential self. Of course in this daily life on planet Earth, no one can spend all day just meditating on how to do that. It’s something we attain, and our life then reflects that. We share without self-doubt. We realize the world has given us powers and we must use them graciously and generously.
Enter the world unfolding. Not always so pretty and accommodating. A thousand here, a few hundred there — lives lost in the conflict of the soul and it’s attachments to identity. The wild and untamed part of it identifies its threats, codifies its objectives, and follows a strategy that may allow it to fight to the death if necessary, to preserve what we’ve established and for which we hold responsibilities. We get lost in the weeds as so many ideas and thoughts become impossible to untangle. The ego is fragile and not helpful in times needing its help with judgement and restraint.
The times have changed. The old verities have morphed into forms we scarcely recognize. We’ve become digits in a computerized game of thrones that pits the inevitable winners and losers in that grand old life-long battle. We’re relinquishing control of ourselves. The illusion looks enticing, and once we’re in it, it’s replaced the heart that gave it meaning. That’s the struggle today. The pathways have been redesigned to obviate excess evaluation and consciousness.
I love my humanity. All my foibles and intangibles. I love dealing with my emotions. When I’m rather blind, those moments of wilderness when I have to believe in the powers of my thought to manifest the special kind of beauty that connects me with my spirit, and never a substitute for hard thinking and compassion. If help from an outside source can keep me on that track then I reserve my judgment, just as something honest from a friend is welcome.
I admit to watching world events and commentary on MS Now. Blindness is on display. Dishonesty flagrantly exposed. But the intentions of most who shoulder the task of bringing it to light don’t have it easy. And there’s more of us out here every day. It’s hard to see consciousness so egregiously betrayed. It’s cruelty, the opposite of anything true or higher. The eternal struggle between light and darkness. I have to ask myself how involved in this struggle I want to be. For what I see is that I’ve been in this realm many times before and no matter how the outer garments of civilization change, no matter how much we pray for change, I am the only person who can change my role. Outside circumstances will not determine how I perceive life or depend on their influences to determine the outcome.
It is this right, and we can gift ourselves by recognizing our highest selves, together. We are engaged in a very real struggle fueled by ignorance and misinformation. Whether this past weekend’s events loom large in our imaginations we must together focus on the highest that we deserve. Sing, dance, and be merry. Believe in the force of love.
Alan Harris lives with his wife Jane, and son Paul in Shelburne Falls. Now retired from chefdom, he writes and sings, hikes and hopes his novel will make it out soon, “The Preposterous Tale of Dan and Lee.“