Monastic attention. I
am ashamed of myself. One day my mind,
my desire, my sense of present, past, and future were entirely empty. In a flash, I realized that my dreams of
being naked in public were just that—dreams.
I had believed, incredibly, that I actually went naked in public
sometimes. That flash revealed an image
not of the woman, just the situation, the woman’s face remains as blank as my will
to forget the event, revealed the image/situation of being molested by a woman
when I was eight years old.
I still love her. In
a sense, she supplanted my mother. The
introduction of her touch so close to the moment I was first able to feel has given
me a rewarding openness to women, and I have grown as a man.
My shame is my issue.
If I blame her, I become incapable of dealing with it. I may someday rid myself of shame, but I often
wonder if doing so would rid me of something authentically valuable. I’m starting to think that I can operate from
the tension between shame and pride.
That the differential gives me vitality.
Monastic attention is acceptance, acceptance of who you are
on a deep, undistracted level.
She seemed so old. But probablly in her twenties. I wonder if she is still alive. I had gone to her house to dig in her garden for fishing worms. What an interesting garden. I'd like to sit with her now, tell her it's all right.
