Burnt Pots
I burned my pot today. It was the straw. For my husband, the straw is sitting in traffic. For me, it is misplacing, breaking or damaging my belongings because I see those moments as indicative of my deep dysfunction. Each of those tiny nuisances feels like a singular waste of time and physical resources. That gets under my skin. But what is it really about?
It’s about blaming myself, because that is far easier than admitting that I don’t actually have control over all of the things. When I have things just so, or know where everything is, I maintain a sense of order. When I follow my life rules, I believe I’ve attained some higher moral ground. When I take extra time to rinse the yogurt cartons I find tossed in the trash so they can be recycled instead, all the while trying not to remember the article I read months ago about America’s broken recycling system, somehow I feel a sense of safety. When I see our pantry stocked with Mom-approved “nutritious” snacks and foodstuffs, all seems right with the world. When I turn off all the lights before leaving the house, when I avoid using plastics and press restaurant managers about why they still offer straws and when I save the leftover tablespoon of taco meat, I am choosing to do something that makes me feel righteous.
A Buddhist monk might tell me to let go of this illusion of righteousness, which may be all that it is, truth be told. But, what if I really did stop? What if I left all the lights on and ignored the empty yogurt cups? What if I tossed the taco meat, used plastic with reckless abandon and only drank through straws? I truly believe the world would be a slightly worse place. Furthermore, I am certain that if everybody else simultaneously abandoned their own efforts, we would be in an even worse pickle than the one in which we currently find ourselves. So, perhaps righteousness is useful only insomuch that it drives us to do better and be better.
I am a humanist. The longer I exist in this body on this planet, the more I appreciate the imperfections of humanity, those imperfections that, I believe, define our humanity, that are critical to our humanity. I used to try so hard to keep it together. Sometimes, I catch myself still trying so hard. And then I throw up my hands and utter the same three words: “Whats the point?” Well, there IS a point, even if it is just to make me feel better. Because when I feel better, I do better. We all do.
