The Art of Being Humiliated

Lately, I've had simplicity on the mind; how I wish my life were simpler, how I wish that my schedule were steadier, more stable, how I wish I could plan this, or that, or th'other, and know with something approaching a sense of certainty that X, Y, or Z were likely to transpire. I wish it all made more sense, I wish it fit together; I wish I had a job, and a garden, and my avocation were a simpler bit of work as well, steady and certain too.

And then, last night, I heard someone speaking about how she had been hoping and wishing to learn something new, something more, and how she was coming to realize that there really wasn't anything new, or more, to learn. That she had been taught all the secrets long ago, and the key was now to practice them. At least, that's what I think I heard: I could be wrong. We were in a basement, and the heating system was rumbling with life, and I couldn't really hear everything she said with perfect clarity.

But it became apparent to me, in some way, that although I've been seeking simplicity as something out there, something external to myself, what was really needed was simplicity in here, in my head and my heart. I've been collecting all these books, these methods, these spiritual practices, just accumulating them one after the other, hoping that the next one is going to unlock some mystical secret that I can't seem to pin down, and - Bam! - I will have a gnostic glimpse of the Good and all will be well.

Only, I don't think it works that way.

I feel resigned, as it were, to the thought that I will never be very good. I will never be very wise, or charismatic, courageous or compassionate, no matter how much I want these things. I will never achieve Single-Pointed Concentration or All-Embracing Awareness, or anything else with capital letters you can hear spoken.

I will never be famous; nor will I be a part of something greater than myself, some Greater Good, let alone an integral part of it.

I shall always be, more or less, a poor, ordinary shlub; a breathless spectator of giants, wishing dearly that I might one day be one of them.

But rather than feeling at all good about this, humbled and realistic, I just feel... depressed. I feel as if I struggle for a breath of hope. I wonder what difference I can truly make, what the point is, as it were. I feel humiliated, not humbled.

I know this is a good thing, but... right now, all I feel is emptied of childhood dreams.