I knew I had changed realities when, on the Fourth of July, I discovered myself in a neighborhood of fireworks enthusiasts. I mean, I'm not talking about the odd crash and boom a few blocks away. I'm talking, every home in the neighborhood (except mine) setting off loud fireworks and explosions nonstop from about 8:30 to 12:30 on the Fourth itself, and also for a few hours on the 2nd, 3rd and 5th. I had vowed to stay outside and enjoy the colors and excitement, but I'm afraid I lasted a mere few minutes. It felt to me like being in a war zone. And while going inside and cowering under the blankets didn't make me feel "safe", not when the weather has been so dry, at least I felt safer.
One of those paradoxes of life, isn't it?, to have come to a living situation that is about a certain monastic intentionality and contemplation, only to be literally engulfed in, not "sound", but violent noise! My life always being paradoxical, it didn't surprise me.
But I did find myself thinking about how odd it is that we celebrate this holiday by symbolically recreating war. Yes, the "rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air" may symbolize that "our flag [is] still there" -- but as with everything, it all seems so old paradigm, so much a part of a conflict way of life. What would celebrations in a new paradigm consist of? Perhaps meals, singing, music, dancing, and lanterns to light the dark. But no traumatizing explosions. Please, no traumatizing explosions.
The morning of the 5th, thanks to insights from Sharon Blackie's book The Enchanted Life, I went out to the garden and acknowledged to the plants and trees that it had been a hard night, and I hoped they were OK. I guess I needed the nature around me to know that I was with them.
