The Perils of Clinging to Happiness

How challenging to observe without judgment, without categories of good or bad, how challenging just to see.

Our very existence is so perplexing, our mind and its creations. Why do I even bother thinking about it? Seems I am brought instead to wonder in the quiet.

I cling desperately to the hope that clarity will return someday.

But it is so dam elusive, there are days when I want to give up completely, and have a few, and then a few more drinks.

Not only do I obsess over this idea of wholeness, I am fully and completely aware of its presence, and equally of its absence.

And my only hope in its absence is to do anything to bring return.

I’m a spiritual addict of sorts.

Religion is bad for spiritual addicts. In some ways, it can cultivate an understanding, language and expression of this inner drive to feel divinity deeply. But it also lays out a very clear idea of the do’s and don’ts.

Do not be like the others, who waste their lives in search of fleeting pleasure. What’s wrong with some fleeting pleasure every once in a while? Sugar tastes amazing, sex is fantastic!

I get it. Some things have more lasting happiness, like not drowning yourself in an ocean of self-loathing.

And so I get caught in this ridiculous pattern every time I think someone or something is the answer.

Peak experience. Clarity. Joy.

Trying to make it last as long as possible. Thinking, “Maybe I’ll never be unhappy again.”

Dance. Sing for joy.

Next, you awake with that dreadful irritation, emptiness, depression.

But wait!

That’s not supposed to happen anymore! You are enlightened now, what the hell?

It doesn’t go away. Quick! recall your arsenal of depression-fighting remedies.

Sacred texts, meditation, music, yoga, make it stop!

After ten sun salutations of mind-full exertion, you decide that yoga isn’t the answer anymore. Queue uncertainty and defeat.

Screw it. What’s the point? Why do I try so hard to be connected to God, or Mother Earth, or Whatever The Heck might be out there, or within.

This is the part in the cycle where you think back to conversations where you exclaimed your joyous experience of truth, shuddering at your arrogance.

It is here that self-compassion would come in handy, but instead you feel like a failure, a fake, a fraud.

Religion had ideas of good and evil, heaven and hell. God is good, Satan is bad. Worship God to be free of evil.

The problem with good, is that it never exists without its counterpart. And we only want to hang out with our best friend, not their annoying boyfriend.

I want truth, love, to live as fully as I can. But life is not defined just by our victories. Our stories are written with the confusion and frustration that led us to that mountaintop view.

But I don’t like that part. I like the happy ending. Maybe that’s why I have watched too many romantic movies and been crippled by social documentaries. I want to sing from the mountain, not feel the waves crash over me.

When I see the light, I try to write a formula for how to bathe in its glow again. But the night comes, the sun sets, and I grovel at my inability to attain night vision.

We like watching the athlete cross the finish line, not their sunrise training, regimented diet, injuries and setbacks.

I like to write songs when I’ve had a revelation, not when I want to throw my guitar across the room and eat a tub of ice cream.

But that seems to be the way it goes. Wade through the choppy waters, in hopes of a sandy beach to rest. Sing about heartbreak in hopes of professing love.

We all want some answers, some lasting hope.

I started out saying I’m a spiritual addict. On the good days that just means I believe in love, compassion, beauty and wholeness.

But most of the time I’m just a confused soul hoping desperately for the light to shine on me again.

And maybe the valuable piece in this understanding is that we are all in it. We are all without answers. So maybe we can stop trying to see in the dark, grab hands, feeling our way through until somebody spots the sunrise.

Because the only thing worse than realizing that life may never make sense, is the belief that you’re the only one who feels the weight of that confusion.