Emotions, no matter how intense and virulent, are not the problem. Our identification with emotions—that’s the problem. This Christmas we offer ourselves the gift of detachment.
“You are my son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased.” Few and widely spaced are boys whose fathers tell them that. So they cobble together a sense of themselves from other sources. Now they are men, divorced from the ceremonies of innocence, twisted by compensatory behaviours and lost in their lusts.
Change what makes you unhappy or leave what makes you unhappy. Just don’t complain about what makes you unhappy. Complaint is a saboteur, a way of doing nothing while pretending to do something.
If I order a red car and the dealer delivers a red car, am I surprised that it’s red? Similarly, knowing Life is a stage for things to go wrong on, am I upset when it happens?
We love our enemies when we have no enemies. We have no enemies when judgment stops and the blame game ends, when we extricate ourselves from the habit of making other people wrong.