“And then what happened?” asked the elementary school principal of the small, tousled boy standing stiffly in front of him. “I kicked him in the nuts, sir.”
The prison of personality chokes off love by first inhibiting and finally denying spontaneity. Perfect behaviour is spontaneous behaviour. Love doesn’t calculate. It cares nothing for results. Love’s reward is the action itself.
As every resurrection requires a corpse, the birth of a new man requires the death of an old one. Who is the new man? He has no fear. Not even a shred remains.
I’ve heard men say that their children are their greatest achievement. I’m sure that’s not what Siddhartha’s father was saying when not-yet Buddha slipped out of the family compound, abandoned his wife and infant son to their privilege, and hit the road to oblivion.
When we die, we cease to identify ourselves with a body. We die before we die when we realize we are not the body. Then we are nobodies, the walking dead, absolutely fearless, radically normal.