My sense of the pandemic is that it’s hastening a shift in the collective consciousness. As those who have emerged from addiction have realized, the good news is first of all bad news.
Comfort and security do not change a man. Only adversity can do that. We are hallowed and habilitated in difficult times.
It is impossible to fail on purpose. The man who does this has, after all, succeeded. Failure is the Paschal mystery. It’s where the new me is forged.
It sometimes happens that men who are awakening will tell me, “I don’t know who I am any more.” It is like the moment in a funeral service when I find myself crying.
Whitman wrote something like this following his decisive encounter: “We met. I forget the rest.”
So that’s love, then—the slate wiped clean, a great forgetting.
Self-obliteration, a few facts, a box to store them in: What more could a man ask for?