there's not so much my mind can meander about during these past weeks. i just tried to sort things out for myself. after work, at home, after tinkering with the new guitar and the ukulele, i just idly sat by and let time pass before me.
tried to introvert. or introspect. or go inside. within me. tried to go to the core of being.
the Old Masters and Sages often tell -- happiness is within. pure happiness is within.
i endeavored to seek this inner joy. unadulterated joy not caused by outward influences but emanating from the real Self. from a communion with one's true identity. one must spend time to do this. one must devote time.. one must
we must.
one bleak, dreary, rainy, wet day just this past week, i sat alone in my humble little house. i instinctively opened my copy of walt whitman's masterpiece, leaves of grass. my eyes focused on a particular section in one of his poems there. the poem is titled a song for occupations. the lines were these --
why what have you thought of yourself?
is it you then that thought yourself less?
is it you that thought the President greater than you?
or the rich better off than you? or the educated wiser than you?
(because you are greasy and pimpled, or were once drunk,
or a thief,
or that you are diseased, or rheumatic, or a prostitute,
or from frivolity or impotence, or that you are no scholar
and never saw your name in print,
do you give in that you are any less immortal?)
i pondered over these, walt's questions, and they made me feel good when i honestly tried to answer these questions. they made me smile inwardly. and made me feel confident.
and on that day, that bleak, dreary, rainy, wet day, i felt assured
i am not any less immortal.
the day within me is fine. is warm. is bright. is cheerful.
i am not any less immortal.
