“We have reached a crossroads, we have emerged from what we assumed was normality, things have suddenly overturned. One of our main tasks now—especially those of us who are not sick, are not frontline workers, and are not dealing with other economic or housing difficulties—is to understand this moment, what it might require of us, and what it might make possible.”
–Rebecca Solnit from The Impossible Has Already Happened: What coronavirus can teach us about hope
Seeing everything means recognizing the ultimate fact that all things that exist are mutually connected into a single whole, even if the connections between them are not yet known to us. Seeing everything also means a completely different kind of responsibility for the world, because it becomes obvious that every gesture “here” is connected to a gesture “there,” that a decision taken in one part of the world will have an effect in another part of it, and that differentiating between “mine” and “yours” starts to be debatable.
So it could be best to tell stories honestly in a way that activates a sense of the whole in the reader’s mind, that sets off the reader’s capacity to unite fragments into a single design, and to discover entire constellations in the small particles of events. To tell a story that makes it clear that everyone and everything is steeped in one common notion, which we painstakingly produce in our minds with every turn of the planet.
That is why I believe I must tell stories as if the world were a living, single entity, constantly forming before our eyes, and as if we were a small and at the same time powerful part of it.
Olga Tokarczuk from Nobel Prize in Literature acceptance speech
Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn’t want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave her the instructions for the battle. The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. They both had their weapons. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, “May I have permission to go into battle with you?” Fear said, “Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.” Then the young warrior said, “How can I defeat you?” Fear replied, “My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.” In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear.
Pema Chödrön (born Deirdre Blomfield-Brown, 1936) is an American Tibetan Buddhist. She is an ordained nun, acharya and disciple of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche. Chödrön has written several dozen books and audiobooks, and is principal teacher at Gampo Abbey in Nova Scotia, Canada.
Dew blooms
in my dream
And my tired heart spins
like a carousel where Death’s
children ride
I want to tie up time
in these trees
with a rope of black night
And later I will paint
the pale riverbanks of my memories
with my blood
How many children does Death have?
All are in my heart
A swallow comes flying
from far away—
Otro sueño
1919
¡Una golondrina vuela
Hacia muy lejos! . . .
Hay floraciones de rocío
Sobre mi sueño,
Y mi corazón da vueltas,
Lleno de tedio,
Como un tiovivo en que la Muerte
Pasea a sus hijuelos.
¡Quisiera en estos árboles
Atar al tiempo
Con un cable de noche negra,
Y pintar luego
Con mi sangre las riberas
Pálidas de mis recuerdos!
¿Cuántos hijos tiene la Muerte?
¡Todos están en mi pecho!
Myriad Ways 