I was taught some amount of mindfulness from Catholics. I think it was nuns. The teaching was/is somehow transmuted. Some of that mindfulness may be called brainwashing , but something worked. I see the year and time in a Liturgical sense. In colors on a wheel, with pictures and artistic interpretations of events in a story that apply to my time. Religion helps the mundane catch my attention, the mundane. It challenges more than any painful disruption, crisis, and just as much as trauma. The trauma of the mundane. Do I watch the same early insects awaken, the same sun coming from the same dusty town hall window, the same cluster fuck of cluster flies banging bodies against the solid light? The Passion in Passion week is a bloody and mournful passion. Today is Saturday, after Good Friday. My thoughts of course yesterday, went to Golgotha, the windswept sad hill, the long afternoon that those scheduled to die must spend.
Sharing a meal, a last meal , washing feet, consecrating the mundane, asking to be remembered in an action. “When you do this, do it for me”. The mindfulness or brainwashing that religion can teach is brave enough to ask for action. Action verifies. The Passion is the action, where the transcendence through consecration and betrayal (?!) , plays out in suffering.
Daily. The mundane. Seasonally, the same. In March the color of the dirt is washed with frost and sand, gravel and ash. Much of it is bare, and the surface is hard, pebbly, runed with drips and melt. Brush, ocher and grey and sienna tipped , tangle along the road, in the yards, pushing pushing through the dirt.
It’s too cold to stay out all day, and it would be a shitty time to die, you know, unless you were really tired and ready, or, unless the violence in the heart of humanity decided to drop a bomb on your life. The mundane, which is death, is seen as Passion. The cold stillness as something passionate. Trippy, huh?
So how could this be, this violent mandatory volunteered life, executed. Executed for treason, executed because some higher purpose designed it (? really?)………executed because that is what we do, we execute and cause violence to each other daily, it is our Via Dolorosa, as a people.
What else is going on in the place, in the town, in the state, in the forest and sky and river, during these walks toward Golgotha. Not everyone is along the road, jeering and throwing god knows what. Not all are weeping and offering what comfort they can. The birds are full of song as gray and foggy and drippy as it was yesterday. The yard was alive with them, singing their stories to each other. Business as usual goes on, people are working and buzzing and swarming. Cluster flies banging against solid light.