America In the Bardo
Fuck you.
You’re not even from here.
My ancestors were pilgrims.
I have no idea who’s screaming at whom
or what it’s all about.
I’m not happy that Rose has to hear this.
I feel sorry for the recipient of this outburst.
I’m embarrassed
to be part of this.
I imagine even the pilgrims
would be embarrassed
and wonder when irony died.
Apparently,
the non-pilgrim had spoken to this
kinsman of pilgrims
in a way he didn’t like.
So fragile,
the white male ego.
“Snowflake” was always projection.
As much as my
id and superego are conspiring
to fill me with fantasies
of a Tarantinoesque speech of righteous anger,
I’m more deflated than seething.
I know my judgment,
my diatribes, real or imagined,
my embarrassment
and my silence
won’t help.
Mr. Pilgrim Progeny
is clearly not well.
Like so many of his compatriots.
Like all of us,
to some extent.
I’m firmly in the
not knowing,
the bearing witness.
I wish I knew how to move toward
wise and loving action.
For now,
I’ll try to be
peace
and remain
in this bardo.Bardo is a Tibetan Buddhist term for an in-between state, after one thing has ended and before another has begun. It’s often used to describe the transition between death and rebirth, but it applies equally well to moments when the old world is clearly breaking down and the new one hasn’t arrived yet.
We’re in one of those.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. A comment, a share, or even just a like goes a long way. Writing into the void is its own practice, but knowing the work lands makes it easier to keep showing up.