Bondage or Freedom

Zen in its essence
is the art of seeing
into the nature of one’s being,
and it points the way
from bondage to freedom.

~D.T. Suzuki

“Seeing into the nature of one’s being…”

It occurs to me that my entire life thus far has been spent attempting to capture that precious vision, but I remain largely blind. I stare into my own face, in a house of mirrors I have crafted from fragile sheets of glass, and see an endless array of images. Each reflection is distorted by imperfections in the glass. And, of course, by imperfections in me. I would be better served by peering into a quiet pool of water. That image would be more authentic, a more natural reflection of who I am. The chains of bondage I have readily accepted would melt away in the water, leaving me free and more vulnerable than ever before.

We long for freedom, yet thirst for bondage by another name. We strive for indenture, connections that constrain and manipulate us, turning us into versions of ourselves whose marks left by emotional ropes and chains are clearly visible. When finally we recognize the bondage for what it is, the path to freedom becomes either an easy stroll around a peaceful garden or a grueling climb over a dangerous and jagged mountain pass.

With those thoughts as a backdrop, it’s hard to tell whether my current state of intense wanderlust represents a permanent change in me or only a temporary reaction to an unknown trigger. Whatever it is, it feels  strong. Listening to friends talk about places they plan to go—coupled with my own long-time interest in seeing various places first-hand—has sparked another round of hit-the-road fever. One thing is clear at the moment, though. I want nothing, other than my own desires, to tie me down to a place. Obligations are burdens. I cannot imagine how difficult my desire to “just go” would be if I had children or grandchildren who tugged at my heartstrings and crimped my flexibility. But even owning a house is beginning to feel like an onerous commitment, an obligation that cannot quickly be unwound.

My wanderlust is tempered, though, by an addiction to predictability and relative security. I am torn between being an imposter who feigns adventurousness and a timid soul who values safety over excitement. And my wanderlust is kept in check by the fact that, even needing solitude as I do, there is no longer anyone to travel with me. When my wife and I hit the road (a rarity in recent years), her mere presence was enough to give me confidence. Now, though, I do not have that store of confidence. And the people I might ask to travel with me probably would opt to say no. And their husbands, too, might strenuously object. 😉 I try to inject feeble humor at awkward junctures.

None of the internal battles with myself would be visible to the casual observer except for the fact that I spill the bloodletting onto the posts in this blog. I wonder whether I, alone, experience these competing emotions and desires or whether they reflect a human condition that most of us choose to keep hidden beneath protective layers of bravado and false certainty? Who knows? I do not. And I’m not sure whether knowing would be of any value, either to me or to the person who reveals the internal strife. I’m just babbling into the wind, I think. The wind doesn’t mind.

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Time to feed the hummingbirds and make a simple breakfast. And, then, who knows? I suppose I’ll shower and shave and get dressed in “daytime meet the public” attire, as if I will meet the public. Except to go to the Post Office, I have no reason to leave the house today. But I may leave anyway. What an adventurer.