You Don’t Need to Be a Saint
Dear friend,
To get to the river Lea, near our home, theres a fifteen minute walk through the backstreets of Tottenham.
There are roads where the neighbours are planting trees, and on those same roads neighbours are dumping litter. You cross an iron railway bridge, the base of which is used as a toilet and a place to dump black bin bags of household refuse. The trains rush past a few feet away, screaming like banshees. Then there’s the road bridge across the A10, which is four lanes of concrete and asphalt and noise. The air cut up by the metal boxes speeding beneath you.
The way some of the people drive, you can feel their impatience or maybe it’s my own desire to get into nature projected onto them.
But when you get to the river.
It’s beautiful.
There are fish in the water, and you can hear the bird song so you realise how they are singing all of the time. We’re still in the city limits but you feel like you’re in the country and people say hello as you walk by.
Families come and picnic by the water’s edge.
Some families also leave empty cartons in plastic carrier bags tied to the branches of the trees.
Last week I noticed fishing wire on the river bank. Stooping to retrieve it I noticed more of it, including poisonous lead weights still attached and then a day glow maggot with a fishing hook embedded in its rubbery synthetic flesh.
We’ve swans and herons and kingfishers and dogs and kids.
Faced with stupidity and ignorance the false self throws a hissy fit.
Forgetting all of the times it’s been me doing the stupid inconsiderate thing.
Not this kind of stupid.
Others.
The false self gets in on the judging act, stirring up the tar that makes the thinker sick.
Like the rush of the cars and trains, the trash in the gutters, how quickly it can come on you.
I take the wire, hook and fake maggot to the bins where the boat residents dispose of their waste. I test the point of the thin metal hook, running the ridges of my thumb print tentatively across its barbed head. Imagine it sinking into my flesh, what it would do to the neck of the heron.
On the way to the bins I pass a group of dog walkers, one of whom I vaguely know. There’s a moment of choice. My false self wants me to hold up the hooked maggot so my acquaintance can see it. I’ll stride purposefully past with some kind of gesture of incredulity.
She’ll say, “Oh my word, can you believe it, some people!”
It will have the desired effect of stirring up outrage. The false self gets to play hero and feed on the energy it stirs up.
It’s like posting outrage online. Junk food and cheap thrills.
All of this by the peaceful river, that flows on to the sea.
Caring not one jot for the drama playing out in my body and mind.
It takes only a few seconds to choose again.
Bring the mind to the breath.
Put the discarded fishing tackle in the bin.
Nod to the others.
Look at the flowers growing in the beds outside the cafe.
Return to the peace of the present moment.
Maybe a saint would see through the whole drama to the guiltless spirit beyond.
Maybe not.
Maybe they’d go bananas for effect, to make a point.
We don’t need to be saints.
No need to be perfect.
It’s just you can’t condemn others no matter how justified you feel about it and have peace.
Excitement, yes.
A sense of moral victory, sure.
Smug, holier than thou.
Repressed.
But it’s feeding the false self’s addiction for separation and division and disharmony.
The spiritual path is narrow in places.
This is one of them.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey