Yes, She Told Me There Will Be Days Like This —26/10/2024 - Revised.

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Yes, She Told Me There Will Be Days Like This

—26/10/2024

I don’t know where to begin anymore.

Not for lack of material—there’s plenty to write about. But there’s a certain drag in the soul today. Maybe not laziness, but something subtler: a letting go of what once felt like a duty, now felt more like an echo. I promised myself I’d write, and so I write—this rainy Saturday morning, twelve floors above a soggy skyline.

I’ve just about finished my oatmeal with banana. Furby, the cat—soul of this home for the past six or seven years, has had her share of “Temptations,” the only overpriced treat she’ll touch besides canned tuna in water (the human kind, of course).

The past week has been a roller coaster for my psycho-spiritual mind—whatever that really means. Much of it is self-inflicted. It always comes back to money. Even after seventy-odd years, you’d think I’d have figured it out by now: how to hold it lightly, how not to let it unseat the mind. But the same old haunting returns. Even the years of absorbing spiritual teachings, of turning from desire and lack—they feel like distant noise sometimes.

I’ve known poverty. I’ve tasted excess. Both teach, both burn. As the Buddha might have muttered to himself, wandering from village to village, watching the suffering unfold: Such is. Some say the Buddha may have been Al-Khidr, the Muslim mystic guide, not quite a prophet, but awakened enough to walk away from everything in search of the Truth. Perhaps. I’ve always loved both as companions on the path. You can Google Al-Khidr if you're curious.

It’s still raining. Good. The world needs cleansing. The planet is convulsing under the weight of human hubris and imbalance. We may be in the final act of a very old play—unless, perhaps, some miracle or Divine Intervention rewrites the script. I sometimes wonder: are we living the end of Time?

For me, yes. At seventy-five, I’m reaching the end of my time. But for my children—and theirs—I only pray they find their own strength. That they live wisely, and don’t let despair steal the sun while it still shines.

“If and when times get rough, sing your song out loud—
‘There is a house in New Orleans...’”

Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever would.

And maybe that’s it: if we can drop the trivia, loosen our grip on identity, live simply—maybe that is the end of suffering. No “I,” no one to suffer.

This is Sunyata.
This is the heart of the Buddha’s teaching: emptiness, not as void, but as peace.

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                        Furby fell twelve floors down twice. The second time, she fell for good.