It’s the hardest thing in the world to change a heart, including your own.
I try not to judges the jackasses I know: the guy who belittles everyone’s achievements to gain power over them, the woman who takes offense at the tiniest criticism and will not forgive. Too much of our lives are wasted on hate, so I try to understand them not as enemies but as folks with flaws, just like me, who mean well, most of the time. I’m not always successful.
You see, I try to walk softly on this earth. Then I see a bug and I stomp the hell out of it. But the bug is me; my own happiness is squashed beneath my shoe.
It’s instinct. I have the right formula in my brain, a heavenly equation filled with love and understanding, as flawless as Einsteinian relativity. But the heart has its own calculus, a dark math filled with negative numerals and graphs that curve steeply downward.
Sometimes there’s a rock in my chest. It beats blood but does not let in my better angels.
But even Buddha didn’t find enlightenment overnight. He spent years under that tree, enduring hunger, loneliness and birds raining filth on his head. But he stayed put, calling gently at the threshold of his hard, snarling heart until it grew tired and unlocked the door.
