My co-worker lay in a hospital bed, probably dying. He collapsed in a heap the other day while at his desk. I’ve known and worked with this kind, gentle man for ten years, and his sense of humor was wry and hilarious. He always lifted my spirit and made a bad day tolerable.
He has so many medical problems it could fill a notebook. He took the bullet and came bouncing back every single time. You’d see him gone for months or weeks at a time than he’d be back at it. I asked him why he didn’t go on disability because he certainly would qualify but that man worked through his personal physical HELL to get his daughters through college. He was unselfish to a fault.
The latest celebrity Buddhist, Mick Jagger, can't get it. Neither, it appears, can I. It seems that to be satisfied, I'd have to arrange my life and the world to conform totally to my liking—and then have them stay that way:
It’s Friday evening, and you’ve just come home from work either with a pink slip or too much pain to go back on Monday. You’re in full panic mode; how do I support my family, pay my mortgage, buy groceries? Most likely you will emotionally shut down and all the forces of nature will attack you all at once. Your pain level rises, you’ll strike out at those around you and your feet won’t be able to move.