I am reading The Zen of Creativity by John Loori, who liberally sites great contemplatives and activists from Lao Tzu to Mandela to T. S. Elliot.
There’s a quote plastered cross the right-and page in seriffed italic by Thoreau: “Only that day dawns”, it reads, “to which we are wide awake”.
Damn, I think. I’d like to memorize that quote. I wish I were the sort of person who’d read Thoreau already. And T.S. Elliot. The sort of person to have stowed away these gems of insight, gently treasuring them through the years.
It’s nice to think about. It makes me feel bad about myself and there’s something vaguely pleasurable about the exercise of wishing I were different than I am. It’s a small indulgence to think this way.
By the time I notice this, I’ve entirely lost track of myself. I reel myself back in slowly. I reorient. I’m in my room. I’m drinking tea. I’m reading… oh right. John Loori. Looks like I abandoned reading a contemplative book for the pleasure of wishing I were the sort person who reads contemplative books.
Meditators often say that the mind is very sophisticated in its techniques for distracting us. Perhaps, but mine seems to employ stunts that a six-year-old could see right through. It’s mostly just a little silly. I might as well get back to my book.