I know in light of recent events, hope can seem a dangerous, apathetic, complacent commodity. A liability. I hear that argument, and I understand it.
But in this life, I have clutched the floorboards in panic, in substance-draining terror, in sweat-drenched and erratic surely-this-must-be-it palpitations. I have been there; I have seen and welcomed darkness, even asked for it.
But I'm here. You see? I'm here. Nothing saved me, no one saved me. Things pass. Things pass because Pandora, bless her curious soul, was right to open that box. She was right to free hope. Sure, she let out a slew of nastiness that hounds and haunts us now, whose slimy touch is still on our skin from earlier in the month, but think of it this way: hope was trapped in that box with those things. And it survived.
It not only survived; that sweet sister flew--last out, cramped and stuffed beneath an eternity of darkness, and still she flew.
Hope changes everything. Hope is what assures us that yes, yes, the sa...
Teaching is hard. But that's like one of those truths we hold to be self-evident. And while we are all equal, we don't communicate in the same way. We don't process information in any way close to formulaic.
It's times like these I really envy Patanjali... The yogi-nerds out there will know the mythology, which I'll hopelessly butcher here, no doubt, but it goes something like this: Patanjali taught his students from behind a screen. Students from all over the world flocked to him for his teaching and, despite his never speaking a word to anyone, everyone left with the knowledge of yoga.
One day, one of his students stood up to take a break of sorts, and that broke the concentration in the room. The other students began to wonder how this man could teach so many different individuals, some with no language in common between them, without ever saying a word.
So, of course, they looked behind the screen and, of course, were suddenly all burned to ashes (you can't break the master's first...