The weather took a turn last week, when things got wet and
then cold and on my bicycle, riding down and back to Quarter Horse Coffee in
town, I noticed the leaves changing on the Bristol Road. People in Birmingham
refer to Bristol Road with a determiner, ‘the’ for a reason I can’t seem to
figure out, despite the fact that language is my expertise and I am a doctor of
it. There is word of a new cycle path, going from the university to the city,
and if this does happen, my life will reach a new level of perfection, on my
bike that I bought stolen from an Eastern European man on Gumtree and capped with my new Bern
helmet. A young man, younger than me, not middle-aged, said, as I was riding up
Victoria Road, That’s a shitty bike, and
I immediately responded, Well, you’re a
shitty person, and felt incredibly smug for thinking of such a great comeback so quickly.
Pithy, belittling replies are something that my bout with meditation has challenged me to give up. Cultivation, the metaphor that the Buddhists use, has been subtly
appearing in other parts of my life, like when I am standing barefoot at my
computer and notice the feeling of my feet on the ground. Or when I avoid
saying something angry to Yoko or the children. We learned about this in
Christianity, but under the heading of holding
your tongue which is a metaphor followed by a metonymy, and is about
self-control. You are bad and you need to control yourself. Now, with no need
to be good, the anger you withhold is just about having less negativity around
you and in you. I say that as an interpretation of what I experienced. I’m not
sure what it is exactly. We all have to fight less now.
I don’t know if this has been noticeable to the rest of the
family – whenever I proudly announce a personal achievement, it’s rightly met
with scepticism. I’ve been walking with better posture, have you noticed? I
cleaned up the garden, did you see? It’s silly. There are enough children in the
house, I don’t need to behave like one as well.
Perhaps this is just what normal people do, at normal times.
Someone said to me, as I recounted all the restrictions of my visa and what is
and is not illegal, You’re very concerned about doing something illegal,
aren’t you, and I said, Yes. Yes, if you do the wrong thing, you might get
thrown out of the country. Or sent to jail. Or judged by god. I explain this to
people, or try to. I grew up in a cloud of fear. The world was ending. Jesus was
coming, likely before I had a chance to have sex. There were only a very few
people who could be counted faithful. I hoped it would be me, but I wasn’t
sure. It might not be and where would that leave me. Burning in hell, for all
eternity, that’s where. Think of how that would be. So best try to avoid stupid slip ups, like doing illegal things.
I open my eyes after an hour and look around. Things are
brighter and louder and when asked if I have something to say, I genuinely have nothing to say. There is hope, you think, if you have nothing to say, because silence has an untangling effect. Sure, the past remains, but the past always remains, isn’t it. You
don’t need a pat on the head for doing right, or Jesus to reward you. The
reward is there already. You just have to stand up, breath in and out. Unlock
your bike and ride home. The insurance algorithms will protect you or they won't. Who's to say.