The Christian stuff never seemed to get in the way, creatively.  I'd been a decent student of Buddhism for as long as I can remember, and it always made sense to me.  But there was something personal I got from Jesus, in addition, somehow beyond what I could get out of the young prince who became the Awakened One.  I could get Buddha too, on a personal level, but the Jesus stories, the offer of parallels that would come upon me from time to time, is something that I identify with.  Just something I always got, from facets of my own life, ever since I went out into attempts of adulthood.  Jesus and his life reverberated in me, it seemed.  Friendly.  They were there when I was ready for them, mature enough, I suppose, like the whole string of the stories leading up from the Old to the New Testament.



What comes to mind in a given day?  Jesus has the persistence.  He rises above, and he teaches.  He gathers.  He goes on the road, to preach.  He speaks his parables.  I myself, barely could get over all the adolescent stuff that interferes with uttering anything so worthy.  Quiet actions, obscure, private efforts... nothing much upon the stage, but rife with possibility, for exploration.



And on another day, passing through the thoughts of the latter part of the Christian story, there's a deep intuitive sense:  if someone was nice to you, there was always that sense within, yes, soon enough, before you know it, it will go the other way.

And indeed, even being wary of all that, it would always happen, or so it would seem some days, the great rejection after a bit of approval, hell to pay for the good moment of peace.


All you could do, like my father before me, was simply ride it out, go take a nap, just to have some peace, to buy some time that the woman or whatever fact of life, the good that had gone bad, that the storm would eventually blow itself out.

And in the times after the storm, after being spied upon, when having your words, attempts at being helpful, turned, wrongly, against you, taken as offending, when all that would finally go away, you never forgot the storm.  The storm would come and go, would happen again, on and on.  No sense in getting attached to the notion of any lasting peace.

A good moment, with a desired person, or a necessary safeguard, a decent job, academic success, some promise of events to be pleasurable, or helpful, no, they always went the other way for me, after the initial promise of extended happiness.  Soon or later.  The way things end up.  This is the truth.

And so, I learned to never expect much, of any lasting good.  Nor do I, did I, expect any "forgiveness," any relenting.  Because such things do not happen.



"Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me..."  We all get that line.


Too much is written about the psychological.

Rest in the Christian archetype.


Like any writer, Jesus had to do the bulk of his work, his figuring, alone.  Perhaps that rarity, of the obscure workmanlike private figure made public, contributes to the popularity of his image in paintings.  To capture this rare bird, whose true work, at his Father's business, is itself a magnificent act, requiring a likened soul.   He was in touch with himself, with humanity, human nature.