DETACHMENT

I never really understood what was meant by detachment until I discovered those things to which I am attached.  Until that moment, it was just another cerebral exercise.

For years, I struggled to contain my emotional nature.  It was a liability that interfered with the plans I had created for my life.  The concept of buddhist detachment, gleaned from a dusty book I found in my father’s library, seemed a perfect vehicle to help curb my unruly inner child.  And so, like the good Presbyterian that I was, I applied the theoretical lash without mercy, beating it until it cowered and hid in a corner.

The arrangement served me well.  I was able to sail through life without hindrance, oblivious to my feelings as well as those of others.  It was a flatline experience, punctuated with only a few spikes that occured when I inadvertently eased my vigilance.  But those slips were easily recoverable; restraint was my mantra.

Despite my best efforts, the problem child occasionally went over the wall, an event that usually spelled disaster.  She would dart about and leave a trail of casualties in her wake.  It was frustrating and embarrassing.  I couldn’t understand why, after years of diligent practice, I was no better than when I started.

It occured to me this morning as I walked through the snow, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, that repression is not detachment.  Supression indicates a desire for a certain outcome.  Suddenly, I no longer noticed the sleet pelting my face; instead I experienced a relief that felt almost sunny.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I recalled my grim formative years, finally understanding how they had shaped me and, for the first time, not caring why.    The behavior of people often has no logical explanation; they are governed by the same unfathomable perceptions that stymied me for decades.