A Private Letter to Friends

If you are reading this then you're the Friend to whom this addressed.  It won't matter if you know the mentions.  Kabir called Friend those with whom he shared the world and his own conscience.  That is enough for me.

It's Valentine's Day. And I say with all me heart that I love thee. And it is true. Thank you for you. Knowing you have such friends will sustain a life when there is so much distance and time to traverse. Is it my imagination but I see a world where even the thin veneers of civility have cracked. Beneath is a militancy, a kind of violence that seems like Hobbes' description of the war of all against all. I cannot participate. My sense of engagement and even my mildest "activism" has retreated behind Sadie's invisible fence. It's easy to cross into the yard and you are all so very welcome. But I shudder every time, every single time I step out. India feels stolen and how shall we return safely anytime soon? I find the idea of having dinner out or a lovely walk through my love that is NYC something I cannot muster, despite a deep longing, a memory, and intentionality. My emotional trust extends to you and of course some others but I am deeply averse to the ethos of our country and all its vehemence and cruelty. These truckers protests worldwide? A slow walk to democracy's end with Republicans leading the way? And everyone hating on Joe who for all of his faults seems to have the decency and compassion we so desperately long to settle in to a daily life? There's no normal to anything. Was there ever? I miss you all terribly. Kate recently visited us and what a joy. Thank you. You all have busy lives, as we try to survive as much the perils of capitalism and family and do what we can to stay healthy. I'm working all hours of the day and night, as I am sure you are too. I'm trying to find time to make food, ride the dreaded Peloton as we await spring that comes in June here, and find some beauty and simplicity. I became an academic to try to find a way to sit with Appa in that noisy corner of Sumeru. Perhaps that is too idyllic, too reclusive, too romantic. All of that was of course shattered by his death but then you came and my heart found refuge in the promises we have kept to one another. There is a heart here I can call mine. How grateful that feels and with you this fragility seems bearable because we are not fragile but tender with each other. Thank goodness there is some tenderness in the world. And more than the painful militancy that attends so many conversations "out there." I am ready emotionally to give up the University. There are no students and the ones that come? Maybe one in a class who cares and does the work. I'm not the only one who knows that our Humanities are failing. I look at what colleagues offer for classes and it brings all of the horror of the world to campus. They want to study the meanness and push their advocacies and agendas---some noble and worthy. But I want to talk about great ideas and great books, no matter who wrote them. I want to revel is saumya, maduriya, saundarya. I want to spend these last years---and let's be honest, time flies and mortality must be taking seriously, not dismissed or bypassed---with the poets and the Veda, with the stories and the music and art that I love. I want to be with Keats and Shasta and Joni, Neil, Sir Paul, the Boss and ol'Couger Mellencamp (you know he hates that name, bless him). Is it too much to ask? I've made my choices, I will live with them. Suz and I have talked about selling off the burdens of ownership and for me of course that's the bikes, the car, sell the whole place and go somewhere and have an entirely different life. But that Plan B can't just happen, it's not a choice without a viable living, and right now, I have none. I will never. If we sold it all, there wouldn't be even close to enough. I would rather die with a bike and car than not. I should give up the few things I still like to go where? Where is it better? All of you are out there in so many places and like I said, where to land that is all that much different? Sorry to complain. I write aloud to reflect and thank you for indulging. But I want a life of art and laughter and good conversation over long dinners. With you.