Evil is – whatever distracts.
Evil is whatever distracts. That is what Franz Kafka said. Of course, that raises a question: from what?
What is important? Once I know that, I can see: everything else is a distraction. War. Invasion. Violence. Greed. That is what is all around us. That is what robs both humans and nature. I should be aware of those evils, pay attention. Of course I should (and how can I avoid noticing it all, anyway).
Yet what does it achieve, my focusing on it? How much focus is too much? So what if I write about it, paint it? I can justify that ( because I’m good at this, at justifying my compulsions). I can call it solidarity, or a call to action. But let’s be real, what is the return on invested time, when I allot more and more and more of my consciousness to the horrors?
I don’t know the right balance, who am I to know, but that doesn’t keep me from having an opinion. There isn’t much that keeps me from having opinions – or from voicing them for that matter. (I will work on that in my next life, honestly, I will.) Here, for what it’s worth, is my opinionated conclusion. I want to be aware. Awareness is a thing I value deeply. Awareness is essential for my being, for kindness, for solitude.
And no, I will not give all of that awareness away to any one thing. Not unless immediate action is required. I believe that the practice of awareness will help me to know it, when that moment arrives. When a child cannot breathe, when a friend is in tears, it grabs my attention; when the moment arrives where taking to the streets could lead to a tipping point, it will register. When the wave rises and crests, I will know.
In the meantime, I’ll go swimming. Well actually, no swinming today. It is freezing cold (again), the wind is felling trees, the Passaic river is thick with pollution. So, swimming is not for this afternoon. This afternoon, I will greet the snowdrops poking through fallen leaves everywhere. They have made it. I salute their resilience.
Today, I will listen to the chorus of birds, singing their spring songs. To the call and response of the Cardinals, the couple that sits there, eyeing my nearly empty bird feeder. I hear a great horned owl in the woods nearby, calling out to his mate. I can see him, but not her. She is hidden somewhere in a hollow up there, in the crotch of a high branch. She sits on their nest; he brings her food, and he stands guard. Beneath the canopy, the chipmunks forget to notice the owl, but small birds fall silent.
And then I will take a nap, in the sunroom, a puppy snuggled into me.
Until it’s time . . .
Kafka. 2014 Diary
Germany has invaded Russia.
Swimming in the afternoon
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