Change, Now, change

You could say that the point about each of us being a strand in a family/community story (my last post) is another demonstration of "dependent origination" (ugh! jargon, sorry.)

There is nothing constant and unchanging. Everything comes from something else, and will become something else. Eliot:

"In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto."

If we can accept this, then surely we can belong, be a part of it, stop struggling fruitlessly to hold on to the uncatchable Now.

This seems mightily obvious to you, I daresay - yet it's so easy to ignore or forget it.

We spend a lot of time trying to drink clear soup with a fork.