You’re all wrong. Every damn one of you.
How do I know? I’m wrong too. I’m better at being wrong than you are. I’ve been wrong since the Big Bang. Even that is wrong. There was no beginning. We are eternally evolving microbial mistakes in a boundless green sea of Beauty.
When you add and subtract all the Buddha’s good deeds and little blunders, over thousands of Bodhisattva lives, the sum is neither greater nor less than one. Without the mistakes, there’s no dance. Any slip-up might be the serendipitous mutation that ensures our survival, O graceful sin of Adam!
How could we encounter a butterfly without the grisly mishap in the cocoon? Could we enjoy our popcorn were it not for the hunchbacked caveman who tripped over his enormous feet, spilling a handful of kernels into the fire? Where would you be without your mother’s carelessness concerning the moon?
Stumbling is sacred. It is better than dancing. Were it not for our holy awkwardness and miscalculation, no creatures would exist – nothing but unbroken symmetries of Zero, the fat frozen mouth of a silent God, yearning to say ‘O!’ through the dense white hole where no Word can escape.
As for me, I lie awake in the dark, surrounded by snoring animals. I’m always wrong. The people you need to watch out for are the ones who are right.
