The Chain

We are all products of causal chains of varying strengths. A results in B, which produces C and so on. My distinction, I believe, is that my chain is more fractious placing me in a tribe of disorientated, some would say emancipated twenty-first century denizens. We can profess no home; grew up with few spiritual or cultural traditions; have lived in several countries; assimilate well; are highly tolerant and are the children of one Diaspora or another. Where others could look back to see the links to their past, I glance at gaps and broken circles and see further still down the line some hazy chain meal. My being, like so many I am in no way saying I’m unique, is forged to the here and now. We find that wherever we go there we are, as our patron saints Buckeroo Bonsai and Jon Kabat-Zinn had long ago proclaimed. There is an inherent, ironic, freedom to this chain dragging, but also a sense of being untethered to the point of discombobulating apple carts, baby carriages and life cycles. We become embodiments of determinism and find free will to be somewhat a game of chance. We’re of the “life is a box of chocolates,” mantra. And as such, as the late great George Harrison so aptly put it, “if you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” We don’t know where we’re going partly because we don’t know exactly where we’ve been—but at least we always have ourselves for company, the constant of our particular faiths, and fellow sojourners to ask of the road ahead and what can be hoped for. 

 

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