In the three years, eight months, one week and five days that I’ve been meditating, I’ve become more mindful of the weightlessness of my fleeting thoughts, less prone to inner turbulence, and generally more equanimous thanks to the Buddhist flavorings of the training.
On the other hand, I’ve gotten jack shit done. No second novel, no new standup routine, no trip to Morocco. For the same outcome, I could’ve saved myself three and a half years of retreats and guided meditations and gone straight to a lobotomy.
Thanks Buddha. For bupkes. I want my irritability, and my edge, back.
As Cassius says to Brutus, “I’ll not endure it.” (“Julius Caesar,” Act 4, Scene 3.)
Hm. That’s not quite right. As Goneril says to Oswald, “I’ll not endure it.” (“King Lear,” Act 1, Scene 3.)
Yes! That’s …
Not quite right.
Wait! Now I got it: As Othello says to Iago, “I’ll not endure it.” (“Othello,” Act 3, Scene 3.)
There! Whew. Thanks, Bard!