It was a cold and rainy Sunday--Mother's Day-- and before I made the short drive to the town over planned to stop at an AORTA Anti-Oppression Training at the Collective A-Go-Go for a few hours. My shop-mate and temporary boss, Scotty Guzman, was the event organizer, having contacted AORTA, or the Anti-Oppression Resource and Training Alliance, and, most importantly, fronted $500 for the cost of the 8 hour workshop. Scotty was exiting a particularly traumatic bout of social castration following a number of sexual assault confessions by women in the scene. The Collectives fed on him like sharks as he was immediately banned from damn near every space he had called his home for the past six years. Labels such as "serial rapist," "sexual predator," and (my personal favorite) "monster." The scene (a term I use for the hippies, the activists, the social justice clique, the white woke, the rads) was putting him on the cross. Scotty was the dart board for the sex crimes of his fellow men, known and unknown, preceding him and he accepted it. Putting on an anti-oppression workshop focused on patriarchy and misogyny was the least he could do.

The circle was full of good vibes, man. Here we were sitting in a cozy living room of a certainly rotting house on the edges of Worcester. Anarchist mumbo-jumbo, organizing slogans, and dried herbs dripped from the haphazardly painted walls. These organizing events always start with awkward conversation; coy grown up nerds and fringe folk who were never particularly gifted with the social graces needed to feel relaxed in a group of more than... one. (But, shit, honestly this is coming from the extrovert that hates meeting new people. I'll talk to a stranger all day but please God don't put me in a room with acquaintances I'm supposed to like.) Folks were smiling, catching up over vegan stuff and fruit, some anxiously checking the Facebook event and a few quietly staring at either the floor or ceiling from the ripped couches. The facilitator, donning a leather motorcycle jacket over a graphic crew neck over a flannel, happily called us all in to fill the mismatched chair and sofa circle. With impressive ease (she/her/hers) breathed out calmly to start and welcomed the room.

Connections Between Sin and Suffering

It is only now that I am starting to see the connection between suffering as referred to by the Buddha within the Four Noble Truths and sin as is understood within the Bible. Suffering is a contagious germ that flows between living things. To experience reality is to experience suffering. Reality is suffering. God can be understood as the overarching oneness that connects all things together. The oneness that binds everything is supreme and is God. To alleviate suffering is to use compassion towards sinners, who can be understood to be those people who are trapped in and thus perpetuate suffering. To be saved is to overcome suffering. Jesus was the human embodiment that allowed people to conceptualize suffering in a way that offered salvation through compassion. We are saved from sin when we see, recognize, and love the oneness that binds everything, what Christians refer to as God and Buddhists refer to as insight, and show compassion towards all living things (Buddhist compassion).

Paul

Funny how I come back to this everytime I'm supposed to be doing something different--namely, academic writing for a Masters degree that I never got... probably for this reason.

There's a friend of mine, Paul Lynch, who is worth spending a couple of sentences talking about. Paul is a 60-something New Hampshire native with a Florida accent who comes around to our motorcycle shop nights to observe each of our projects and dump some stories he has sitting around. The man is a what I would imagine a fox to be if they took on the human form right down to the strawberry blonde/red hair. He has the ability to spin anecdotes into mechanical advice in way that leaves your thoughts up--the world, your own story, his story, and the guts of the bike all weaving in between each other like a blanket.
It only took a meeting or two for Paul to convey that his heart is quite thoroughly decimated from a massive heart attack nearly five years ago, from which he admits was resultant of decades of hard drinking. His heart operates at 16% of normal functioning for someone his age. The doctors tell him without reservation that it's not medically possible for him to continue daily life with his heart in the condition that it is. Despite this Paul works full time, builds and rides vintage Montesas, and teaches chess at a local community college. That dead man walking does more than the goddamn rest. Hell he does at least 4 times what I can boast for my productivity.
There are days when Paul looks worried. He talks as if he's constantly telling a story--the same story-- which seems to keep everything flowing, like he doesn't have any secrets. He's a dying man and he'll tell you that "Today I'm dying quicker than usual." The joy in his tale comes from the defiance of living well while his weak heart still beats.
I wonder if we'll even know when Paul dies. I almost feel compelled to check on him every couple of days half-expecting a still silence, no response.
Don't compromise on life. Don't accept living a half life because death will just round up anyways. Your mind will stay sharp if you sharpen it and being sharp is what makes this all a fun place to be.