Notes On Death And Meditation
The alternating continuity and discontinuity of thought is not merely a metaphor for death: it is death. . . . To let go of the self and enter fully into one’s own mental experience exactly as it is — that is the death process.
We tend to think that strength is all-important, and yet we have a very shallow notion of what strength consists of. For unless our weaknesses play into our strengths we are not as supple as we should be.
One summer day many years ago, on the grass outside the back door to a large white house that had seen better days, a handsome woman sat cross-legged, taking peas from a colander beside her and shelling them into an enameled bowl on her lap. At her skirts, a girl of five or six played with a porcelain doll. After a bit, the child leaned the doll over the bowl of shelled peas and whispered in her ear, “You see, Peggy? That’s how we get peas ready to cook.”
The first thing that must be said is that the Minotaur was blind. Her mother — for the Minotaur, actually, was a woman — torn with guilt for her own sins, blinded the Minotaur soon after her birth. She could not bear to see the eyes of her child staring at her from the face of a bull. She blinded her, and then she placed her in the midst of the labyrinth, of which you have probably heard.