Welcoming Sorrow

I am pleased that Charles Wright was selected as the poet laureate.  It strikes me that there has been a strain of American thought that closely resembles buddhist thought -- a "strain," of course, because it must row forward countervailing the main current of American culture.   I read this yesterday:

Who among us can welcome sorrow, or the
     sadness of dirt?
Well, empty yourself of all that, empty yourself
     of yourself.
There are some things that cannot be spoken of,
     or thought about.

It is from his latest book, Caribou, and I am sure would provoke reaction from a culture that begins with the Disney channel's on-going advice to adolescents to "follow their dream" or the more adult version Joseph Campbell version of "follow your bliss"   It seems the dream desired most is one that results in the on-going adulation of the dreamer, or the one exploited over and over, has one becoming a pop star and evolving into a certified pop tart like the Miley Cyrus's and the Justin Bieber's of the world.  It is a cultural affirmation of narcissism, of the most mundane "I did it my way" sort, that is quickly eroticized, not advice that prepares one to welcome the sorrow of the day-to-day, and there is no stay against sorrow.

I did not make progress on the shed yesterday.  Lora was returning from Michigan where she attended a wedding, with our granddaughter  She spent the week with her sister.  They are, whether they wish to admit it or not, more alike than not.  Both want to control their environments, including the others in the environment, and neither can do so.  I won't speak for her sister, but Lora quickly feels over-whelmed when things don't quite go the way she would like, because she must re-calculate and compensate for the uncooperative ebb and flow of her surround.   I mention this because she did not like the shed when she saw it.  From her perspective, "we had discussed it," and I had gone off, "over-planned it," the result being nothing like what she imagined.   Well, we had discussed it briefly, and I had planned it to match her vision, or so I thought, but apparently I misjudged what she had wanted for a "green house on one end."  I had not followed her dream, but rather my own mis-aligned dream of a shed.  I was disappointed at her disappointment, because a good deal of work had gone into the thing, so her return home was strained.  A minor sorrow in the cosmi-comic scheme of things, but an unwelcome sorrow nevertheless, and if we are to break the circle of disappointment, one or the other of us must let go of the disappointment.