Ahimsa. That’s what Buddhist call it. The act of being nonviolent towards all things.
After eating chicken pizza I have decided that maybe…just maybe, I might want to stop eating meat because if I am reincarnated as a chicken, I’ll be really pissed off.
Do chickens meditate? Do they know that somewhere people are frying them up and coining phrases like “give me a two-piece and a biscuit?” Nonviolent. It is a hard practice. There are days when I want to murder negative thoughts. Hang them? Shoot them? Electrocute them?
There are particular thoughts that I want to interrogate first and ask them, “How long will you haunt this brain?” Which brings me to my brain. There is an abundance of commercializing the idea of turning 40. I am on the elevator to the 40th floor. I want to arrive on the 40th floor but I don’t want to get off the 40th floor and have to go to the bathroom and get dressed. I want to arrive at the elevator, fully ready for my life party. That being said, I need to get ready now—the year I am turning 39.
This is the beginning of my cautionary tale/fairytale/journey/yellow brick road to 40. It starts today with the chicken and the Ahimsa and the negative thought I just murdered.