The Poisoned Cup

It has been said that holding onto anger is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.

Anger can be a catalyst. The first lightning bolt arrives with purpose, sent from the firmament to clear a torpid sky. 

Though quick to arrive, it carries a warning to act slow. We are asked to pause. When we know what is left in its wake, we are able to build.

Emotions are elements: earth, fire, air, water, aether. They move under our skin, and occupy the space between us. Anger is the fastest moving fire, not meant to linger. When it remains, its smoke clouds our minds. We lose our inner vision.

Fermented anger takes up space within the body, becoming its own entity, whether it began with a justified cause or not. Mind can discern what is justifiable. Body, that ‘soft animal’ [1] feels corroded either way.

Poison is what diminishes us and deceives us. We have long agreed what mankind’s poisons are. Any unquenchable thirst; greed, fear, and extraction. We seek comfort in noticing these poisons in others. The other may be a politician or relative. Gossip weaves us snugly in agreement, together on the right side. But alone in contemplation, we know some poison lives within us all.

Denial enables poison to circulate. What if it were acceptable to admit that we are all grasping for something? Grasping for what? Not what is habitually reached for in distraction, fists clenched so tight that hands cannot receive, but for a nourishment so ancient we’ve forgotten its name. A vitality we cannot be sold.

[1] Mary Oliver, from the poem ‘Wild Geese’.