Anger

I'm no good at being angry. One of the most common situations in which I get angry is when my parents question what I am doing. I feel the impulse to defend myself, to argue back, and most often, historically, I have. I am fuelled by an anger inside me that I am learning to let pass as smoke rather than add brush to.

That anger is directed at myself. After a reasonably tame discussion with my dad about pushing weights, gymming, and running, I went into the shower and as I stepped into our new white bathtub, anger still smoking away inside me, an idea assembled in the smoke: I'm not angry at him. Rather, I am angry at myself, for being angry, but also for not accepting that I may not have the correct answer, and given that, for believing there is a right answer. And I ought have it.

It made me think of others' arguments, when others get angry. I don't believe we get angry at others because of what they do, even if they are unreasonable or incorrect - I think there is a part of us that already recognises that as what it may be. And I don't think we get angry at them because they may next be unwilling to accept the correct or more reasonable view. I rather think we get angry because underneath all the thoughts we have about right and wrong, about what we are arguing for or against, we know there is no fight. We are angry because there is nothing to be angry about. We are angry because we can't justify our anger. That knowledge is ever-flowing; accusations and defenses slow it to a trickle.

We know, on that foresty floor, among the rocks and the arrangements of sticks and foliage, that peace is liquid, porous, and uninterruptible.

I ask of anger, is this anything?