The beauty around you, the impermanence and injustice of it all, closes in. It becomes clear that the twinge of tragic sadness that pockmarks existence is the one thing that makes you want to wake with the crows and listen to every chirp, feel every breeze. Everything you love will die. Everything you see will fade from memory. But holding the liquid of love in your hand, letting it flow to the level it needs, watching as it spills from your grasp and seeks its own level — that is all that we have. It is the science and the art, the gift and the curse, the bug and the windshield.
For when we truly behave in Karmic fashion, we invest not expecting a return, but, rather, we give to foster a ripple effect: to bring about more love in the rest of the world, independently of whether we expect it to return. One good deed begets another. One good word starts a wave. One love-quake sparks a Tsunami. This is true Karma. We may be in the path of the oncoming storm, but we yet still shelter others — winds and rain be damned. By giving, by loving, by acting, we restore balance to an ultimately tragic world where we all die and end up alone, no matter the progress we’ve made.