We probably all know people who have mixed drinks about feelings. Feelings are all over the place and they’re absolute. Changing minds is more intense than changing homes or schools.
A friend stopped by the other evening and said she wanted to talk about art even though she once said that art is as risky as surgery.
Yet she has powerful thoughts that are always original. She’s been mostly isolated not because of the pandemic, but because that’s been her M.O. for the past 40 years.
When she drives up, I’m always shocked but never surprised. It only happens every other year or so, usually when the Beaver Bridge is closed. She might need a ride to and from town then because she doesn’t like driving on US 62, calling it a vortex.
She came in, and tea with a wee bit of Tullamore Dew was poured before she could ask about feelings and what they were. She drank half a cup before answering herself.
“Do people donate money to dog shelters or food pantries or Mitch McConnell because they think they’re helping the less fortunate? Don’t you think they really do it to feel better about themselves?”
It sounded like a trick question. I didn’t want to commit. It would be naive to say we donate because we think $50 makes a difference when we know there is enough money in the world for everybody to have enough. But because of classic hoarders and judgmental high achievers, most money is concentrated in very few accounts earmarked for politicians who are not interested in providing or sharing with people who will just waste it on food and shelter.
I told her that Monk, the TV detective with OCD, washes things that are squeaky clean because to him, they aren’t clean until he does, and that makes him feel better. I suggested that feelings come straight out of past experiences, and that to keep feeling the same way about something isn’t growth, it’s obsession and false security. We know how to safely think about and respond to things that don’t change.
“What about gut feelings?” she asked. “We put energy into gut feelings. We call them reliable. Or is that only when we’re right?”
That’s when we got to the reason she dropped by, which wasn’t to talk about art.
“I have a gut feeling about these vaccines,” she said. “Fifty-five years ago, I had the same gut feeling about the Vietnam War. I kept hearing that we were winning, and we would win faster if we were more aggressive with napalm spraying and carpet bombing.
“We never expected the resilience of the enemy. We were lied to. Isn’t that similar to what we’re dealing with now except our enemy is a virus? We keep showering money on pharmers to hurry up and cure us so we don’t have to think about this. We believe everything we hear – that vaccinations will stop the virus. Then that vaccinations will not really stop it, but they will stop us from going to the hospital or funeral home. Then that we need another shot.
“It’s the same as the sixties,” she continued. “Leaders, athletes, grandmothers and other powerful people implore us to get two, now three, shots that are both synthetic and aggressive. Why are we assaulting our bodies with these artificially enhanced injections?”
She said it made no sense that our government tells us to hurry up and boost our body with a not clearly understood, yet safe and free immune system amplifier. She does not believe any government is that benevolent.
“Why,” I asked, “do you think our government would deliberately lead us in the wrong direction? How would that benefit anybody?”
“Fear! Doubt!” She stiffened, her back straight as a chalkboard. “Energy follows thought. We are so fearful of death that we aren’t allowing ourselves to be surprised. We obey.”
“Yes. But fear of sickness and death might be deleted or diminished if we get the shots, right?”
“To me, it’s all about that fear,” she said looking out the window at the spotlight across the street that finds it necessary to annoy me every night. “It all feels so covered up. Vaccines that don’t prevent illness shouldn’t be called vaccines. I feel more scared of the jab than the virus.”
“Well, you’re scared of highway sixty-two.”
“No,” she said. “I’m scared of not paying attention to my gut feeling.”