Let’s just lay it out plain: without the struggle we’re just locked inside our heads.
Inside our heads we have it all figured out. The logic and the rationale, the syllogisms and the definitions. It’s a nice, neat world, tidy and foursquare. Justice is there, and so, too, is karma, the going-around followed by the coming-around. Everything is a progression of addition, each step followed by the one that should rightly follow. It all works the way that it should. And happy is ever after.
So let’s say it straight: this is nothing but illusion and bitterness. There is no love there, and therefore no satisfaction. For nothing is full apart from love. But love is what we seek.
The seeking is the struggle. For love fits no just scales, no balance of actions. It simply is. It cannot be earned. It cannot be coerced. It can only be given, or only received.
But though made for love, we are not fit for it. Our heart-fields lie hard and unbroken. We must be plowed, we must receive the rain.
This is a hard thing. And necessary. The way of tears and heartache. Too, the way of mending, of seedtime and harvest. Where askesis is lost, where it is cast off forgotten, we only have our prison-mind–but if we are blessed, we will be given an askesis, unutterably hard and seemingly unbearable though it may be. And with the breaking and the furrowing, when we are plowed with the lives we have made which are not yet what we are making, we will water those heart-fields with our tears. It will take time, but we will, through tears, kiss the ploughshares which scarred our landscapes, thanking God for the release into the real.
A joy that is wept is ineffably sweet and precious. And never forgotten.