"I have murdered sleep."
I read these words so many years ago I hate to consider how time has changed me, changed the world, and changed how time itself treats us both. Though there are many interpretations of this now hallowed line from Shakespeare'sMacbeth, I received yet another one today.
During a discussion this evening at a spiritual class, a nice lady asked the teacher who or what decides justice? Who makes that final, fateful decision? "God?" she asked. Our teacher is a funny man, but a very, shall we say, straightforward man. His brow ruffled and everyone knew there was a major dissertation coming down the pike.
I'll spare you the details, but it came down to this: the ultimate judge and jury is the tandem of cause and effect. For every cause, there is an effect. In the case of Macbeth, in a figurative sense of course, he murdered his own sleep even though he vaulted to royalty by murdering another. He can no longer rest peacefully. He will always feel the burden of guilt. He will always be dead even when he is alive. Cause and effect. Whether we like it or not, our actions today will face an increasingly hard or beautiful action at some point. Our ignorance of and desire for peace throughout the world will nullify much of the good that we sow. Our demand for things will far outstretch our ability to provide for those things. Our tradition and ritual only take from the earth and from each other time, energy, and intellect with the resulting reality only wanting more. "Chasing the high," as Tony Schwartz, CEO of The Energy Project, puts it, will get us nowhere but to the next high and the next one.
As the discussion climaxed, our teacher explained that we were, indeed, very lucky. Though we may not have much, as say compared to a mafioso, we had peace knowing we could get up, walk gingerly to our vehicles, and drive home in absolute safety. A don does not have that peace. That simple bit of heaven on earth is gone. "Even sitting here, under this window," teacher said, pointing to the transom above, is too much. Who has his aim on me, thinks the don? Who wants me dead? He has murdered sleep, too. His peace is gold-plated, perhaps, but it is fleeting.