Most people I know would never say, “The Devil made me do
it,” at least not with a straight face.
But we talk about the ego as if it’s an evil mastermind thwarting us,
degrading us, always besting us in ways we are helpless to outwit. It keeps us from our goals, robs us of
our successes, ruins our relationships and knocks the ball of wisdom out of our
consciousness every time we’re about to touch down into enlightenment.
I smell sulphur.
We’ve found ourselves a new scapegoat.
Who gave it this power? Who defined it as the Great Obstructionist? I call it the ego, as if it’s something that happens to me.
Recoiling from the sting of self hate, I can scream at my ego and say,
“See what you made me do?” But
like all the causes of suffering I blame on circumstances I actually created,
this dog answers to me.
Maybe the ego is just neutral material waiting to express
all of my unconscious beliefs in a three-dimensional Sensurround display. But I felt something else in there.
Perhaps – well, of course I’m projecting, but when I felt into it, there was an
underlying goodness, a nobility and dignity that had been betrayed. Like a junkyard dog who has been
trained to be vicious, you can only be cruel to yourself for so long without
creating a monster, and that natural capacity for devotion becomes a servant
who hates your guts.
I don’t know if the relationship can be repaired, but from
now on I’m going to treat my ego like a good dog. I will reward its loyalty, share my food, give it a
bath and pick off the parasites.
I will let it sleep in the warm house. Instead of “my
ego, “ I will call it my Virtue, and every time I notice it doing its
job, I will recognize it as something wondrous.
I feel like I’m in love.
