It is Thursday. And it is Friday. And it is Thursday. And it is Friday.
So much confusion, with just the day alone! And so, the quest for enlightenment, today, as every day, but obviously even more fundamental in the midst of this workweek calendar conundrum.
Thus, to the mental carnival of unquiet that is meditation for me. And I’m sitting there on my family-room floor this morning before work, focusing on the breath, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in … dog whimpers at yard wildlife through the glass doors, focus, focus, breathe, wonder where I left my iPod?, cat bumps hand, breathe, BREATHE, dammit, breathe! Then, finally, I start to lose myself into the moment, and then, again, suddenly, the dog snuffling at the back door. I crack my eyes, just automatically, and I see it, I swear, the image of the Buddha, directly ahead of me, just to the left of my goofus dog.
Alas, he is not, actually, Siddhartha Gautama, the young enlightenment-attainer, the Buddha beneath the bodhi tree. No, I’m looking at that jiggly chrome-domed Chinese monk, the Future Buddha. The garden-statue guy. The happy laughing porkpie Buddha. Except that he’s dressed in an old T-shirt and pajama pants. And he’s got hair. And he’s frowning.
So I open my eyes wider, and look closer. And hell, that’s not the Buddha at all! It’s me. My reflection in the glass.
Some enlightenment just isn’t all that welcome, y’know? As in I apparently need to get the hell off my ass and start exercising some more …
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