when the Buddha’s head disappears

As I walked to feed the birds these past ten days, I noticed how everything looks in the snow. Today is the third snowstorm SW Ohio has had in a short period of time. Lucky me, I’m retired though an active retiree. The first part of 2010 has seen me with less structure than I’m accustomed to.

So I have time to look. Yesterday, I chanted in front of the fireplace; afterward, just sat watching the flames. In the winter, it’s not the creek that’s the focus but logs burning into nothingness. Recently the ice and snow have captured my attention.

I have a small Buddha statue in my side yard. For most of the years I’ve lived here, I had him under what I call my “leaning tree.” This is a small pine that is close enough to my side window that I can watch the natural activity from my desk. I’ve made a commitment each winter to feed the birds. Sometime last year, I felt it was time for the Buddha to have a new view. I decided he should face west so I moved him several yards from the tree to sit under that window. Now he can watch the birds instead of being knocked down by the squirrels.

The second snow storm in this series, I noticed he was up to his head in snow. In a moment of compassion, I brushed several inches of snow off so at least he could watch his birds. This morning, the Buddha was gone. Disappeared. He was in a snow drift of his own.

Isn’t this what it’s about, anyway? Losing your head isn’t such a bad thing. For me, it’s usually been a good idea. Although I’ve been considered smart all my life, my mind has been my biggest tormentor. That is who tells me negative things about myself, assaults me with shoulds, and too often keeps that general worry current going. When I get a message from a statue, I take it seriously. As I sloshed past that window, I acknowledged, “the Buddha’s head has disappeared.” This my snow koan of the season.

winter

Although it’s not Winter Solstice for a few days, you could fool me. I was as excited as a kid to wake up and see the snow. Where I live there are lots of trees. There is a woods behind me and several trees on two sides. Only from the front window do I see a road and a neighbor’s house. The branches on these trees look glorious. That’s a word I don’t use too often. An online dictionary tells me glorious means “characterized by great beauty and splendor.” Yes.

I am not quite a monk but almost. The writing class I was taking and the one I was teaching are over now. All week I have gone out only twice — once to deliver meals and once to get dog bones and wrapping paper. Most of my days consisted of reading, writing, meditation, and keeping up with the outside world through my laptop. It’s hard to be in silence when you live with three dogs. They are spoiled Western dogs but you’d think they were starving on the street the way they act sometimes. Still, they calm down eventually and sometimes I do, too, enough to chant OOOOOOOMMMMMMMM. I like it especially when I awake before it’s light outside. Granted, sometimes I carry my first cup of coffee into my Meditation Room.

I have come to the conclusion lately that I’ve been too hard on myself. If I don’t leap out of bed, eager for an early morning meditation, I’ve failed. I set near impossible standards for myself. I also realize how much I worry about . . . well, lots: money, the future. I find it hard to stay in the present although being retired, I “have” more time to try. I worry about Mr. G with his bladder cancer; he has moved to Pennsylvania in a retirement village close to his son. At 88, he will have to decide whether to risk bladder surgery or “just” do the radiation and chemotherapy. I call him every Friday when I deliver meals and he’s not there. I am a codependent bodhisattva — yet isn’t codependence part of the personality trait of someone who vows to save the world?

I’ve become excruciatingly aware of my Witness and my ego/self. Guess it’s a natural evolution of my life right now. I’ll just keep watching and listening and occasionally I’ll share some of my life here.