Not so much that I would notice it, but I did slow down. I was trekking back from the downtown library, and I hit upon a moment’s meditation.
The Happy Chinaman
I first carried the text, “Zen Flesh, Zen Bones,” as one of those pocket ‘shambala’ books. Turns out, the stories are public domain. I’ve got a PDF on file for portable and easy reference from time to time, but that aforementioned link is good enough.
I was, years passed, in Austin, the serious monk. The skinny buddha, working hard at craft and enlightenment.
Doubt I got it, but that story came to mind, over and over in the little trudge in the heat from the library to my cavernous abode. Cave-like.
The “Hotei,” Mr. Happy “Buddha,” he’s not really a buddha, but a monk. The little story reminded me, though, he was fat and happy. Often times, especially in the “west,” confused with the Siddhartha Gautama.
The details of the story, happy with what he had, and spreading a little light and joy where he could?
I’m not the ascetic I used to be. Fat. Happy. Too many flour tortillas, but happier than before.
Isn’t that the way?
Every Thursday, I reach in to a bag of tricks and pull out some new horoscopes.
That is the way.