there was a Buddha in the garden

Buddha was here

I went downstairs this morning to take a photo of the Buddha in the garden, in the most intentional, planned spot in the whole yard, one that's never been used by anyone I've seen in the nearly three years I've lived here, including myself. In the north corner below the decks sit a lavender wooden chair, a bamboo screen, ferns, flagstones, and a white Buddha. Except Buddha's gone. Only the post remains. How long has Buddha been AWOL? He didn't even leave a note. Who stole the house Buddha? Somehow it seems symbolic, like finding Jesus' tomb empty and crying into one's hair. One goes in search of Buddha, yet only a stump remains. What's important is the quest, and all that.

I am feeling even more quiet, internal, and reflective than usual, probably from raging fear. I've been wearing a $2.50 Goodwill-thrifted, black-poly nightgown all weekend as a dress in a spirit of rebellion. (Oh yeah? I can dress better than ya'll in a cheap nightgown.) I got two sidelong street compliments from strange men on Saturday: "Great dress." "Nice dress." I never know whether to punch them or say, "Thank you," so I pretend I don't hear. I know at some future point, when I get a little older, such comments will no longer be given.

My Mother's Day phone call last night went horribly wrong. There goes the truth teller again, spouting hurt like a fountain. Or are they my boundaries? I need to write that memoir, purge the grief, seek comedy in the pain, find peace. And there are bills to pay. Where's Buddha when you need him?

So I'll leave here for the day with traces of my morning reading, trails in my mind. And they end at Buddha, wherever he may be: Life is pain. Get over yourself.

bleeding hearts

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