right path

Not attaining enlightenment after deciding to, oh, about three pages into Eat Pray Love, for instance, had me a little down on myself. I meditated a total of thirty-seven minutes in two separate sessions about two weeks apart and found myself wondering, where is my blue light? Which I know is, well I don’t want to say ridiculous, because I know in my budding wisdom that beating myself up is not the Right Path, as the Buddhists would say, but I could maybe give myself a little more time to achieve the heightened states of consciousness that Elizabeth Gilbert makes sound so enticing, that took her at least five months and however many pages to reach in her life. And if I can’t get to Italy or India, at least I can go to a good Italian restaurant, and sit in my living room listening to my mind. So far I’ve been to a good French restaurant (rack of lamb and potatoes au gratin anyone?) and have sat myself down, and even though it doesn’t last long, it does feel like a vacation from my usual life of eternally explaining to my three year-old son why we don't dance with a glass of milk on the sofa. For instance. So I'm hopeful. I also seem to recollect that it’s best not to talk about your meditation practice, or your yoga practice, New Years’ resolutions, etc. But talk I do, because that’s what I do. I love to share.


So with all this Buddhism flaring up in my life, like an existential hemorrhoid, I caught a tiny blurb about feng shui in Domino Magazine and decided it couldn't be a bad idea to remove the moldy humidifier and filthy fan from my money corner and insert a tiny gold statue of the Buddha there. Maybe it will help us get top dollar for our apartment. The very next day, however, a parking ticket arrives in the mail, including photographs of my car caught by the creepy camera posted on a pole, of me running a red light (to me it had been burnt orange), and the day after that I got a ticket for the expired inspection sticker, which added up to $160 when all was said and done. I must have confused my money corner with my money hemorrhaging corner. Duh, as Hamish would say.

Hamish, who I could learn a thing or two about patience from. He's been in preschool for how long now, a month and a half? And still insists on "just watching" when it's time for music or movement class. He sits in the back on a chair happily holding a percussion shaker or a peacock feather, an amused look icing his features, as his classmates spaz it up like three- and four-year olds tend to do when confronted with loud music. Funny how he's in no hurry to fully give himself over to his school experience but he still wakes up at 6:59 Saturday mornings demanding cereal like a crabby drill sergeant.

Om...