The Best Medicine

Me: "Headed now to Nirvana. If I get there I will pick up a T-shirt for you!"
Son: "Cool! Can't wait. Blue brings out my eyes!"
Me: "They didn't have anything in blue in your size but at the Middle Path Gift Shop I ordered you something in a lovely shade of gray."
Son: "Hahaha. I love your sense of humor. It keeps you off my list of people I hate (which is a very select few.") - Text conversation with my son on 6/12/2010 before and after zazen.

Day 131. One of my favorite Buddha figures is Hotei - the laughing Buddha with his hands extended over his head. He's always reminded me of Santa. Laughter truly is the best medicine. I try not to forget that.

I DID forget, just a little, last week. I have innumerable excuses for my seriousness and sourness: fatigue after the tandem rally, the absence of my two office mates - both of whom are also good friends, my partner's immersion in the absurdity of Tinker AFB, miserable heat and humidity, the bottomless money pit of a kid with a used car and proclivity for a fancy private college rather than the public one that was paying him to grace their campus with his presence. Remarkably, even after four solid months of meditating, I also get testy and disgruntled when large segments of the population fail to behave as I prefer. If everyone would simply comply with my bidding, I would be unceasingly cheerful.

There is nothing like a college sophomore - optimally a tall hunky one with big football muscles and a wickedly dry sense of humor - to realign perspective. Yes, I'm speaking of my son and a few of his friends. Yes, this is very Freudian. Yes, I've been to analysis longer than any one else on the planet, so I'm pretty clear on boundaries (a word that psychologists overuse as much as Oklahomans say "blessed"). There is something irrepressible about the male brain in the last of its teenage years. High school is a not-so-distant memory, and the remainder of college, with its promise of a few more years of ducking under the safety of the parental financial umbrella, shines brightly in the foreseeable future. Nineteen-year-olds (at least the ones in my perimeter) exude a witty blend of idealism and sarcasm, nuance and flagrancy, worldly knowledge and utter naivete - all expressed with a mixture of bravado, posturing, and an exceedingly colorful vocabulary. This last blessed teen year is an enchanting time to be a parent indeed.

From the beginning, my son has been incomprehensibly supportive of my blog and meditation (even as he grudgingly muted his music that night we were blasting east on I40 in the Xterra). I don't know the specifics of his personal spirituality; I am certain, however, that he is a very old soul. Though sometimes his brain isn't cooked when it comes to tasks of everyday living, he demonstrates an uncanny wisdom and compassion eerily reminiscent of the Buddha. Like Katy the Border Collie, this kid couldn't quiet his mind to save his life, so he must come by it naturally. I've known him from the womb; he just was created that way.

I'm always wary of becoming one of those mothers that babbles cheesily and excessively about her offspring. My friends say not to worry. These are the people that recall my inability to remember to carry a diaper bag or have a photo of my son in my wallet. I mentioned him tonight because of his effortless knack for making me laugh. I just may buy him another T-shirt. In a lovely shade of gray.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc