Roy & Dale

The world is ruled by letting things take their course. - Lao-Tzu in the Zen Calendar (July 12, 2002).

Day 223. The nation is teeming with bloggable issues. I am certain that the cyberwaves are buzzing with observations, opinions, and attitudes regarding upcoming elections, controversial building sites, and zealous preachers being rewarded by disproportionate media attention for pathological demonstrations of ignorance. Almost makes me yearn for the days when calculations of oil spillage was paramount. Almost. I have elected to keep my blog focused on pedaling my bicycle and sitting zazen. I'm probably the teeniest bit biased, as I have concluded that if more people would center on similar antics, some bloggers would have nothing more to write about.

My mom accompanied me on a visit to see my son at college yesterday. This is the woman who recently celebrated her three-quarters of a century birthday. Though none of her ancestors survived past the age of seventy and her back is shaped like a cursive "S," she clips along quite nicely. Delights my son by discussing the football draft and memories of her and grandpa in Germany during the 1950's. Every day is precious, even one that involves sharing long turnpike mileage. Daughters gain a much greater appreciation of their mothers when they have raised a teenager of their own.

On the drive home, Mom waxed poetic about traveling to Buffalo, New York to attend my son's wedding (I abstained from mentioning that he has only dated the Buffalo girl for six months). I laughingly replied that, knowing my luck, they would have five daughters. I never wanted to mother a daughter because I am such a tomboy. I knew that if I had a second child, the universe would get a kick out of granting me some ultra girlie girl that adored pink and preferred playing with dolls over Tonka trucks. Ewwww. Wasn't worth the risk. No doubt the universe will balance my decision to have an only child by spewing granddaughters my way. I am resigned. Ultimately, we can't escape karma.

This talk of daughters and tomboys prompted a tender memory for me. The Christmas before I turned five or six, my best friend Kim and I had fallen in love with western costumes featured in the J.C. Penney Christmas catalog. Those were the days when parents were granted a two week reprieve from entertaining their children, beginning with the day in mid-November when that blessed Wish Book arrived. We literally spent hours leafing through the colorful glossy pictures of toys and games at the back of the book. The next day we'd pick it up and peruse again as though we'd never seen it before. In the 1960's, moms probably got a lot done during the last couple of weeks in November.

Kim and I fell in love with a couple of black and red, fringe-trimmed western outfits. The only difference was that she wanted the Dale Evans set - complete with twirly black skirt embossed with silver thread stitched in swirling patterns along the hem. True to form, I coveted the Roy Rogers cowboy outfit pictured next to Dale's feminine attire. The pants were black, the chaps tan, the shirt a classic western style with pearl buttons and silver tips on the collar. Jet black cowboy boots (not included) completed the rugged cowboy look. I just knew I could conquer the entire wild west if only I could dress like Roy. I wanted that Roy Rogers costume more than most little girls wanted a Dressy Bessie. I had serious doubts, however, about Santa bringing a cowboy outfit to a girl.

I can't remember what Santa brought that Christmas, but I can tell you this: My mom still has a picture in the family album with Kim standing, dainty and ladylike, in her twirly Dale Evans skirt. Right beside her, wearing a macho cowboy grin, I am standing in Roy Rogers grandeur. Happy as a wrangler with a fresh wad of chew in his cheek. Ready to wander out on the range and rope whatever crossed my path. Dale and I played cowboy and cowgirl nonstop until sometime past our seventh birthdays. That pearl-buttoned shirt is probably wadded up in the bottom of the cedar chest at my parents' house. Right next to a couple of well-worn Tonka trucks.

My mom never questioned my preference for the cowboy outfit. If you recall, this is the mother who waved from the driveway as me and my dad left for the dump and she attended a wedding alone. She never - not once - said absurd and obvious things like, "Don't you want the Dale Evans costume? It has a skirt!" Or, "Little girls don't wear cowboy pants." She just bought me what I asked for, wrapped it up, put it under the tree, and helped me button the shirt and fasten the chaps on Christmas morning. What an extraordinary example of good parenting. My mom had grown to know and accept the Reality of me and my nature by the time I was five, even though her favorite girlhood pastime was dressing paper dolls.

I think I turned out okay. I still prefer pants over skirts. I still would rather ride a horse than bake a pie. I still prefer a trip to the dump over attending a wedding. I also favor the color pink, have a paint swatch fettish, and appreciate having doors opened for me. My Roy Rogers phase ran its course. As did my Saturday Night Fever phase, my Madonna phase, and my California Punk Rock Windsurfing phase. The world is ruled by letting things take their course.

Our world would do well to remember this wisdom. To relax, sit back, and observe rather than fret and worry and intervene. To trust the natural order of the universe, even at the moments we can't comprehend what that order is. We effort too much, expending valuable energy over things which will unravel perfectly if we just let them alone. Most things run their course. Including little girls who prefer to dress like cowboys.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc