Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  Melissa is afraid, there’s no other word for it. Her memory in turmoil, images of my eyes upon hers, claiming the impossible, but how could they possibly? Still, she saw what she saw. But cannot have.

  And warring thus within, she says nothing.

  “What?” says Charles, before starting the next bite. Annoyed with his wife for interfering.

  “You know how you can tell,” she says, but no more.

  “You know how you can tell, what?”

  Still she says no more, and Charles, quick to an anger he suppresses mostly unsuccessfully, asks again, a little louder—making the point that now he is actually being inconvenienced, “You know how you can tell, what?”

  And Melissa—ignoring warring images—takes what must be a plunge. “You know how you can tell when someone’s looking at you?”

  No, Charles does not know. “What do you mean?” he says.

  “Someone’s looking at you from behind. You can tell.”

  He ponders. Though not the question, for to him it’s a meaningless question, but his wife. Has she taken leave of her senses? “I don’t see how,” he says, truthfully.

  She looks at him, more surprised now than afraid, “You don’t?”

  “I don’t see how you can.” Charles gets the feeling he is missing something, and does not like it. His wife is not being logical, and he likes logic.

  Melissa is searching now—hope against hope—for an echo, for an understanding, for some resonance within her husband. Five heartbeats later, resigned to the lack of echo, she looks over her shoulder in my direction, while I look at Charles. She says, “Well, you can.”

  “If you say so,” he answers. His well-worn way of ending discussions he does not care to participate in.

  Melissa looks back at her husband, a little bewildered, and still afraid. He returns her glance according to some predetermined protocol, then resumes eating.

  The ensuing silence is quite profound.

  Melissa looked and looked for one, but there was no connection between them. It confounds her greatly, fanning her apprehension. This does not move Charles, however, for he—back now at his task of chewing properly—does not notice.

  :

  I wish that I could comfort her. Yes, I wish that more than I can tell. But I also know that I cannot do that without revealing myself, and I know that by appearing in her internal world I will do more damage than good.

  For what was once commonplace is now supernatural, this visiting the internal worlds of others, and the supernatural is, almost by definition, a frightening proposition that only the awake, or almost awake, can tolerate.

  Even so, I have been on the verge of doing precisely that a few times when her worry colors the room, and compassion for my mother threatens to explode my little heart; on the verge of telling her it is all right, Melissa. Things will be fine. I am the Gotama Buddha. I have come to visit. You have given me birth. There is nothing to be afraid of.

  Were she sufficiently awake not to scare and assume the worst: that she is mad; yes, then I would tell her.

  And I would tell her that this is the way things are, this is how spirits commune.

  :

  While Melissa has yet to wake, she is stirring—the surface not so very far. Her husband, on the other hand, is very much asleep, deeply rooted in spiritual comatose.

  Yes, Melissa does stir now and then. She does not deny to herself, not entirely, that our eyes did meet, and that she saw mature interest in mine. On some level she allows: it could be. Of course it isn’t, but it could be. And so, part of her stirs (and at times happily so) at the recognition of what couldn’t possibly be.

  Charles, on the other hand, would not only deny hearing, he would not hear, were I to speak within him. He is battened down hard and would let nothing not of this world through.

  Possibly, I could have chosen a better set of parents. But I like her, Melissa, I like her very much, and I believe she is the right mother for the Buddha Gotama. I believe we will be fine.

  Charles is another matter.

  :: 32 :: (Pasadena)

  This little body I wear stills easily, each little limb easing into calmness as I ask it to settle. Head nestled into pillow, the body warm and content under my blanket.

  And so stilled, I now find its breath—that gentle brushing of air against nostril, so softly in and so softly out—the most natural of events, and always in the present; and I follow it, this in and this out so gentle as to be almost imperceptible, once, twice, three times, four times, and here I find and enter in a small gust of recognition—like a comfortable garment I know well—the meditative state of the first Jhana where I now rest into the breath and dwell.

  The world does not go away, but it fades and becomes something lived next door by considerate neighbors.

  And here is a bliss I recognize, along with its softer sibling happiness. To me, this is a familiar antechamber, the threshold to deeper states—or loftier, depending on view—where I am now heading to contemplate, again, the best path to absorb this current world, this modern and cynical place, in order to shed it some new light.

  The soft in and out of the breath fades as I enter the second Jhana. Here, in the first true chamber of meditation, verbal and conceptual thoughts have faded into pure happiness—the almost abrasive bliss now taking a backseat. I could remain here, and dwell in this happiness, but the bliss is still vibrant and to that degree a distraction. So I sink (or rise—directions are immaterial without gravity) into the third Jhana where bliss fades, leaving a stiller happiness and a focus stronger still.

  I know this chamber, too. I know it well. I have dwelled here often, immersed in this gauze-like sea of beatitude. I can choose to stay, if I so wish, but I don’t. I let go one more time, setting happiness free, to ascent to the fourth Jhana to find and enter an equanimity so sheer as to be indistinguishable from concentration. This is the chamber I prefer when searching for answers, for here each view—wordless, yet precise—cuts like a beam through darkness and into the light of comprehension, into the clear seeing of things as they are. Here is where I know most easily. So here I settle.

  The world surrounding, while still there, is now too far away to really notice, and certainly too far away to distract. Here, in the spacious light of the fourth Jhana, I am free to simply be and to see. Here I am free to once again view and determine how best to stir these slumbering people awake. This suffering world.

  Judging by Melissa, and especially by Charles, and by the many I’ve seen come and go to wish them—and me—welcome and good luck (and my, isn’t she cute), it is as if they continue to slide down a long, and ever-steepening, slope of ignorance. Surely this clinging, this craving for possession and sensation—for wealth, for power, for entertainment, always entertainment and more and more of it—was not as deeply rooted, nor as thoroughly fused, when I walked northern India as Siddhattha Gotama, as the Buddha Gotama.

  Surely.

  And while the greed I now see might not be as overtly spectacular as what I saw when I, as Giordano Bruno, grieved for the folly of the Christian Church and its insatiable necessity to own and own and own, it has since then grown stronger and more insidious, for it seems to now have fused completely with the soul. In Bruno’s time there was still a discernable gap—the finest crevice, to be sure, but still crevice—between soul and its cravings, a fine space that had yet to fully close. Today, I see no such gap.

  Charles, for instance, is his cravings, is his needs to possess and control; he has become, he is his owning and directing and enjoying what he chews so well and then swallows.

  When I walked northern India, the highest King as well as the lowest laborer knew that all was not well, that all was part appearance, and that there was a spiritual choice, a lasting path. The meanest thief, the wealthiest merchant, the most lascivious of prostitutes, the most leprous of beggars, they all knew, and accepted, and acknowledged as justified, that many a seeker chose to leave his household life and wander the
roads with his mendicant bowls in search of a higher truth. The misery of appearance was no secret then, the door to a richer spiritual path had not yet closed. Even the most ignorant of souls knew this.

  They even pretended to know this in Bruno’s realm, this path leading away from the flesh, the door partially open still. A few even found it and stepped out.

  But not today. The spirit, for all the lip service paid to holiness, is wholly submerged, fused with its desires. The crevice, the door, closed.

  Melissa and Charles are both Catholic, on paper. Still, they are as removed from any God—or any concept of true deity—as are any of their furniture; especially Charles—perhaps I am being unfair to Melissa, for she is closer to the surface by far.

  I hear what is said on the radio. I hear and see what is spoken of on the television, and it rends my heart: the darkness, the complete absence of even the smallest fissure between spirit and greed, the merging, the welding of these poor people into the dictates of craving. And I wonder what can possibly stir them awake? What can I possibly do to reach them?

  And as again I examine the Magga—the eightfold path I conceived as Buddha Gotama—I attempt to adopt it to this changed and solidified world, keeping despair at bay with one hand, and the question whether I am indeed too late, at bay with the other.

  And so, as I dwell in the stillness of the fourth Jhana in search of answers, I am momentarily lost to the world.

  :: 33 :: (Pasadena)

  Melissa, after cleaning most of the morning, and now taking a well-deserved rest in front of the television set, tried to put her finger on something. She looked at her watch, then looked around her. Then back at the screen. It eluded her.

  It was past noon. The nature show she liked had ended, and they were now well into the midday news with its new accidents, its new stock market figures and business problems, its latest shooting, and with its ever worsening traffic—none of which she really cared about. It certainly wasn’t delivered to cheer anyone up, that’s for sure, and only caught some of her attention.

  All the while that missing thing, that something that needed her finger put on it kept out of sight, though still somewhere nearby in all its missingness. Quietly nudging.

  What was it?

  She looked at her watch again, then around the room. Then out through the window at a blue sky, just a thin, high cloud to mar it. Oh yes, of course, the gardener. Should have been here by now? There was no buzzing of lawnmower or scream of leaf blower. That’s the missing thing.

  Or not.

  No, that wasn’t it. Today was Thursday, he was not due until tomorrow. What then?

  She glanced through to the kitchen, nothing missing there. Then down the hallway to her left, leading to the bedrooms, to hers and Charles’ far too large—in her opinion—master suite (why do they call it “master” suite, anyway? Why not the “mistress” suite?), to the guest bedroom, and on to Ruth’s beautiful little chamber (which is how she thought of it). And then things fell into place, the missing thing stepped into view: Of course. It was past eleven, when she normally ate, way past. Ruth should have let her know by now that she was starving.

  For she had become quite vocal about that—much to her relief, actually—about eating, about feeding times. Crying, just like a baby should, and when she should. And should have by now.

  Melissa turned off the television set, rose, and made her way to Ruth’s room. Softly swung the door open.

  She was still asleep, bless her. Soundly, too—she would normally stir when she entered the room, as if somehow she knew.

  Melissa bent down, her lips close to her daughter’s ear, and whispered her name, “Ruth. Ruth.” And still she slept on, not even a stir.

  “Ruth,” she whispered again.

  Not a stir.

  “Ruth.” A little louder this time.

  Not a stir.

  “Ruth.” Nearly a shout.

  Ruth did not respond.

  Here rose panic, profound and vicious, and it nearly gagged her. A mute scream, her viscera in unison: Something was terribly wrong. She fought it down, willed herself calm. “Ruth,” she said again. “Wake up.”

  Not a stir.

  “Wake up.” Louder still.

  Ruth did not wake up.

  Melissa then touched her daughter’s shoulder. Lightly at first. Then firmly. Then she shook it, none too gently.

  But Ruth remained asleep.

  The ugly song of dread reached her heart, and Melissa backed off, staring at the crib and the lifeless thing within it. Her fist rose and reached her mouth.

  “Charles,” she heard herself say, though barely aloud, as if he—and his grasp of law—could make this wrong thing right.

  When panic took full charge, Melissa knew that her daughter had died. Babies die, it happens. And it had just happened to Ruth. She bit her knuckles so hard that she yelped a little; brought her fist out of her mouth and saw deep teeth mark in the skin, broken, about to bleed.

  But why? Dear God, why?

  Although terrified now, although hovering over an abyss only too ready to receive and swallow her, by sheer act of will she forced herself to again approach Ruth’s cot. She reached it and there stood very still for many a quick breath watching her face, her arms, her chest, and then she saw: its slow and soft rising, its slow and soft falling. Its stillness.

  Its slow and soft rising, its slow and soft falling. Its stillness.

  Again Melissa leaned over her daughter and put her ear to Ruth’s nose. There, the soft whisper of breath kissed her lobe, and Melissa’s vision blurred. After making doubly, trebly sure, she straightened and sank to the floor, crying now. Ruth was alive. Unconscious, unresponsive, but alive.

  “Ruth, Ruth,” she said, over and over, a mantra still ignored by her daughter.

  Then Melissa rose again, dried her eyes with the side of her hands and went to dial 911.

  :

  They were surprisingly quick. That’s what she’d tell Becky later, “I barely had time to hang up.”

  Melissa heard them pull up, loud siren shrieking their arrival, and by sheer reflex wished they’d turn the thing off, Ruth was asleep. Then she caught the contradiction, shook her head—was she losing it, or what? Then, as the ambulance stopped, the siren fell quiet. Feet running, and then the doorbell. She let them in, and led them to Ruth’s chamber.

  Ruth stirred as they entered, and opened her eyes, turned her head, looking for the noise. The two paramedics looked at Ruth, who suddenly smiled, and then at Melissa.

  “Okay,” asked one of them. “What is wrong with her?”

  “She wouldn’t wake up,” said Melissa, looking at Ruth looking at her.

  “She’s awake now,” said the other one.

  “I can see that,” said Melissa, instantly regretting her tone of voice. “I’m sorry. She must have just woken up.”

  “So, what happened?” He was the taller of the two, and had short blond hair. “Tell me what happened.”

  And Melissa did.

  They then checked Ruth over as well as they could, but found nothing wrong with her. “You should bring her in,” said the darker one. The one who wore a T-shirt that said Phish on it (strange way of spelling it). “They can run some tests.”

  “Especially if it happens again,” said the blond one.

  Melissa nodded first to the one, then to the other. “Yes. Yes, I will do that.”

  Then she looked at Ruth, who seemed to wonder at all the fuss. Then her daughter began to cry. Hungry, she cried. Definitely hungry.

  Melissa thanked the two men, and saw them out. “Sorry,” she said again, though she wasn’t really sure what for.

  “Better safe than sorry,” said the blond one, looking back at Melissa. He wasn’t smiling though.

  :: 34 :: (Pasadena)

  It is not the sound that calls me. Not the wailing, the feverish screeching of wading birds clamoring for flight, throats aflame, beating the air with furious wings, not this, for truly I had not
heard it, not at first.

  It is a panic; a fright broadcast on some wavelength I am at loss to name. A terror nearby, a breaking heart, too stunned to mourn.

  I ease out of the fourth Jhana, back into the third, and then the second, and now I hear it clearly, that wailing, distant though approaching, in response to panic.

  And so I ease into and then leave the first Jhana as well, and step out through eyes flung open onto a smaller room for the many people in it. Then I recognized the room as mine and I count only three, though two of them are not Melissa and they are very large. Melissa looks at me, bewilderment and relief crowding her eyes.

  It is only then that I realize my mistake.

  The paramedics do their best to find something wrong with me, but fail.

  “You should bring her in,” says one of them. “They can run some tests.”

  “Especially if it happens again,” says the other.

  “Yes. Yes, I will do that,” says Melissa`

  I decide I had better tell her I am hungry. Something for my mother to understand and hold onto.

  So I cry my best I’m-hungry impression.

  And I notice Melissa relax. She sees the two men out, then comes back to feed me.

  :

  There is a lot to be said for a mother’s milk.

  Melissa is young, and I am her first child. Everything about her works to perfection, and her breasts are a constant source of warm sustenance.

  It is sweet and slightly blue, but to me it’s golden, like honey. And unending. The more I drink the more there is to drink.

  I feel slightly indulgent, gorging myself on this energy drink, but the more I drink, the happier Melissa is, so I’m drinking for both of us.

  And now, I can feel her calming again after her scare. Still, though, between my strong drafts—which seem to tickle her—the image of my not responding returns to her, and she tries to understand. Cannot. Cannot see why I should not have heard her, why I would not have felt her shaking me. As if I had left, she thinks—which, of course, is not so far from the truth.