Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  Thinking nothing elated her, she felt like she hovered above the moss and plants that supported her body.

  Then she thought, “I have found truth. I have come home.”

  She watched those twin thoughts travel, one after the other, into that utter stillness above, to eventually vanish into the Milky Way.

  Then she thought, “Am I the only one to ever experience this?”

  She watched this though shoot up and away, speeding for some constellation she recognized but could not name.

  The reply to this question didn’t so much reply as settle, softly and perfectly: This is the true human condition. Headlessly, she nodded her acknowledgement of this: Yes, of course it is. I am human. This is who we are beneath all that tumbling about we call living.

  Then, for many, many breaths, and perhaps ten times as many heartbeats, she simply watched the stars and wondered whether they were thoughts, too. Constant thoughts thought by angels to light our way. She smiled at this, and thanked them.

  Again she realized—and with a shiver this time—that her mind was absolutely still, that all that constant chatter you normally live with had died down. That nothing happened, that no thought occurred unless she occurred it. She thought this and watched that thought rise and vanish into the sky above.

  Then she thought nothing again for many, many breaths.

  Then she thought, “Could there possibly be something beyond this?”

  Then, while watching that thought rise and then take wing for the Milky Way, she heard, as if whispered by someone else very close to her ear, or perhaps in it, the single word: “Nirvana.”

  At the fading of that word—which she both recognized and did not—she felt a ripple, or the hint of a ripple, in her feet. This hint grew to true ripple, to wave gathering both strength and speed to then shoot up through calves and thighs and abdomen and lungs and neck and head and out and into light.

  And all was light.

  Not a sea of photons, but living light. Light, more golden than white. Light that breathed and pulsated and filled her with the most divine feeling she had ever experienced.

  All was light. There was in fact no Clare left to sense it. There was only the light experiencing itself, radiantly, brilliantly, tenderly, lovingly.

  For minutes? Hours? Looking back, she could never truly tell. Her guess is minutes, say five.

  Then, receding, the light gave way to sky and stars and moss and tent and Britt breathing in and out, and to Clare saying aloud to herself or to the stars or to whomever had whispered that strange word which she knew meant Nirvana, “Now I know.”

  Her next impulse was to wake Britt and tell her all about it, but she knew right away that this would not serve any purpose or come to any good. Britt would not, not in her current state, understand that this had nothing to do with high or stoned or pot in any way. This was truth. She had just been kissed by truth, and you cannot explain that easily, especially not to your stoned older sister.

  Instead she sat up, walked over to the little lean-to that sheltered their backpacks, found an apple and took a bite.

  Her mouth, if not her whole head, exploded with the sensation of fruit. Never, never had an apple tasted so loudly, and so good. She chewed, then swallowed, only to discover that she could sense the bite sliding down her throat, could sense it settle in the stomach. Could sense the clamoring of millions and millions and millions of hungry little digestive microbes spreading the word “mealtime” around, and found herself laughing at the picture she realized was more than just picture.

  She could still feel the apple-swallow in her stomach, in fact she could feel all through her body, as if she had suddenly turned all transparent, at least to herself.

  She took another bite. Same thing, except for the microbe part—apparently the “mealtime” alarm had reached everyone and they are all intent on silently going to work. Still, she was aware of them. Amazing.

  Amazing.

  She returned to her bed of moss and happy plants, lay down again and looked back at the stars. Again not thinking, and feeling no need to do so. Only aware. An awareness she felt hovering above the surface of a quiet and still forest lake.

  Tranquil.

  And now she fell asleep, into a pitch black dream-less rest that lasted well into the morning and her sister shaking her gently and then not so gently, “Clare. Clare.”

  Finally, the surface. “What?”

  “God, Clare. How asleep were you?”

  She had no idea. But she felt refreshed, and still calmly elated. The sun had climbed past the eastern rim and was cascading the canyon below into light.

  “What a night,” she said.

  “Did you stay awake?”

  “More than that,” she said. “I think I woke up.”

  Although she tried a few times, she could not convince her sister that the awakening (which is how she came to think of it) was not just a belated pot-high, and eventually she stopped trying.

  But the event changed her life. Once so awake, how can you go back to sleep? she asked herself. You cannot. You cannot forget something like that.

  Returning for her junior year at the University of Minnesota, Duluth, feeling that she needed to find out more about her experience, and that she needed to tell people about what she had found out, she promptly changed her major from English Literature (much to the chagrin of her English professor who saw in her great promise as a writer, and over some—though not too vehement—objections of her mother’s) to a double major of Philosophy and Journalism. Philosophy to learn what others had experience and thought about Truth, and Journalism to learn all she could about pursuing clues.

  She graduated cum laude not that much wiser about what on earth had happened to her, but as an excellent journalist, who, based on her summer and intermittent work with KFCA, was hired the week after graduation.

  “A face like yours will always have an audience,” her editor told her, and apparently so, for she quickly became quite well known as the fresh wind at KFCA and was soon doing her own special assignments—none of which, so far, had been very philosophical or religious, however.

  She had the knack—which she had always had, or acquired in the Canadian Rockies, she wasn’t sure which—to sense when people were truthful with her, and she was gentle enough to coax the truth out of people even when they set out to lie at any cost.

  Into her fourth year at KFCA, she received a call from the owner of KCRI in Los Angeles which a promise of twice her salary, a paid for house and car, and creative control if she would move to Los Angeles. KCRI would also buy out the balance of her contract (six months to go), he promised.

  It was the creative control that clinched it.

  That, and an understanding boss.

  That, and what appeared to be a well-established Theravada Buddhist community in Santa Monica, for in her continuing search for what her awakening was and meant and what could possibly have made it happened, she had in the end turned to Buddhism and Insight Meditation.

  She had never forgotten the word Nirvana, and following where it would lead her she had arrived at the feet of the Buddha.

  She began to devour all she could find about Buddhism and, to true and grateful joy, came to see that these people, this order of Theravada monks, knew all about what had happened that night. To them, it was no secret, and here—so they said, and so their canon said—is how to get there.

  A quick Mortimer search revealed this blossoming Theravada community not far from her new house, much better equipped than her local meetups to help her find answers, she figured.

  Naturally, being a player in a much larger market appealed to her as well. The pay, house, and car were nice too. The house was a Santa Monica bungalow, and the car a current year—and very fuel efficient—Honda.

  A car that she still drove, in fact.

  A car that she, in the pre-dawn darkness of this foggy morning, had driven all the way from her Santa Monica home to the Marten’s Pasadena house.
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br />   :: 95 :: (Pasadena)

  Melissa closed the door behind them, shutting out the reluctant commotion of the press corps retreating.

  She turned to Clare Downes. “This way, Miss Downes.”

  “Clare, please.”

  Melissa felt a little self-conscious, no doubt about it. Living with the Buddha as her daughter apparently had not prepared her for standing this close to a television personality or celebrity or whatever she should call her, and such a beautiful one at that.

  “Here, give me that coat,” she said.

  Clare obliged, and handed her the coat which dripped dew on the entryway floor as she did. “Sorry about this,” she said.

  “Oh, no. Don’t mind that.” Then she offered her hand. “Melissa,” she said. The real live television personality took it and said, again, “Clare.”

  :

  There were two additional people in the nicely appointed living room. One, the older, looked like an emaciated Buddhist monk, the other she recognized as Julian Lawson, the Cal Tech physicist.

  They both rose as she and her host entered. Melissa introduced them.

  “Ananda Wolf,” she said with a graceful sweep of her hand. The old man smiled and shook her hand. “Clare Downes,” said Clare.

  “And here’s Julian Lawson, you may recognize him.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Clare, and shook hands again.

  Then, turning to her daughter, trailing them, “And this, of course, is Ruth.”

  “Whom all the fuss is about,” said Clair with a smile, and shook her hand as well.

  “Can I get you something?” said Melissa. “Coffee, tea?”

  “A coffee would be great,” she said. “You’re right, it’s pretty cold out there, and I’ve been here a while.”

  “How long?” asked Ananda.

  “Since about four o’clock,” she answered.

  “Oh my,” said Ananda.

  “Sit down, please,” said Melissa, and pointed to one of the armchairs by the low table.

  “Thanks.” And did.

  Melissa vanished, and the remaining three pairs of eyes were all trained on her, expectantly.

  She turned to Ruth. And for the first time noticed the startling blueness of her eyes, so contrasted to her hair so black it shimmered blue in the lamplight. “So,” she said. “Are you?”

  And as she asked the purposely vague question she knew that Ruth Marten knew precisely what she was asking, knew even before it had left her lips.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  “The Maitreya?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Clare looked over at the old monk, Ananda was it? That was the same name as the Buddha’s attendant. His face revealed little more than that he did not find the conversation humorous.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are a Buddhist, are you not?” said Ruth, ignoring her question.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am. How did you know?”

  “Of the Theravada persuasion?” said Ruth, for some reason seeming to mock the word persuasion.

  “Yes. Yes, to that, too.”

  Ruth nodded. Then looked over at the old monk—which she had to stop thinking of as the old monk, really. Ananda nodded in reply to a silent question. There was a strange connection between those two.

  “I am Tathagata,” said Ruth.

  Tathagata, the one who has thus gone, the one who has thus come, Clare knew. “What are you saying? You are the Buddha?”

  Ruth did not reply, but she smiled and nodded in agreement.

  “That,” said Clare. Then lost her thread. Found it again. Looked at Ruth then at the other two. Then back at Ruth. “That, I must admit, is very hard to believe.”

  “Of course it is,” said Ruth. “But nonetheless true.”

  Clare had serious trouble adding things up. This was, of course, on the face of things, sheer fairy tale stuff. But so was that night in the Canadian Rockies. Sheer fairy tale.

  But nonetheless true.

  She looked at Ananda and Julian Lawson who seemed to take Ruth’s declaration in stride. “It’s true?” said Clare.

  “It’s true,” said Ananda. Julian Lawson nodded as well.

  “Just like you said,” said Clare, looking at Ruth—who smiled and said, “Just like I said.”

  Melissa, now at the door with a tray, “Some daughter, huh?”

  Clare knew with grim certainty that if she had not fallen into the Canadian sky that summer, none of this would have made any sense at all, would simply mean a bunch of strange people pulling her leg, and very hard at that. But she had fallen into the Canadian sky, and she had woken up, and if that was real, well, so was this.

  She looked at Ruth Marten again, who smiled at her as if she knew. As if she knew about her falling, about her awakening.

  Melissa put the tray down, and served her.

  “How about you,” said Clare, realizing she was the only one taking coffee.

  “We’ve just had breakfast,” said Julian Lawson.

  “Ah,” said Clare.

  Clare blew on the surface of the coffee to cool it a little, then sipped. Delicious and warm. Very much a spot-hitter.

  She turned to Julian, “I read your paper.”

  “The dry version?” he said.

  “I guess. Yes, a little drier that Ruth’s. But fascinating nonetheless. You really have achieved something stellar.”

  “I know,” said Julian.

  “And now, this,” said Clare, not entirely sure herself what she meant by that.

  “You mean the chair? The rising?” said Melissa.

  “Yes, I guess I do.”

  Ananda Wolf was shaking his head. “It’s a mess, that.”

  “Amen, to that,” said Melissa.

  “Federico Alvarez can be about as insensitive as they come,” said Clare, looking at Ruth.

  “Yes, he can be that,” said the girl, the Buddha. But she left something unsaid, something quite tangible.”

  “But what?” said Clare, sensing the unspoken.

  “It was not Alvarez,” said Ruth.

  Clare looked from face to face and said, “If not Alvarez, who was it?” Then asked, “It was a hoax, right?”

  “No,” said Ruth. “It was not a hoax.”

  “That’s. That’s,” said Clare. Then managed to form a sentence, “So, what was it?”

  “A rising,” said Ruth. “And a lesson.”

  Clare took in this young girl, this Buddha, this Tathagata, and tried to understand. For a moment she made sense of it, but not for long. And then again she did while wrestling something to the ground, something that decried all this, that accused her for falling prey to an even worse hoax.

  “You did this,” she finally told Ruth. “And it was not a trick.”

  “I did this,” Ruth confirmed. “And it was not a trick.”

  Clare looked to Melissa for some help with this. Her host noticed, nodded and said, “Afraid so.”

  “So why did you just tell us, the reporters?”

  “It’s better that way,” said Ananda. “And we trust that you will honor our request for discretion.”

  “Sure. Of course,” she said.

  “No, really,” said Melissa.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” she said, sounding less flippant.

  She finished the rest of her coffee. “This is all unbelievable. I guess you know that.”

  “We do,” said Ruth. Understanding precisely what she meant.

  Then the professional in her stirred and asked, “So what am I to do with this? I’m a television reporter. This is amazing news. This is the story of a lifetime. And that’s putting it mildly.”

  “But, as you pointed out, unbelievable,” observed Ananda.

  “Yes. Good point. I did say that. And that is true. It is unbelievable.”

  Julian Lawson rose and walked up to the window behind her. She turned to see him peek out from behind the curtain. “They’re gone,” he said.

  “Good
,” said Melissa.

  Clare looked back at Ruth. “So what do I do with this?” she said.

  “To be honest, we haven’t had a chance to think about that,” said Ananda. “Any suggestions?”

  “You are going to maintain that this was a hoax,” Clare not so much asked as stated.

  “That would be best, don’t you think?” said Melissa. Ruth nodded in agreement.

  “I guess,” Clare said.

  “Ruth’s paper deserves a fair hearing,” said Julian Lawson. Again, Ruth nodded in agreement.

  Clare found herself nodding as well. “Especially in light of recent events,” she said.

  “Especially in light of that,” agreed Melissa.

  “How did you do it?” said Clare. The question finally seeing daylight.

  “That’s beside the point,” said Ruth, seemingly unwilling to elaborate.

  “No, seriously,” said Clare. “How did you do it?”

  Ruth looked at her as if taking stock, as if deliberating, as if making up her mind. Which she apparently did. “It’s one of the things I can do.”

  Simple as that.

  “Lifting things without touching them,” said Clare, knowing each word to be superfluous.

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Clare, and she did see. It was one of the things the Buddha could do. Why should that be surprising? “I see,” she said again.

  “Ruth’s paper deserves a fair hearing,” said Julian Lawson again, getting things back on track.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Clare.

  “How about,” said Ruth, as if thinking aloud. “How about you interview me? But not live. And I want to approve the final edit.”

  Again, the professional in her sprang to attention, “Tell me when and where.”

  “Here, tomorrow,” said Ruth. Then she looked over at Ananda to see if he had any objections. He didn’t.

  “One o’clock?” suggested Clare. “You’d have to let Lars in though, my camera guy.”

  “Of course,” said Melissa.

  :: 96 :: (Pasadena)

  Lars Sanderson was a wizard with lighting, and had set up a nice interview spot in the living room, Ruth in one armchair, Clare in the other, facing each other at slight angles. Comfortable. Homely.