Bow No More Than Lean No More No Less
One finds oneself knocking at the door of discovery every time the mind runs loose. Or: One finds oneself begging at that door every time the mind is a caboose. Or: Perhaps not.
Faith, Sam, K-Box, some grey-hair named Gravy-Cup, and I stand in front of a monk who keeps saying, “No bowing. No bowing. No bowing. No bowing.” Sets of four. Light. Somber. Angry. Calm. Light. Somber. Angry. Calm. No bowing. No bowing. No bowing. No bowing. Sam and K-Box bow repeatedly. Faith looks at the walls of the temple we are standing in. Gravy-Cup looks like a-sleep a-sheep a-nose a-pose. The air of the temple smells like decadent plug-in air freshener mixed with rotting plants. My shoes have holes in them.
I ask Gravy-Cup, “Who are you?”
Gravy-Cup is awake. “Me? Oh, young man, my name is Bertus, but my friends call me Gravy-Cup.”
“Why do they do that?”
No bowing. No bowing. No bowing. No bowing. Light. Somber. Angry. Calm.
Something grabs Gravy-Cup’s attention, and he wanders away. Probably looking for a chair.
The no-bowing series is getting to me. I grab K-Box and Sam by their arms and lift them up. (“Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen.”) They look at each other. That is, until the droning no-bowing halts, and the monk smiles.
Faith tells me what I wish he had said: “Take a little frame. Put within it a moment of hope or regret. Look at it. Now stop looking at it. There you have it.”
Because with a whisper of mystery, your sunshine is teased. Free.
Faith is wise. “So be it,” she says. “So be it.”