Dear Friends,
This is a story about a remarkable woman. But like all honest stories, it is about me. I cannot see her outside of my own world, nor should I. I will leave it to others who loved her to tell how she affected them.
Not long ago, a young man came up to me with two friends in tow. He said, “I’m so glad to see you here. I’ve been telling my friends about you. I told them meeting you is like meeting the Buddha.”
My reaction was one of resignation because this sort of thing happens to me fairly often these days. Still, like a favorite poem, my habitual thoughts paraded before me. There was nothing new in these thoughts. However, their ability to reproduce themselves with uncanny accuracy will never cease to amaze me. The human mind is a miracle of repetition, or at least mine is. My first thought is always, “But you don’t really know me!” My second thought is always, “But I don’t want to do this!” My third thought is always, “But what is it I do?”
It is true, those who say I remind them of the Buddha, with a few exceptions, do not know me. They do not see me when I feel confused, sad, angry, arrogant, or dependent. Oftentimes, but not always, when they do get to know me, they are disappointed. We all of us want a hero. I know I do. So I understand their disillusionment. The odd thing is that the more I insist I am not as loving as others sometimes think I am, the less I am believed. When I am accused of being loving, strange thoughts go through my mind, “What would happen if I spit on her? Would she still think I am loving?” But I never spit on those who admire me. To do so would be cruel, and besides I could never spit straight. I also am not as tough as I used to be, and I might get beat up in the ensuing fight.
In any case, it could be that if they see love in me, they will begin to see love in others. And if they begin to see love in others, they will see it in themselves. And if they see it in themselves, they will understand that they never could have seen it in others without it first being in them. And then perhaps when they see me in my weakest moments—whiney, clinging, and afraid—they will see and accept me with all my many bits and bobs.
It is also true that I do not want to do this; meaning that I do not want to live up to being the Buddha. I am me. I do not pretend to be anything other than what I am. I suppose this is a variation of my first statement, “But you don’t know me!” Disillusionment always follows being put on a pedestal, and I do not want to be the source of disillusionment; for I am much too insecure for that. I want to be loved always. Besides, being saintly sounds boring. I like to flirt with pretty girls. And I often have fantasies about them. I like to dance. I like to sing. I like to jump in cold rivers. I like to roll in mud. I like to be confused. I am never certain about anything, and I take great pride in it. I think humility is a highly overrated trait, and I am very humble.
And I especially do not want to live up to any standards other than my own, which leads me to the third thought that parades through my mind, “But what is it I do?” I never had a satisfactory answer for this question, until last night.
My brother called me and told me that his wife of many years, LaNae, had died unexpectedly from a blood clot. I could not feel. And I could think of only one thing. I knew I needed to be strong, first for my brother, but also for all those who also loved his best friend. My own grief could come later.
When I was a freshman in high school, she used to badger my brother to spend more time with me. I overheard her one day when I stopped by their house on the way home from school. I always went to the refrigerator first, and I heard her say, “He needs you. And you need to spend more time with him.” And she was right. I did need my big brother. My mother was sick most of the time. My father had to work and then come home and care for my mother. My sister had a new baby. So my brother decided to teach me to box.
As I was lacing up my boxing gloves, he told me, in uncharacteristic humility, “I know how to street fight, but there are plenty of guys who can clean my clock boxing.” Then he punched me in the head, hard. “Always hit them when they aren’t ready,” he calmly told me as I got up off the ground.
So over the next month or two, my brother taught me to box, which mostly consisted of me getting hit. One day, LaNae came out and shouted, “Tony, don’t hit him so hard! You’ll hurt him.”
Tony said, “He likes it.” And while his head was turned I whacked him hard in the side of the head. He staggered, looked at me, and smiled. I looked at LaNae and smiled. While my head was turned, my brother hit me. Who would do that to his own brother? I was a slow learner.
Noah brings a profound compassion to his teaching. He is also wise, and oh so funny. And even though I am old enough (barely) to be his big brother, he is the teacher and I am the student.
