Luckies!
I wrote up a whole big thing about how the Theravada Buddhism retreat truly awakened me, how I grew to understand and love the cement bed and wooden pillow, how I have now learned to be much more accepting of others (except, of course, those who wear Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts), and how I now completely grasp and follow Buddhism.
But then I realized it sounded just like the pamphlet about Islam I received upon crossing the Malaysian border. So, I will refrain from subjecting anyone else to such a harrowing affair.
Instead, since today lies somewhere between Mother’s and Father’s day, I will recount a story I heard from a nun at the retreat. Imagine this spilling from the lips of a very frail, gentle woman with short choppy hair, frameless spectacles, and funny English :
In the seventies, Tom, now a monk, graduated high school in England and wanted to see the world. He left on foot, despite his mother’s protests, and headed East. He hitchhiked and found odd jobs and made it all the way to Iran. Unfortunately, he found himself without money, food, or work. For the first time, he was stuck. He went two days without food and began to worry. Forced to beg, he reluctantly set up on the street in the rain. After almost a third day without anything to eat, a Persian woman saw him and told him to follow her. Instead of fearing a boy twice her size, she brought him into her house and cooked him a hearty meal. Then, she found him some clothes to wear and washed the ones he was wearing. He offered to help her around the house, but she declined. She gave him leftovers and sent him on his way. Nobody saw her be kind to this stranger. She did it only because she thought it was the right thing to do.
Of course, he was more than grateful. His heart swelled with love and an undying urge to repay this most generous woman. He sat for hours in shock at the sheer kindness he received, and since that day has never forgotten that woman.
But then it hit him. She gave him one outfit and cooked him one meal.
Her generosity seemed monumental. But in how many outfits have our parents clothed us? How many meals have they cooked for us? Their generosity spans our lifetimes, and we don’t see it so clearly because they never let us reach that dreadful point of desperation.
I like that story.
It made me feel horribly guilty for insisting the outfits my mother provided be of a specific brand. I believe I cried and moaned for Z. Cavariccis. And my mother, the provider that she was, took me to Gurnee Mills and found me an outlet pair!
Thanks mom and dad!
