A Particle of Light

Sometimes paying the bills means you go teach meditation to teenage boys even when your head hurts, your stomach is in knots, and the possibility of panic lies within every breath. In the car, a 78-year-old Buddhist sings from the radio about saving a particle of light, and you cry until you are gasping, then go inside. You teach the boys to say “lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu” because you need to hear it, no other reason. On the way out, a weeping receptionist wraps you in the story of losing her beloved pet, asking you if it’s okay to be this sad. On the way home you know that Jack Kerouac and the Buddha were right about suffering. Sometimes commitment means you put on your make-up even when you don’t feel like dancing in front of anyone. And then you dance. And the dance takes your feet, and it takes your breath, and it demands your sweat and washes you of your worry. Afterwards you’re just the shining column of you again, creation of the goddess, joy and sadness and everything.