Like This (9/4)

After writing that last entry on my balcony, first in my journal and then copied over here, the clock time said, “Time to meet your companions for breakfast.” Neither my heart time nor my stomach time agreed, but we are modern people after all, goose-stepping to the demands of schedule. So off I went and after a simple little meal of egg, tea and peanuts, we went out for a morning walk in the terraced rice fields. Up we went, with the sweeping green views below, and then down again to pick up our bags at the hotel. 

 

To get to our hired car at the top of town, we hopped on an open-air bus. Soaked with sweat from walking in the heat and humidity, I felt the cool breeze wash over me as we began our ascent. And in that moment, I thought:

 

“I don’t ever want this to end.” The green of tropical plants on my left, the exquisite architecture of elegant buildings on my ride, the gradual ascent like a stairway to heaven, but not a distant heaven. I was wholly in a heaven of this moment, here and now, greater than any mere organized religion could  conjure up. I just wanted to be riding on that little bus forever. The ride was a mere five minutes, but instead of greedily demanding “More!”, I just stepped off the bus to the next heaven that awaits. 

 

The illusion of all the selves I often carry with me suddenly seemed like a bad dream from which I had finally awakened. No longer stupidly looking at women’s bodies long after the flame of my own desire has been extinguished. Not turning away in disgust from the mirror’s truth of sagging flesh and bulging belly. Not looking for my next dopamine rush of “likes” on Facebook. Just an ageless wanderer and wonderer of no age, no gender, no race, no social status, no belief system. Just sitting on an open-air bus with the cool breeze on my face, hoping to ride on forever. 

 

Years back, my Zen teacher gave me this koan: “How do I disappear in love?” Today the answer revealed itself: “Like this. Like this.”