meditations

Did you know that Buddhist monks have the enviable reputation of being the happiest people in the world?

This may not surprise you. It didn't surprise me, when my housemate informed me of it several weeks ago. I recieved the information with a nod.

"I guess that makes sense...I mean, simplicity is supposed to make you happier, and so is charity, and passionate devotion to a higher calling. Aren't those things what being a monk is all about?"

Aubrey had agreed, adding, "They meditate, too. Cultivate self-control and tranquility." She poured herself some coffee and stated, "If I wasn't a Christian, I think I'd be a Buddhist monk."

I considered this. "Me too." And I thought no more about it, until last evening. I had returned to a cup of chamomile tea and a house hallowed by rainfall after watching "Confessions of a Shopaholic" at the cheap theatre. The movie had been utterly worthless but amusing: poorly written, unrealistic, forgettable, lacking even the saving grace of a satisfyingly escapist romance, but featuring beautiful people, delightful fashions, and a few humorous scenes. Even so, I felt relieved to be cozily home in my pajamas under my blankets, listening to the small rain in the fresh-scented dark. After a day so fastpaced, I had expected to find sleep within moments, and was surprised to find my mind still on the near shore a half-hour later.

I was thinking the sort of thoughts people think at 11 pm as they wait for the slumber bus: a fairly unregulated gush of memories from the day's thousands episodes, analyzed and overanalyzed, reenvisioned and wished into more favorable but (alas!) only ever imaginary outcomes. In the midst of this exercise, I had the sudden realization of how many hours of my life I spend absorbed in this futile accounting! Evening after evening for most of the years of my life I waste in naval-gazing. Alongside this rather depressing angel of a thought sidled a second angel, resembling a grinning Buddhist monk. The question bobbed into my brain whether Happy Monks ever indulge in such rehashing, and he seemed to shake his shiny bald head.

So I tried an experiment. I relaxed and began to breathe deep cleansing breaths. My mind began to clear. I let go of the cares of my little life: the irretractable moments of self-absorption and immaturity, the burden of being responsible for the images of a thousand selves in a thousands lightings at a thousand angles in a thousand mirrors, the blind reaching forward and obsessive glancing back. In the relieved quiet that remained, I felt my heart beating ahead into a wide and spacious future, my lungs pumping abundant clean air, and my entire body filling with a free and easy peace. It pleased me to think of my mind, well-equipped and with room to grow, and of my personality in all its individuality and sacredness, and of my body in its strength and its capabilities. I laid on my bed and devoted my time to being content and grateful: to praise.

Happiness is really so easy to find, and so freely obtained, if you can keep a strong enough grasp on the perspective that matters. In this distorted world, that is the hard part.