Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser

Ghazal of the Transcendental

[69] GHAZ AL OF THE TRANSCENDENTAL Why can’t the Buddha vacuum underneath the sofa? Because he has no attachments. —Kaspalita Thompson One of the neighbors has a new statue of the Buddha, plunked down in her garden. Perhaps she got it at a Black Friday sale, camped out all night, came home singing. The Buddha teaches that we want to work free of delusion and suffering in order to ascend, like the wren in the lilac, full-throated, singing. I don’t know too many intimate details about his life but I do know the Buddha was not a woman doing chores all day, much less singing. Suffering is a pain in the ass, in the neck, in the heart mostly; since I suffer knowing my children’s hurts, will I never know that lithe, joyous singing? So the sacred verses speak of attachment and illusion. I know, but with all due respect, it’s hard to feel detached when you nick yourself shaving (not singing). Perhaps in the wilderness, in solitude, there might not be the struggle that comes of engagement: but even then, there is the noise the mind makes in its own singing. The Buddha can’t vacuum underneath my sofa. Or under the beds. Or do the dishes. I know, I know. If I were to detach from these tasks, they’d be easy as singing. And one must sing rather than drone, don’t you think? Even in the bramble, that’s what the birds are saying: the richer the song, the more complex the singing. ...