On the Road with Buddha

12/26/17

There was a boy. He liked to build tunnels, at first with blankets, then in the sand. Wet sand held its shape better. Deeper tunnels came closer to the sea. Wetter mud. Easier to work with. His aunt was supposed to be watching him. She went off to smoke a cigarette. That is being charitable. Could she have heard him calling, screaming for help when the tunnel collapsed on top of him? Did her irrational jealousy extend to criminal neglect - or worse?

After a while, the boy stopped screaming. Stopped calling for help. The sand falling in the tunnel collapsing - near suffocation.

From somewhere, he knew not where, without thinking or reflecting, the boy heaved cat-like, arched his back jerking up the entire weight of his little body breaking through the wet tomb. But wait. Telling this story more than half a century later, the man who was the boy distinctly remembers a split second of reflection. That he had only himself to save himself.

His earliest memory was not this but his cousin taking a dump on his bedroom floor. They were both still in diapers.

That was the same cousin who fifteen years later dropped a barbell on bassoon reeds the teenager had spent long hours crafting.

 Years later when he traded baseball cards, amassing thousands only to have his best truly valuable cards stolen by a friend of his cousin 's - (the older brother of the dumping cousin). He had learned to trust blindly, giving power to everyone who approximated his father 's anger. He sought to always build tombs from which he might or might not escape.

When valedictorian of his middle school, his father said, "Do they have to keep calling you up for awards?" When valedictorian of his high school, he did not invite his father to the awards ceremony.

Walking, another day, his father asked about his beautiful, talented, intelligent girlfriend, "Does she have a real boyfriend?" The young man asked what his father meant. "Young girls like older guys."

It was a one two punch - two years earlier he called his son a punk for going out with older girls.

It was shortly before when he told his son he had to get a different music teacher - the teenager later realized that was the only teacher who had really taught him. He did find others but most and for many decades were unable to teach him.

While he had successes for a few more years, he became dulled, yet continued day after month after year after decade chipping away at the infinite entity of music.

Therapy after a while - thirty years!  - was contributing to his ever worsening self-esteem. He changed therapists. Both told him he was not using therapy correctly that he was difficult to help because he kept jumping from one topic to another. That he misunderstood things in his cognitive distortions. He blew up - verbally - at his new therapist. He was too intimidated by his first. He said to the therapist that if after 30 years he was not ready to move forward with life- no sex, minimal career, disconnection from his wife, giving too much power to almost everyone even little children, inability to control his diabetes, anger, then if two talented therapists (actually there were two other therapists early on) then therapy was not going to help him. He had given it his all- journals, meditation, exercise, reading about anger management, dream analysis, vegetarianism, sensory awareness, mindfulness, art and writing, and while it did help him get married, get a job, be a father a little better than his own- it was too little too late. A guy in his group said, "Even Eric cannot help you." The man felt there was something cultish, hero worship about the group. It was deeply repugnant. Eric suggested drugs (meds). The man, who was the boy, who was the successful teenager listened and seethed- another in the group said "We were all successful as teenagers." The man said "I am done with therapy. I will meditate and write more. As for what I need, you just don't get it." The other man said, "I don't think it will help you." The man could not stay in a group that painted him as hopeless. They had told him to get divorced - he nearly did. Until one day in group he said, "I might find another good woman, but none better than my wife." He told his wife he regretted his ... crying he said, "You are my best friend."

 Eric placed the idea into his head that he was violent and needed medication.

His cousin told him he hated the man's father. Told him he was worse now than thirty years ago, had no plan, got frazzled at the least stress, was offensive to guests.

While this hurt, the man always sought to learn from any criticism and told his cousin what he had said felt caring. It helped him stop therapy.

The man left therapy which although helpful at first had become a prison he built for himself.

If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.