“I can’t seem to get out of this funk. I’m so tired of this whiny useless soundtrack,” Pete whined.
“It is like the proverb of the Buddha and the sitar player. The sitar player asked the Buddha whether he was working too hard or not hard enough in his meditations. The Buddha asked the musician how he tuned his instrument before playing. The musician said, ‘If I tune the strings too tight, they break. If I tuned them too loose, no sound will come out. So not too tight and not too loose works best.’ To which the Buddha replied, ‘This is how you should hold your mind during meditation.’”
“Is that a big-worded, show-offy, buddhisty way of telling me I need to get over it?” Pete asked, with a slight cut to his voice.
“No. Let’s be frank shall we?” his friend Bill responded.”There is no ‘it.’ What you need to do, sweetheart, is get over yourself. It’s been two years; your ex is no longer holding you down, you are. Hell, he’s three or four victims down the track; you are so NEVER on his fucking mind. N. E. V. E. R. NEVER! We all know there is no magic potion or formula for figuring this kind of raw emotional crap out but you’ve got to start turning it around. You are this hot, creative, fuzzy, romantic guy but you are so distracted by this bullshit that is STILL fucking with your heart that you aren’t taking advantage of what life is offering you on a silver plate, an opportunity for self-knowledge and skillful action. All this talk of meditating and finding a path is useless unless you truly do.
It’s like only showing up for Catholic mass on Christmas or Easter; it’s a waste of time unless you mean what you say and commit to it. Spiritual talk is simply that. It has no impact on your life. The practice of meditation, forgiveness for yourself and others, and the gift of compassion, every day, that’s the path you need to be on, without fail. And karma provides me to call you on your shit. Albert Einstein said ‘insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results.’
It’s time to change the record.
The whambulance is not to going to come to your aid any longer.”
They sat silently, the latte’s steaming between them on the table. Bill knew he’d laid in a little harshly.
“Who’s my big, beautiful, bearded Barbra Streisand on the front of that amazing tugboat in New York Harbor?”
Pete sat pouty-faced, staring down at his latte.
“Don’t tell me not to live, just sit and putter,” Bill said, pushing his hands out wide into jazz hands.
“Life’s candy, and the sun’s a ball of butter,” sang Pete softly, a Cheshire grin spreading across his face.
“Don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade,” they sang together, full voice, tapping cheers with their lattes. “Don’t tell me not to fly, I’ve simply got to, if someone takes a spill it’s me and not you, who told you you’re allowed to rain on my paraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaade…”
There was a big blackboard sign like a construction site safety declaration, reading: “Days since someone’s broken out in Barbra Streisand.” The barista smiled and erased the big “5″ and replaced it with a zero.