Jello Buddha

The field of family therapy talks about the theory of complimentarity. The more one person moves towards one end of the emotional see-saw, the more the other will go in the opposite direction to balance things out. Recently, this manifested as the author's abiding need to make any number of "What If"contingency plans. The author's wife, one Jennifer M. Humming Dolphin, remained resolutely calm.

I informed Jenn with no small amount of urgency: "We need to contact a midwife. And we need to find a vet for the kitties. We need to arrange to have our final utility bills forwarded, and to have the utilities turned on at our new home. And you see that pile of cannonballs there? We need to figure out a way to move them from that spot over there and re-stack them on this spot over here. And we need to ..." 

Neither Jenn nor I have ever applied for state or federal assistance of any kind. However, part of giving up our jobs and moving to New Mexico meant we were also discontinuing our health insurance.  Jenn is young and healthy and positive by nature. Jane Austen, were she alive today, would no doubt have describe her as a handsome woman, both amiable and agreeable, and well accomplished in the arts.

Since we made our decision to relocate to the Southwest, Jenn has not been overly concerned about our insurance-less state. I, on the other hand, have been--if not wracked with concern--then at least preoccupied with the idea of making sure both my pregnant wife and future child be covered medically. I have not been unemployed or uninsured for years, and now we were moving to a place where neither of us would be either. (Is this a quadruple negative? It made sense in my head.) We made some calls from Oregon and discovered that, as a pregnant woman, Jenn would qualify for Medicaid. In fact, we were told it would be a slam dunk. However, the night before we went in to apply, I had nightmare that a sneering social servant, ensconced behind a scratched, plexiglass divider, ruthlessly turned us down for medical services through the oval slit in the window. I woke-up, tossed, turned, tossed some more, and turned one or two more times until Jenn woke-up.

"What'samatter?" she said, half-asleep.

I told her about the dream.

Jenn stroked my face. "It'll be okay," she said. "Everything will work out fine."

"Yeah, but what about A. What about B. And God forbid C should happen, let alone D."

Early the next morning, we went to our local Medicaid office. After years of watching welfare scenes on TV and in the movies, I had formed a rather solid and skewed notion of what it would look like--intimidating security guards, surly social servants, sticky floors, scores of desperate people and crying infants.

Yet another projection sunk by the torpedo of reality. The employees at the branch office couldn't have been kinder. A short female security guard with a stylish 'doo greeted us at the front door with a smile and good-humored gleam to her eye ... and she then scanned us for weapons; another woman-- this one actually behind a plexiglass window--looked at us with kind eyes, inquired as to why we were there, and then directed us to an adjoining room. We waited all of 7 minutes before a caseworker called Jenn's name and asked her several personable questions. The worker seemed genuinely interested in helping us. Within five minutes Jenn was approved for medical coverage without the penetrating questions, the rude attitude, or the arched eyebrows so prevalent in mass media.  The elapsed time from the moment we walked in until our departure with letter of confirmation in hand--20 minutes. I walked out feeling blessed and relieved.

Day-by-day, moment-by-moment, I have been floating in-and-out of faith. Jenn likes to remind me that our entire move has been based on faith, and that we have been blessed every step of the way.
Indeed, We drove two 1995 vehicles 1400 miles without a breakdown (God loves us!), and then had to shell out $350 in repairs for Jenn's car out of our savings once we arrived (God's testing us). The HR rep from my old agency informed me that they were looking for contract therapists (God loves us!) but then wouldn't return my calls (God's testing us). We find a great house to rent site unseen, but it's so nice that we both feel uncomfortable with its elegance (God loves us AND is testing us).

Faith--It would all be a lot easier if it wasn't based on aid and guidance from the invisible realms of Spirit. I've had to remind myself daily that I have done nothing but by choice, and if I feel tested, it is because I am pushing myself to discover the limits of my own heart. Of course, three seconds later I can forget, and trip over my own palpable fear. Sometimes Jenn teases me when I'm in this place, and once in a while I even laugh with her. At other times, I lose my sense of humor completely and stay firmly married to my fear.  Occasionally Jenn gets sucked in as well, and then there we are, swimming through quicksand.

In the east mountains of Albuquerque, we have some friends who have held an annual retreat called The Long Dance for the last 25 years. It involves two days of workshops and community building, and culminates in a dusk-to-dawn dance in a Kiva while a mother drum is kept going all night in a steady thump-thump-thump beat.

Six years ago, shortly before the Long Dance, I developed a bad case of plantar fasciitis--inflammation of the fascial tissue on the bottom of both feet. It was so painful that it was all I could do to walk to the lobby of my agency to gather up my next client (about 40 feet).  I had started work on my Long Dance banner--a kind of personal symbol for the year--but really, I had little hope of going. It was excruciating just to make it out to my car, let alone up-and-down the ceremony grounds.

The opening circle for the Long Dance was to commence on Friday, an hour after I got off work. The weekend arrived, and as I limped toward the parking lot I had (or was gifted with) a moment of clarity. A forgotten excerpt from a Buddhist book I perused years earlier came back to me unbidden. It suggested that instead of pushing away or judging ourselves for our pain, we can realize that, even while lost in our shit, we are still the Buddha manifesting in suffering form.   

"Wait a second," I said and stopped in my tracks. "This is just Suffering Buddha."

I took a deep breath into my aching feet--the feet I had cursed for so long--and felt, really felt the texture and sensation of my pain without judgment. Within seconds the pain went down, went down, went down until it had almost completely disappeared. I walked to my car filled with awe and gratitude, sped home, finished my banner, and packed a bag for the weekend. On my way out the door, I paused to say a little prayer of thanks and leaped into the air to click my heels together. I didn't dance the entire Long Dance night, but made it until three in the morning and went to sleep feeling peaceful and content.

Since my return to the Land of Enchantment, I have been judging myself for (sometimes) feeling scared, for lacking faith, for not having the courage to walk the walk. Then, of course, I get down on myself for not being Superman. But maybe all of this is a chance to experience the Buddha in his myriad of forms--Fearful Buddha, Adventurous Buddha, Papa Buddha, Poverty Consciousness Buddha, Quivering Mass of Jello Buddha, Laughing Buddha, Faithful Buddha, Stumbling Buddha.

Rumi said it best: Like children, we spill the salt, and then spill it again.