Everything is Buddha, so I'm told. Buddha is this spectacular coffee I'm sipping. Buddha is the aromatic steam rising from the mug. Buddha is the warmth of the coffee inside me. And Buddha is the music I'm hearing, the light shining down onto the desk, the scratch of the pen on the page, the blue of ink shaped into letters, words, and ideas as great as the Buddha. Eating well amid calm, that is Buddha. But so too is overeating and lying in bed with heartburn and pain in the stomach. The late night trucks are Buddha, even their beeping in reverse is Buddha, and so are the leaves scraped off the pavement and lifted into dump trucks that slam through the darkness. Being kept awake by the noise is Buddha as are the paws of the cat kneading painfully on my groin. The alarm clock is Buddha as is the grey morning sun and the first thin blanket of snow on the lawn. It is all Buddha, which is to say it is all this life and this living, it is all opportunity, and it is all part of me.

Should I be angry with Buddha, protest against Buddha, wish Buddha were something else when Buddha is everything and everything is Buddha? Should I fall in love with Buddha and forget myself, forget the people and things around me? Better I think to bow to Buddha, bow to you, and bow to myself. Better still to invite all of us in and make more coffee, put on a new record, and pass a plate of cookies. The crumbs of which fall like snow in a garden in which sits a small round statue amidst all the plants gone dormant, accepting the seasons as they come.