This story by TJ the Agnostic about a religious retreat of a different kind:
“I want Buddha to baby-sit me.”
These words were spoken to me by my three-year-old daughter this weekend. While it is not uncommon for the more spiritual of our acquaintances to credit precocious little Lilah with an “old soul” I had no idea her true metaphysical age until that utterance. “Good God!” I thought to myself. “My kid is a re-incarnated baby-boomer!”
This discussion of Buddha had begun the night before at a riotously decorated Chinese restaurant in Spokane. I have two daughters and their table manners, to be frank, range from unruly to mutinous. This night Kelly, age six, was playing both chopsticks on the brass railing near our table as her little sister Lilah was preparing to attempt a double salto off the chair with chopsticks in her mouth. I noticed across the table a familiar twitch in my step-father’s temple. Clearly, a preemptive action would benefit all. I gathered the girls and whisked them away to join me in contemplation of the koi.
Next to the algae spangled tank sat a Buddha which was disturbingly correct anatomically, especially around the nipple area. “Why does he have boobies?” Lilah wondered. Since we don’t use the word “fat” in our house I was at a bit of a loss. “Well, he’s… that’s the way… Hey, rub his belly, Honey. It’s good luck.” This was more of a distraction than I’d bargained for.
“Why?” asked Lilah
“Buddha brings you good luck if you rub his belly.” I said.
“Why?” For a three-year-old it is really more of a mantra than a question.
Kelly’s interest was also piqued “Buddha brings you good luck?” She has recently been visited by the Tooth Fairy and is bright enough to now sense patterns of opportunity all around.
“Yep.” I assured. “Rub his belly and Buddha brings you good luck.”
Kelly gave Buddha’s distended gut a good massage. Lilah administered a couple of hearty slaps. “Why does Buddha bring you good luck?” she asked.
My familiarity with The Eight Fold Path begins and ends with what I remembered of Kung Fu and I did my best to sum up its profundities. “Because he likes to do nice things… for people who are nice.”
Kelly poked at the Buddha’s navel. “How does he give you the good luck?”
“Why?” asked her little sister.
Kelly, covering all bases, carefully patted the Buddha’s bald head. “Does he come in through the window?”
“Well, no…” I pictured this chubby, robed figure huffing and kicking, struggling to squeeze through the same narrow space that the lithe little Tooth Fairy had exploited. “He’s…” I couldn’t very well attribute any aspect of divinity to Buddha; my wife and I have already decided that we are going to give the girls Judaism as their religion to reject as they mature.
“He’s sort of like Santa Clause.” I said, establishing the Enlightened One in that grey area of pretend inhabited by Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and all the other hob-goblins who belong to make-believe but are represented here in reality by benevolent - though often pungent - costumed helpers.
“Is Buddha going to give me a present for my birthday?” Kelly wiggled her loose tooth, imagining a parley of some kind I suppose.
“No, he just gives luck.”
Lilah spotted a second Buddha above the cash register. “Buddha!” she reached out and I lifted her to rub. “Why does he give us good luck, Daddy?”
“Because it makes him feel good” I said.
“Why?” asked Lilah
Kelly offered a hypothesis. “Because he likes it when you don’t say bad things like ‘stupid’ or ‘butt’ or ‘poop?’”
“Well, that is true,” I conceded “but Buddha is happiest when he’s doing something to help people. You know how you like to give birthday presents to your friends? How it makes you feel good? That’s what Buddha likes. It makes him feel good to make other people happy.”
“But,” I continued “trying to make yourself happy isn’t the point...” I realized I wasn’t explaining Buddha at all but was drifting into nonsense, native tongue of parenthood, dialect of befuddlement and exhaustion, which has enriched our language with terms like “simmer-down” and “sass-mouth.” What did Buddha do anyway?
Lilah rubbed my head. “Daddy, do you get good luck?”
“Let me try.” I closed my eyes tightly and rubbed Buddha. “There.”
“Daddy, is Buddha coming tonight?”
“He doesn’t work like that, Lilah.”
“Does he fly?” Kelly examined the seated Buddha for wings.
“He doesn’t need to…” I said, then noticed our waitress approaching
“Hey, here come the fortune cookies!” I sang.
A little good luck is great, but it’s nothing compared to the bliss found in cracking open a nice, sugary cookie with a teensy-weensy note tucked inside, making a pile of sticky crumbs and then rubbing it in your hair, dumping it into your mother’s purse or spitting it into your water and pouring it all over your clothes. I considered my little lesson on the attainment of nirvana forgotten.
The next morning we awoke to grey Washington skies and wind-whipped rain. It was not long before Kelly and Lilah were ricocheting around our hotel room in a blur of mussed hair and pink flannel. From the window I could just make out the top of the pavilion that houses a carousel across the Spokane River. My belief in the benefits of a vigorous life being firm and remembering fondly my own boyhood expeditions into the mists and mire of Northwest springs, I bundled the girls in as many layers as they would tolerate and we headed out into the elements to ride the horses.
Outside we found the rain had lessened, but my kids are Californians and no amount of enthusiasm or showmanship could beguile them from the dreadfulness of this climate. I swept my hand toward the jade-colored river frothing against black basalt. “Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked. They whimpered for their mother. I pointed out a lone rock marmot peeking out of his den at the drizzle. “How cute” I cooed. They recoiled as if it were a giant rat (which I suppose it is.) Our walk had been all of two blocks, but in the rain it might as well have been across the continent. By the time we reached the carousel Lilah was draped over my shoulders moaning into my hair and Kelly staggered by my side murmuring “I wanna go home, Daddy. Ieee waaaana goo hooooome.”
We found the carousel to be a beautifully restored 1909 model resplendent in brass and paint and baubles and vibrating to the cadence of an old-time march. Inside the pavilion the air was warm and dense with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy. A cacophony of squeals and organ music drown out the patter of rain and Lilah and Kelly began to quiet.
We sat and watched riders go bobbing past. They moved fast. The girls considered the horses’ speed, range of motion, angle of attack, and so forth. Riding them looked a bit dicey, but it also looked a bit like fun. We observed for a while longer considering the probably ages and skill levels of those who rode. It was also noted that these horses bore a striking resemblance to the ones ridden in Mary Poppins. Soon curiosity had the better of us and we bought tickets for a ride.
Lilah and I sat on one horse with Lilah in front. Kelly was old enough for her own horse, but did not immediately appear convinced as we shuddered into motion. Our mounts accelerated I could feel Lilah’s grip tighten. Glancing at Kelly I saw her expression had changed from one of concern to one of grim concentration. The carousel turned and our horses flew but we somehow managed an entire revolution without being thrown. We completed another and then another with no serious incident. Lilah pushed my arms away. “I can do it, Daddy” she said. “Okay” I said “but you hold on tight.” I looked over my shoulder. Kelly’s puckered lips had been replaced by her magnificent gap-toothed grin.
We rode around and around. We bought tickets for another ride. I managed to pluck a few plastic rings from the chute to the amazement of my daughters. I explained that when I was a little boy these rings were made of brass.
“Why aren’t they brass now?” Kelly asked.
“Because plastic is cheaper” I thought. Then I thought maybe it had something to do with insurance. “Because these are prettier” I said.
Our last ride was just winding down when Lilah leaned over in her saddle. Our horse’s saddle straps were decorated with little cherubs. She was rubbing their plump bellies.
“What are you doing, Lilah?” I asked.
“I want Buddha to baby-sit me” she said.
For a moment I considered this idea – Buddha as babysitter. How cool would that be? The logic of a three-year-old had condensed millennia of human yearning into six words.
“He doesn’t do that, Honey.” I said lifting her off.
“I want Buddha to baby-sit me.” She said.
"Lilah,” Kelly laughed “Buddha can’t baby sit you because he’s pretend.” The logic of a six-year-old had condensed millennia of humanity’s sneaking suspicion into a single sentence.
“I want him to give me good luck” said Lilah.
“You make your own good luck.” I told her.
“How?” she wondered.
I looked through the windows at the gunmetal sky. The rain had started to pick up again and the light was fading. I took my daughters by the hand. “By going out in the rain” I said and we burst through the doors out into the wet bluster and toward home.
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