What Does it Mean to be a Buddhist?

by Bethany Saltman, June 12, 2007

Can I just say that I was shocked when I opened up my Chronogram profile thing and saw that my last blog entry was in APRIL! Now it is mid-June! I knew it had been a while, but I thought 3 weeks, maybe a month. If I actually believed there were people out there reading, even waiting, for this, I would apologize, but since I am not so sure, just let the record be duly noted that I hadn't intended to skip out on my blog.

So here I am. Blogging. I found the time. It's 7:05 am. I'm up, showered, down-dogged, zazened, and am currently getting tea-ed, in that order, which is a hint of my theme of the day: priorites. (Azzie has been on a new schedule lately: 8 to 8-ish. Nice! But she could wake up any time now. So let me cut to the chase.)

I have osteorporosis. I am young for it, but it runs in my family, and so there it is. I don't want to be in a wheelchair. I have to exercise -- run, yoga, weights, etc. But I don't do it. Shit!

I have a fun, but very demanding job. It is supposed to be part-time, but it's not. Shit!

I have a husband who I love and want to hang with, luxuriating in idleness like the old days -- weekends with Tony Soprano, maybe cleaning out closets or making lists of things we want to do with our lives. Cooking. Eating. Messing around, hint, hint. Shit!

I have a nagging need to know what the hell is up with this life. Where am I? Who am I? What's going on? What else is there besides the above? I know there is a world out there much, much bigger than my so-called priorities, and I have spent many years of my life uncovering it, but it takes time. A lot of it. I don't have it. Shit!

And then there is Azalea. Yesterday I held another baby in my lap and Azzie came over to me and hit me squarely over the head with an old issue of The Sun. Like, two hands, WHAP! I was shocked. We all were. I said, Azzie! No! We don't hit! That's not nice. Then she gave me a big hug, thinking, probably, ok fine, I'll say I'm sorry, but it's not very nice to pay attention to someone else during OUR time together. Fair enough, little one. Shit!

What's a working girl to do?

Not work?

No. I'd be miserable. Is that mean? Is it terrible to feel like I don't want to spend every waking hour with the delight of my own making? Probably, but I think it would be worse to stay home because I think I should and be a horrible, thwarted person. Not a good example for my girl. I guess.

Thayer manages to sit a lot more than I do. For one thing I have a big fear of being tired. When we lived at the monastery I was very tired, and then I got sick, and then I found out I had a cerebral aneurysm, I had surgery, and then my dad died the next day. Thayer, the therapist, says that I have a traumatic association with being tired, and that, basically, it's time to move on. Probably. But anyway, he sits more than I do, and keeps encourgaing me to remember that when I do sit more, all this other stuff feels easier. Of course I KNOW that. But sleep is soooooo delicious.

But if I am not sitting, or sitting as minimally as I am, what makes me a Buddhist? And does that matter, being a BUDDHIST? BEING anything. I have never cared about BEING a Buddhist, but suddenly, I find that I do. Why?

Because I feel myself getting flattened into the world -- busy, busy. I hate it. I want to have something else to show Azalea, another way to live, an OPTION. No, iife is not just about getting shit done. No, life is not just a pain in the ass. There is love, there is passion, there is deep, real meaning. There is silence and there is morality that grows out that silence. There is a way. BUDDHIST is a word, as dumb as any other. But the way is real. I know it is. No doubt about that. So why is it so hard to drag my ass out of bed? Because I am human being caught up in desire. I can see it. But I need the stability of a practice to be able to cut it.

That's the conundrum.

So what does it mean for someone like me to be a Buddhist?

I guess it means I don't give up.