If you meet the Bodhisattva you don’t ask someone to carve the image from your mind. To the carver, she weighs but an ounce and can be carried on his fingertip but try and lift her and you will not be able to move her from her place.
All Buddhas are one Buddha but his Buddha will never be your Buddha.
She curls in my arm, head on my chest, offers a gentle smile which melts me and I stroke her small shoulder, as Sid the Sloth and Manny the Mammoth, two bodhisattvas,
smile back at us from the TV screen. Enlightenment isn’t something you seek, it’s a five-year old who sits next to you on the sofa on a warm evening in July.
Kannon, have compassion for us, as if you could do otherwise. We don’t seek wisdom, that’s out of your department. We all seek enlightenment as if it is some neon sign around the next bend in the path. We are well-suited for rushing to unknown destinations. We would offer you prayers, but we have forgotten the words.
He will tell you that the distance between a tear and a laugh is the span of a mother’s arm. He knows the duration of sadness is identical
to a shnork*. He cannot understand how you could have forgotten all this. He doesn’t know why you cannot recall that enlightenment is no more than a giggle.
*shnork (n.): the sound a grandfather makes as his nose approaches, then just touches that of his infant grandson.
There are nights when the song of a single cricket can pull you away from sleep. She says that she has heard that not all Angels have wings and neither of them is sure how you would know if you met a bodhisattva. He searches the mail every day, for a letter from an unknown birth father, but none of the credit cards he ought to carry offers to rebate his dreams. Each night they lie back pressed to back and slip into dreams. She records hers in the journal she keeps with the pen, by the bed. He struggles to recall his and places what shards he can in the burlap sack of his memory.