Buddha Under The Influence

My brain must’ve leaked out of my ears on the way to the library. Any remaining bits of it are trying to perceive the b.o. of the person sitting next to me as an anchor to the present moment instead of something making me want to walk into traffic.

In turn, I’m mad at myself for interpreting his smell as a personal attack. Why is my immediate response anger? I’m not actually angry at this guy. I don’t know his story; the library is for him, too. I’m angry at myself for picking this fucking seat!

Typing that last sentence makes me smile. I can step outside of my frustration for a moment and reflect on it. I appreciate that. Thirty seconds ago, my brain felt like a flambé skillet – the flames enjoying a steady diet of anger and anger about anger and why I feel anger and anger about anger and and and…

“Stacking aversions on aversions” is something my therapist and the Buddha advise against, but I can’t let my talent for it go to waste. Thankfully, I’m also getting better, bit by bit, at returning to the present. Returning to my breath. Coming up for air,

I can’t count the number of times my inner voice resembled Peter Falk in A Woman Under the Influence, desperately yelling at Gena Rowlands, “BE YOURSELF! BE YOURSELF!” while she bravely nods along and tries to hold herself together. He loves her, but he’s scared and confused, which makes him abrasive.

I remember the first time I had that thought. It blew my mind. I could see myself as both characters at the same time, and it helped me learn how to moderate my critical inner voice. Of course, that was followed by the other critical inner voice: “You’re so vain; you probably think this domestic drama about a mother in distress is about you.”

Two things can be true at once.