PICNIC WITH A BUDDHIST PRIEST Recently a friend loaned me a wonderful book called "Plant Seed, Pull Weed, Nurturing the Garden of Your Life" by Geri Larkin. It is kind of about gardening but really about life. I devoured it and loved it. And then in a story of six-degrees-of-separation, Yachats style, I ended up being invited to a picnic with this author. She is an ordained Buddhist priest, living in Eugene. Immediately my imagination went into overdrive. What would a Buddhist priest wear to a picnic? Flowing robes? Simple monochromatic clothing? Worn out sandals? And what would a Buddhist priest bring to a picnic? Knowing she was a vegetarian and avid gardener, I pictured her bearing wooden bowls heaped with fruits, grains, and exotic ingredients that perhaps I'd never heard of. Then for good measure, I imagined a steaming thermos filled with miso soup, along with chopsticks tucked inside hemp coverings, which we would use to slurp up bits of spinach and tofu. What would her voice be like? I imagined serious and with the tone used during the reading of sacred text. And I speculated her topics would be all spiritual. So when I arrived at the backyard picnic, fashionably late, I was very quick to learn that the large majority of things I had imagined were wrong, wrong, wrong – and delightfully so. This particular Buddhist priest was glowing with energy, and she wore very low-key slacks, shirt, sweatshirt, tennis shoes – later mentioning that her wardrobe choices usually came from St. Vincent de Paul, and she is often mistaken for a homeless person because of how she dresses. She told funny stories, and spoke with this clear, resonant voice, animatedly, and and laughed with child-like joy. And in the first five minutes after meeting her, she confessed she is absolutely addicted to a television show called "The Bacherlotte." I don't have television but I'm familiar with the premise of the show. She speaks negatively of someone by calling them a CREEP! And she says it loud and clear and then laughs at herself. When I have to speak negatively of someone, I paused to choose my words carefully and she prompted me: "Were they just a big old poopy pants?" As for picnic food, the first thing she pulled from her cloth bag was a bag of Fritos. How fun is that? Then there were sandwich fixings, a homemade potato salad in a glass bowl, fresh blueberries, chilled bottles of frappucino, canned soda. I brought gouda cheese, smoked salmon, crackers, little chocolates, and of course – wine. She was surprised that I don't drink coffee. I tapped my wine glass: "This is my vice." We talked and munched, enjoying the sun and easy conversation. I'm most struck by two words she is asked about by a journalist friend. The first was hope. She stops to ponder a moment, and chooses her words carefully. She told a story of a homeless man in Portland who generally can be found sitting on the sidewalk on a blanket near Powell's bookstore. She had watched recently as a young, well-dressed man in a suit approached the homeless man with a box in a shopping bag. As the homeless man opened the package to reveal a pair of boots, the gift giver said, "I didn't know the right size, I hope they fit." What gave Geri hope was that a number of people were observing this exchange, and many of them had tears in their eyes. It gave her hope to see that this had touched a lot of lives, not just the homeless man. The other word she was asked about was fear. She does not experience fear. She lives "close to the ground" and lives on less than $700 a month. She has not fear for her children or their children, but for the children after that, and for other children. She does not worry. I wonder what it is like to not worry. But sitting in the sun, with friends, food, and wine, I took a day off from worrying. The day passed very quickly and will be remembered as a highlight of this particular summer. And by the way, Fritos are a very flexible food – they pair well with any wine. |
