Buddha Morning

“A thousand Buddhas populate this house. The Buddha of pepper. The Buddha of brooms. The chimney Buddha and the dustpan Buddha. While we are away the Buddha of bowties stands in front of the mirror and marvels at how handsome he can become. The landscape Buddha snips at the hedges with his scissors. The wildlife Buddha tends to the tranquility of birds. The Buddha of good tidings greets us upon our return and the Buddha of raincoats and galoshes assists us with our wraps. The Buddahs of yet unspecified destinies wait in the hallway. One will become the Buddha of smoothed over domestic squabbles. Another the Buddha of unrealized dreams. Each morning a thin, old Buddha rakes a pattern into the sand of the Zen garden. When he is finished he looks over his shoulder at me standing behind the picture window. He knows this should be enough to lead me to the end of the Great Path. If only I were ready. ”

— David Shumate, "Household Buddhas" in High Water Mark

This is about all I need in a poem. It may be pretty much all I need. It's like an incredibly well-tooled joke with a strong set-up complete with dustpan, bowties, and galoshes. Two thirds of the way through everything picks up pace just a touch and a thin, old Buddha materializes raking answers into the Zen garden. I look out and largely past, not yet able to see well. The joke leaves me smiling but also a little sad. It gets me to thinking.

I consider the thousand Buddhas in my own house. The Buddha of the ink bottle. The Buddha of the dictionary and calendar who does both jobs needing money to pay of his student loans. The Buddha of shaving admires his smooth skin continually touching his face with one hand gently, gently. Outside, the Buddha of dogs accepts the neighbor's untrained beast barking at every passerby and most cars, but looks strained from the lack of sleep. The Buddha of grey skies and rain holds the door open for the Buddha of first flurries. There is a Buddha of our porch lights who appears earlier every evening. The Buddha of desire sleeps in each of our beds with cold feet and sharp toenails. I would tell you about the Buddha of cats, but each cat is Buddha. We have no Zen garden to rake, but a young child Buddha sits at the kitchen table under the light holding a pencil in her hand. She writes a single word on a blank page. This is the whole story but I take it as a prompt and fill the rest of the page and two more with all my thinking. Though if you ask I can only just recall the word she wrote there and couldn't possibly pronounce it.

Depression Is Easy. Maybe Contentment Is Too

Depression is easy. Which is to say that it's easy for me to become depressed. It requires only a moment of the news, social media, or my job.

Getting out of depression seems tougher, but maybe it just requires some of the following:

• Quit social media. Few things are so consistently negative in my life. I could tune my feeds so they led me to feel better, but that's more work than it would be worth. Quitting has proven a more efficient choice. I don't regret it.

• Run. I have never regretted having gone for a run. Yet, in two months I have run two miles. Moving my body out in the world is the best treatment, but I get home from the job and it feels impossible to go run. I'll work on that.

• Stop reading the news. I scan The New York Times, but read fewer and fewer articles. I don't care about political predictions or un-presidential rallies and tweets. My brother used to ask, "what good is the news?" I wonder the same thing.

• Close the door and be alone. Breathe. Leave the television off. Don't put on a record. Sit. Rest. If sleep comes, let it.

• Sleep eight hours. I'm staying up too late trying to have time to myself and with my family. Feeling tired makes it too difficult to feel content.

• Write. Creating something lifts me. It makes me happy almost always, even when it is going poorly. I am content as I type this, as I revise it, as I consider the people who may read it.

• Think of someone else. "If you want to be miserable, think of yourself. If you want to be happy, think of others." -- Sakyong Mipham.

After school, I'll go to my daughter's swim meet. She made sectionals and is trying to advance to states. At the pool I'll think of her, her, and her. I bet I'll be happy. I'm certain I'll feel content. And it's unlikely that I'll feel at all depressed.

Easy as that.

Mental Health Day

Teachers use "mental health day" mostly as euphemism, spoken furtively, apologetically, as if admitting an embarrassing weakness. I encourage colleagues to treat their mental health equally with their physical health. I tell them I see my therapist every other week and have for fourteen years.

That gives them pause. Mental health isn't all that much discussed round here.

My current mental health is shaky and I have trouble admitting it. I saw my therapist yesterday and she was concerned. I am too. It's almost more than I can stand to think of going to school. I don't know that I can take the abuses.

Yesterday no fewer than four kids told me to fuck off. One said I was a racist and that wasn't the most offensive thing he said. I am told to write these things up, but I flee the building as soon as contractually possible and had only a twenty minute break. There was no time for write-ups. There won't be time tomorrow either. Besides, experience shows that little good comes of the write-ups and they can make things worse.

I would take a mental health day but last year received a counseling memo saying I had taken too many days off. I'm allowed far more days by contract and all were approved, but the memo, which warned of possible further disciplinary action including dismissal, has had a chilling effect.

In the last year and a quarter my school and job have changed dramatically. Increasingly, I need mental health time, but worry about further disciplinary action and dismissal.

I don't want to crack up and go out on disability. I would rather be proactive and treat things before they get out of hand. I've seen one teacher break down. I don't want that to be me.

Mental health days aren't euphemisms. They are serious business. We teachers need to take our mental health seriously. Our students need healthy teachers. Our children need healthy parents. Our spouses need healthy spouses. And we deserve healthy lives earned by taking care of ourselves as outlined in our contracts.

Though I know I should stay home and rest, I'll be at school today, tomorrow, and next week. I'm not sure that's good for any of us.

Writing Dependence

There are too many things in life on which I can't depend. The honesty of Republicans, the ability of Democrats to win, WiFi signal, weather, a well managed school, the stock market, and on and on. When it comes to writing, something on which I almost completely depend, I make sure very little stands in the way. I choose my tools carefully.

I learned that typing the doc.new into a browser brings up a blank Google Doc. That's pretty useful. I wish there was some single keyboard command to get rid of all the toolbars and put the browserin full-screen like a minimalist word processor but no dice so far.

For minimalism, I use Writer: The Internet Typewriter, a blank interface with no distracting means of formatting. It is the best editor I know and I've tried dozens. Dropbox Paper is beautiful, but still no match for Writer, a solitary writer's dream.

Were I in the mood to spend and wait until June, I'd order the Freewrite Traveler, a nifty device only for writing. Pretty cool but pretty expensive and close enough to the experience I already have on my manual typewriters.

Here's the thing: when it comes to dependability, there's no beating a good pen and some paper. I use a fountain pen and used copy paper on which I print lines. These things just work. There are nearly always pen and paper on hand. Paper is resilient. There's no question whether it will be in a readable format for the next software revision, no worries about saving documents, and it can be used sideways, upside down, or any which way.

There are too few things on which I can depend. My laptop is probably dying and no longer receives updates. My pen is older than the laptop goes on and on so long as I refill it with ink every other day. And I have enough paper to last me, as Red says in Shawshank Redemption until rapture.

Rapture, that's kind of how it feels to write with a fountain pen on lined paper. I depend on that, on the words I write, and the salvation of writing.