Jack's Dream

“Wake up!”

Awaken to the rustle of her silk skirts, to the scent of jasmine oil on her wrist, to the clink of her coins in the alms bowl, to the young bride’s whispered prayer.

I sit in the dust of the village road, grinning under closed lids despite my hemorrhoids. The biting flies, the woman’s scent, the hunger pains, the lust—all come and go like night and day: All things must pass away.

“Wake up!”

Awaken to the creak of the wagon wheels, to the odor of the defecating horses, to the wife's farewell to her warrior, to the clatter of the armor and swords.

I sit in the mud beside the village road, grinning under closed lids despite the pouring rain. Though I live in every passerby, there’s nothing I need do. Just sit in silent testament: Peace comes from within.

“Wake up!”

Awaken to the smoke of the funeral pyres, to the futile pleadings of the mourners, to the wail of the grief-stricken widow, to the chant of the senile priest.

I sit in the dark along the village road, grinning under closed lids despite the falling snow. Though demons circle, they pose no threat. Grief cannot devour me; the cold can only bite. I am the Buddha, and I am free. Free from want, free from fear, free from the bondage of birth and death: There is no joy like the joy of freedom.

“Wake up, Jack—you’re safe.”