The Buddha That Plays
September 9, 2015 – My First Short Story
Opening the season of remembering.
This was my first short story—written in 2015—when writing became the only way to let the inner rivers speak.
I’m sharing it now to honor the part of me who dared to write not to be read, but to be real.
To swim with grief, not drown in it.
To reclaim the beauty of what was almost lost.
To begin again.
—
I felt a deep urge to write this.
A gripping call to take my emotions to the spring source—
to swim, float, tumble down a waterfall and land in that calm, emerald lake.
The river. The sea.
The place where my long-lost medicine Buddha pendant waits.
The green soothing color is probably all gone.
Maybe fish occasionally nibble at it.
Down there—at the bottom of the river pools—
fish rock gently in place, frozen in time by the current.
The water blurs, like spilled paint or a splash of orange juice in a glass.
A place where I lost something I once wore close to my heart.
That pendant reminded me:
the power is within.
The power of a clear heart. A clear voice.
That electric, non-mutually-exclusive thrill of:
I am powerful.
That energy can float from inside out.
The Buddha was a reminder. Not a source.
A joyous chill that said: I am okay. I am well. I am great.
Where the Buddha rests, the silence is overwhelming—
so deep it multiplies your heartbeat.
I spread my arms and shade the rays that pierce down through the surface.
The emerald turns darker. Then blue.
The water holds me like a womb.
I must have been born here.
My cells hum the river rhythm.
I am the water.
Every part of my body repeats the laws of flow, beginning and end, entropy.
My blood adds a high tone, like a playful flute.
My heart drums deep: thump, thump.
Ripples sing violin lines.
The waterfalls rise in cello and contrabass.
Right now, we’re playing a variation on the spring movement of The Four Seasons.
We’ve played Mozart’s Requiem too—
not because it was scheduled, but because requiems come unannounced.
Storm swells bring debris.
The water darkens.
It becomes impossible to see.
But after every requiem, comes a light motif.
If you listen closely, you’ll hear Zorba the Greek in the distance—
inviting you to dance again.
To sway.
To move with the flow.
Which never stops.
The Buddha is still not the source.
Just the reminder.
A reminder that we can create beauty,
even after the storms.
