Time to Think

            

There is a Buddhist centre less than one cigarette’s distance from my house which I’ve walked past many times but tonight I’m walking in. I’ve booked myself on a meditation course called “Letting go.” 3 Wednesday nights from 7 until 8 with refreshments after.

                I am uncomfortable with places of worship. I see them as cold and restrictive with lots of rules and apologies for things I haven’t done (yet) but this aimed to be far more relaxed and free. I am also uncomfortable with people sitting in a field singing “Kum-By-Yar My Lord”, all with a uniform of smiles and joy but here I am, sitting in a relaxed room with happy people. In silence.

                We sang a prayer accompanied by a CD of a guitar (I say we, a few sang while others mouthed the words like school assembly or a goldfish that was the prize at a fare) and settled into a ten minute relaxation meditation before Darren talked through the possible stresses in life, interestingly mostly focussing on family life and kids with occasional references to work. He seems a decent man and very genuine and, according to these topics, I must be stress free.

                Darren moved on to the “Four Nobel Truths” as taught by Buddha but with a modern take before finishing with a meditation reflecting on what he had talked about.

                I didn’t stay for refreshments this first week and I didn’t talk to a single person. I didn’t smile with anyone which is very unlike me and I was out of my comfort zone but on the way home I noticed as I smoked that I felt very relaxed and for a brief moment, very positive.

Next week I’ll stay a bit longer.

THE PLAYGROUND

“My mum cooks baked beans until they are on FIRE but she never burns them. She never burns them but when I scoop them up and into my mouth they stick to the top and they cook me and burn me until flames are coming out of my mouth and steam is bellowing through my nostrils.”

“She’s a witch,” stated Claire. Her frizzy ginger hair was plaited.

“Your Mum’s not a witch” Rupert protested. His eyes were looking into his shoes. His left one had come undone. “She’s nice.”

“Not all witches are nasty, “added Claire, “there are white witches too.”

Robert was duffle coat and glasses and bike lock sensible. “There can’t be nice witches and nasty witches ‘cos there are no such thing as witches.”

            “But if there were,” I reasoned, “Mum would be a good witch.”

“Yeah, I like your Mum. She’s a good egg” added Rupert, his feet were doing an awkward slow motion first class of tap-dancing move and his shoes were scuffed, he noticed.

 “Eggs can be good, and they can be bad.” Reasoned Robert. “My Mum can tell the difference by putting them in water. If they float they’re bad, if they sink they’re good.” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. It may be the other way ‘round.”

 “Didn’t they do that with witches?”