PHAT THAI

PHAT THAI

I am sitting in a family diner in my favorite Rochester neighborhood. I have always liked this homey restaurant, but I have become a more frequent visitor since the Vietnamese cook from the diner down the street became the owner here. Now, the menu includes wonderful Asian dishes, as well as the usual diner fare. Phat Thai is my usual order, with extra peanuts and a slice of lime.

I have chosen to sit at a table directly facing the small Buddhist shrine set up by the owner. The lights, colors, and shimmer of bronze make it a peaceful sight. I sit here as often as possible because it transforms how I feel.

I think of my dear Laotian brother, Bounchanh, as I sit here. Before he moved back to Laos, I asked him for advice on meditation. Meditation.. He had shared his own meditation practice with me. Every day he would ask Buddha to help him with the one thing that was most important to him.

I am asking Buddha to help me to stop being disappointed in myself. I want to see the beauty in myself. I want to discover the unique creativity and spirituality that has come from the unique life that is mine and only mine.

I have been unable to write for over a year now. At first, it was the flood of grief that engulfed me when Tasha, my beloved black shepherd, died so suddenly on January 21, 2009. Then it was the ever increasing fatigue and deepening depression that turned out to be symptoms of worsening diabetes. With the introduction of insulin into my health care in late December, the leaden weight of a body starving for energy lifted.

When I regained some energy and focus in January and February, I think I began to hope that it would all go away: not just the out-of-control blood sugar problems caused by diabetes, but also the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, and Neurocardiogenic Syncope. These diseases have disabled me for nineteen and a half years – one-third of my life. I have attempted to return to work seven different times, but each effort landed me back in complete bed rest for weeks and often months. There is no treatment or cure for most of what I have.

Every day this week I looked around at dirty dishes, trash, dusty floors, and papers that needed recycling. I had just returned from a nine day trip to see my eighty-eight year old mother in Maine. I had tried so hard to do things around the house there: helping with meal preparation, doing the wash – but each time I ended up collapsing in tears and exhaustion. I am ashamed of my life. It seems so limited.

Shame is a useless thing. Better suited for Bernie Madoff than me. Yet the irony is that I am sure this sentiment never surfaces in his consciousness, when he has wiped out the lives of so many people. On the other hand, I was working as a full-time parish minister when a dramatic onset of illness left me disabled. My whole life had been focused on helping others, both as a teacher and as a minister. I am constantly riddled with shame for being unable to continue this.

Shame keeps me from telling the story I need to tell. Shame prevents me from enjoying the life I do have. When shame comes to visit me, I am unusually caught unaware and with open ears, listen to its voice.

“You never reached your potential....”

“You have been ill too long....”

“You should never have another relationship. You have proven that you can't make them
work....”

“You weren't taught to keep house this way....”

“You embarrass your family....”

“You must have brought your troubles on yourself....”

I am so polite. I listen too long.

I see myself sitting on a rocky ledge high up the side of a mountain. In front of me is a spectacular panorama.

But I can't see it. Because shame is a giant. It blocks the view.

It is my turn to talk.

“Excuse me. I need to feel the silence and hear the breeze. I know you are tired from
carrying that burden.”

I suggest that Shame stroll down the nearby mountain path and sit beneath the shade of the old maple tree. I tell her that a neighbor will bring her afternoon tea and cookies.

I am by myself at last. I look out at the contrast of dark green mountains and Titian blue sky. I feel the happiness of it all.

I glance down the slope to watch Shame setting its burden down in the alpine grass. As the wind rustles in the leaves of the old tree, I catch another glimpse of the sitting giant.

When she thought that no one looking, Shame smiled.