Golden Showers

While on my horror sojourn in Newcastle, I started attending buddhist meditation classes with a buddhist monk. This was sometime after the death of my mum from cancer. Aside from an abiding interest in buddhism which I wanted to indulge, I was also hoping that the meditation classes would help with the cripling grief I was experiencing at the time.

So off I went with all sorts of preconceptions which were swiftly demolished on the first evening. The monk's name was Glenn. He gave us his ordained name, which I won't even try to bastardise, and then explained that he was taking a break and wasn't wearing his robes at the moment. OK, a buddhist monk in civilian mufti - I can handle that. So although he was wearing a maroon track suit, he still had that slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile that I associate with a good buddhist monk.

He also explained that unlike the popular idea that meditation was zoning out and having a good ol' relaxin' time, that actually, real meditation was damn hard work. Good for the soul I thought. But no! Buddhists don't believe in souls. It's all about the mind. He explained the dangers of meditation. A solemn lecture, delivered with the full force of aformentioned slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile, of the deceitful abilities of the mind. The first evening consisted entirely of the lecture, which was also extended to include the posture for meditation and the whys and wherefores. It was amazingly technical and sounded like learning to drive!

That night I also learnt that Buddha, was not The Buddha, but just a buddha. The Guatama Buddha, also known as Siddharta was just the latest to come for a visit to rekindle the Dharma. Apparently there are millions of buddhas... the White Tara, the medicine buddha... loads and loads of them. Oh!

Visualising a buddha, whether it be the Gautama buddha or another was an important part of the meditation.

And there was an ordered approach to the preparation for meditation which was as important as the meditation itself. First thing apon waking, a drink of water to refresh the body. Blow your nose, no tissues, over the sink to clear the sinuses, then a shower to cleanse the body.

Part of the shower ritual was also to do a visualisation that would cleanse the etheric body of impurities. This involved imagining a buddha raining down on you a golden light which premeates your body and with the water from the shower head, washes away any ugly little spiritual stains sticking to your metaphysical insides.

Right oh! So I'm showering with buddha. Can do!

And this is where I come unstuck. The deceitful power of the mind.

You see, in visualising a buddha, you are told that a buddha is an enlightened being. A perfect sentient entity. Part of that perfection is an unearthly physical (metaphysical?) beauty. An unearthly, youthful physical beauty composed of golden light.

I'm in the shower, first thing in the morning, happily visualising away. I'm showering and a golden light is raining down on me from a buddha, an unearthly, beautiful youth composed of golden light.

You know, I've been as good as gold! And it's been a while between drinks, if you know what I mean. It's been so long, I'm almost a card carrying monk myself!

The power of the deceitful mind. Plus unintentioned abstinance. Plus an overactive imagination.

Somehow, by degrees after a couple of morning shower rituals, my aloof, glowing, golden buddha, slowly decends from the mystic heavens and takes on a decidely more material aspect and I find myself visualising a shower buddy rather than a shower buddha. Who now keeps appearing in the guise of Czech adult entertainment star.

Oh my god! I've accidently discovered the porno buddha!

Of course having a zealously religious protestant upbringing and having turned towards eastern mysticism I'm completely racked by Catholic guilt! I feel so guilty about being aroused by porno buddha in the mornings that I can no longer face the slightly eerie ethereal aura and perpetual almost smile of Glenn the buddhist monk in civilian mufti.

I even try, in desperation, to visualise my shower buddha as a woman. But she morphs into Angelina Jolie and for some reason that's just as bad. (Latent heterosexuality?)

I stop attending classes.

I still experience the cripling grief.

But slowly, in time, I begin to heal.

And millions of buddhas are smiling down on me. Including my special friend, porno buddha.

I dedicate what ever merit this post may contain, to the benefit of all sentient entities in the universe.