Bye-Bye

Ursula, who taught me to drive, became a Buddhist nun and a follower of the Dalai Lama, whom she called H. H. (for His Holiness). She went to live in Dharamsala and sent me a drawing which I copied and attached to a door. It shows a little monk at nine stages of his life. There is a Y-crossroads at the ninth stage, where he may return to the beginning, carrying his torch, or go on to the tenth state, Liberation.

In a recent interview on television, H. H. spoke of a problem which would have to be left for the next generation. "My generation is getting ready to say Bye-Bye", he said with perfect good humor, equanimity and confidence.

H. H. and I are the same age, and I have no good humor, equanimity or confidence at the prospect of saying Bye-Bye, whether to a shirt I like or, heaven forbid, to an adored pet, much less to a cherished friend or family member. Not that we have a choice in most cases.

Staggering under the weight of such musings, Nicodemus and I took a day off. We drove away from the fog, ate things which are not good for you at a pub, bought frivolous art supplies which we don't really need, picked wild pincushion flowers, and bought ourselves matching khaki caps at the army surplus store.

Just as if we had all the time in the world.