NOTE: In case you missed my previous note, I have had to start moderating comments on The Buddha Diaries. I did so in response to a welter of unwelcome advertisements from spammers, when there seemed to be no other way. I trust this will in no way deter your efforts to post a comment. I do welcome and look forward to response...
(But first, Happy Birthday, Flora. I hope the snow has melted and warmth has returned to Cirencester!)
The place, when we arrive there, is not as I remember it. We are escorted to a back room, furnished as a living room, and invited to sit on a love seat as we order our coffee. Much to my surprise, I discover the reason for the young woman's request: she needs to confess to a murder. What should she do?
What should I advise? I wonder about the Buddhist approach: compassion is called for, but she must also take responsibility for her unskillful action. As I debate the issue, I notice a broken clarinet at our feet (oh, come on! Even Freud admitted that a cigar was sometimes just a cigar. Or was that someone else? As I was saying, a broken clarinet, don't laugh...)
Close by there is a young couple, somehow familiar, who seem to be threatening us for unspecified reasons. The young woman leaves... and my eyes light on an empty wallet on the floor at my feet. My wallet. It is empty. All the money has gone, all the identification, all the credit cards. I begin to think about the nightmare of notifying all the banks. I wonder if this young woman is already off on a spending spree with my cards.
I leave the coffee shop. A long flight of steps leads up to the road I must take to get home. As I climb them, I remember suddenly that I have forgotten to pay for the coffee. I return to the coffee shop to explain, to excuse myself, to assure them I will return to pay the bill if only they will understand my dilemma... And wake up, still worried about that bill I failed to pay.
Riddle me that one. I fear it might have something to do with growing old!
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