Cawou and Mu
In one of the aspects (types) of Mahayana Buddhism, the Muji koan is first given:
A monk asked Joshu, “Does a dog have Buddha Name or not?”
Joshu replied, “Mu.”
The exercise is supposed to be a transcending of the “has” and “has not.” It is supposed to herald the experience of nothingness that is infinite potential. The contemplation of Mu has been described in various ways as the universe collapsing, the body and mind falling away.
Kind of like falling in love, which is really what today’s serving (of verbiage, be warned) is all about.
Our main character has found herself a mu. In relationship parlance it’s an acronym, we all know very well (together now all ya single ladies in the house!), for Mutual Understanding. Over festive lunch, with much mirth, and notably very little alcohol, Majalla, Melit and myself were captive audience to the telling of a love story, the introduction and the first chapter.
Let me say first off that a bus ride and a magazine can be the ingredients to something uncertain, terrifying, but invariably wonderfully inviting. A dash of reckless hopefulness adds spice. Uncharacteristically, our heroine gave him her number.
Let me say first off, second off, something about our Cawou, our Cawou because no matter where she parks her heart, we will always demand/very kindly request that she put pieces (tiny of course) of it in our couches, our beds, our kitchens. Dry your tears now, Melit. Cawou is our rock steady, pop and sonic anchor. When she calls, her children gather. She started off as the quintessential good girl, magna cum laude of her class, with clean liver and healthy lungs (but bad thyroid). There have been bouts of conscience attacks on the part of her older friends, half seconds of contriteness for thoughtlessly pointing to the path of alcohol and monoxide. But only for a half a second. Bird of the same feather is the same bird. She can out-drink anyone now, this being only one of her minor talents. She will be embarassed, miffed by this slobbering and embarassing doting and second hand display of affection, so pardon me in advance and very kindly blame it on dotage.
Cawou is Kant’s moral imperative personified in a sexy package. Compassionate, unrelentingly helpful and generous to a fault (she has fed this older hapless fool many a hungry nights, paid for jeepney fares many a lonely rainy nights, but more importantly provided for her niece). Wrap uncompromising scruples in cotton candy, menthol smokes, and dessert of ice cream and cake and we have only begun to scratch an aspect of one of the world’s best hugger.
So yes, children, we will have fried duck (pun wholeheartedly intended) for dinner if someone screws up.
But our protagonist had (still struggles with) her fears: commitment, children, responsibilities, forever. It is those who mean every gesture that feels the staggering weight of the world. Keeping every promise, she staggers a bit. In her anxiety forgot (but only for a while) that one can choose to step lightly and choose very capably to glide and enjoy the (bus) ride.
But last Christmas, brave brave Christmas, our heroine decided to go for a joyride. A decidedly official joyride. Hear ye hear ye! *place fireworks timed with ribbon cutting here*
To a joyful journey! To uncertainty, yes. To possibilities, most definitely. However which way this works out the beers are chilling. Glide…
Leave a Reply