the Neurosis of Coming Home

I prostrate three times in front of the golden Buddha that beckons in front, and then walk around to the tree behind. Inspired by my image of the Buddha sitting here thousands of years ago I sit on a ledge of the fence across from the tree, fold my legs, place my hands together with thumb-tips touching and ever so lightly close my eyes.

The tree, magnificent and reaching, catches the shining sun and casts a green glow on everything underneath. Despite the shade, early summer in the center of India surrounds me, making me sweat. As I sit there meditating, peaceful, salty drops roll down my cheeks. Through my slitted eyes I see small Indian feet pointing toward me, though my meditation attempts to drown them out. I hear young voices exclaiming and laughing in Hindi. And though I continue my meditation in this holiest of places, I know a group of Indian tourists are giggling at that moment at the westerner in a tank-top meditating under the bodhi tree.