Possessions

I look at two small boxes of Buddhist books. I have carried these around with me for twenty five years. The boxes are old wine crates from the trash, crudely converted into mini-bookcases. Discarded wine crates were nicer twenty-five years ago. They have worn charm.

The books are what concern me now. Decomposing pages of compositions of the Japanese Buddha, according to some. Nichiren Daishonin's journals in five volumes were important to my mind's evolution back in the day. They no longer have the same punch for me. As much as I appreciate the words, those pages are dripping with the religion and manners of medieval Japan. Good for diversion, bad for focusing on the now.

There are a handful of mini-books, which I have not yet passed out to friend or acquaintance. Those are easily disposed of:  I Ching, Tao Teh Ching, Chuang Tsu, Tibetan Book of the Dead, Krishnamurti Meditations and Giono's The Man Who Planted Trees. They all look fresh, despite being opened regularly by me.The pocket editions of The Upanishads and The Bhagavad Gita are appropriately yellowed and broken in. Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds sits atop The Threefold Lotus Sutra. And, there is my sentimental favorite, Buddhism for Sheep by Chris Riddell and Louise Howard.

I look at the cases frequently. They look back defiantly. "You know you can't throw us away, " I hear them say. But they are wrong. I can free myself of them, and may do so soon. Soon. What a situation to be in! Weighed down by the possessions which have fueled my quest for detachment.