The Vipassana Diaries: Bus

To get to Vipassana, I had to take a bus from Montreal to Hawkesbury. You could tell who was going to Vipassana by their sleeping bags. Two people hadn’t bought tickets ahead of time and barely got a spot. I was relieved to avoid this last minute stress. Since it was my third time applying, I still had in the back of my mind that somehow it was still going to fall through. 

The girl beside me was going. She had her luggage on her lap. We chatted a little bit, about it being our first time. About having kids or not having kids. About having dogs or cats. About having partners. Then she fell asleep.

I went to the bathroom and I saw my bum in the mirror. It was full and white, with small zits on it. Bums and hands are only bums and hands because we call them that.

Everyone on the bus had a bum and hands. When I was little, I always used to think about this.

Think of all the bums in this room, I would think.

Back from the bathroom, I texted frantically with my friend Rhetta from Montreal. Boyfriend this. Yoga that. I kept postponing when I was going to turn off my phone. Just one more text. Finally I decided I should probably save some battery for when I got out.

The Montreal bus drove us to Hawkesbury. Hawkesbury seemed like a hole of a town. The sky in Hawkesbury did not look as beautiful as skies usually look.

I looked around and wondered if anybody here would be my friend if I met them somewhere else besides Vipassana. Soon it wouldn’t matter because we wouldn’t be allowed to talk. Besides my incessant hair twirling and fawn eyes, probably I was relatively ordinary looking. I was wearing a long black joe fresh skirt, a tank top, a jean jacket and birkenstocks. But I felt like I was the weirdest person there. And I felt lonely.

With small tears in my eyes, I called the Boatman one more time to say I love you. The Boatman said, oh yes, it is a bit sad, but you will be okay.

A tiny school bus picked us up to drive us to the centre. It didn’t seem possible that all of our luggage and bodies would fit. My obnoxiously enormous black suitcase went on first. I noticed a bald middle-aged man with a cane and a limp.

This might be hard for him, I thought.

Packed onto the bus, everyone opened the windows and everyone’s hair blew frenetically. I wondered if I knew what frenetic really meant. I worried if I’d said good-bye and I love you enough times to enough people. That is probably what people worry about as they’re dying. Saying I love you before they turn off their phones.

The End.




 

 

Erica (me), ink on paper, July 10, 2014 by the Boatman Follow the Boatman on TUMBLR: http://verysatisfied.tumblr.com   Follow me on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor My $2 self-help book Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

 
The Vipassana Diaries: Day Zero
The Vipassana Diaries: Food Belly
Vipassana Diaries/Ashtanga Memoirs: You Cling To Things Until They Die (Ham Wraps, S.I. Joints Etc.)
Why I Like to Pee Outside

Erica (me), ink on paper, July 10, 2014

by the Boatman

Follow the Boatman on TUMBLR:

http://verysatisfied.tumblr.com

 

Follow me on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

My $2 self-help book

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

 

Bumster

One of the things that Montessori children take off the shelves is called “Boxes and Bottles.”  They take a container off of the shelf and inside the container, there are other containers called boxes and bottles, that the children must learn how to open and close.  Some of the containers used to hold perfume.  Others used to hold lip gloss, or the oil you put on your skin after ripping off your pubic hair with wax. 
 
Now all of the containers are empty.  The children must figure out how to remove the lids. And how to put the lids back on.  Sometimes the lids fall down onto the floor and it is somewhat exciting.  Sometimes they drop them onto the floor on purpose, but they pretend that it was an accident.
 
One of the containers in “Boxes and Bottles” is tiny, ceramic, and oval-shaped.  Probably it used to hold earrings, or some other jewelery.  On one side, there is a hinge.  When you open it, there are two ovals side by side, and it looks like a bum.  It took me several weeks to figure this out.  The children figured it out in about thirty seconds.


A Bonobo Bum.  Not exactly like Bumster, but worth looking at. It's like a flower bum.  The children would definitely like it. 

 “Bumster,” Leila declared, christening the little jewelry box as she set it on the table.  Bumster the container, the jewelry box.   Immediately, Bumster became the hero of the classroom.   That’s Bumster’s favourite book.  His favourite table.  His favourite piece of chalk.  When Jacob doesn’t push in his chair, or Sarah has stinky farts, Bumster must be called.

The children call Bumster by picking up little puzzle map pieces, pieces of Africa, and holding them up to their ears.

“Hello, Bumster,”  they say.  “Calling Bumster.  Alison pooped her pants.”  Or she picked her nose.  Alison is sitting in front of the puzzle of Africa.  She is giggling uncontrollably.  Her underwear is clean.  No poop. No toot.

We don’t say fart at Montessori School.  It’s a bad, inappropriate word.

No fart.

One morning, Jacob wasn’t being careful with his boxes and his bottles and Bumster crashed onto the floor.

“Oh my gosh,” gasped Leila.  “Is Bumster okay?”

Jacob bent over and looked.  It seemed as though Bumster had survived unscathed.

“He’s okay,” said Jacob.

“Well, we have to be careful with Bumster,” exclaimed Leila. “We don’t want him to get damaged. 

Bumster has a favourite book. It’s an illustrated French dictionary for children, with pictures of apples and forks and monkeys.  Everything the children want to know how to say. 

There is a certain reverence that takes place amongst the children when someone is working with “Boxes and Bottles.”  Bumster’s in the house.  Don’t touch that, it’s Bumster’s.  Don’t do that.  Bumster hates that.  Shh, Bumster’s here.

Then one afternoon, Bumster falls again.  Leila is busy, sewing a button on a square piece of cloth, or polishing a dog made out of brass.  One of Bumster’s oval’s has cracked. Damaged, very badly.  Leila doesn’t notice, and Jacob doesn’t care. 

“Oh no,” exclaims the Montessori directress, holding Bumster’s two ovals in the palms of her hands.   In one palm, Bumster’s oval is intact.  In the other, the oval is shattered.  My co-worker waits, palms open, in the middle of the room.  I watch carefully.

We are both waiting for grief. And a commemorative ceremony.  For Bumster.  None of the children look up from their work. Then Kate looks up from the wooden beads she is stringing on a thick piece of thread.

“Oh,” she says.  “It’s Bum Skirt.” 

My co-worker carries Bumster/Bum Skirt and places him in the garbage, full of paper towel that has dried the children’s washed hands.   They wash their hands at an unimaginable frequency.  Until their knuckles turn red and break open.  Bumster rests amongst the towels that dry these raw, red hands. 

Bumster or Bum Skirt.

No one knows anymore.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

What the fuck should I do with my life, Part Two
Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas
Locks and Keys