Buddhaflies

It always amazes me how I can never find my reading glasses but can still manage to remember little things from over one hundred years ago. Today is no exception as I sit here meditating within the forest grove smoking my opium pipe. The birds sing merrily in the trees as I realise the purity of all living things around me. On my hand arrives a butterfly, its wings opening and closing. Each wink displaying a myriad of exquisite colours. They remind me of the colours of life, and suddenly the memory of being a very young child, struggling with limited powers of pronunciation tickles me…

…In my minds eye I am Figaro as a small child again running through sunburnt fields and ripe orchards which surround my parent’s vineyard. I am running with my net, chasing, ‘Buddhaflies....’

…The memory slowly fades, and I focus again upon the finely painted blue, red, and yellows hues which move along my arm, now. Pleasant sensations caress my skin as miniature legs crawl through my jungle of grey body hair. So small is this delicate creature, though in many ways very like myself, a miniscule part of the greater sum, as we sit here within the forest grove, but two specks of differing size.

I watch her with patient interest as she crawls steadily along, her tiny antennae waving in the direction of my temple home. I radiate friendliness from my very being into my little visitor, and I see she has now begun to dance in small circles. Once again, she stops and winks her wings, and I think perhaps she plans to fly away. But will she? And what exactly does she make of me seated here with my serene smile, I wonder. That I am a simpering idiot? Perhaps. But so. Ha, ha.

She answers me with a final wink before she goes as if sharing my humour.’

I watch her disappear behind a huge oak tree as she flutters effortlessly toward the red carpet of the poppy fields beyond, and I imagine she is sprinkling the seeds of benevolence tenfold with every flutter. There I end my seated contemplation for today, and lay down my pipe, whilst in my mind I bookmark what profitable thoughts I have absorbed here, the ones which lighten the woe of life.

To end as always I pick up the Spanish guitar which lies by my side and begin to gently pick and strum with my left hand. It has been a part of me for over eight decades. It was given to me by Captain Moro when my own was lost down a craggy ravine as we made our perilous way along a crumbling short cut. Avoiding capture by the English Navy as we hurried down to the bay of Gold Coast with the Africans in chains…

… In my minds eye we safely board San Justo and escape the poachers in time. As we set off full sail for South America. When we are safely away from our pursuers, I see the finely crafted instrument for the first time, as the captain brings it out from his quarters and hands it to me, before he tells me the story of how the instrument had been left in his hands when he’d tried to save the falling musician in vain during their last risky getaway from the Gold Coast.. He orders me to play Flamenco, and after a short tune up I do my best to lighten the heavy souls of him and his men. I am reluctant at first, but it is as I begin to play that I feel the spirit musician, still ingrained like a soul within the rich wood as it comes alive once more, harmonious beneath my fingers…

… As the memory fades, I feel no reluctance and only joy. I love to play out here in the forest. And I manage a light flamenco melody as my fingers move over the strings as well as my old bones will allow. Today the pain is not too bad and the sound seems pleasing enough.

As I play I see leaves floating upon a gentle breeze over near the trees. I think this is indeed strange as autumn is still nearly a month away. But I continue to play and observe to my delight as the golden red leaves become the fluttering wings of many small butterflies instead. They fly towards me in a beautiful sweeping veil, and some have landed on my legs, and on my guitar. Others land on my ground mat. This is a new experience and I am overwhelmed, but I choose to remain steadfast like the Buddha Rupa made of rock...

I sense my feelings as they pass over, and instead I am filled with the energy brought about through the benevolent presence. It fills my heart to the brim with quiet mirth and the joy seeps out through my body in and sends out tendrils of euphoria in every direction. I sigh with relief as the pain in my fingers disappears, and the chords I play become sweeter, more urgent; demanding dance...

…In my minds eye I am Figaro, 19, tall, dark featured, and handsome, leaving San Justo for the last time. A young man home at last to celebrate with wine, song, dance, and women. I see a senorita in a beautiful dress. Her dancing is filled with the spirit of the flamenco. Her castanets clack in time to the beat as she encourages the colourful people all around me to join in with clapping and singing and the stomping of feet. The campfires burn brightly as I play my guitar, and I wish the nights would last forever…

…The memory fades and the flamenco slows in tempo as the butterflies begin to leave me one by one, headed once again back for the red carpet of the poppy fields. For a moment I am filled with despair and loss, but like the Buddha I realise the truth, and come to know that all things are transient. No surprise then that my smile comes naturally as I lay down with my Spanish guitar, and my empty pipe, to rest my contented soul, as I whisper: ‘Manana.’ The fingers of my left hand still picking at imaginary strings.