the buddha or the bomb

The Buddha or The Bomb

Stanley Francis Baconstrip had just finished reading the sentence, “The discoveries of modern science have no doubt given their own verdict of opposing alternatives – of either the Buddha or the bomb, for instance – and it is up to each of us to decide which path to follow [1],” when the old tea kettle began its gurgling, pre-whistle throat clearing.

“Better get to it before it screams and wakes the missus,” he said to no one including himself, being the only one at the early morning kitchen table. “Don’t want to send any sirens into her dreams.”

As he took the four steps to the stove, the plastic-covered foam cushion on the seat of the chair he’d been sitting on attempted a slow puffing up toward its usual fullness. He turned the dial on the front of the stove to OFF, causing the circling flame to retreat and the gurgling water within the kettle to settle to a soft, simmery stillness. Lifting the kettle from the stovetop, he hovered it above a Disneyworld mug which contained, flung over its rim like a kite crashed in a ditch, one small bag of Tetley tea attached to a string.

He began pouring the steaming water out of the kettle and into the mug, but that’s when a funny thing happened. His wife suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway, slightly tussled from sleep but obviously well awake, holding the same mug into which he had just begun pouring the water.

Startled at the sight, he looked down and saw that the mug was no longer on the counter – how could it be? – and the kettle was resting quietly on a back burner of the stove, rather than in his right hand. His right hand, and in fact the left as well, was pressed down upon the countertop, and his stance and demeanor were exactly like someone standing in a kitchen trying to remember what they were doing.

“Thanks for the tea,” she said, walking toward the sink to rinse the mug. “That was sweet of you to wake me with it.”

“Mmm,” he said, staring at the stove and trying to remember. He looked at the tiny clock above the burners in hopes of placing himself somewhere in time, but that did no good. He’d always considered clocks to be no more than measuring cups for time, using them only to gauge how long he had between, say, his dental appointment and his office meeting, and when he should arrive for each. They served him no purpose when he had no place to be, so he had no idea at what time he’d started tending the tea.

He turned to speak to her, but felt a sudden stinging in the fingers of his left hand and realized that he had overfilled the mug with hot water, which had now flowed across the countertop and spread to his fingers resting there. He quickly placed the kettle back on the stove as he shook the water from his wet hand and wiped it on the leg of his pants. Grabbing a dish towel, he wiped the counter clean, as well as the sides and bottom of the mug, and took a breath to calm himself.

From the bedroom down the hall, he heard the chirping of his wife’s alarm clock, and then a muffled moan and thump to retrieve silence. He smiled thinking of her in those early morning moments when her guard was down from sleep, and decided that a fresh cup of hot tea might make her transition into the day a more pleasant one.

By the time he entered the bedroom, she had already forgotten that she’d been dreaming she was in the kitchen reading as the kettle threatened to boil.

THE BUDDHA OR THE BOMB

You’ve got left and right
And you’ve got up and down
Would you recognize silence
If you didn’t know sound?
If I’m moving toward you
I’m moving away from something else
And anything I touch
Is being touched by a thing (called me)

Black and white
Day and night
Right or wrong
It’s the Buddha or the bomb

Consciousness is renewable
And evolving too
Just look at the spaces in
You think, you say, and you do
Everything is vibrating
But looks like sitting still
And even destiny aligns
To your own free will

Black and white
Day and night
Right or wrong
It’s the Buddha or the bomb

You’ve got left and right
And you’ve got up and down
How can anything intrude
On your hallowed ground?
Hallowed ground is everywhere
And everywhere is everything
So what I do to you
Circles ’round the ring (of life)

Black and white
Day and night
Right or wrong
It’s the Buddha or the bomb

[1] from Sri Aurobindo: Evolutionary Ideas Of Sri Aurobindo by Kishore Gandhi