Zen and the Mud Puddle

I took my dog, Vivian, out for her morning walk yesterday. Halfway through, she lunged towards another canine across the street. I lost my balance and stepped into a deep mud puddle.

I got angry at Vivian, but it’s on me; I trained her poorly. As the walk continued, I was reminded of what a yoga teacher said at the end of each practice: “May you live like the lotus, at home in the muddy water.”

I often wish I could be like that lotus. But it’s a process, and sometimes a muddy shoe prevents you from achieving Zen.

The Great American Past-Time

After the ride to the station, the hum of the train, the anticipation at the ticket gate, buying a new cap for a new season, a new beginning, Clay anxiously took his seat along the third baseline.


A year had passed since he had attended one of these. Now, he’d swear he could smell the Kentucky bluegrass.


The mask he wore reminded him that not that long had passed since he could only watch them on television.


But he was here now. All he needed was to hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd.

Frozen in a field of Pradas

“Maximus has something in his mouth!” Janet frantically whispered to Brandon, waking him up. “He’s under the bed!”

When Brandon shined his Maglite under the bed, he saw a three-inch field mouse–scampering into their closet.

“What is it?”

“It’s a mouse, presumably drowning in your Pradas.”

“Ew!”

Brandon found the rodent poking his head out of a black pump, frozen in Brandon’s light.

“Where in the hell is that cat?” Brandon complained to no one while fetching a bag and a broom.

But Maximus was coiled on the bed, content that He did his part for his pride.