rumitoid

I played the drum. We had these great uniforms, white pants and a sweater with our colors, green and gold. My expectations for the upcoming parade were high: I was gonna be popular, maybe even envied. The night before, and I am not sure how it happened, I spilled red ink on my pants; they were ruined. I was forced to use the unstarched and uncreaseable white pant from last year's school play. Now I would look like a buffoon. There is now way I couldn't show up. Towards the end of the parade, blushing all the way before, I had this transcendental experience of my brush with going from the sublime to the ridiculous: have no expectations.

Thirty years later I would read in Zen Flesh, Zen Bones the same advice. "Reduce your expectations to zero." This was akin to Jesus saying that being friendly with the world was being at enmity with God. I learned that I cannot place my hopes and desires on worldly things. I object at times, or forget, that perfect advice. This story better explains my point.

One day this Chinese subsistant farmer, just barely getting by, lost his horse that pulled his plow. His neighbors of this small community rushed to comfort his ruinous loss. He said to them, "Good news, bad news who knows." A few days later the stallion returned with a brood of mares. His neighbors rushed to congratulate his good fortune. He said, "Good news, bad news, who knows." The next day his son set out to domesticate one of the mares and broke his leg. His neighbors rushed to comfort him. He said, "Good news, bad news who knows." The next week the Chinese Army came through conscripting all the able men. Good news, bad news, who knows.