better belly than britney's

as i type this, a miniature statue of the Laughing Buddha gazes down at me from the top of my computer screen. beneath him is a banner i got at a yoga retreat a few winters ago that says:

you are buddha-full.

ah.

i am.

you are.

i mentally remark how funny it is that we miss the messages that sit right in front of us day after day. free. no charge. waiting patiently for us to see them, hear them, take them in. pluck them like rosepetals, rub them between our fingers, and carry the scent with us for days...

poor buddha. he must be tired. standing there for weeks w/ his arms up like that. and yet, he still smiles. ear to ear. chubby chin to chubby chest. just happy, i guess, that he finally got my attention.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder buddha's round frame and wonder if he ever felt self-conscious about his girth.

i don't think so. he's too busy laughing. loving. being. doing The Wave at some eternal sporting event.

you are buddha-full.

i ponder my woman's frame and wonder why i always feel self-conscious about my girth, my birth, hell...my worth.

i dunno. i'm too tired to think about it. too tired to create my own mantras. for tonite, i'll just follow the buddha's cue, throw my hands in the air, and laugh:

i am buddha-full.

that little round guy over there on my computer screen said so.