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Stolen Goods: A Hard Lesson on Life and Non-attachment


I walk out of the yoga studio feeling like I might start floating.  My skin is rippling with energy, and I feel incredibly relaxed.  Even the 40 degree temperatures and light rain don't dampen my mood as I walk happily down the street. 

On a whim, I step into a nearby book store, promising myself that I'm only there to look.  Then I notice that they're doing a sale, buy one get the second 50% off, so I treat myself instead.

Once my purchases are tucked safely in my book bag, I head over to my favorite coffee shop and do some writing.  But things are different today.  It's like my heart has cracked open, and the words are flowing out of me like river.  Hours pass without me realizing it until I finally stop, mentally exhausted, and read over the several pages of text.

Hmmm... it's not perfect, but it's still pretty damn good. Smiling, I gather my things and head back out into the street.  I've got just enough time to ride home, drop off my stuff, and pick up my donation for Food Not Bombs.

Humming to myself, I walk around the corner of a nearby building expecting to see my vintage, baby blue touring bike waiting for me... but it's not there.  . 

For a moment, I stand on the sidewalk and stare dumbly into the air.  As the reality of my situation hits, my heart drops into my stomach, and I forget to breathe. But there's no denying the truth.  My bike has been stolen.

It's hard for most people to understand the bond between a cyclist and their bike.  But if you're a serious rider who puts in lots of miles or lives as a full-time bike commuter like me, your ride starts to become a part of you.

You have stories and matching scars that bind the two you together.  There's that slight tear in the bike saddle from when a truck ran you off the road.  There's that scar on your left forearm from when you crashed during a rain storm, and fond memories of 100-mile rides that left you feeling both exhilarated and exhausted.

In other words, it wasn't some random piece of metal that went missing. It was my friend.

In a daze, I walk around the neighborhood hoping to locate the perpetrator.  But after an hour of searching I give up hope.  My bike is gone, and it's never coming back.  My initial sadness is replaced with anger as I ponder my next move.  The food share is in less than an hour, but helping others is the last thing on my mind.  I feel hurt and pissed off, and I just want to go home.

I take a few steps in that direction, mentally preparing myself for the 3 mile walk back to my house, but then I stop. I start thinking about the men and women who come each week, and how much they depend on the donations. 

The guy who gets extra apples to share with people at his AA meeting, the woman who gets grapes for her son, and the random people who just want a snack before jumping on the bus; they didn't do anything to me.  Why should they suffer because of my misfortune? Is my attachment to my bike getting the best of me?

Buddhism teaches that we can end our suffering by practicing non-attachment.  Often times, this is misunderstood to mean that we shouldn't care about things.  But that's not correct. Caring isn't the problem; it's the holding on.

Buddha discovered this when he left the palace and witnessed the four sources of suffering:
  • Birth/ Living
  • Aging
  • Sickness
  • Death
The thing to remember, however, is that it's not the things themselves that cause dissatisfaction. It's the loss they represent.  For example, aging is a cause of suffering because of our attachment to youth.  

This is why Buddha taught the middle-path as a means to liberation.  He didn't reject the world.  But he also didn't grasp onto it.  Instead, he allowed things to come to him when they were ready.  And he allowed them to leave just the same.  In this way. he held onto life with open hands.

Is this the lesson that I'm supposed to learn; that life giveth, and life taketh away? 

It certainly seems like it.  Because there will come a day when everything I am will be taken from me.  My body, my mind, and my memories will all crumble into dust.  Eventually, even the dust will be gone.

Bicycles are no exception to the rule.  I was always going to lose my ride. It just happened sooner than I expected.  It hurts, but there is no need to dwell on it.  I just need to accept what happened and move on with my life.

With this in mind, I take a deep breath, and try not to look at the people zipping around happily on their bikes.  The world took something special from me today, but it gave me something better.  It gave me this moment, and I've got to make the most of it.

With renewed purpose, I turn my steps towards the market, and start making a list of the produce I'm hoping to collect.  The food share is starting soon, and I have work to do.


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Stolen Goods: A Hard Lesson on Life and Non-attachment




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