Buddha came over the other morning and rang my doorbell.

I hate how he does that.

He rings it only once, sharp and sweet, and then just waits…and waits…and waits.

He has the patience of a, well, Buddha.

Sometimes I peek out the curtains to see if it’s him, wondering why he’ll wait there for such a long time and yet never ring the bell again, just to make sure.

He is so serene in his moment of patience that I wish I had a camera to capture the pure lines of his face, so perfectly in the moment, so beautifully benign.

All my life I have been in search of The Buddha, anxious to find him, frantic in my efforts.

Now here he is, unexpectedly persistent in his weekly visit to my front porch…and I’m in my pajamas, pretending I’m not home.

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