One year ago this month, the essay that follows — Someone Stole My Buddha! — was printed in a national magazine called “Spirituality & Health.” Over the years, I’d been published frequently in Sarasota newspapers and once in the Tampa Bay Times, but up to that point — had never hit a national pub. So, as you read the following story, keep in mind that without this “theft,” I might not have received the “gift” of having a long-held dream realized. And, ask yourself this: what are the hidden gifts waiting for you to see them among what you think has been stolen from you — whether you think you’ve been robbed of money, time, experience, freedom, income, youth … consider the gifts that lie within what you feel you have lost.
The Gift the Buddha Thief Left Behind
One morning at the start of the new year in 2019, I woke to find that someone had stolen the Buddha statue that sat just outside the front door of my home. The Buddha had always been visible from inside the living room through a wide, floor-to-ceiling window. I sit in front of this window to meditate, and the Buddha — frequently with a lizard atop his head — was always the first thing I would see as I opened my eyes at the end of the meditation.
On this morning, however, my eyes widened in heart-struck horror at the empty spot where my Buddha usually sat. Apparently, while I had slept, a thief had crept to my front door, hefted the large, concrete Buddha off his stone perch and carried him away into the night.
The statue was precious to me — brought to my home over 15 years ago after I had extricated myself from an abusive relationship. While its presence imparted a much-needed sense of tranquility, it also symbolized a concept I’ve struggled with accepting: that the only permanent condition of life is impermanence.
I know this is true — my own life has certainly shown that. But since my divorce, my fierce desire for security and stability has stymied my ability to truly embrace the concept. After so much chaos, I became a little too attached to circumstances, people, housing, and things that could be counted on to stick around. Even my Buddha was so heavy he could not easily be moved. Or so I thought.
That morning, embracing impermanence was the last thing on my mind. I railed against the callousness of someone stealing a Buddha statue of all things. I angrily fantasized about posting a huge sign in my front yard that read: “Hey, Buddha thief! Watch out — karma’s just around the corner!”
Eventually, I calmed down enough to make a police report. But the policeman’s comment, “The thief probably dumped it in an alley or smashed it up,” only made things worse. I thought about posting something on Facebook — to express my fury and to warn friends and neighbors of nighttime skullduggery. As I began writing, however, the words of outrage quickly petered out, and I found myself wondering: Beyond sharing my angst, what is my intention?
Sitting in front of the computer, fingers poised to type, I realized with surprise that with just a few moments of inquiry and stillness, the feelings of anxiety about what had happened to the Buddha were dissipating somewhat. And my vengeful wish to exact justice on the thief was less intense than before.
Still, though, I could feel myself wanting to indulge in the seductive tug of emotional “upset.” Especially on social media, it’s so tempting to engage with others around the activity of being “upset” about something. Bad day at work? We vent with the hashtag #worstdayever. And feedback from others is swift and sympathetic: That’s awful! #cocktailtherapy! My day was a total loss too!
Despite the lure of wanting quick commiseration, something held me back from sharing the incident on Facebook or even with friends and family.
A few days later, I was walking and listening to Gary Zukav narrate his book, “The Heart of the Soul. “All that you encounter is the teacher and you are the student,” he said. I immediately smiled at the idea but then thought of my missing, possibly shattered Buddha and wondered, What could that horrible Buddha thief possibly teach me?
The following week, at my book club meeting, I decided I was ready to share the story of the stolen Buddha with my book-loving friends. They responded sympathetically, but one friend looked at me and said, “Maybe you’re supposed to learn something from this.”
I knew she was right … and so was Zukav … and so was my heart. Because even though a part of me wanted to focus on the drama of the theft, getting all riled up just didn’t hold the allure it once did.
What did hold allure were the quiet, steady nudges I was receiving — the ones that kept steering me away from my initial inclination to feel violated by theft and hurt by loss. Nudges that were moving me instead to feel gratitude.
Gratitude?
Yes. Because the person who took the Buddha had inadvertently — or perhaps karmically — set me off on a much-needed introspective journey.
The thief’s actions had shone a light on the parts of me that still struggle in darkness. The parts of me that are still all too quick to become angry, or believe that life is difficult, that people can’t be trusted, and nothing good lasts forever.
The theft also helped me see the enormous benefit of pausing before reacting. By not immediately sharing the incident with others, I created an influence-free space for the feelings of upset-ness to deflate. By pausing, I was reminded of what I had learned during my marriage but which, with time and comfort, I’d been less diligent about practicing: I can choose how I respond, and I choose to respond with compassion.
It’s been several weeks now since the Buddha went missing, and I no longer feel a flash of loss when I open my eyes after meditating. Gazing out the window, I no longer see emptiness; I see, instead, the lizards drawing warmth from the sun-heated stone where the Buddha used to sit. I see lush fig tree leaves dappling the space with spots of sun and shade. I see birds swooping through the yard, and people walking their dogs on the street.
He was here and now he is gone. The world is unchanged even as it is changed.
The Buddha was taken, and something far lovelier was given. Namaste.
