Periwinkle finally.

I ate Periwinkle for the first time of this incarnation the other night. I only put it that way, hippy-dippy that is, because of some little tidbit I remember from a religion class years ago. Apparently there was a sect of Buddhism that was located in an isolated part of Japan that really had no food options other than fish. The benevolent wisdom provided by Buddha allowed them to create doctrinal justification for why fish were really swimming vegetables. While I no longer consider myself a student of Buddhism this is a good place to mention that the compassion I learned from my studies prevents me, even now, from making jokes about quadriplegics at sea. The taste of Periwinkle was somewhere between that of butter, a tide pool and rhinoceros. While these things are obviously evocative flavors, something deeper than my last clambake in the Sahara came to mind.

Simply, I was once a master practitioner. Little things like debt and white male angst did not bother me. I sat under a lotus tree and wove nets to catch fishermen. I spoke to every creature my feet trod upon, trying to ease their suffering. I likely had a paper route.

Now, tired from working two shifts, insomnia the night before, and the two beers I thought necessary to slow myself down, I can't even bear the thought of my life partner, my ten year old dog, suffering. He represents mortality to me right now. He has lumps and itches that I can’t solve. He is uneasy and unwilling to get in bed when all I want, all I really think I need is sleep. Fucker.

All this means is that at 5 in the morning I wake up, unaware that Standing has been laying with the beast throughout the night comforting him despite his reluctance to lay down with us. I wake up staring at him, my eyes glazed with crust but naturally falling directly on him. For that moment he is ten weeks old again, a gentle ball of fuzz and promise yanking at my conviction and wanting to climb onto the couch to sleep with me. He hasn’t ridden across the country with me or wrapped himself like a water bottle against my sore belly. He will need a few years to come to my rescue at a rest area, a few weeks to discover his natural ability to chase seagulls down the beach. He has no lumps or ailments; he is simply a promise of devotion and love. This silly little beast, simply through his soft breathing, coarse coated existence, makes time collapse on itself for a few moments. Here he is almost ten, there I am 19, taking him into my life and learning from him every day.

Maybe I have stopped practicing what I used to. Maybe I am less compassionate than I should be, and maybe ten years has changed both of us more than is fair. However it breaks down, whatever the right answer is when I find it, I learned one thing in my two minutes of awareness that morning: It is impossible to extend compassion to others without a foundation of gratitude to reach off of. I am beyond-words grateful for the time I have been allowed with my dog.