Free Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf

Gatherer and Guardian of the Dhamma.
    “Kings and rulers make laws,” began the
Buddha. “Such laws are made for groups of men and women. Such laws
are like tethers which rein and prod and steer oxen from without.
Thus you can prod and steer manifold beings, a city, a society, but
you cannot wake them.
    “In truth, Ananda, only the being himself,
or herself, can wake the being—and only from within.
    “Men’s laws are like walls or fences which
contain the herd, and keep it from straying. They are like the
banks or levees of a river to guide its course or prevent its
overflowing.”
    “We have many rules for the Sangha,” said
Ananda. “Many banks.”
    “These are to keep the bhikkhu from
straying,” said the Buddha. “And to calm him so that he, guided by
his own pure light, may still his mind and see himself clear to
awakening.”
    “Only drop by drop, then?” said Ananda,
still privately despairing at the uncountable number of drops in
the ocean of humanity.
    “Awakening happens drop by drop.”
    After a brief silence, Ananda asked, “How
are we to reach so many?”
    Gotama Buddha did not answer at first.
Instead he looked up at the sky, at the golden ribbons of cloud,
then over at the Sangha, busy preparing for their morning
alms-gathering. Then he turned to his friend and said:
    “I reach you and one more. You and one more
reach two each. Those all reach two each.”
    “But some sleep so deeply.”
    “Most sleep so deeply,” said the Buddha.
    “How are we to reach them?”
    “With metta. With compassion. With
patience.”
    “And with the Dhamma?”
    “And with the Dhamma,” confirmed the
Buddha.
    “It will be a long journey,” said
Ananda.
    “It will last as long as there is time to
last it.”
    “Please explain.”
    “When the last drop leaves the ocean, there
will be no ocean. There will be no time.”
    “Only Nibbana?”
    “Only Nibbana.”
    “I understand,” said Ananda.

:: 12 :: (Tusita Heaven)
     
    I hear Ananda reply from his little cabin
among the trees, as he dreams my return into being in short spurts
of pleasant keyboard clicks. A writer now, ensconced in his little
town, writing and waiting, and now listening—and hearing—as
well.
    I have found him. And I have found him in
good time. And I know what to ask. “Ananda,” I say.
    “Friend,” he answers.
    “How far is Still River from Pasadena?”
    “A thousand miles.”
    “Can you come?”
    “Of course.”
    “Can you come now?”
    “Of course. But why now? You are yet to be
born.”
    “I want you to befriend her.”
    “Her?”
    “My mother. Her name is Melissa. She needs a
friend. Someone she can trust.”
    “She has a husband, surely?”
    “Of course.”
    “Then why me?”
    It is a good question, but the truth is that
I see an unreliable father in my future. “Her husband is not her
friend. He will not do,” I answer.
    “Will not do for what?”
    “Will not do for my arrival. For my
rearing.”
    “I see.”
    “Go to her now that she will know you well
before I arrive.”
    “How?” Ananda asks, with another rush of
soft clicks.
    “Go there,” I say. “We will think of the
best approach as you drive.”

:: 13 :: (Ancient India)
     
    Toward evening the following day, Ananda
brooding still and not saying much, the Buddha said, “You have
other questions, Ananda. What are they?”
    Ananda nodded, yes, he had other questions.
At least one:
    “How many oceans are there in the universe,
Gotama?”
    “There are as many oceans in the universe as
there are drops in our oceans.”
    Ananda, for all his usual equanimity
appeared—was, in fact—shocked. But still he dared to ask, “And each
drop has to waken from within?”
    “Yes.”
    “How many universes are there?”
    “Many.”
    “We will never be done,” said Ananda, his
voice broken by despair.
    The Buddha smiled. “Never is a very long
time, Ananda.”
    “Some drops sleep very deeply and will take
many lives to stir.”
    “I