The Guru

There was a man I first drank with as a teenager who we called "The Guru."  He seemed to me to have the perfect life at the time.  I was 19 at the time and I already wanted to be like him.  So mellow and calculated.  So wise and calm.  A true gentleman with all his faculties intact notwithstanding his age being 80.  Such a lucky guy.  I used to drink in our local pub every Sunday with him, my mother and often my grandad and it was a cozy sitting with beer and easy-going smalltalk.  The spirit was that of jovial triviality.  It's easy to see the appeal of this to a teenager who had so many expectations from his peers and in my mind's eye an obligation to supercede them.  Here was the oasis.  I wasn't expected to do anything crazy or new.  Just be.  Be myself.  I could and often sat in silence and just sipped the beer and listened.

When we parted at 10:30pm it was a horrible realisation that I was back to work the next day; the weekend was over.  But not for The Guru.  For him the weekend was forever.  He was free.

He got up at 6:45am and walked to the paper shop.  Then read the paper over breakfast and maybe ventured over to the city centre to drink with friends or acquaintances.  Sometimes he went to the British Legion.  There was snooker.  No expectations, no pressure to deliver results.  Just pure pleasure and relaxation.  I wanted to be just like him.

The pub visits ended when he was unable to walk home afterwards and this signalled a downward trend in his social circle.  We lost touch and soon the only time I ever saw The Guru was if I was driving past and he was walking down the street.

It wasn't long ago I found out that he was in hospital and a suicide risk patient.  I couldn't believe it!  Well, he must be 94/95 by now.  Unbelieveable!  For some a superb retirement but for him the ultimate torture.  Unable to live the way he would like and utterly without proper social opportunities.  This is a scenario I would imagine doesn't befall that many men.  So old that all his peers and old friends are dead.  Even the younger ones.  His ability to get about is hidered by age and with that a prison without walls and bars built.

I now realise the value of my own life moment by moment.  I don't waste time wishing my life away.  I no longer envy old men who have nothing to do with themselves and no pressure to achieve anything.  That is them and this is me.  Envy is just another form of dukkha.  We can all cherry-pick the best bits of other peoples' lives but I bet you wouldn't swap your problems for theirs!

I leave you with the Buddhist parable of 83 Problems.  You can think about this for yourself.

A rich farmer at his wits end seeks relief.
 
“Oh Buddha, the drought drags into a seventh year!  My beans become dust. Again. And my wife’s cooking is scarcely fit for consumption, yet she waxes horribly stout. Huge!  And my six stocky children—lazy, every one. Rats pilfer my eggs, termites chew my timbers, and thieves and mendicants swarm my town....”
 
The Buddha says, “I cannot help you.”
 
The farmer’s eyes pop—all this way he came! For nothing!
 
The Buddha says, “Everyone has 83 problems. If you work out one problem, another will surely take its place. And some problems, like death, have no solution.”

The farmer splutters. 

The Buddha says, “It may be I can assist with your 84th problem?”

“What…?”

“Your desire to have no problems.”