Yesterday evening I was on my way to a talk by a visiting Buddhist teacher. I was feeling out of sorts. My heart was filled with yearnings for the life that I didn’t have and this was getting in the way of enjoying the life that was right in front of me. Although I wouldn’t admit it, I was hoping that the teacher would offer me a shortcut out of the funky mood I had been in all week.

When I arrived in town, I decided to stop by a friend’s apartment to drop off my heavy bags. I was due at her house for a party later that evening to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day.

Guy Fawkes was a Roman Catholic revolutionary who, in the 16th century, planned to blow up the (Protestant) British Parliament. He was arrested hours before carrying out the plan. It is one of the delicious oddities of British history, inherited by those of us who live in the colonies, that this failed attempt to kill the King and most of the British nobility and aristocracy is celebrated every year with displays of fireworks and great bonfires upon which an effigy of Fawkes (the “Guy”) is burned.

My friends have a long-standing tradition of celebrating Guy Fawkes at this particular apartment where the roof affords us a perfect view of the city council sponsored fireworks.

The party wasn’t due to start for several hours, so my plan was to drop off my bag, pop out to the talk and return filled with wisdom and equanimity, ready to be pleasant company.

Instead I walked in to find my friend busy in the kitchen trying to make up time on a party preparation plan that had been sabotaged by an unscheduled and lengthy work call. So instead of heading off to the talk, I put down my bags and started making dips and cutting carrots.

As we worked alongside each other, I told her a little about my no-good-rotten week. I was mindful of the fact that her father had died only a few months earlier and therefore somewhat apologetic about my comparatively petty concerns. She was gracious in her response, assuring me that her grief didn’t trump my small sadness.

There was space in her kitchen for my petty blues as well as for her deep loss. There was space also for my profound pleasure in hearing stories about a wonderful new love in her life and for her joy at a long-held dream of mine that was starting to take shape.

I’m not sure what the Buddhist teacher would have said had I made it to the talk, but I suspect he would have encouraged us to practice meditation. We would have sat together in silence as we settled into the spaciousness that is big enough to contain everything that arises, whether sadness or pleasure, grief or joy. Instead I found that space in the tiny kitchen of my friend’s apartment.

She may be more retro-chic rock-star than Buddhist teacher, but last night she taught me all I needed to know about being a large enough vessel to hold whatever arises in our hearts and the hearts of those we love.

2 Responses to “Lessons from a small kitchen”

1. Emma Says:
   November 18th, 2009 at 8:47 am

   Wonderful! Thank you, Marianne.

2. leonie Says:
   November 19th, 2009 at 5:35 am

   amazing how life often serves us up just what we need, even if it’s not what we actually planned! i know this is true in my own life also…

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