I Can't Find my Cows

I like to begin my day with a smooth cup of Fair Trade coffee with cream, and a bitter dose of the latest financial news and opinion.

The reason I care about the economy is that we saved some money during our working years. Like almost everyone else, we grew to expect a certain useful return from the stock market to supplement our pensions. This was important to us because we were both disabled by chronic illness before we had expected to retire. And we have high medical bills.

Each morning now, I see more and more financial authorities predicting a very long, deep recession. What that may mean for us is that our wealth will grow more slowly than we thought, maybe not even keep pace with inflation. We are cutting back in many ways so we can afford to stay in the house we love.

All this uncertainty got me thinking about an ancient story about the burden of ownership. (Parenthetically, let me remark that it doesn't matter if a story happened, as long as it is true.)

In the story, the Buddha is traveling with some monks. Maybe they are just doing the routine daily begging for food. In the ancient tradition, monks take a vow of poverty, own nothing perhaps but one robe, one bowl. In theory, at least, donating food to those who were dedicated to the spiritual life was considered a privilege and a blessing.

The group is sitting by the roadside - one of those spiritual crossroads, maybe - resting, when a layman comes rushing up in a terrible state of anxiety.

The Buddha asks, "Can I help?"

The man says, "I can't find my cows! This morning I found my fence had broken down, and all my cows escaped. Now I can't find them anywhere! Have you seen them?" This is in an economy where your wealth is your cows.

The Buddha promises to keep his eyes open, and the frantic man rushes on. Everyone sits silent for a while, thinking. Chattering is frowned upon in the monastic tradition.

At last the Buddha smiles and says, "Monks, think how fortunate we are, you and I." He gestures at the fields, mountains, sky that surround them. "You and I, we have nothing to worry about. We don't own any cows!"

Lost Horizons

Landscape with Cows, Ralph Blakelock. [Curiously, this painting, which I arrived at searching for cows at twilight, is owned by the Butler Art Museum in Youngstown, Ohio, a few blocks from the house I grew up in.]

Today, according to the way we figure age in the Western tradition, I turned 66, turned, as if you turned a corner and now are looking at—can it be? 70.
In my circles I am practically an authority on old age. Three years ahead of the first Baby Boomer; and aged physically and mentally by chronic kidney disease so that I feel ten years older than I am. So, what is this old age like?

I think it is not entirely unlike the old age of our mothers; you realize that the shining city that lies just over the horizon, that makes the edge glow . . . that city isn’t there. The world of opportunities, the better future. You have already experienced so many times that the marvelous job comes down to grading a huge stack of tediously conceived and written papers. That falling in love couldn't save you. That no Teacher is infallible and no book can tell you what you need to do. You have not really improved yourself much. At best, you have become more what you are.

So instead of finding yourself facing that bright horizon, strikiing out on that purposeful road, you are in this big field. It is not astroturf, but dirt, pebbles, the occasional dog doo, clumps of harsh grass. I do suppose it also has its patch of sunflowers gone to seed, and the goldfinches hanging upside down, busily having lunch.

When you are old, what is all around you is not really a horizon or an edge, just more of same. Distant mountains? The thought of climbing them is not appealing. You go to all that effort to at last stand at the summit — everyone knows that you don’t spend long there. You can see seven counties, or the next state, or Tibet. Soon you are bored. It's time to start back down. They tell you the point is not getting somewhere, but enjoying the climb. Not any more. It takes too much out of you. Fact is, you can see the same view in elegant comfort from the revolving lounge at the top of a big-city hotel. And you have. And you don’t fit your black silk dress anymore, so going to that lounge isn’t all that appealing. You’d have to find some way to dress up.

In age, what a rambling mind you have. Your cows roam in a wide field, having no special purpose to their day but to munch grass, drink water, stay alive; and at evening, as twilight descends, to follow the bell cow slowly home to the comfortable barn, where you expect to be warm and enclosed, shielded from the cold light of the stars.