I don’t know if the Buddha precisely discussed a matter we might term ‘beverage karma,’ but if he had, I would recently have been slotted into the category of ‘dismal.’ Early last month I ground the last of my good coffee and proceeded to the mediocres I'd received and politely stored away as well-meaning gifts. These disappeared around the turn of the year, forcing me to finally crack open the ‘in case of emergency break glass’ bag of 8 O’Clock potting soil I’d hidden in a plain brown wrapper at the back of the freezer. It’s as one of our monks so eloquently put it once, “drugs is drugs,” but honestly I prefer to indulge my one remaining vice with just a bit more panache.
Today, however, the black cloud lifted, and was that just a wisp of angelic chorus I detected on the icy breeze?
Brother Luke has returned from his mothership in Seattle, bearing two bags of life-giving elixir devotedly roasted by the good friars at All-Merciful Savior (you got that right) Russian Orthodox Monastery of that little NW Eden, Vashon Island. He did get ground instead of whole bean, but in the spirit of the source, I’m full of forgiveness.
In’shahallah, there are also Dean’s Beans winging their way Mongolward, courtesy of a truly loving sister.
But the sudden upsurge of pure beverage karmic ripening didn’t stop there today. You know you’ve been in Mongolia a while when you walk into a temple, read a handwritten sign that says, “Fresh Camel Milk Available; Inquire Within,” and you go, “Camel milk?! Dig it!!” and gallop off to score a liter, forgetting your previous errand in rapt anticipation of hot, sweet creamy goodness on tomorrow’s muesli.
And that’s it. That’s all I got today.
Oh wait. That's not true. Check it. In my 18 years as a Buddhist, I've never seen anything like the Buddha Head of Kruba Woon.