The Buddhas Are Gone

The altar is bare. One small mandarin orange, a jar of dried sage, a single crystal — that is all that remains.

The Buddhas are missing.
Fat, happy Buddha — gone.
Tall, regal Buddha — gone.
Translucent pink Tara — gone.

Is it an omen? A warning? A promise?

Or did you tuck them away for safekeeping as the world around you churns out of control?

Shove them in your pockets to ensure a safe journey through a dangerous land?

Perhaps, they simply vanished into thin air?

But, does it matter where they are now or even how they came to be missing? No, because the Buddhas are gone.

Yes, the Buddhas are gone. The altar is bare and yet the boy sits before it anyway. His eyes closed. His back tall. His breath deep, long, smooth. His palms rest on his knees. His legs cross at the ankles. His lips move, barely. The sound he expels is almost inaudible. I must lean in to hear it, must be completely still, silent. But, when I am, the words are clear:

Om mani padme hum.

His practice is unaffected. His faith firm. His energy flowing into the universe, reaching the Buddhas, wherever they are.

“The Buddhas are missing,” I think as I watch my child quietly chanting in front of a bare altar.

But, then I realize, the Buddha is right here, and I join him.

Om mani padme hum
Om mani padme hum
Om mani padme hum
Om mani padme hum