In Traffic

Once I master the art of meditation,

I won’t be one of the drivers stalled in traffic like this

Who lean on their horns. I’ll accept the waiting

As a lucky spell of quiet for musing on questions

I’ve been neglecting, like whether my life is full

Or empty, and if empty, how best to fill it.

And if full, what’s the best way to demonstrate

I appreciate my good fortune, including the dinner

With friends that I may be a little late for.

Yes, if they hadn’t moved to the suburbs

After thirty years in a house five blocks from mine,

I’d have been there more than an hour ago.

But that’s the kind of thought I’ll set behind me

When I learn to meditate on human variety

And the many good reasons for embracing change.

And instead of blaming this traffic jam

On the broken stoplight I can now see flickering

Mindlessly up ahead, and blaming whoever’s responsible

For keeping the lights in repair, I’ll reflect awhile

On all I owe the lights when they’re working

And all I owe to their little-known inventor.

I’ll hope it earned him, or her, a decent income,

Though I’ll still be moved by the arguments Franklin used

To explain why he sought no patents for his stove

Or his lightning rod, his sense that he borrowed

Most of his notions from the general fund

Of human knowledge accrued over centuries.

Any teachers of meditation who claim their methods

Are their own discoveries won’t interest me.

I’ll seek out those who think of themselves

As channels for the teachings of long ago,

Including advice for novices caught in traffic

About climbing above the dinner it now appears

I’ll be missing completely. Does my absence

Hang like a heavy pall on the company?

Isn’t a question I’ll ask myself then.

I’ll likely be wondering whether the color code

Now universal at stoplights—green, amber, red—

Though a mere convention, may suggest a unity

Beneath the endless diversity of our species.

Maybe unity will prove my recurring theme

When I master the art of meditation,

Beginning with the unity of the varied stories

Told at the table of my host this evening

That I won’t be hearing and their kinship

With stories I’ll hear at tables elsewhere

Where I happen to be a guest some other day.