A miserable, old woman visits the good doctor this morning. Her physical complains are real as the list of medical problems is long. Her pain has brought her back to him and he looks at the knee that is red, swollen and stiff. It isn't just the pain that makes her miserable, however, it is the litany of curses she seems to need to share at the clinic. Dr. Krishna can work professionally without becoming involved in the words of a patient: through the years his mindfulness has probably maintained his sanity ... if not that, then at least his compassionate demeanour.
"Those monstrous neighbours make so much noise ... That grocer man steals from me each time i visit his stall ... The little children choke the roads with their horrible games and screams and shouts ... no one has a thought or care for the old and dying," she spews on and on and on. Finally, she asks the doctor, to no one, "How am i supposed to show wisdom and compassion to my neighbour, as those so-called wise men in silken robes and plush chairs demand me, when i suffer so?"
Laying the warm compress to the leg, Dr. Krishna sighs. With his most professional tone of voice, slightly angry, warning, he stands, looks her in the eyes and speaks, as if writing out a prescription: How to sustain compassion for your monstrous neighbours? How to sustain kindness to cheats and fools and reckless children? Though your body may have complains, the disease is in your thoughts, my good woman. You pity yourself because you are alone. You weep for that which is lost. You grumble because you suffer both pain and fear.
She looks amazed. Then outraged. Trying to stand, Dr. Krishna holds the bad leg and states that he is not finished yet. Putting on the ointment as quickly as he dares, he finishes his advice. "See everyone you meet as the Son of Man. See that person as a fully awakened one. A teacher. A saint."
"Those thieves at the market?" she squawks.
"See that everyone you meet is your mother or father, that they are your son or daughter. Know this as a fact. They are not who you think they are. Draw them in. Embrace them in your thoughts. Smile. Respect their choices in life, however opposite to your own. Respect them, because you know the Truth, you see the True and you live in the Truth," he states matter-of-factly as he binds up the knee with gauze.
"But those noisy brats in the streets are not my kin," she complains with watering eyes.
"Each and every one of these people, whoever you meet, in whatever circumstance, this person is a gift, holy, a great teacher, you will treat him will deference and tenderness," his voice softens as he applies the elastic gauze.
"But i have been suffering for so many years, they do not see me. No one cares," she murmurs.
"Pain is forgotten. Love is remembered. Do as i say and reap the greatest rewards in life, among which is your own freedom and independent joy. Do these things with diligence and awareness and your suffering shall be less, my good woman. You shall live with more peace."
As if struck by a forceful blow, the slightly stunned woman nods in thanks and walks silently from his office. Dr. Krishna tells her to come back in three days so that he can look at the knee. She only nods as she exits. The sigh is deep, yet fulfilling, and slowly the stern doctor begins to chuckle as he readies the room for the next patient.
"Those monstrous neighbours make so much noise ... That grocer man steals from me each time i visit his stall ... The little children choke the roads with their horrible games and screams and shouts ... no one has a thought or care for the old and dying," she spews on and on and on. Finally, she asks the doctor, to no one, "How am i supposed to show wisdom and compassion to my neighbour, as those so-called wise men in silken robes and plush chairs demand me, when i suffer so?"
Laying the warm compress to the leg, Dr. Krishna sighs. With his most professional tone of voice, slightly angry, warning, he stands, looks her in the eyes and speaks, as if writing out a prescription: How to sustain compassion for your monstrous neighbours? How to sustain kindness to cheats and fools and reckless children? Though your body may have complains, the disease is in your thoughts, my good woman. You pity yourself because you are alone. You weep for that which is lost. You grumble because you suffer both pain and fear.
She looks amazed. Then outraged. Trying to stand, Dr. Krishna holds the bad leg and states that he is not finished yet. Putting on the ointment as quickly as he dares, he finishes his advice. "See everyone you meet as the Son of Man. See that person as a fully awakened one. A teacher. A saint."
"Those thieves at the market?" she squawks.
"See that everyone you meet is your mother or father, that they are your son or daughter. Know this as a fact. They are not who you think they are. Draw them in. Embrace them in your thoughts. Smile. Respect their choices in life, however opposite to your own. Respect them, because you know the Truth, you see the True and you live in the Truth," he states matter-of-factly as he binds up the knee with gauze.
"But those noisy brats in the streets are not my kin," she complains with watering eyes.
"Each and every one of these people, whoever you meet, in whatever circumstance, this person is a gift, holy, a great teacher, you will treat him will deference and tenderness," his voice softens as he applies the elastic gauze.
"But i have been suffering for so many years, they do not see me. No one cares," she murmurs.
"Pain is forgotten. Love is remembered. Do as i say and reap the greatest rewards in life, among which is your own freedom and independent joy. Do these things with diligence and awareness and your suffering shall be less, my good woman. You shall live with more peace."
As if struck by a forceful blow, the slightly stunned woman nods in thanks and walks silently from his office. Dr. Krishna tells her to come back in three days so that he can look at the knee. She only nods as she exits. The sigh is deep, yet fulfilling, and slowly the stern doctor begins to chuckle as he readies the room for the next patient.
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