Goodnight Mold

I was partway through my morning bird salute. It was a bleak morning; I stood under the tree with an umbrella, filling the bird feeders, waiting for a bird to appear. Thus far, my calls had gone unanswered. Of course, they were not obligated to answer or acknowledge my presence. It was enough to know they were out there: aimless and uncomplaining, the birds were my role model. I saluted them in absentia once twenty minutes had elapsed with no sightings. Breathing deeply, I went through the series of movements, setting down the umbrella to flap my arms. I concluded the exercise by marching in a small circle, signaling I would always find my way home.

Back inside, I struck my pocket gong (obtained at great expense from a wisdom supply company) with a tiny brass hammer to signal the start of the day. Having centered myself, I felt no compulsion to do anything. My task in this life was to be; undeniably, I was. There was no need to complicate things. I'd inherited some money; this helped me let go of petty concerns and understand the joys of living with nothing. Playing at deprivation had brought a new calm to my mind.

I calmly acknowledged that I needed to eat something. I made my way to the kitchen, where a bowl of vegetables sat on the counter. Part decoration, part inspiration, every inch an object of envy: the vibrancy of the radish and the peas' serenity. The live and let live passivity of the onions, for instance. Someday, I would join their number once I overcame the scourge of conscious thought.

I took two pieces of bread from the remains of a loaf. As I dropped the second one into the toaster, an aberration caught my eye: a bluish stain along the edge of the crust.

Alarm. Confusion. The need for a rapid decision. I could discard this slice or remove the afflicted crust, but this struck me as the wrong move. What right did I have to reject it? The mold had an equal claim to existence—the freedom to develop, change, and pursue its aspirations. From a particular perspective, I, too, could be seen as a blight on an otherwise pristine landscape: I also had imperfections that had not been discarded. The mold was the worthier party of the two, having criticized nothing to date. Who did I think I was? Who was I to blame? My wife insisted that the bread be kept in the refrigerator where the mold would grow and thrive?

No, the toasting must proceed and be followed by the banquet as planned. I set the toaster on low.

Non-intervention was the right call. Eating the mold might upset or enrage my stomach, but resisting this was misguided. It might be the detox no juice blend had ever accomplished. With the impurities out of my system, I’d be a candidate for revelation: crumpled up on the bathroom floor, I might key into the meaning of life. More importantly, I would do no harm by consuming the mold. On the contrary, transfer to my system would mean a new country for it to thrive in new avenues for success.

My objections to it were groundless. The proper posture was gratitude. By virtue of being a person, place, or thing which had appeared in my life, it was entitled to this distinction. I would be grateful for the mold on my toast, as I was grateful for the crack in my bedroom ceiling and the freckles on my body.

Lost in these musings, I forgot that the toaster was broken; without my intervention, it would continue the cycle, top brown to the point of incineration. The scent of burning bread filled the room.

I reached for the cord but caught myself. The words of my meditation instructor echoed in my ears: "Attempts to impose one's will on the universe are the origin of all sorrow." I’d already spent several minutes in the mire of evaluation; I would not disrupt the natural order of things.

A modest flame shot up through the toast slot. I accepted it, watched it, and welcomed it without judgment. As it happened, I found the fire arresting: the dance of the golden blob, the rapid expanse of its reach.

Impressed, I exhaled, propelling the flame toward the curtains. The cotton ignited instantly, illuminating the room and startling me. How bold and decisive it was! This was a fire of imperial dreams!

An idle thought: I could do something.

The dish sprayer presented itself, but I decided to leave it alone. No good could come from my butting into this situation, from acting on baseless notions of better or worse. What right did I have to interfere in the proceedings?

Unchallenged, the fire spread like a bad idea—to the cabinets, the counters, and the birthday calendar my wife hung on the wall.

I was fascinated by the march of the flames; what's more, they warmed my cheeks and lent a cozy glow to the room. I was a few bars into a campfire song when a spectacular cough overcame me. I tried to recenter myself, to focus on my breathing, but the smoke was too much: on the brink of unconsciousness, I dashed out into the yard.

I sprinted as far as the driveway, stopping by a puddle of water. As the coughing subsided, I was hit by a sense of defeat. What was I doing outside? It was pleasant to breathe unencumbered, but I was annoyed at having extracted myself. A more advanced man would have perished would have accepted his fate.

What unreformed part of my mind considered death a step down? Indeed, I was beyond this. I struggled to stem a profusion of critical thoughts, to vacate my mind altogether. (My meditation teacher said the idea was to silence all critical voices.)

Fortunately, I had the show to console him: a study of nature in a violent mood. The flames had torn through the walls; smoke poured from a dozen outlets, a black mass against a grey sky. I was grateful for each falling beam and every shard of glass bursting from the windows and for the fact that the rain had stopped, allowing the fire to churn undisturbed. The spectacle held me in thrall for some time.

I’d left my phone on the counter, but there was no one to call; I had no family or friends nearby. I had managed to grab the gong on my way down the stairs, but the little hammer was nowhere to be found. I would be brave in the face of this loss, distressing as it was: perhaps I could gently kick it when the time came.

Sirens. The authorities raced toward me, summoned by a woman on the next block who'd seen the frenzy of smoke.

The jolly fire engine, with the workers dashing about. It was rather like watching a musical. I was the sole audience member (most of my neighbors were out at work at this time). With the house practically leveled, they'd shifted their aim to containment, to preserving my Carriage house nearby.

I wondered how the lady renting my carriage house might react to this turn of events. I owned the two buildings, my home, and a Carriage house close by, so alterations to any damage were at my discretion; furthermore, as a landlord, I could change the terms of their lease without warning.

It would hasten her progress and help her adopt the proper perspective. Like wrongful incarceration, like being hit by a car, the fire was a neutral event; only the evil process of thought could turn it into a problem. This much I understood: interpretation was a vice to avoid. One must receive the raw materials—the data my senses provided—but not make anything from them; all ugliness was created in the manufacturing stage.

Soon, the truth would be evident to her: how gratuitous her belongings were, how primitive her insistence on living indoors was! In spiritual terms, it was a clearing away of debris for which she could only be grateful.

A policeman surveyed the scene. A young man in flannel pants stood at the edge of the lawn, holding what appeared to be a small clock. I didn't notice the man coming toward me; he was captivated by colors and lights, like a child at a fireworks show.

Together, we watched the last flames vanish beneath torrents of water. With some effort, the officer approached and drew out my name and relationship to the ruins.

"So how did the fire start?"

"What fire?" I asked.

The policeman gestured toward the remains.

"Oh, that," I replied, grateful for the man's sideburns. "It's over."

"Can you tell me how the fire started?"

"It started small," I said. "But then it got rolling!"

Unmoved by the tribute, the policeman tried again. Had I seen or done anything that might have caused the fire to start?

I shrugged. I didn't understand the implication that I was somehow involved. I had accepted the fire, though not as radically as I might have. I’d waived my right to participation in this and all things: I was perception alone.

The policeman had to admit it did; even so, he was taken aback. Was I unwilling to explain what had happened or unable to understand? He watched as I stretched my calves, made a few lunges, and knelt beside a pile of ashes (it probably looked as though I hoped to engage it in conversation).

The shock of the loss could bring about this kind of reaction. “I did manage to get myself out of the house,” I thought. “That’s encouraging.”

Physically, I seemed well enough, though I was breathing rather loudly. Maybe I just needed time to think, to make sense of the day’s events, and figure out what to do next. One question bothered me: Why hadn’t I called for help?

The policeman wrote in his notebook, “Person of Interest: arsonist/simpleton.”

He would return in the morning, accompanied by an expert: the fire marshal would see through the act if it was one. (I planned to stay on the premises, I said, to see what the lawn had to teach me.)

“We’ll be back tomorrow to follow up,” he said vaguely, not wanting to startle me.

“Great!” I said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

The morning would bring new questions, raised eyebrows, and the possibility of detention, but this was another man’s problem: like a flood in a foreign town, it was too remote to concern me. It was harmful to loiter in fictional spaces such as the future and past (both teeming with monsters). I planted myself in the grass and meditated for several hours.

It occurred to me that I’d eaten nothing all day. There was an opportunity here: hunger was one more guest to greet with indifference. As was true with all things, I could probably breathe it away. The whereabouts of the mold were unknown. Although their paths had diverged, I knew it was flourishing somewhere and warmly wished it the best.

As darkness came upon me, I lay at the driveway's edge, the pocket gong near my head. Despite my efforts to stay in the moment, I was still disappointed. I thought back to my vegetables. The transition from raw to roasted would have been graceful; no challenge or protest would be heard. I thought I had the mindset of a zucchini, a commendable lack of opinions. My instructor did say that progress would be incremental and that disabling my mind would take time. Like an aged bread crust, I was imperfect but should not be condemned.

All in all, it had been an amusing day. I brought it to a close according to my custom, reading from my daily journal (virtually, in this case, seeing as the book was no more):

“Goodnight, ashes; goodnight, mold. Goodnight, ruined building, a wonder to behold. Goodnight plaid, goodnight rain; goodnight, man, with a long way to go.”