WWRWP—"Were They Confetti Bombs?"

This morning at the bus stop, a runner went by in Boston blue. In recognition, I put my hands to my heart in namaste and the runner waved back.

"Why did he do that?" Jude asked.

"Well Jude...well... why don't you come over here and sit down." 

He joined me on the steps of the meditation center, where we fittingly wait for his bus each Monday and Tuesday morning. As child-friendly-ly as I could, I told him about what happened yesterday in Boston. I gave him the facts. No drama. Nothing graphic.

Up until today, I've been very protective of sharing world news with Jude. As many of you know, I do not take media news of any kind, which is a whole other subject, the subject of my memoir in fact, which I will eventually finish if I can figure out a way to make more hours in the day. The point is,  he is not allowed to watch regular TV or play with imaginary (or real for that matter) weapons of any kind, at least not on my clock. He is taught daily that "we don't believe in shooters," and reminded that there are no "bad guys," only guys that have been done badly to who in turn act "badly."

I'm not stupid; I know he will and probably does play games of good and evil, though one day last fall I overheard him tell a kid at the playground that "my mom doesn't let me play with shooters." For my benefit,  he also reassures me that when he plays with kiddie toys like BatMan and Robin type weapons over at Dada's that the canons and bullets are love bullets shooting love missiles. I also realize I cannot use young/metaphorical language much longer, which is perhaps why I decided to sit him down today. Perhaps I can tell him the story without sensationalizing it.

Of course he wonders why—why about any and all of it. And because he is my kid, I tell him exactly why. 

For the record, most questions he asks from his creative six-year-old brilliant imagination I'll admit I cannot answer. Often times I will simply say, "I don't know, honey," or I'l make up something really goofy for his amusement. Yesterday he taught me the difference between a "partly sunny sky" and a "partly cloudy" one. When he asks why the sky is so brilliant on stormy days (not his words) I make up something fantastical about magic cloud carpets and Lovelands on high, to which he'll say, "well, I think it's because it's raining over there." He asks a lot of trick questions. 

I'm okay not knowing a lot of things. But when it comes to what is happening to our world—humankind violently, satirically, mindlessly, politely, passively (and aggressively) turning on itself—and why—isolation, fear, lack of love—I am unflinching when it comes to sharing this truth. I'm no bodhisattva, but I've done and seen and suffered and rejoiced and studied too much to keep this truth all to myself, to not share what has been taught to me by elders, teachers, fear, life, the universe... When I talk to my students about the "writers' duty," it echoes Faulkner's belief with a twist: we ought write about what we love and the stories about how what we love has helped us fight for and live more whole, loving, lives. 

Of course that's a bit heady for a six year old. The over simplified, copout explanation is that we are Buddhists (or...Bu-Jews. Or...Hind-Jews) and as such we are rooted in lovingkindness and do not believe (or behave) in harming any living beings. And, as much as I can, I try to live this in our daily lives. We hug trees. We sing songs about love. We help others and each other. We do yoga. We bow to Buddha. Yesterday he offered heartfelt thanks to the birds by shouting out of the car window as loud as he could "thank you, robin!" for giving us the late afternoon sunshine break in the clouds. 

So when he asked why "they" put the bombs there I told him it is because "they" are sad and angry and don't get enough love. 

Like I've said, he may write a memoir someday about his crazy mother called "Hare Mama!" He may think I'm full of shit and become a used car salesman (though we looove them too!). Still, it could be worse. I could be Ma. I could tell him the reason for all this mindless violence is because people are assholes, stupid, unconscious, and should be shot. 

But somehow I think my way's healthier. It's much easier to love Ma now, regardless of, perhaps because of, her suffering. 

Before heading onto the bus, Jude asks "were the bombs confetti bombs?" He is thinking of the easter confetti eggs we dropped on each other's heads and the hardwood floor. The image of happy colorful confetti blasting all over the world's wars and hatred and violence makes me smile. On the other hand, my kid may be the next Paul Wellstone. Or Willy Wonka.

"Imagine that, JJ" I said as he took his familiar spot at the front of the bus and waved to me as they drove away and out of sight. "Just imagine that."

How do you talk to your children? Elders? What sense do you make of the world these days? What is your "why?"