My Buddha has a broken hand
But he doesn’t seem to mind.
He reaches both arms
To the sky;
Closed eyes and lips smile;
His bald head reflects
My overhead light.
He is bare chested;
His round, smooth belly
Can barely be contained
By his lower robes.
Bare feet plant him firmly
To the ground.
Look skyward.
Keep your feet planted.
Find joy in the sun and stars.
The ground beneath your toes.
Just because you’re missing digits,
Or broken, cracked, abandoned
Doesn’t mean joy won’t find you.
Be the Buddha.
Raise your broken hand up.
Catch the sunlight.
Let it warm the upturned apples
Of your cheeks.
Admire the precise red paint job
Of those toes.
Smile at the thought of the painter,
Focused on such a tiny canvas.
Get out of your own way.
Embrace a new kind of happy.
Scribble in pretty notebooks.
Be the Buddha.
by Julie Blue 