THE THREAD | The Prayer Flags

Above my desk the prayer flags fly, five squares lined up on a string: blue, white, red, green, and orange, in that order, at least I think so. I can’t be sure. I’m colorblind.  Not the kind of colorblind that sees everything gray, just merely muted, as if merely softens the ache of knowing I do not know the fullness around me, the earth’s immensity diminished by a defect of cones and rods, how morning light comes in through the window, so that what I believe to be just might be otherwise: Purple, khaki, brown, teal, and mustard? I know each flag color stands for something, but when you can’t see the colors then you can’t expect to remember what the unseen colors symbolize. Symbols and their meanings fade.

The prayer flags arrived unexpectedly in the mail over a decade ago from a Tibetan nonprofit I must’ve sent money to once. The envelope contained a letter describing, in the most Zen way possible, the urgent need for more money, and the flags came tucked in the note, each square so crisp, bright, and new. After a decade of above-desk flying the flags are now tattered and crinkled; two of them ripped in half due to brief accidents I’ve long forgotten and quickly remedied by scotch-taping them back together, so the cracks let the light further in, and they have faded, I think they have faded, these colors I can’t see or discern.

I am no longer a Buddhist. Or perhaps I never was. Or a third possibility: I always was one, I am one still.  After all, compared to the in-or-out, all-or-nothing, saved or damned-ness of my youth, it seems like Buddha —well, never mind. I lost interest in whatever I intended to say when I started with “After all, compared . . .” as if comparison has ever yielded me the peace my quivering bones are after, the clarity of sight that might live beyond the failings of cones and rods.

I used to wonder over my status: in or out, saved or damned. But I’ve long ago lost interest in sweating such details. Or at least I try to lose interest. I work hard to worry less whether I’m damned, or if so by whom. The light also lands on the string itself, the thing nobody knows how to talk about, yet it holds the whole thing up. The light shining through alters my sight before I return my gaze to this page, where the only prayer remaining is what I have yet to say.

What I’m reading: Leif Enger’s Virgil Wander, W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz

What I’m listening to: Cunningham Bird, Buckingham Nicks