Musing: Is life really a bowl of cherries?

So I was sitting in Memorial Church listening to the Dali Lama drop a few fuck its when I started to smell cherries—now, this alarmed me a little because a) I was not close enough smell the Dali Lama, b) I am not 100% sure he emits fruity odors, and c) don’t people think they smell funny things like burnt toast before they have a heart attack? After reassuring myself that there was no danger, the smell created a cherry craving—the kind that women get when they are pregnant and want to eat soil. Only not as dirty.

Cherries are one of the few items you have to wait for. One can get raspberries and pineapples and oranges and spinach to satisfy desires any Monday evening of the year at your local Whole Foods (for a price, of course). But cherries—warm, ripe, devastating cherries only appear in June and take you by surprise.

This presents a problem since I am not one of those very patient people who can handle surprises. While studying Tibetan Buddhism for a semester in college, I could not sit still long enough to meditate. I was so frustrated with my progress that I asked for some advice: you don’t have to guess which virtue my teacher suggested.

So I’m sitting in front of the epitome of patience yet unable to curb my hunger for cherries. What’s a gal to do in this existential crisis? I prayed for the Dali Lama to send me a telepathic message…

For cherries—as enlightenment—one must wait.

Fuck it.