Yackety-Yak, Don’t Come Back (unscheduling)

by chaerie-faerie,

The yaks arrived three weeks late to Cricket of the Dale‘s red barn. It seems, they report, that a number of welcome obstacles slowed their already laconic pace.

Both yaks were born in Tibet and thus, practice Tibetan Yakhism. Each night, after steadily plodding up a steep mountain grade, pausing only to nip at some lavender buds growing by trailside, they unshackled themselves from heavy harnesses and meditated. Yes. Meditated. Often, under the clear dark skies of Hyperborea, decorated with stars as numerous as buds on jasmine, they forgot their mission and just sat.

To picture a yak meditating, you  must suspend your own sense of logic and  architecture. Close your eyes, look over at your pile of sugar which must be delivered to the young fillies and colts under the tutelage of Cricket of the Dale, and say to yourself, ” Another day. It will get there when it gets there.”

Bravo. You’ve taken the first step.

A yak sits on its back haunches in a comfortable place, preferably on a grassy tuft. Its powerful front legs, form one side of this hairy triangle. Its eyes are closed, allowing the viewer to admire the yak’s long eyelashes that protect its rather large brown eyes. Out the unctuous nostrils comes a visible breath. Like a powerful steam engine, each yak breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, creating a geyser of steam and breath.

This accidental act of forgetting one’s mission and just “going with the flow” of life provides nourishment.

Several days later, they reported, they woke from their meditation and traveled down into the grassy dale, delivering two tons of sweet sugar cubes.