TIKTOK

The young monk stood before me gazing into my eyes. His head was shaved, and his saffron robes were elegantly draped across one shoulder. His complexion seemed almost golden, glowing in the strong light of my computer.

Wait. Perhaps he was not so young. But he seemed very serene and wise as spoke these few words. 

“Never be a prisoner of your past. 

“The past was just a lesson.

“Not a life sentence.”

He finished with a little smile that crinkled his eyes. His words jabbed me into reviewing my heart to make sure that it was in a good spot.

His sudden appearance took me back over three decades. T’was 1992 and I was only 55 years old. We were walking in the shade of a Buddhist temple on the streets of Chang Mai in exotic Thailand. 

I was approached by a monk of undeterminable age. Maybe 59. Possibly 75. He grabbed my forearm. I resisted. He persisted. “You have pain here?” he asked in heavily accented, but clear English.

 Funny thing was that he was right. I’d fallen in a hotel parking lot a few weeks earlier and jammed my right hand’s thumb and fingers, trying to break the fall. Dang. It hurt all right and the pain, while fading over the days, was still very much present.

“Yes, I stammered, still wary of this intrusion into my personal space. My dear wife Daisy and our friends and traveling companions, Norma and Peter Joyce, stood nearby, grinning at my discomfort. They sensed no danger or, perhaps, knew more the I about the role of temple massage in the Buddhist religion.

“Here?” he queried, pressing his strong fingers on the exact spot on my hand where I was still feeling sore.

I nodded. It floored me that he knew where I hurt.

The holy man began massaging the tendons in my forearm and I could feel that he’d found the right places. The pain began to fade and from that moment forward, I felt no more pain there. I sometimes massage the tendons there and feel the connection with my fingers and thumb.

He smiled and refused my offering of 20 Bhatts as a gratitude. I believe the note was worth a couple of U.S. dollars. Quite a lot of money in Thailand.

I remember that dinner in a good seaside restaurant might cost $1.00. A long bus ride in a song tong might cost 10 cents. 

I folded my hands and bowed in the Thai manner of saying thank you, and said, “Swati cup.”

He bowed back and returned to the shadows to look, no doubt, for another person to bless.

Perhaps you are wondering about ‘TikTok,’ the title of this little essay. I am referring to an app on my phone. That’s where I encountered the wise one.

Tik Tok is very much in the news now as it may be banned in the United States by an act of Congress. It is already limited in several states and banned completely in giant countries including Brazil and India as well. 

Its’s even prohibited in China which also bans X and Facebook. I believe that there is a strong element of suppression of free speech at work there. 

I’m worried because I love TikTok.

The problem is that TikTok is owned by a Chinese company by the name of ByteDance. Folks worry that China might could use the app to spy on America. 

I discovered it a couple of years ago and enjoyed it so much that I talked Daisy into downloading it. She too is now addicted to the endless supply of videos on any subject you could name. Music. Dance. Cooking. Household hints. Jokes. Sailing adventures. Tiny houses. Decorating. Architecture. History. Science. Space. Travel. Camping. Etc. Something for every interest.

Gosh. I will miss TikTok if the naysayers win the court battles now raging up to the Supreme Court. I’ll have to rely on Instagram and Facebook. 

Boo Hoo. Poor me. Pour me another drink.

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