Buddhism has taught me a lot about Lent.

In my paraphrase, there are four key statements that define Buddhism:

Life is suffering.
The root of suffering is submission to suffering.
Suffering can be chosen, and unchosen.
The cure for suffering is practicing redemption.

I was raised a Christian. I went to a Christian college, where giving up sugar for Lent (and replacing it with Splenda) was suffering. Giving up Facebook for a month was common chosen suffering. One year I fasted, another I took on vegetarianism (and kept it piously for five years after). Once, I was almost convinced to give up sarcasm! Almost.

My classmates and I were trying to choose suffering to remember suffering is optional. The slight ache of missing something we liked was supposed to remind us of a greater suffering: Jesus died. And it hurt.

Another way of stating the purpose of Lent is that Jesus submitted himself to this world, and he suffered for it. Lent is the Christian time to remember: life is suffering.

Yet Lent invites us to something beyond remembering. Lent invites us to do what Jesus did, to suffer, so we can experience the truth now: life is suffering. For Christians to do this, Buddhism has to go backwards:

Give up something you like, stop practicing redemption.
Live with this choice.
Do not avoid your desire for this choice to change.
Abide unmet desire: suffer.

Without resurrection this life is normal. Lent invites us to the truest of hurt: when we avoid and repress our desires, we submit to a life of suffering. But the Jesus story invites new life, something beyond a submission to suffering as usual.

So I invite you to reflect during Lent: how will you choose to end your life of suffering?

Life is suffering.
The root of suffering is submission to suffering.
Suffering can be chosen, and unchosen.
The cure for suffering is practicing redemption.

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Some day, my whole life will be different from This.

I will not drive this car, and then who will I be?

I will wear new clothing,

and own different instruments.

My phrases will be fresher,

I鈥�ll have read different books,

my body will be worn and shaped differently;

who will I be then?

What of me will not change?

Is any of me eternal?

If it is, I would rather live in that

than in this car,

this body,

this mind.

However,

if I am to grow

forever,

these things of mine

will do for Now.

Two years ago I used to have so many keys they wouldn鈥�t fit comfortably in my pocket. Keys for the front door, side door, for the garage, for work, for vehicles.

Only one of my keys is the same as it was two years ago. Or even six years ago. Just good 鈥�ol bike lock, resting in my back pocket, a dancing chime on the oversized carabiner I wear on my belt loop.

In late August, I handed in the three keys to the house I鈥�d lived in, in Eugene, Oregon. I miss that porch and those trees dearly. And the stars.

Three months ago I left a key covered in University of Oregon logos on top of a refrigerator at Vero Espresso, held a sigh until the front door, let out 鈥�finally,鈥� and drove home.

That same day, in the afternoon, I traded my car key for a different one. I can鈥�t describe logically why I knew that car didn鈥�t belong to me anymore, but I knew it, and I acted on it, and now my life is different.

In the four years since I graduated college I鈥�ve moved nine times, worked five different jobs, driven three cars, lived in two countries, and worn through all but one pair of jeans. My body has been through a lot of geography, and changed with what those places offer. My heart has borne a lot of newness and new oldness. My mind has grown and let things go.

And still, with all this movement, there is a me that is settled, that I can rest into, that dwells with the Divine in a place my body, my heart is responding to. I have a hard time with that Me. I feel like a spirit and a body and whatever鈥�s in my backpack; I feel like a moment in conversation that starts others laughing and leaves a smirk on my face. I am a joke; I鈥�m a song; I鈥�m a haircut.

And yet, I am still the me that sits on a couch in Capitol Hill. I am the me that just moved to Seattle for graduate school. I am the me that has never gone anywhere, that is always beyond and above and with Goodness. I am the me at rest, who always has a place.

I鈥�m finding I can exist in a place where there are no doors and still take residence in an apartment that gives me another temporary key. One to keep bike lock company. And just as it is true that I was, and I will be; for now, I am this me, with these keys. And somewhere I am all of these, the keys and the keyring and the door itself, and with that in mind, these keys can be me for a time, and I can love them.

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