Namaste. It appears the universe has brought us together at the only open space in the entire Trader Joe's parking lot. What synchronicity! If you lower your window, I know we can manifest a harmonious outcome in which I get to park here and you don't.
Let's start by setting some intentions. I'll go first. My intention is to be present—in this parking space. No need to dwell on the past, like who was waiting for the parking space first and who careened in front of whom out of nowhere.
I'm doing a preemptive gratitude practice to thank you for parking somewhere else. You must learn to let go of attachments and desires like this parking space, which is all mine.
The Buddha says we each experience ten thousand joys and ten thousand sorrows. I invite you to accept this as one of your sorrows, because I sure as hell won't! Actually, don't think of it as a sorrow. It's an opportunity to practice Tantric parking, where you deny yourself the sweet release of arrival.
My twenty-three-second honk came from a place of love, as in “I'd love for you to get out of my way.” But when you honked back, I sensed a lot of negative energy. Enlighten up a bit!
Why don't we make eye contact and chant in unison: I am not my body. I am not my thoughts. You know what else you're not? Befouling this asphalt rectangle with your filthy aura.
Even though our front fenders are on a collision course, I'm inching forward to honor my intention. Back up now or brace yourself for a game of Chicken you'll soon regret. Don't be fooled by the “Coexist” sticker: my Subaru is named Durga for the Hindu goddess of war, and we're undefeated in games of vehicular Chicken! If only the same were true for Small Claims Court. Turns out Judge Haney is extremely biased against spiritual warriors.
This incarnation is too precious to fight over whose physical body has to circle the parking lot again. But here's what will happen if you don't relinquish the space. First, I'll scald you with a thermos full of adaptogenic tea. Then I'll use my certificate in nonviolent communication, which I keep in my wallet, to riddle you with vicious paper cuts. Having drawn first blood, I'll bludgeon you with a Tibetan singing bowl and curb-stomp you right into your next incarnation!
I'm alighting from Durga to await our duel in Warrior 2 pose. Get out of your car!
What's that? It's an accessible parking space and the thing you've been angrily waving is a permit? Fine, you can park here. But only because I'm a better person, and there's a family of five loading their minivan right over there whom I need to go honk at until they leave. Namaste!