On White Clothing

The first thing I encountered after opening wide a creaking gate was a Boston Terrier on jet packs. With its mouth spread into a silly grin, Snoopy bounced like a spring with arms and legs outspread, trying to land itself into the comforts of my white, immaculate dress shirt. The sight of the dog airborne was already in itself an intimidating sight, but it just so happened that I was also wearing a pair of white pants with matching white tennis shoes. I quickly examined the sprawling dog, and with one look at its rough little paws thrust forward like muddy kisses, I knew that if I were to relent, I would instantly be decorated in black cherry blossoms . Yes, Snoopy was cute with his little jiggling belly and yes, he had some desperate looking eyes too, but no. Permission to enter: denied. As Snoopy leaped, pounced and flailed, my backpack swept up, down, left and right, blocking off his trajectory. He started to whine, but I had already closed the door.

After setting down my backpack in the house and changing into different clothes, I went back out to see Snoopy. He sat at a corner next to his food and water, head on the ground but tilted slightly to see me emerge from the house. He didn’t move. “Snoopy”, I called, “Come on. Good boy”. He lifted his head, slowly, then picked himself up to trot dutifully next to my side without a sound. I stroked his head, but he just sat there glancing at the door, pensive. No slopping tongue, no wagging tail, nothing–not a trace of jet-packing Snoopy. Maybe he was looking at something beyond the door, something that went in but never came back out the same. Or maybe he was thinking longingly about my white attire. I continued stroking and tried complimenting him, but my words fell out, dead before they even got to be lost in translation.

I stopped petting and stared into Snoopy. Our eyes met, but nothing connected. Then, I realized as I looked in his eyes that my white set of clothes was really a decorative facade called ego. With a set of white clothing on, I wasn’t ready or willing to accept, much less approach, that which may potentially leave a stain. I made sure I established a protective zone for my ego. It was this distance, extended and maintained for the sake of sanctity, that has kept excitement and amicability at bay until they have slumped into a mound of apathy. By the time I have changed into a more receptive set of clothes, a certain degree of polite respect remains but the initial energy has drained. Ultimately, white clothes, blue clothes, red clothes, green clothes, gray clothes and whatever I wear can and do get dirty, no matter how hard I try to keep them clean–but they are washed. Egos also get soiled, but they eventually get dipped in the cleansing waters of time, soaped, spun, dehydrated, and heated by daily life experiences to emerge, once again, clean.

I snapped out of my reverie as I felt something on my cheek: Snoopy’s pink tongue was lapping my face and his entire body, dirty paws and all, were all over my clothes. That’s life: rumble, tumble, and roll out humbled.