Buddha Coin Bank

Oakland, 2008

I’m one of those people who has never been able to make any money. Real money, that is. Lord knows, I’ve tried. Endless ambitious projects and creations—from publishing six books to launching a stage show to founding what I believed would be an immensely successful non-profit organization. A travel podcast, group trips to Cuba and Nepal, freelance editing… I’m sure I’m leaving out a few dozen things.

But riches have eluded me—though I have been able to put a little away. It’s not enough to buy even a small home here in Oakland, but it’s enough to keep the hounds of debt at bay.

Colleagues who are not as self-critical as I point out that, in fact, I have managed to make a living as a freelance writer—no small achievement. The freedom seemed heady at first. Now that many of my friends are retiring with handsome pensions, I’m wondering who struck the better bargain.

But wealth and worldly comforts are notoriously transient. The only thing we truly have—and not for long—is our time, moment to moment, in this earthly realm. I’ve maintained some control over my own time, but not without continual episodes of doubt and anxiety. It’s a slippery thing, devoting oneself to a career in the arts.

This Buddha coin bank was a gift to me on my 54th birthday—the day I outlived my father, who died a day short of his own. Though it’s never held even a penny, it serves to remind me of a quote that Albert Einstein once wrote on his chalkboard at Princeton: “Not everything that can be counted, counts; and not everything that counts can be counted.”

I don’t know how many lessons I’ll learn in this lifetime, or what I’ll cherish or regret most in the end. But I hope I can find peace with the choices I’ve made, gratitude for what I’ve achieved, and satisfaction with the modest level of financial security I’ve been able to reach. That, for me, would pass for enlightenment.