Tapinosis

Tapinosis (ta-pi-no’-sis): Giving a name to something which diminishes it in importance.

I was trying to become some kind of Buddhist. I needed to give up my attachment to the material world. Once freed, I would be Enlightened. Accordingly, I believed calling everything “shit” would set me free. Who wants to be attached to shit? Only a mentally ill person would!

So I started calling everything “shit.” I called my dog Shit. When I called him at the doggy park, people looked at me like I was mentally ill. I told them that calling my dog “Shit” was part of my path to enlightenment. Some of them laughed, but most of them turned and walked rapidly away. Some said “poor man” and offered to give me a ride home. I refused—I could feel the enlightenment coursing through my body, cleansing it of its attachment to the foul garbage heap world.

Things came to a head when I told my girlfriend Molly that she had become shit to me. I was going to use that statement as an intro to the story of my progress toward enlightenment—her becoming shit to me was a milestone because I had been so attached to her. Molly didn’t give me a chance to get my story out of my mouth. She sprayed me in the face with a good dose of pepper spray. I had given it to her on her birthday for self-protection. While I was rolling around on the ground crying, she put her foot on my throat and yelled “If I’m shit, you’re a puddle of steaming vomit! Now I know why you shaved your head and started wearing orange robes. You’re a loser. You’ll never become enlightened by calling everything shit!” With that, she removed her foot from my throat and kicked me several times in the stomach.

I was starting to think my “shit” strategy wasn’t working. No matter how I tried to think of everything as shit, their reality leaked through. My dog Rip was still Rip no mater how many times I called him Shit. And Molly. My god, calling her shit was the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make it up to her. It gave me an ache in my stomach.

My doorbell rang. It was Molly. She asked me if she was still shit. I said “No.” She forgave me. Her compassion restored my hope and taught me what it means to be enlightened.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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