10.02.2011
Buddhist temple visit to Eugene Zendo – freewrite
As I left my house at 7:15 AM, I descended down the hill briskly, with a cool breeze and the smell of rain in the air. The fog hung low in the surrounding hills, and the roads were empty. A quiet ride with Marc and Kyle to the Buddhist zen center led us to a tranquil residential neighborhood on the westside of the city, humbly presenting itself on the corner of 22nd and Garfield as a renovated two-story house.
At the door, we immediately took off our shoes and became familiar with the wooden floor and softness of walking. Entering the main hall for the first time, we bowed to the altar, out of respect but mainly by instruction, as we were all unfamiliar with Buddhist practices and rituals.
Flooded with diffused natural light, the converted garage felt completely formal and sacred with the altar as the focal point and the presences of a higher being on our minds. The simple white interior with exposed joist andonly necessary ritualistic objects, like the bell and hand-bound scripture books on the window sills, made the concepts of simplicity and purity of mind that much stronger.
I found a seat against the outside wall, nodding to my new seated neighbors who seemed much more at ease, though curious of my presence. The room was mostly silent, as the reception was for greeting, and the main hall commanded gestures only. Once we were all seated, the one by the door began to rhythmically hit the bell. The temp increased and anticipation rose, but it began again, slow and steady.
Another stepped outside toward the garden with a wooden mallet and hollow stick instrument. At this sound, the crying cat became silent, and I seemed like the only one holding back laughter or sadness for the poor being though my imagination was just playing a joke. The indoor bell sounded yet again, reverberating through my bones until speeding up to a tempo that suggested something important was about to happen. Silence…emptiness…Then the bell began its chorus again, but this time, a chime echoed in response. The priest, outside the room, was ready to begin the ceremony.
When he entered, I watched his every move while others averted their eyes in preoccupied thought or meditation. Every step seemed deliberate as he lit the incense and bowed to the altar, which held the Buddha statue in the center.
Chanting ensued. Stripped of my typical thought process and plan for following along, I was handed the scripture book, open to the proper page, even though I had just received instruction on where to find the chants and the procession of the service. I joined in with a soft voice, listening to the deep throat chants coming from somewhere within the small room. I tried to relate this to my Christian upbringing of hymnal singing, but the feeling was not the same. Monotone syllabic chanting seems ever so more powerful and gripping than harmonic songs of worship.
Reciting passages in English, Japanese, and then, what could have been pig Latin, I felt strangely at ease, trying to match the monotone echo in the room. By the end, I felt that I could participate like a veteran monk. In the Presbyterian church however, I only judge my voice compared to the beautiful choir while my dad refuses to sing along, so participation is not quite the same.
At the beginning of meditation , we turned to face the white walls after bowing fully three times, to the altar. As a whole body act to prepare for self-enlightenment, it seemed a necessary physical ritual. With the room silent after chanting, the white noise of rain became noticeable through the open east and west windows on each side. The bamboo screens hanging from the eaves would have diffused any morning light, but the clouds covered that task.
Instead, the dim interior light room the center of the room cast my shadow on the wall I was facing and set me into self-reflective mode. Not only did I see myself and shadow blurring as I concentrated on my mind rather than vision, I heard the soothing raindrops, felt the breeze cooling my face, and sensed the warmth of light when the sun infrequently appeared. Meanwhile, my legs lost sensation and my mind cluttered as I worried about the time I need to stretch before my lower body completely disconnected.
During serene moments, I focused solely on the shadow on the white wall expanding and contracting with every breath. Some inexplicable sources of light found and lift my heart center in my shadow so that a glowing hear pulsated within my silhouette. Shifting my focus to my energy field, I observed my less defined shadow and energy sources swell and diminish with my blurring peripheral vision. Just as my mind drifted again to the numbness of my legs, I jolted to consciousness with the abrupt sound of the bell signaling consciousness and break time. I struggled to my feet with the loss of all lower body feeling, but my mind was clearer than ever, knowing what was important to do in my daily ritual to focus my thoughts.
