2/14/10: Happy New Year

Interesting things happened today. And when interesting things happen, they become the new subject and scope of my time. I am demoted to state of passivity, of a dangling indirect object in my own life's sentence, watching the interesting things assume the nominative position. I no longer count minutes, but simply allow time to pass me as I stand still in the road. My neighbor, Richard, some time ago mentioned a ceremony at the Wood Valley Tibetan temple, several towns away. I went with him this morning to slip into this strange hole in paradise.

Southern churches in America are full of sideways glances, aggressive proclamations, and saccharine smiles every Sunday. No one slips through the system without being showered and slathered by the love of Jesus, but more so, the stares of other church goers. I expected something of this community, but I was very wrong at the Tibetan temple.

A group of thirty perhaps had gathered in the open-air shrine. Brown and red wood twisted amongst one another in strong arches. I placed my fruit at the base of a mountain of offerings to the glinting gold Buddha, smugly watching over the crowd from the rear corner. WE sat crosslegged on carpet in rows facing one another, rather than the idols. I was completely oblivious to custom, letting my hands shift amongst positions, and scrutinizing myself mentally- was I dressed correctly? Was my hair too unclean? I was waiting to feel the seething heat of judgment, but I experienced nothing but quiet warmth, and a nonchalant sense of community.

We were served tea and rice to symbolize auspicious tidings for the new year. I likened it in my mind to plastic wafers and tart communion juice, without the blood spilt. What ensued was no sermon or hymn or lesson, but a chant- a chant in the room of smoke unfurling. The English phonetics were typed under the Tibetan scripture, spelling guttural sounds like "zhay war se nim ghom oord." This was no lilting four-beat eight-tone christian hymn. It was no velvet harmony and chain of resolutions. These sounds were deep and forged with breath in the belly, and slow and wandering, without looking for a place to end. We turned through twenty five pages of texts, singing several loops, echoing several syllables hundreds of times. It was all soft and restful, and humming with invisible smiles.

At the end was a climactic ushering of the new year. We gathered in a circle and each grabbed a handful of flour from the bucket being passed. On the same count we all threw it into a white mist together, like quiet fireworks.