frankisemptiness

Palestinian Poetry

October 24, 2014

I went to the Islamic Resource Center last night (10/23/2014). The Milwaukee Muslim Women’s Coalition sponsored a “poetry slam down” to promote peace in Gaza. That’s what the advertisement said anyway. I really didn’t know what to expect, but I wanted to check it out. I needed to experience something new.

I got there a little late, but the program hadn’t started yet. A young woman, probably college age, was running the show. Except for the hijab (or perhaps even because of the hijab), she looked chic and confident. People were sitting and chatting in a small classroom/auditorium where the IRC often hosts lectures and meetings. I knew the place well. I had been there before, when I was taking a refresher course in Arabic. Most of the people there were quite young, some still looked like they were high school. I was by far the oldest person there. There were two young man sitting nearby, their hair gelled and appearing to be Muslim hipsters. I sat toward the back and watched.

After welcoming the attendees (the young woman made some remark about everyone there being Muslim; well, not quite everyone), she showed a video of a Palestinian woman, Rafeef Ziadah, speaking at a gathering in London, reciting her poem, “Shades of Anger”. It was a very moving poem, heartfelt and emotional. It was definitely angry. That set the tone for the evening.

A number of young people got up to recite poetry about the suffering in Gaza. Their voices were very honest and very moving. The poems were about injustice and violence, and they cast the Israelis in the role of oppressors. The Palestinians were described purely as victims. There was quite a bit of talk concerning the anguish of the Arabs in Gaza, but nothing at all was mentioned about rockets being launched into Israel. The poets talked about their desire for peace, but mostly in terms of achieving justice. Justice meant, as far as I could see, ending Israeli domination. Peace appeared to be something that would automatically come into existence once the Israelis were no longer an issue.

Another young lady gave a presentation about her college group, Students for Justice in Palestine. There is a chapter of this group on the UWM campus, and the young woman talked about their protests and political activities. Once again, the Palestinians were shown as victims of fate. The Israelis were clearly the problem, according to the speaker. The conflict in Israel/Palestine was presented in stark terms, black and white. There was no nuance, there were no shades of grey.

At that point, the poetry readings stalled out. Nobody really had anything ready. A young man, who was now acting as host, asked people in the room to come up and speak. I raised my hand and asked if the speaker needed to use poetry. The young man said no. Then I asked if the subject needed to be specifically about Gaza, or could it relate in some other way to war and peace. The man told me that was fine, and I told him that I could tell a story, if he liked. He was good with that, so I went up to the stage.

I sat down in a chair and faced the group. I started telling the story of our son, Hans, and how he went to war in Iraq. I told about how, after the war, he didn’t come home at first, and we didn’t understand why that was. I told them about the phone call from Hans in January of 2012, when he told me about shooting an Iraqi in a fire fight. I told them about how I asked Hans if the other man died, and Hans said, “Yeah, I guess so…I must have pumped thirty rounds into him.” I told them that I know nothing about the man that our son killed, except that somewhere somebody grieves for him.

I did not often look at the crowd as I spoke. When I did, I saw them all staring at me, in dead silence. I don’t know what they heard or saw, but they listened.

I finished talking about Hans. I said, “Well, that’s my story.” I got up and left.

But It Makes No Sense

November 11th, 2015

Lately, especially since the terror attacks in Paris, I have read articles by atheists that not only condemn the violence of radical Islam, but also accuse religion per se as being the source of all the world’s problems. The essence of these essays is that all religions are based on absurd fairy tales and fuzzy thinking. The goal of the authors seems to be to drive out the darkness of superstition from human thought, and replace it with the light of reason. The idea is that, if only people saw things clearly (and in purely material way), all this violence and hate would disappear. There would be a godless form of the Rapture.

I suspect that this is wishful thinking. Humans are not rational beings. The universe is not a rational place. Reason and logic are of great value, but they can only take us so far. There is great suffering in this world, and every person, at some point, throws up their hands and cries out, “Why?”. Science cannot give satisfying answers that explain the death of a small child or the anguish of a person sick with cancer. Reason and logic can give answers that tell us how something happened, but they seldom can tell us why something happened. As humans, we are usually more interested in the “why”. Science cannot explain why I exist, or what my purpose is her on earth, or why life often sucks so hard. One possible answer could be: “We don’t know, and it doesn’t really matter.” That answer isn’t good enough for me or for billions of other people.

One of the reasons for existence of religion is to make sense of a universe that clearly does not make sense. Let me refer to the words of Carl Jung:

“There is, however, a strong empirical reason why we should cultivate thoughts that can never be proved. It is that they are known to be useful. Man positively needs general ideas and convictions that will give meaning to his life and enable him to find a place for himself in the universe. He can stand the most incredible hardships when he is convinced that they make sense; he is crushed when, on top of his misfortunes, he has to admit that he is taking part in a ‘tale told by an idiot’.”.

We need a story. We need a narrative. We need a myth. We need it to be human.

Religion often helps a person find his or her place in the universe. Religion provides a scaffolding for understanding life. In this sense, I would suggest that atheism is another form of religion, godless to be sure, but atheism (or humanism) also involves “thoughts that can never be proved”. There are assumptions in every tradition that can never be proven. Being an atheist requires an act of faith as much as it is needed to be a Catholic or a Jew. A system of belief, in whatever form, makes human life meaningful. It gives a person a reason to to persevere.

Are there things in religion that are absurd? Absolutely. I will not attempt to discuss other traditions that I have tried, but I can certainly speak for Catholicism, my spiritual home. Catholics believe in magic, pure and simple. We believe that a man rose from the dead, we believe in a virgin birth, we believe that bread and wine become God’s body and blood. These are pretty wild concepts, and we can’t prove any of them. However, although these beliefs may not make sense in the physical world, they speak to our hearts. They make total sense in a non-verbal, intuitive way. These beliefs make our lives livable. They become the truth that we need to become who we are meant to be.

“What is truth?” That was Pilate’s question to Christ, and it is a damn good one. To me, truth is a multi-faceted jewel, of which I can only perceive a small part. Others, be they Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, or atheists, see other parts of the truth. These are parts that are hidden from my view. This probably sounds like relativism, but I think of it as humility. I don’t know all the answers, nor does my faith tradition. The truth is there, but it comes in all different sorts of images and words and symbols.

There is a litmus test for truth. Edith Stein hit upon in it when she said that truth and love must always go together. Truth is never accompanied by violence or hate. The sectarian violence in our world is often based on the perception that one person or one group has a monopoly on the truth. Anybody who kills for the “truth”, does not have it. Truth is found when people are gentle and compassionate and tolerant. Look for it in those times and those places. Love and truth are two aspects of the same reality.

Humans will never be free of religion. It is part of our make up. I daresay that we are hardwired for it. Religion is often glorious, irrational, uplifting, infuriating, and silly; all at the same time. People are just like that.

Cops and Sikhs

March 9th, 2016

Yesterday, the Oak Creek police decided that they needed to talk to me about my book signing. (I published a book about our son and his experiences in Iraq). We had an interesting discussion.

It is as follows:

I came home from church this morning, and there was an orange sticker on our front door. I figured it was something from UPS or Fedex. I read the sticker and it’s from the Oak Creek Police Dept. In particular, it’s from an Oak Creek detective who wanted me to call him. So I did.

The detective wanted to know about the book signing that I am doing at the Islamic Resource Center on Wednesday evening. He asked if he could come over to the house to talk to me about it. Sure…why not?

The detective and his sidekick show up a little while later. We sat around the kitchen table and he started asking me questions. He asked me about going to the Sikh temple. I told him that I have been going there for the past several years, and that a week or two ago I asked the people there if they would be interested in attending my book talk. The detective showed me a copy of the hand-written note that I had given the president of the Sikh temple explaining the book talk. Apparently, the president of the temple, who doesn’t really know me, forwarded the note to the Oak Creek cops so they could investigate me.

Now, I can understand the Sikhs being a little paranoid. If somebody shot up my church, I would be that way too. I go to the temple a lot, but I don’t schmooze with anybody. I go there to pray and meditate, and then I leave. There are a couple priests there who know me by sight, but we don’t talk much.

The cop wanted to know if I cause trouble at the temple.

C’mon, really?

I mentioned to the detective that I had written a letter to the Milwaukee Journal after the shooting at the temple.

He asked, “Did you write defending the actions of the white guy (the shooter)?”

“Say what? Uhhhh, no. Actually, I wrote about how the killings harmed our entire community.”

“Oh, good.”

After half an hour of explaining the contents of the book and Hans’ PTSD and how the attitudes of returning vets affect the Muslim and Sikh communities, the detective concluded that the book talk was a good thing. He no longer thinks I am a white supremacist, or whatever. Actually, the detective was a pretty decent guy. He was just doing his job. But it felt surreal.

I couldn’t make up this shit.

Gallup

May 28th, 2017

“In my little town, I never meant nothin’

I was just my father’s son.

Savin’ my money, dreamin’ of glory…

Twitchin’ like a finger on a trigger of a gun!”

Paul Simon, My Little Town

Karin and I stopped for gas and food in Gallup, New Mexico. Gallup is the biggest (actually, the only) town between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, along I-40. We pulled off the interstate, stopped at a filling station, and we found a Denny’s. There was a hotel nearby. Next to the Denny’s was a store selling “Native American art! Turquoise! Blankets! Leather goods!” Karin wanted to know if it was a rip off. I told her that I had no idea, as I pumped fuel into the car.

Gallup is in the desert, and it is surrounded by Navajo, Hopi, and Zuni Indian reservations. The land is desolate. You can’t even grow weeds out here. Gallup is one of those places that is neither here nor there. It’s a wayside. It’s a town where people pause briefly in their hurry to get to somewhere else. That’s why Karin and I were there.

It was immediately obvious to me, once we sidled into our booth at Denny’s, that everybody there, besides us, was Native American. Karin and I were the only white people in the restaurant. It wasn’t a problem. People were friendly and the service was excellent. It was just an anomaly.

Karin and I finished our lunch, and then I went up to the register to pay for the meal. A young Indian took my credit card and rang up the bill. The man was probably just out of high school.

He asked me, ”Was everything good?”

“Yeah, the food was great.”

I asked him, “You live around here?“

The Indian replied, “Yeah.“

“Is it nice?”

The young man stared into the distance, and then he said, “Well, there isn’t much to do around here.” There was a wistfulness in his voice.

Then he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Thanks for coming in!”

Karin and I hit the road. I drove for a while. I had time to think as we crossed over from New Mexico to Arizona. I thought and I remembered. The Indian’s response to my question was spot on. Forty-one years ago, I would have said the exact same thing.

When I was eighteen, I was looking for a way out of West Allis, a grimy industrial town located next to Milwaukee. There wasn’t much to do in West Allis either. It was a place where dreams went to die. There were plenty of factories, all of them unware that they would be bought out or closed down within a decade. There was a white, eastern European population that was terrified of blacks and browns and anything new. There were innumerable working class taverns, places where men could drink just enough to make them forget about the dead end in their futures.

Gallup is very different from West Allis. But maybe they are also the same, at least for a young man with dreams and ambition. For me and for the young Navajo at Denny’s, these towns are suffocating. Life might not be any better in another city, or in another state, or even in another country. However, life could be different. That’s all that really matters.

It’s a bitch leaving home. This young guy at Denny’s would have to leave his tribe. I left my tribe. White guys have tribes too. A person leaves home forever. It is never the same when the person comes back, if they come back. Once a person leaves, they change, and the people left behind change.

Will the young man in Gallup leave home? I have no idea. I hope he does. I could see in his face and hear in his voice that longing, that pain. He needs to go out and see the world. He might get his ass kicked. I did. It doesn’t matter. It is better to try something new and fail, than it is to never try at all. It is easier to deal with mistakes and failures than it is to wonder about “what might have been”. Life is about living, not succeeding.

I pray for this young man. I am sure that he has forgotten me. I won’t forget about him.

Shul

August 7th, 2016 (a letter to my rabbi)

Rabbi,

Yesterday, at the end of the Shacharit service, a friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen for a long time, asked me if I was planning to convert. My answer to that was “no”. Immediately thereafter, I asked myself internally, “So, why am I here?”

I ask that question from time to time, because in some ways it doesn’t seem to make sense for me to be at Lake Park Synagogue. I suspect that sometimes others also wonder why I am there. It’s a legitimate question.

The answer is that I belong at LPS. Mostly this is due to the fact the members of the shul have been remarkably welcoming to me. They have accepted me as I am. Even after all these years, I am amazed by that. Most groups, religious or otherwise, are not nearly that open or tolerant. The people at LPS have a gift for embracing outsiders. What a joy it would be if more people knew that.

There is another reason that I feel like I belong at LPS. This one is harder to explain. When I sit in the synagogue, and I listen to the cadence and rhythm of the prayers, I get lost in the ritual. I mean that in a good way. I only understand enough Hebrew to follow along with the English translation of the service. Honestly, I don’t think I will get any better than that. However, even with only a slight understanding of the process, I can still flow with it. Somehow, some way, it feels right. It feels like I belong there.

Religion is a heart thing. It defies logic. It demands intuition. My presence at the shul is a matter of the heart.

I find it interesting that my experiences in the synagogue affect my life in my Catholic community. I serve as a lector at my church. I’m not sure if there is a Jewish equivalent to my ministry in the Catholic Church, but my job is to read from the Scriptures in front of the entire congregation during our liturgy. In particular, I read aloud (in English) from the Hebrew Scriptures. Before I stand up at the lectern, I pray that G-d will speak through me, and that I will simply be His voice. When I read from the Bible, my goal is that nobody sees or hears Frank. They should only hear Jeremiah, or Isaiah, or Amos. The people in the pews should hear the words of the Hebrew Scriptures as if they were there when these words were first spoken. It should touch their hearts.

Sometimes this happens. When it does, it totally freaks me out. I walk back to my seat afterward shaking, and maybe in tears. What I experience at LPS during the Shabbat service helps me to channel the original speaker when I read during our Catholic service. Even listening to the Torah in a foreign tongue helps me to connect with G-d when I need to do so. I know this all sounds delusional, but people in my Catholic congregation often tell me how much my spoken words affected them. That’s not my doing. That is the action of G-d.

I don’t know if this made any sense. If it did, go ahead and share it with the other members of the shul. I am grateful to them.

Blue on Blue

February 21st, 2017

I could not find his kite in the great expanse of blue sky above the blue of Lake Michigan. I knew it had to be there, because the man was winding fishing line with his hands and staring into the distance. Finally, I saw it far away, blue on blue. I only noticed it because of the kite’s erratic motion. It turned and dipped and slowly sank as the man wound his string. Eventually, it rested gently on the Chicago’s sandy beach.

Sabia greeted the man and complimented him on his kite. He looked at us and smiled. He asked us, “How old do you think I am?”

I thought to be polite, and I said, “You’re in your forties.”

The man laughed and said, “I’m seventy-one!” He wasn’t a local. He sounded like he was from out East.

He continued, “I’m this healthy because I eat right. That stuff from McDonald’s, I never touch it. I went to my doctor, and he said, ‘You should live until you’re 110!’, and I told him, ‘I’ll take the hundred and you can keep the ten!’ “. He laughed at his own joke, and said, “Those doctors, they are glad to sell you pills. You don’t eat right and you’ll have a cabinet full of pills.”

The man became more enthused, seeing as he had an audience. He went on, “When I was a kid, we used to have kite wars on the roofs of the projects in the Bronx. I would crush pieces of glass and then coat the string with glue. I would put the glass dust into a box with a hole, and then pull the string through the hole, so the string would get covered with sharp glass. We would put razor blades on the tails of our kites and try to cut the other guys’ strings. The little kids would wait in the streets below us for a string to get cut, and then they would grab the kite when it fell.”

He pulled out his wallet and flashed a picture at us. It was a photo of a young woman in a graduation gown. “That’s one of my daughters. Both of them went to college. This one works at the Fresno Zoo. She is getting a job in San Diego soon. She studied in Australia. She knows three languages. The other girl is a cop in Texas. She’s going to be a chief of police!”

“I raised those girls right. Kids today got no imagination because everybody gives them everything. You know what I mean? I didn’t give everything to my daughters. I made them earn their way. They wanted to drive. I showed them wear the starter was and the alternator was under the hood. I told them to learn how to change a tire themselves. Who needs a guy? I told them, ‘You have trouble with your guy? You just tell him that the house is yours and the baby is yours and that he better pay the alimony’. They don’t need to depend on no guy.”

Sabia asked, “How long have you been in Chicago?”

“I came here in 1973. I was a Vietnam vet. I got a job in a print shop. Worked there for years. Now I got my health, my pension, my social security, and my Medicare. I set myself up right. People these days don’t know how to do that.”

He paused. Then he laughed and went back to flying his kite.

We walked back toward Argyle Street. The man seemed very satisfied with his life, and quite certain that his success was his own doing. What I wondered is why he would tell his life story to total strangers? Unless he was a very lonely man. I think he was. I don’t mind that we listened to his stories. He needed us to do that. Maybe we needed it too.

Tunes

Early June 2017

“Turn up the fucking music” he screamed. “My heart feels like an alligator!”

“Volume! Clarity! Bass! We must have bass!”

from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Music is important, especially on an absurdly long and open-ended road trip. Every journey needs a soundtrack. It is necessary to set the proper mood. It also necessary to have something playing that will keep the driver from dozing off, making an involuntary lane change, and crossing the rumble strip.

Karin and I were initially shocked to find out that our new Toyota Corolla had no CD player. Once again we had been blindsided by new technology. We had plenty of music. Unfortunately, it was all stored in a Fred Flintstone format. What would we listen to while driving through the hinterlands? Would we be forced to tune in to some redneck radio station that only played goat-roping music? Things looked bleak for the upcoming trip.

Stefan came to our rescue. He and Karin bought an iPod, and then Stefan showed us how to download our CDs on to this magical device. Hours later, we had 1553 songs on the iPod. Just enough to make through four weeks of white line fever.

We started the trip by programming the music selection on “shuffle”, which meant that the sound system would randomly pick a song from the extensive and diverse pool of tunes that we had downloaded. This proved to be too eclectic. It is too hard for a person to go from listening to the ethereal voices of Anonymous 4 singing in Latin to hearing the lead singer of AC/DC scream, “Have a drink on me!” It’s just too disorienting. Eventually, a problem developed with the interface between the iPod and the car stereo, and we were forced to listen to one album at a time. That was probably for the best.

Sometimes the music selection matched well with the terrain. We listened to the polkas of Frankie Yankovic as we drove through Ohio south of Cleveland. We heard Johnny Cash as we burned through Memphis. The Indigo Girls sang their lesbian folk songs through the arid wastes of west Texas on I-10. K.D. Lang belted out torch and twang in eastern Oregon. The baritone voice of Krishna Das chanted in Sanskrit while we crossed the endless plains of South Dakota. The deep-fried southern voice of Nanci Griffith crooned “Gulf Coast Highway” as we drove through a small town near Austin. The Reverend Willingham cried out to us near Nashville: “Can I have an Amen!?” Amen, Brother.

Sometimes the music choices were a little iffy, but they somehow seemed to fit. There is nothing like listening to Shirley Manson of Garbage roar “I’m Only Happy when it Rains” while driving along I-40 in Arkansas. It also felt good to hear James Brown wailing “Like a Sex Machine!” as we cruised through El Paso. The dark and intelligent lyrics of Timbuk3 kept me going while navigating the golden hills of California. The Yiddish dreams of the Klezmatics sounded fine while rolling over the blue hills of Kentucky. We enjoyed the divine weirdness of Dead Can Dance in New Mexico. I only regret that we did not record the B-52’s for the ride through Idaho (underground like a wild potato). Oh yeah…

Occasionally, Karin and I felt obliged to sing along with the music. We knew the German lyrics to “Muss I Denn” and “Zogen einst fuenf wilde Schwaene” from Zupfgeigenhansel. We remembered a few Beatles songs. It was almost impossible not to sing along with the chants of Krishna Das. It was also nearly impossible not to accelerate. Oddly enough, the liner notes on the Krishna Das CD cover attempt to absolve the musicians from causing a driver to use excessive speed on the highway. Listening to The Clash play “Brand New Cadillac” is likewise hazardous.

My best musical memory from the trip is of roaring through Wyoming and yelling out song lyrics, while Seal and Jeff Beck played their full-throttle version of Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone”.

“So, how does it feel?”

Chrysler 300

April 25th, 2016

Hans called last night. He was in the mood to talk.

Hans said, “Dad, you know about Killeen, Texas?”

“Yeah, it’s a pit.”

“How do you know that?”

“I had buddies at Fort Hood back in ’80. Killeen was nasty.”

Hans said, “Well, it hasn’t got any better since then. Do you know about the ‘Chrysler 300’ ?”

“No, what is it?”

Hans said, “Well, it’s this gang, and most of them are in jail now.”

“Why?”

“Attempted manslaughter. The initiation for the club is that a new guy has to try to run a biker off the road.”

“That sucks.”

Hans sighed, “Yeah, well, I actually got run off the road by one of these guys. He didn’t know I was carrying. I got off the bike, started shooting, and I emptied the clip into the back of his car. I blew out his rear window and put some holes in his trunk. I didn’t hit him. He drove away. He never reported it. I checked the news for the next couple days. I didn’t report it either, because the Army would have taken away my motorcycle privileges.”

“I guess it was good for both of you that you didn’t hit him.”

“Yeah, it would have been self-defense, but it would have been an ugly trial.”

“You would have needed a good lawyer.”

Hans laughed, “Yeah, a really good lawyer.”

I miss my little boy.

Uptown Bodhisattva

February 21st, 2017

The neighborhood in the vicinity of Argyle Street in Chicago is primarily Asian, mostly Vietnamese. Lots of places that sell nail supplies (nothing to do with carpentry), and a variety of restaurants with the word “pho” in the name. Scattered throughout the area are small oases where the dharma is taught. I had time to wander and explore, so I found a few of them.

Walking south on Broadway through the Uptown district, I came upon the Buddhist Temple of Chicago. It’s a small building, tucked into a tiny corner lot. I went to the front door and rang. A woman answered and asked what I wanted.

I said, “I’d like to see your temple.”

“We can’t show you that now. We are going to start a Tai Chi class. We will be done in an hour.”

“Well, can I join the class? I have done Tai Chi before, but I’m out of practice.”

“Yeah, sure, come in. Most of the people are beginners.”

A group watched me as I entered the building. They had been drinking tea, and now they were getting in line to start the Tai Chi class. Some were Asian, some were Anglos. The instructor was a short, stocky guy with a white goatee. He led everyone through the beginning moves. That felt comfortable, since I had done them in the past. The instructor had different names for the movements than I remembered, but the motions were the same. Later he took the class through the entire exercise. I couldn’t remember the whole form, so I mostly floundered along. Some of it was familiar, but not nearly enough.

Once the class was over, a petite Asian woman offered to show me their temple area. She explained that it had six sides for “symbolic reasons”, although she didn’t explain what those reasons were. It was a small temple, but two of the walls could be moved to provide more room. There was a simple shrine and many folding chairs. My guide showed me an alcove where they kept the ashes of deceased temple worshippers. The lady kept telling me to come and visit again.

Later that day, I went to the Truc Lam Buddhist Temple. It’s big white house on the corner of Wilson and Ashland, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. American and Vietnamese flags wave in front of the house. There is a statue of Kwan Yin in the yard. There are lotus blossoms displayed on most of the window shutters. A few of the shutters have the compass and the square carved into them, so I am guessing that at one time this temple had something to do with the Masons.

I went to the meditation practice at the temple in the evening. Inside I met a young woman named Jen. We were the first ones there. She took me to the sanctuary upstairs. It was a big hall with large statues of the Buddha and soft, grey carpets on the wood floor. Lots of gold paint everywhere. Jen got out some small round cushions, prayer books, and little reading stands. She clued me in that they were a Tibetan practice, who just happened to use the Vietnamese temple for their meetings. We sat and waited for the others to arrive. During that time, Jen and I talked about what the Tibetan practice does and compared it with Zen. We also talked about the Catholic practice of centering prayer, and how that compared with the Buddhist forms of meditation.

Eventually, there were seven of us. There was another young woman named Jennifer, a guy named Matt (the group leader), Tristan, Cari, and Willie. Tristan, Cari, and Willie were black. I found that interesting because I had never met any black Buddhists before. Maybe I just don’t get around much. Tristan was a young man with rimless glasses, a goatee, and shoulder-length dreadlocks. Willie sat on a chair. He was an older man, and he looked a bit rough.

Matt gave me a quick intro to the Tibetan thing. It’s almost all chanting; some in Tibetan, and some in English. There is this effort to visualize a holy image of some sort during the chanting. The focus is on imagining compassion. There is a short period of silent meditation near the end of the practice, but nothing like how it is with Zen. It seemed to me that Willie was the best at chanting. He had a deep voice, baked hard from cigarettes, and he sounded like the Tibetan monks that I have heard on recordings.

After the ritual, we talked about the practice. Tristan complained that he kept daydreaming during the meditation. I told him that is pretty normal. I talked about Zen for a while, and Tristan gave a look that said, “Who are you, and why are you still talking?” I took the hint.

The whole session took over two hours. I was surprised by how late it was. As we got ready to go, I told Tristan,

“Hey, I really like your hair.”

He laughed, and shook my hand. Then he said, “Hey man, I was going to say something about your beard, but you know…”

“Yeah, it’s okay. It just grows like this.”

He nodded. “I hear you.”

Willie went into a bathroom with a monstrous, black, plastic bag. Then it kind of clicked in my head that Willie was probably homeless. So, he was kind of street bodhisattva. That was kind of cool somehow.

A couple days later, I stumbled on the Wat Phrasriratanamahdhatu, which is the Thai Temple. It’s in an old house on Magnolia Street, south of Lawrence. It took me a while to figure out where to go. I found a guy who told me,

“Go to the back door. Open it, and ring the bell on the left side.”

That I did. Then I waited. And waited. Finally, a Thai monk came from upstairs. He had on maroon colored clothes, with a saffron cloth draped over one shoulder. He eyed me for a moment. Then he asked,

“You want something?”

“Yeah, I want to see your temple.”

“What do you want in temple?”

“I want to pray there.”

“Ahhhhhh, you want to pray in temple. Come.”

He took me into the living room. There was a small shrine, and some cushions on the floor. Overall, the place looked like a Buddhist garage sale. There statues and pictures and things scattered everywhere. I wondered if this was just a temporary worship space.

We sat in silence for a while. I prayed for my family.

The monk looked at me and asked, “You know Buddhism?”

“Zen.”

Ahhhhh, Zen. We are Hinayana…Thervada. You know?”

“Not really.”

“Ahhhh, my master, he is in Michigan. He speak English much better. He can explain much better. I am only seven month here.”

He paused and said, “It is so: when you walk, you do it in present time; when you sit, you do it in present time; when you lie down, you do it all in present time. Only present time. You understand?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed the dark stubble on his head, and looked at me doubtfully. “Hmmmmm, you understand. Okay. My master, he is in Michigan. He explain it better. I learn the dharma when I nineteen year old. Now I am fifty-five.”

“I’m fifty-eight.”

“Ahhhh, fifty-eight. Yes.”

We ran out things to say.

“Well, I guess I will go now.”

“Yes. You go. You come back? Maybe when my master is here, and not in Michigan?”

“No, but thank you.”

“You want water?’

“No, but thank you.”

The monk said, “Yes”, and put the palms of his hands together in front himself. (Gassho). I did the same.

I left.

Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo

Late January, 2016

The temple on Bainbridge Island traces its origins back to Nichidatsu Fujii (Guruji), a Japanese Buddhist monk who lived from 1885 to 1985. Guruji based his practice on reciting the mantra “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”. According to Guruji, this chant is the distillation of the entire Lotus Sutra. The Lotus Sutra contains about 96,000 verses, so it’s kind of impressive that it all got condensed into seven syllables. I remember asking Senji once about what the chant actually meant. We were on the peace walk when I asked him.

Senji kind of smiled and said, “It mean: ‘We are beautiful. We are Buddha. We are love’. It say that.”

I’ll go with that translation.

The chant is basic to everything at the temple. It is the core of all that happens there.

The morning service starts with one of the monks lighting the candles and the incense. Gilberto would strike the large singing bowl three times. Then one of them goes over to a huge drum, big as a 55-gallon drum, that sits sideways on a wooden frame. Senji or Gilberto beats the drum and chants “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” over and over again. Senji has a deep baritone and chants beautifully. Gilberto has a slightly deeper voice, and his chant is a bit harsher. In the morning, Cindy and Lani come to chant along, and they also drum. Karin and I came too. Karin chanted with them all. Stefan would also show up. He had no problem praying with the Buddhists. The chanting went on for at least an hour.

When the chanting stopped, Senji would strike the kai, a small piece of metal suspended from a wooden frame. Gilberto rang the singing bowl, and struck the makusho, a hollow, wooden bowl. Then we would recite part of the Lotus Sutra in Chinese. After that, we read something from Guruji, and finally we recited the morning prayer in Chinese.

The evening prayer was similar. It all centered on Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo.

The chant is powerful in a odd way. It is like praying the rosary or reciting the Jesus prayer. After a while, it sinks into a person’s psyche and becomes part of that person, or maybe the person becomes the chant. All I know is that I hear the chant in my dreams now. That’s how deep it goes.

Guruji believed that he could create world peace by drumming and chanting. He might have been right.

Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo.