The End of a Novena

 

Tonight we had the last session of a Novena for an uncle who passed away (non-Covid).  I hadn't done a rosary in quite awhile. I used to do it when I was a practicing Catholic. It was like riding a bike meditating to the litany of prayers. I visualized lifting my uncle's soul to heaven.

In Buddhism, there is a tale of hungry ghosts who are liberated from their ghostly status, elevated to their next incarnation through prayer.

I used a rosary that I got when I visited the Vatican in 2019. I got them blessed at St. Peter's Basilica. I didn't think I'd ever use them. I remembered that the rosary was actually inspired by mala.

 At least that's what Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in her memoir Eat, Pray, Love. I was not surprised by this, the story of Crusaders venturing East then seeing Buddhists and Hindus using prayer beads, eventually bringing it back to Europe. I don't think the Catholics want to make this connection. They want to believe it was an original invention by St. Dominic.

Regardless, fingering beads in prayer just feels spiritual to me. And it can also help with a nervous habit. If it brings comfort, its fulfilled its purpose. 

My Second Mid-Life

 Over the holidays, some friends died. Not of Covid, cancer. They were around my age. As we older, the body becomes more frail, more diseased. This is a fact. Old age, sickness, and death are three of the "sufferings." Birth is the fourth.

When I was younger, and peers were dying of AIDS. I felt as I do now. I had a mid-life crisis. In my twenties. When so many were dying in their forties, 25 was mid-life.

In my fifties, I'm in my second mid-life. I'm trying not to have a crisis. I had one already. I'll aim to have a mid-life catharsis--let go, just let that sh*t go.

  

Countless Disappointments

I'm prepping for a new course I'm teaching called Buddhist American Literature. I'm reading African American Buddhist Charles Johnson. His work is incredible salve during these hard times. I'm also watching a lot of movies during this Covid time. I saw Ma Rainey's Black Bottom based on the play by August Wilson.  

After reading Johnson's story Night Hawks, I see they were friends. There was something magical about discovering this happenstance. Here is what Johnson wrote of Wilson in Night Hawks:

"How many times had his heart been broken? He could not remember the countless disappointments. Like so many writers and artists I've known, his art was anchored in lacerations and a latticework of scar tissue."

Let our sadness be a spark in the night time.

A Lit Path, 2017

Thriving While Sad

Artist at Rest, 2020

It is a new year, and I'm terribly sad. Over 350,000 people have died of Covid and the Capitol had been attacked. I am angry, sad and frustrated. A New Year is always a good way to start new things, so I'm going to sit with these feelings of malcontent. As a Buddhist, I know I can feel all of this Moment but not allow it to control me, force me to do something I may regret later. 

It's been months since I'd posted. I, like so many others, got caught up in the business of surviving. This year, I want to do more than merely survive. I want to thrive, which means, I think, leading my best life while all appears to be dismal. 

Let's try this experiment.