I hate It
There it is, on the thrift store rack between a muu-muu and a sundress. Crap! Another metaphysical orphan. Where is THIS weird story headed? I know my work when I see it, and often that first glance carries a felt sense of I hate it. Wish I could say it's all butterflies and rainbows, but turning poison into medicine doesn't work that way. I buy the long black cassock, give it a new, intentionally yonic red cotton pocket to replace a mysteriously missing one, and then park it in the coat closet to marinate for a year or so.
The Black Coat
Jesuit
Priest
Roshi
Judge
Rabbi
Missionary
Highwoman
Serious Zen Student
Columbine-style shooter
Robin Wall Kimmerer's mention of Black Coat Religion (in Braiding Sweetgrass, her beautiful book of essays on botany, language, ecology, and Native American ways of knowing) nudges me to move beyond general repulsion-and-attraction, and begin. I am headed off to participate in one last Big Dharma retreat before taking a long break from that world. Kimmerer's articulation of the Black Coat as an external force of disembodiment imposed on Indigenous spirituality resonates with my own deep misgivings about core depersonalizing and bypassing elements of Western Buddhist practice as I have experienced them. I grab the cassock from where it has been waiting and pack it with a hoop, some needles, and a ziploc bag full of embroidery floss. We'll see, I think.
Priest
Roshi
Judge
Rabbi
Missionary
Highwoman
Serious Zen Student
Columbine-style shooter
Robin Wall Kimmerer's mention of Black Coat Religion (in Braiding Sweetgrass, her beautiful book of essays on botany, language, ecology, and Native American ways of knowing) nudges me to move beyond general repulsion-and-attraction, and begin. I am headed off to participate in one last Big Dharma retreat before taking a long break from that world. Kimmerer's articulation of the Black Coat as an external force of disembodiment imposed on Indigenous spirituality resonates with my own deep misgivings about core depersonalizing and bypassing elements of Western Buddhist practice as I have experienced them. I grab the cassock from where it has been waiting and pack it with a hoop, some needles, and a ziploc bag full of embroidery floss. We'll see, I think.
Leaving the House
I pull on the cassock on the first night of the silent retreat, re-encountering the delicious feeling of doing something transgressive, embodied, harmless, and alive. Quiet retreatants, 8:30PM bedtime, nothing overtly expressive happening anywhere. I sweep down the steps from the dormitory, pull on my boots, and emerge into the frigid night. If anyone is going to be indigenous to my own experience, it's going to have to be me, with this world and all the creatures in it. No one else can hold that awareness. It's my work, my joy, and my reason for being here.
108, Again
As it turns out, 108 days from that retreat night is my 48th birthday, and so, with a heart of curiosity and sometimes grudging devotion, I set out to discover what lies between the two. A global pandemic and a pandemic-induced lockdown. A lot of dancing. Many expeditions in the woods with my beloved monsters. Weekly sessions with my therapy clients, both in person and via Zoom. A priesthood-non-priesthood of the everyday. A stream-of-consciousness lifeline winding its way all around this discarded, anointed man's garment.
A life.
My life.
This life.
A life.
My life.
This life.