The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(102)
Dorothy looked around. This is where I’m meant to be.
She was about to thank the old woman when the power went out.
Instead of worried cries and frightened voices seeking comfort in the lightlessness, Dorothy heard gentle laughter, pleasant cheering, as if someone had switched on a lighted Christmas tree in a darkened room. The absence of electricity made the glow of dozens of candles and hanging oil lamps even more beautiful, serene, and natural. She felt a deep and primal comfort in the warmth of open flames.
“There are towels over there if you’d like to dry off,” the bhikkhuni suggested, pointing with her chin. “After, you can come with me and get warm.”
Dorothy realized she was dripping on the tiled floor. She removed her raincoat, dried off as best she could, wiping her face and squeezing the moisture from her hair with an old bath sheet. She removed her shoes and left them on a shelf near the entrance.
She followed the old woman down the corridor, bowing as she entered the temple hondo, the main hall dedicated to objects of veneration. Once inside, Dorothy felt small, insignificant, dwarfed by two rows of red and gold pillars that reached up to the vaulted ceiling like trees in an orderly forest, holding up the sky. From the back of the hall, Dorothy could feel the ambient heat on her cold cheeks from the hundreds, if not thousands of lit candles that adorned the massive wooden altar at the front of the room. There, amid a slowly swirling fog of incense smoke, a statue of the seated Buddha rested, surrounded by a small army of golden statuary. Purple hydrangea and blood-red syabu deckled the elegantly carved shrine. Multicolored tapestries hung on either side, adorned with mandalas, painted in earthy tones of umber and ocher on a sea of cobalt blue. A handful of people sat on the floor, occupying cushions, as other female monks were busy unfolding cots between the pillars where people could sleep for the night.
Dorothy loitered in the back of the room, not wanting to leave the comfort of the sanctuary, but too nervous to step farther inside, even though she’d been casually invited. Dorothy recalled her travels, visiting temples in Burma. She was drawn to them but also always felt as though she didn’t belong, a crass tourist gawking at someone else’s place of sacred repose. A weed in someone else’s garden. She wished for the ability to believe, to belong. Life must be easier that way, she thought, watching the old woman arrange the candles she’d carried to the altar, carefully lighting them one by one.
Belonging. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Not a father, though I wish I’d known mine. My mother tried, but she left too soon. My daughter, my beautiful girl, my tether to the world. If I could only give you what I’ve never had, always longed for. Home.
On her way out, the bhikkhuni stopped and asked, “Are you okay? You look a bit lost. Has someone offered you a place to rest?”
Dorothy scanned the hall. “I’d like to rest in here, if that’s okay?”
“Well, I can’t blame you,” the old woman said. “The best room in the house, as well as the safest. Have you been here before?”
“A long time ago.” Dorothy hoped she wouldn’t be asked to elaborate.
“Then it’s nice to have you back. I’m Xi. Are you a Buddhist?”
Dorothy shook her head. “In college, whenever someone asked if I was religious, I’d say I was a deist, agnostic, Shinto Jesuit. I’m nothing but a little bit of everything.”
The older woman chuckled, wide-eyed. “I think that means you’re a Buddhist, dear, and you just don’t know it yet. Give it a lifetime.”
“Just a spiritual refugee for now.”
“Aren’t we all?” Xi smiled warmly. “Welcome.”
“Thank you for having me, again,” Dorothy said with as much relief as gratitude. “You seem so calm, so relaxed amid the mayhem. Aren’t you scared of the typhoon?”
“Of course,” Xi said. “But as the saying goes: pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. Whatever happens, I look forward to the karma that accompanies it. Karma, after all, is the great teacher.”
“I can only imagine. Nights like this must earn you a spiritual get-out-of-jail-free card,” she joked, a reaction to awkward situations.
The woman smiled. “That’s not exactly how karma works.”
“Sorry.” Dorothy hesitated, then said, “How does it work?”
“It’s likely that I will spend the rest of my life trying to figure that out,” Xi said. “But that’s the point, isn’t it, to keep learning, to grow, to do more good than harm, to create compassion, to understand that every person you encounter is not there by coincidence? All of us play a role in another person’s life.”
“What goes around comes around.”
The older woman nodded as though she were a parent explaining basic math to a toddler. “You’re thinking in terms of crime and punishment, which I’m afraid is a bit reductive. Karma is more like a suitcase. You have to be unafraid to open it up and look at what’s inside, to unpack the things you don’t need. Karma is the climate of the past, which shapes how much leeway we have in the future.”
Dorothy looked at old woman. “You sound like a certain doctor I know.”
The bhikkhuni stared up at the ceiling as though measuring the intensity of the wind. “It’s going to be a very long night. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you look tired. I want to make sure you have a bed.” She pointed Dorothy to a cushion near the center of the room. Atop the cushion sat a blanket and a water bottle. “Why don’t you get comfortable and try to rest. Calm your ocean.” Xi smiled again.