Reading betty's journal

An interesting thing happened on the way to enlightenment.

When I was studying Art History during my short stint as an Art major, I was introduced to the Buddhist Mandala in the form of a short film taped in San Franciso at a Buddhist temple, not so long ago. In the film, a small group of shorn men travelled around the nation building an intricate sand painting that would take days to complete, then destroy the beautiful work hours after completion. They would then take the sand and pour it into a body of water, then start the process all over again. And get this, once a Mandala man, always a Mandala man. The act of making the intricate and painstaking work and then destroying it is supposed to bring one closer to enlightenment, so they do this day in and day out until they die. Now that is dedication. I can see it now, "Hey, Xin, wanna go to the beach? I heard there are supposed to be some sick waves today," "Naw, man, I'm making my Mandala today, maybe I'll go with you in my next lifetime."
This, and many other things got me thinking. I have never felt dedicated or pulled to anything spiritual, unless it is a friday night and flaming Dr. Peppers are on special. It's not for a lack of searching, or openmindedness either.
I remember as a little girl, being dragged to CCD (Catholacism's answer to Sunday School) and Mass every Sunday, I would cut class and hang out behind the giant Mary statue in the courtyard and pick petals off of roses that had dried at Mary's stoney feet. I was 8 years old when I realized that for years I had been attending Bible study and I couldn't remember the names of any of the Saints, or how they had come to be Saints in the first place.
After receiving communion I knew in my heart of hearts that religion was a fraud because all I had to do was memorize a few biblical phrases and wear a white dress and the powers that be let me into their exclusive club of the "saved". How I hoped that the instant the priest placed the thin tastless wafer (that was supposed to represent the body of Christ) on my little tongue, the Holy Spirit would pop up next to me,slap me on the back and show me the secret handshake.I wanted him to make my heart swell with love and acceptance and make me want to sing hymns at the top of my lungs. But all I got was a wafer on my tongue that slowly became stuck to the roof of my mouth, and a light shove from the priest because I had paused too long after receiving my wafer and I was holding up the line.
I remember walking back to my mom and dad, who were sitting on the hard oak pew bulging with pride.My parents were bulging with pride, not the pew. I don't think the pew cared either way whether I had been given salvation or not. My mom was so full, pride leaked out of the corner of her eyes in liquid form.
I felt nothing. I was afraid to chew the wafer, because I was unsure if it was disrespectful to masticate the body of Christ. It all sounded so gruesome to me; so Donner-ish. I guess I did feel something. I felt dissappointment.
It wasn't long after receiving communion that my mom gave my brother and I the choice whether or not we wanted to go to church or not. Just now, I realized something. See that period right before the word 'Just' in the previous sentence? That is the exact point of my realization, which I will share with you now.
After my brother and I instantly made our decisions, before the question had completely left my mother's mouth, my entire family quit going to church. We used to all get up early, scrub the ranch leavin's from under our little nails and from behind our ears, put on our Sunday Best, and trudge off to church. Everyone: Mom, Dad, Brother, Me, Grandma and Grandpa. After church we would all go to Denny's for breakfast along with the other families that had managed to accomplish the task of togetherness in silence for 2 hours. But after Bubba and I said "NO Thanks" to the Big-G, everyone would sleep in on Sunday. All of us. Then Dad started working Sundays.I think my brother and I were the only reason the family was going to Mass. They must have felt it was their duty to put up a united front and give the two of us a good religious upbringing. That is until we were deamed old enough to make the decision for ourselves.
I was in 6th grade when we quit going to church. I was 10 years old when I decided that I didn't feel the need for religion. I am torn on how to think about this. Do I become reverant in my knowledge that I was not a sheep, that I was so spiritually aware at the age of 10 that I KNEW Christianity is a hollow, last ditch attempt at immortality for beings who are terrified of death? Or do I become angry at my parents for not giving me the religious support that I needed desperately at that particular time in my life? Do I blame my parents for causing me to feel detached from any type of theology that could make me feel bonded with other beings of my species?
I prefer to think that everyone is blameless. This is just the way it worked out. I don't know what I believe at this point in my life. I want to believe that I am destined for some epiphany in the not-so-far future; that the Hand of God will slap me out of my Godless reverie one day and make me part of something that I sense is beyond my reach and yet was under my nose the entire time.

I am just me, searching for simplicity.........and a good hair stylist

This post was edited by betty on Oct 29, 2004.