Recently I ran across a new Buddhist blog that says it is for people who “are interested in meditation but don’t want to pretend they live in ancient Asia.” I try not to get too worked up about how people characterize Buddhism, but that line about pretense got my attention.
If I have your attention, please hop over to the web magazine Killing the Buddha, where my newest essay, “Grass Huts and Hermits” is up this morning. I’m looking into the future of American Buddhism, and it seems an appropriate way to sum up this week’s explorations of faith.
I told the best of my friends I would write about this, as uncharacteristic as it seems. The impact was that stunning.
The other night I had an unforgettable dream. For one thing, it’s the full moon and all. It’s been some time since I’ve had a dream this vivid, and I knew that I would have to share it. For 24 hours after, I couldn’t find the words. My mouth would hang open, my eyes fill to the brim. Here goes.
I was standing in a room with a guide. Expectant, awaiting. I would be meeting someone soon. And then I realized I was standing backstage about to meet Michael Jackson as soon as his performance was over.
Whaaat? I’m no hysterical fan. I share only everyone’s appreciation for his musical genius and discomfort with everything that came after. Still, collective consciousness weaves its way into unwitting spaces.
He entered and stood before me. Instead of a shadow of black, a camouflage of dark costuming, he was enrobed in yellow light. I stared into his open and unlined face. It was pure, unblemished. There was no shield or barrier; no fabricated drape of hair, hat or sunshade. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and I thought to myself, I could look at him forever.
