Skeletons in the Closet

The sun had set. She knew this by the distant ringing in her ears, like a train whistle, miles away, that would soon arrive at the station. So soon in fact, that by the time she got out of bed and pulled on the lamp's cord, sending a sickly, yellow light over the small cabin, the ringing had turned to a full-force scream in her head. It was okay. She had gotten used to the ringing, and somehow it seemed to keep the smell away. Or maybe, she had just gotten used to that, as well. She shuffled over to the wood burning stove, opened the hatch with an ugly grunt, and poked at the burning wood. The varnish turned the flames a greenish-bluish color and stung her eyes. The old lady looked around, heaved a sigh, and slammed the door shut. She was out of kindling and would have to gather some more if she was to stay warm tonight. But it had gotten cold early this year, and there was nothing in the cabin left to burn, except for a stool. No. She would have to venture outside. "Ah. Can wait," she mumbled. "Can wait for a cup of tea. Blasted cold, can wait too. Ah." The old lady shook a fist at the October wind outside the window, which replied by shaking all the limbs in the forest against the glass pane. She shook the old tea pot, making sure it had plenty of water in it, and set it down on the stove. She tried to remember the last time she put fresh mint in the pot, but couldn't. That was okay, too. The bitterness of the parboiled leaves stayed on her tongue, keeping her company. She sat down on her stool, waiting for the tea and glanced around the room. Wood splinters covered the floor, cobwebs hung just out of reach, and by the door, the axe. Company. The wind spoke again, this time, bringing in little bits of sounds like birds, spooked off the grain field, fluttering all at once in different directions: laughter. "Oh my, is it that time again," the old hag cackled. "It seems to come around sooner and sooner each year, yeah." A grin spread from ear to ear, betraying hidden gaps in her mouth between stumps of rotting flesh. With a bounce in her step, she reached for the pantry door. "Yeah. I'll have to make room for some guests."

Renge

Several months back I started practicing the chanting of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. I was spending some time in Los Angeles, trying to discover the golden answers, the magic bullet that would turn my burgeoning writing career into a stellar success. Here, somewhere between late breakfasts at The Brite Spot and even later nights at Insomnia, I was re-introduced to the buddhist practice of chanting the lotus sutra. I say reintroduced because my first real introduction to Nam-myoho-renge-kyo was through a relationship I had been involved in many, many, many, many years earlier which had also commenced in southern California. I remember clearly, walking into my boyfriend's home and hearing some sort of monotonous, eerie yet mystical sound coming from another room. We walked into the kitchen and the sound grew louder, yet not really more distinct. I sat at the island, and watched him rifle through the refrigerator, but that sound didn't stop and I couldn't ignore it any longer. "What the hell is that?" I whispered to him when he turned around, jar in hand. "Kimchi. It's like cabbage and stuff. Fermented." He stuck chopsticks into the jar and showed me dangling cabbage. "No, not that...That! That sound!" "Oh, that's my mom." Unable to fathom that this vibrating, rhythmic sound could come from a person, I looked at him patiently and asked, maybe just the teensiest bit condescendingly, "What is she listening to?" He didn't look up from his Kimchi, which, apparently, was doing wonders satiating his kush-induced munchies, and somewhere between the sourness and the crunch, he replied, "She's not listening to anything, she's chanting." And so began my journey. Over the next thirteen years, in and out of relationships which, amazingly enough, deteriorated in quality, nam-yo (what I called it) sporadically accompanied me on airplanes and other scary situations, but that was the extent of my "practice". It wasn't until after a chapter meeting in a tiny, but pleasant apartment in Hollywood, after chanting with the most eclectic group of people I have ever sat in a living room with, after crying tears of god-knows what, after experiencing something that I could later identify only as genuine, that I realized I had come full-circle, and this was, in effect, going to be a new beginning.

change is in the air....

It's something about the wind. And that gigantic moon in the blue, crisp sky of the morning. It's in the leaves, changing subtly and yet, dramatically. But it's mostly in the wind. A wind that forcefully whisks away the old, while ushering in a new air. Autumn is a time when I feel reluctant for change, yet the wind persists. There is no sense in denying what is coming, and often I feel physically pushed towards a resolution which has been hidden in my psyche for the better part of the year. Usually, I've done such a good job of suppressing it, that I have no idea what it may be. But the wind speaks to me. It tells me Now! Now! Now! with an incessant rattling of leaves, whipping my hair into my face, and pelting nuts at my feet. Now, is a time that I can't help but live in the moment. This moment that is all about change. Do you feel it? Mercedes Sosa - Todo Cambia