Cult or Culture (part 20 of 20)

…I probably would have said, OK, yeah, you’re right, but that day I did not.

Today I no longer say the four magical mystical words. I use some of the time I would have sat muttering them, to sit still in silence. My Mother always tried to teach me the value of what she called quiet time. I hated quiet time as a kid and as a young woman. I can’t function without it now. Finally I get it – happiness is always present, like air, it’s always there – whether you choose to inhale or to hold your breath is up to you.

Today there is a peace in my own breath. I feel peace in a sunrise, or in the waves of a body of water, or in the flavor of a delicious meal, or in the melody of a great piece of music, or in the smell of my Mom’s perfume, or in the warmth of my cashmere sweater, or in the security of having enough cash on hand in the nick of time, or in the sincerity of a genuine friend. They are feelings I enjoy. Happiness. Feelings I never found in a room surrounded by dozens of people bellowing a chant.

Don’t misunderstand, my life is not all butterflies and unicorns now – butterflies are seasonal and unicorns don’t exist, but now I understand that my attachment and my re-attachments to the Culture Center Clutch were, attempts to fill the most primal need to belong. It’s nice to have people remember your name – yup just like at Cheers! It feels good to have people tell you how important your happiness is, especially if you are the slightest bit unhappy. It’s nice to be with people who are certain they are right when everyone else is wrong. It’s good to know there will be a potluck when you haven’t eaten much in a while. And it is best of all to be made to feel that you are a part of something bigger than yourself. But these things are also some of the same things that bad marriages and street gangs are made of – and they can be dangerous – like fire – it can warm a chilly campsite or it can destroy the entire forest.

I still agree there is a mystic law that governs everything in the universe – but I disagree that it is Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.

I still agree there is cause and there is effect – but I disagree repeating any collection of words over and over affects it.

I still agree the Buddha was an ancient teacher from India – but I disagree that revering an aging Japanese multi-millionaire leads the way to the Buddha’s teachings. Although in my case, in an enormously indirect way, I guess it did.

I still agree happiness exists – but I disagree it will be acquired by chanting to a piece of paper inside of a box.

Months after I discontinued my involvement with the Culture Center Clutch I would continue to get invited to meetings – All the meetings. The Planning Meeting – to plan what would happen at the meeting. The kick-off meeting – to get ready for the meeting planned at the planning meeting – and of course the actual Meeting.

I still get emails from some of the clutch, from time to time, but not from the entire clutch, anymore. And the few emails I get now are not about their brand of “Buddhism”, but are now about whatever brands of business they are selling in their personal lives, or they are the occasional computer worm you get from simply being included in someone’s email address book. But never ever are there any of the hey howya doin creative literate lady we liked so much we made one of our leaders – just checking to see how you are kind of emails.

Even after my final farewell I still went to the Culture Center Clutch one last time, at the urging of my closest clutch comrade, to attend a women’s division meeting that she assured me I would enjoy regardless of my choosing not to practice anymore.

When I arrived I was not greeted with the same delight I had always been greeted with regardless of how long I had ever been away. The men who would always rush to hug me just a little too tightly and for a little too long, under the guise of brotherly “Buddha” love were all in a big hurry that day and all had to rush off to put out some fire – each one brushing past me sans hug. The women, who always wanted to get together with me to collaborate on some project because I was so creative, and so artistic, and so articulate and so academic and so acrobatic and so astute and such the cat’s meow, couldn’t have cared less about my surplus of attributes that day and barely spoke to me, if they spoke to me at all. Let the shunning begin. The word was out. She thinks too much.

Was it a Cult or was it a Culture? You decide.

The End