Blessings and Buddha

In the past week, I've found myself looking for some kind of cleanse and restart for many reasons. Getting settled in new life here, of course, but I think it's goes back to the end of the chapter of my life that was university and the transition into life, in a new and very foreign place. Figuring out what I want moving forward, and how to forgive and let go with what's past.

I am not a Buddhist, or a Christian, or anything religious. I am, in fact, an atheist to the core, though neither cynical nor militant. However, when my friend Nettra said her mom was urging her to go the temple and get blessed before her return to school in Paris, I immediately asked if I could come, feeling in it the opportunity I had been looking for.

We went this morning, very early, leaving the house at seven. The temple was just outside the city and we were going to meet a specific monk, who apparently knew the family and had blessed their house when they bought it. The temple was like the rest of them, the entrance a big, ornate gate and behind it the beautiful, curling architecture so markedly Asian. I had never been inside one before, only seen the pagodas of the temples here in the city.

There was a main sanctuary, if I can call it such, closed by a gate and clearly the heart of spirituality. It was built up, steeps steps going up with the bannisters covered in the sculptures of naga, a mythical seven headed snake, acting as guardian.

The entire compound is covered with those curled architectural flourishes and colors, gold and red and grey. Nearby there are small pagodas tombs, grey and ornately carved with their tall spires, though I never actually figured out for whom. Wealthy benefactors of the temple, maybe. In the back, tucked away behind the main building and another two story building, are the monks' quarters. They are nothing special, little blue bungalows with washing hung on the balconies. You could see them, walking around in half-togas of orange.

The monk in question was out getting food with several of his brothers, so we looked around a bit. Despite the construction on one side, the whole place was vibrating with peace and calm. There were stretches of grass, plants, and birds, a few lazy dogs. No one was hurrying, or rushing.

A few carloads of monks returned. These wear deep red robes, apparently a signal of what temple they're from. Our monk was very old -- I later learned he was ninety -- and was being helped by a younger monk. We did not go into the main sanctuary, but into a smaller, two-story building nearby. Inside was a room with a Buddha statue, covered with gifts, offerings, and candles, and then a small bench for the monk, covered again with offerings.

We had bought some bread to offer him, and presented it on a gold plate, seating ourselves on the carpeted floor. The monk's secretary began asking the sign of the year we were born, and the day we were born -- apparently there are certain days that are better to be blessed - if you do the whole nine yards - than others. Of the three of us, the two born in 1990 and the year of the Horse -- me and my friend Nettra -- were advised to be blessed. Our friend, a year of the Dragon, was told Sunday or Monday would be better.

I had been worried they wouldn't agree or it wouldn't be a good day for me. I was up half the night thanks to a dodgy dish of fried noodles with "Tofurkey" meat from a Chinese vegetarian dive and was feeling more in need of a blessing than ever. However, with my year accepted and Saturday apparently a good day for me, I followed Nettra into another room, with small tiled rooms.

In each were a couple short stools, barely five inches tall, and a tiled pool of water about a foot and a half by a foot. I had known there would be water involved but didn't realize how much, as Nettra handed over a sarong to wrap myself in and said to take everything else off.

Completely naked under the sarong, we sat on the stools to wait, our backs to the door. One of the guys working there brought some hot water to warm up the pool, and then the monk arrived. We bent our heads, hands together and touching the nose.

He began to chant in sanskrit, his older voice wavering slightly as he murmured the words, a sweet chant that faded at the end. He took huge bowlfuls over the water and poured them on us, our backs, necks, and heads. The water had been perfumed by flowers, and after two bowls Nettra said to wash my face. By the end -- five or six bowlfuls later -- we truly were drenched to the bone.

I don't know how to properly describe it. I didn't know what he was saying, but closed my eyes and felt the waves of encouragement pouring over my head with the water, and imagined it running down with dirt and confusion and everything else I wanted to let go of. I don't know why, but my eyes were full and my throat tight.

After, lacking towels, we dried off the best we could and got dressed, returning to the other room. I lit some incense -- eight sticks, following the advice of Nettra's mom, and placed them in the smaller offering to the Buddha just outside.

Because our friend hadn't gotten the full blessing, the monk blessed the four of us again, this time just sprinkling water and chanting. Following instructions, we bowed three times to the monk at the end, and then three times to the Buddha. "You can pray too, ask him whatever," Nettra's mom said.

To bow, by the way, you put your hands together by your head, then touch them to the ground, usually with the body bending as well. I did, and with my head on my hands, asked the Buddha for what I ask every god, regardless of whether or not I believe in them: strength, and courage.

As far as I can tell, one can never have too much of that.

The Aftermath: Paris the 2e Tour

I believe I mentioned, some time ago, that I was returning to Paris, and had some anxieties about it. I just looked through my recent posts and realized that I said nothing further, and yet one week ago, I returned from a ten day trip to the one city in the world that has managed to completely and utter capture my heart.

Well. Time to fix that.

I have trouble describing it in few words, but I think the main things are simple enough. The main anxiety was that returning to the place of such an incredible and life changing experience was bound to be a letdown, or strange, or that somehow my memory was rose-colored and I would not feel the same perfect peace and belonging as I did in living there. That I would feel the same terrifying unknowing that I did in returning to the USA after 11 months away, the same uncanny displacement that you can do nothing about but turn in circles until you find yourself (which didn't happen until December).

On this account, I shouldn't have worried. The second I arrived, I felt as though I had never left. Friends greeted me as though I had left the day before. The signs, the metros, everything. I only realized the sirens were different when one of my dancers pointed it out.

French people always ask me why in the world I would live in Paris when I could live in New York. I say, it's less stressful, and they say, well Paris is stressful too. I think it's not quite that, then -- the real fact of the matter is that Paris has an energy that I feel better in -- ça me correspond mieux.

The other thing about the trip was that it was so deeply and incredibly encouraging. The idea to come back for the April festival at Paris 7 started out as a mere possibility, a dream, and for a year it was all I thought about. Everything I did revolved around making it happen. I had dancers leave and a real dearth of funding until the last minute, but then suddenly we were there, and it was real. What had been a dream was reality, and it was exactly as I had wanted it to be.

Well, if I could do that -- suddenly it seems very possible to make other dreams come true. Of course, with time -- but I have time, my god I have so much time.

It was interesting -- people kept telling me how incredible it was that I did this, that I got a group from Columbia to Paris for the festival, and it allowed me to step back and be proud, because inside of it --

Honestly, it wasn't anything amazing. It was nothing more or less than something I had to do. Not doing it was not an option and therefore I had to find a way. Simple.

But either way, I know now, it's possible. You just have to be completely obsessed, and I am.

That's why, for the past week, I have not been depressed like I thought I might be after leaving Paris. I was missing it terribly on Tuesday, sure, but the pervasive energy has been so positive and exciting -- because I know I'm going back. I know it will be just as wonderful, and that I can make all my dreams come true.

You just have to give me a few years.

Re-opening Pandora's Box: Going Back to Paris

Let's call a spade a spade: in case you haven't heard, the eleven months I spent in Paris last year was hands down the most transformative experience of my life. However many months removed -- eight, I think -- I'm still figuring out exactly how transformative and what the ramifications are.

I probably couldn't tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that I spent a good several months after I came back trying to reconcile the person I had been and the person I had become. It was like staring in a mirror and having no idea who the person looking back was.

Well, I'm going back. Five weeks to the day, to be exact. And I'm not quite sure what to think.

Of course, I'm excited. I've been told by numerous sources that they have never seen me so at home as when I was in Paris. I found something I wrote about halfway through my time there: I don't know if I love Paris, but all I know is that I fell into living here as easily as breathing. There are people I haven't seen in months, and the culture, the city, the food...

But I also know that when I left, I left some incredibly powerful energy behind. And honestly, I'm not sure -- and I'm a little concerned -- about what will happen when I reopen that existence. It's not anything I can prepare for. Hell, I tried to prepare for the culture shock, but found myself facing a monster whose face I didn't even recognize.

Of course it won't be the same. A lot of time has passed since I left, and I've changed again. But I do wonder.

And then there are times when I don't worry, and I just remember how completely and ferociously alive I was, and I can barely speak for impatience.

I may have to amend the title of this post. I'm not going back to Paris.

For a week, I'm coming home.