Finding Magic

by Sally Quinn

  Most unforgettable were the priests—Armenian, Orthodox, Catholic, Syrian—who were fighting among themselves over territory, not vast acres of land as in the old days, but areas within the sacred spaces themselves. Inside the church, a priest from one religion had placed a chair in the middle of the room to define his territory and dared another priest to move it. Yet another priest was sweeping the floor with a broom and swept the dust and dirt to another priest’s side causing a rift. “Welcome to the Holy Land,” our guide said with a laugh and an air of resignation.

  There was little peace to be found here—far from the picture in many of our heads of the “little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.” Since that visit I haven’t been able to sing that classic Christmas hymn with the same feelings I once had.

  We did hear an enlightening talk by a rabbi about Judaism. He focused on how important the Torah was to Jews and suggested that there was no greater religious duty than to study it. It reminded me of the famous Rabbi Hillel story. A gentile, a potential convert to Judaism, asks the rabbi if he can teach the whole Torah to him while he, the prospective convert, stands on one leg. Hillel replies, “That which is hateful to you, do not unto another: This is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary—go and study it.”

  Our speaker talked about Jews being the “chosen people.” “Chosenness is a responsibility,” he said, “and you must dedicate your life to God and the world, to live an ethical and moral life. Being chosen is never much fun.”

  As we approached the Wailing Wall, the first thing I saw were the thousands of pieces of paper stuck in the cracks of the mortar. This wall is such a good example of a ritual that invites participation. Visitors write notes, full of wishes and prayers, and stick them in the cracks of the wall. Even Pope Francis left a note at the Western Wall during his visit in 2014, putting his note in the cracks as he prayed. It was later revealed that his note was the text of the Lord’s Prayer written in his native Spanish.

  This place has been the subject of a lot of anguish, especially by Jewish women because they are not allowed to pray with the men. There is a small separate section where the women are allowed. (After a number of near riots and demonstrations since I was there, this is beginning to change.) The day that we visited there was a bar mitzvah going on, naturally on the men’s side. A makeshift curtain was drawn between the two sides. The men were dancing and laughing, praying, and davening—reciting the traditional liturgical prayers—most of them rocking back and forth rhythmically all the while. On the other side of the curtain the women in the family, including the mother of the bar mitzvah boy, had brought chairs and were standing on them on tiptoe, trying to see the boy celebrate the most sacred day of his life. It was heartbreaking and pathetic. This was a religious site?

  On this trip, it became clearer to me how women get short shrift in every religion.

  * * *

  What I came away with in the Holy Land was this: There has been and is so much pain, so much anguish, so much suffering in the world. From Christ dying on the cross to six million Jews being slaughtered in Germany during World War II, to the Palestinians living in an occupied territory that is slowly being taken away from them, treated like second-class citizens in a no-man’s-land. It never seems to end, yet for all three of these Abrahamic faiths, so much of what believers of each faith go through is either self-inflicted or inflicted on one another. The Golden Rule is preached in all these religions and yet in none of them do many of their followers seem to practice what is preached. From the quotidian pettiness to the monumental atrocities they—we—are all guilty.

  Leaving Israel I felt bereft, overcome with a sense of hopelessness. What was the point of any religion if its adherents didn’t abide by the moral tenets? The idea of a God I could believe in felt even more remote and unrealistic. It was ironic that some of the places considered to be the most holy in the world left me feeling so empty.

  * * *

  Varanasi, the spiritual capital of India, provided a very different experience, partly because I was determined to distance myself from the physical environment and dwell only on the spiritual. We first went to Sarnath where Buddha attained enlightenment and gave his first sermon twenty-four hundred years ago, a place that is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus and where they both go for pilgrimages.

  Listening to a lecture on both faiths, I was struck by how different the two faiths are, despite having sprung up so close to each other. In Buddhism, there is no God, in Hinduism there are many. Buddhism is austere; Hinduism is colorful. Buddhism is one story; Hinduism is many stories. Buddhism is cool; Hinduism is hot. Buddhism centers on the one follower; Hinduism, many. Buddhism is neat; Hinduism is cluttered. Buddhism is solemn; Hinduism is joyous. Buddhism is quiet; Hinduism is noisy. Being around both faiths made me feel schizophrenic, but they do coexist.

  Examining these contrasting ways of looking at the world got me thinking. That’s when I began to consider the notion of cherry-picking—pulling my favorite thoughts about different religions, and latching on to what resonated with me personally. This idea might be anathema to the orthodox followers of different religions. To them, an adherent must commit to the tenets of one faith. That doesn’t work for me. I like the idea of meditating silently on a mat in a plain cotton cloth robe and then going out dancing in the streets in a shocking pink and gold sari with dangling earrings.

  Did I have to adhere to some orthodoxy to find meaning? No. I could adopt the elements that appeal to me from any and all faiths and create a religion of my own, to paraphrase the title of one of Thomas Moore’s bestselling books, A Religion of One’s Own, whose subtitle speaks exactly to this idea: A Guide to Creating a Personal Spirituality in a Secular World. I didn’t have to declare myself any particular denomination or label. I could and would and do have access to it all. What a liberating idea! At that point, I thought if I got nothing else out of this trip—which was certainly not the case—that was it. And it was still early on. I couldn’t wait to see what more I would learn and how much I might change by the time the trip was over.

  * * *

  The Ganges is a filthy river. The banks of the Ganges are strewn with trash and garbage, steeped in mud, animals wandering around the bodies waiting to be cremated, dried cow dung piled up for the poor who cannot afford to pay for the sandalwood to burn their relatives. Guides tell observers and sightseers not even to put your hands in the water when you go out in a boat. Yet you see hundreds of people bathing in the river, washing their hair, doing their laundry, even drinking the water, as dead animals and even a dead baby float by. Apparently the price of cremation is so high, people will often put dead children in the water to be carried away.

  I was not prepared for what we saw that evening as we glided out into the river on small boats at twilight to cruise up and down the Ganges. All along the banks, hundreds of ghats, or funeral pyres, were burning. Bodies clad in brilliant colors were submerged in the river, then brought up to dry, wrapped in white, and laid on banks of wood and covered with bark as well so that the body would not sit up when the flames began to engulf them. Only male relatives, usually the eldest son, dressed in white, head shaven out of respect, were allowed to participate. Women were not allowed as they were thought to be too emotional. Only when the skull cracked open was the soul released from the body to attain nirvana or even moksha, the liberation from the cycle of death and rebirth.

  As we floated down the river and the darkness descended, the flames took on a magical quality and I could almost feel the souls wafting out of the bodies and hovering above us in the atmosphere. In the moonlight the sight of the squalor disappeared and one could only behold the mystery of life and death in its most raw form. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust became a reality.

  I thought of how we Westerners deal with death and our hands-off approach to embalming and even to cremation, which is all done out of sight. I couldn’t help but wonder if what I was witnessing firsthand in India wasn’t a better way. You can
’t deny grief when you see a person you love going up in flames. I knew I couldn’t bear to watch that, though, and I couldn’t bear the idea of being cremated myself. Was it because I was a woman and “too emotional” or was it because of my cultural upbringing?

  Ben had asked to be cremated, but I certainly knew I couldn’t stand to have him cremated, especially after watching those bodies burned and their ashes dumped unceremoniously into the river. The first thing I did when I got back from my trip was to beg him to change his mind. I wanted to know that he would always be with me in some way. I wanted to be buried with him. I wanted to have his funeral where he would be in a casket in front of me so that I could touch it and feel his presence there. He did change his mind. Besides Quinn, it was one of the greatest gifts he could have given me.

  Varanasi did that for me. It was worth the whole trip.

  * * *

  Kyoto took me back to the Japan of my childhood. This part of the trip, though, was not one of discovery or of many spiritual insights. Kyoto is the capital of Zen Buddhism, an imported religion, not established in Japan. I felt there was something antiseptic about Kyoto this time: the shrines, the Shinto religion, the atmosphere.

  A number of things our guide said helped me comprehend some of what I was feeling. When he talked about nature and beauty and gratitude, those concepts resonated with me. This was the Japan where I had had some truly spiritual experiences. This was the mysterious, mystical, and magical Japan of my memories.

  What had appealed to me about Zen was the practice of meditation, and zazen, sitting, or as my brother, Bill, who has been practicing zazen since the 1970s, would say, “put your fanny on the cushion and do it every day.” The idea, as our lecturer told us, “is to empty the mind, enter a state of peace where you have no delusions, no angst, no fear. The mind turns in on itself without distortion. Nothing bothers you. You laugh out loud. You see your own true nature and it is the nature of the universe.” That sounded good to me.

  I have meditated every day since my trip, and have found it really does work for me. I feel calmer and more centered because of it.

  * * *

  Flying from Chengdu, China, to Lhasa, Tibet, over the Himalayas was one of the closest things I can imagine to dying and going to heaven. The views from the plane were achingly beautiful, divine even, with the perfect white peaks jutting out from the equally pristine white clouds. My eyes and the rest of my senses couldn’t get enough of what I was seeing and feeling.

  I stared at the views knowing that, except for the return flight, I would likely never see such glory again. In terms of impact, it was probably the most memorable sight of the trip. After seeing those mountains, it would be hard not to believe in a creator or at least something bigger than oneself and one’s own world.

  Lhasa itself is a Potemkin village. It’s Disney World. It’s a sham of a place, using real temples and colorful people as a backdrop. It’s chilling. Chinese police were everywhere, even if you couldn’t see them. They were there to destroy Tibet as it once was. Here was the home of the Dalai Lama until he was forced to flee by the Chinese after their takeover. For reasons I still don’t understand, they see him and Buddhism as a threat. What on Earth have they been thinking? Tibet is certainly a draw, even without the Dalai Lama, and even for people like me who know what is really going on. Imagine if they actually had the Dalai Lama and his entourage, the monks and supporters and pilgrims, there. What a huge attraction the country would be. Instead of the fake plastic imitations and representations of a “quaint” Tibetan village—never mind the Tibetan monks who periodically self-immolate in order to draw attention to the free Tibet movement—this mystical place would be the end goal of many pilgrims, not to mention a PR dream for travel companies.

  Our guide was an adorable and very naive young Tibetan who spoke to me privately about the Han Chinese domination of his country. He was also quite funny, though he didn’t know it. His name was Dogshit. I was startled when he translated it to me. “Ah, what an interesting name,” I said, diplomatically. “How did you come to be named that?” It turns out that his parents named him Good Luck. Unfortunately, because he was sick for most of his early childhood, his parents decided that they had tempted the gods by naming him that. They changed his name to Dogshit so the gods would not be jealous and it would bring good luck, which in fact it did. Once his name was changed, he said, he was never sick again. This happens a lot, he said. One family had only girls and they wanted a boy so they named their last girl Stop in order to stop having girls, and, presto, the next child was a boy. Call it superstition, call it faith, call it what you will but it works for them. Who are we to say?

  One of the most vivid sights in Tibet was seeing pilgrims prostrate, sliding along the cobblestone streets on their stomachs, praying. Everywhere one sees white scarves or prayer scarves and these are given out in front of temples to make an offering to the Buddha. I still have one. Among my most cherished possessions are two large antique thangkas, paintings on cloth, both of the goddess of compassion. Compassion wasn’t a word I often used before this trip. It is now. It follows the Golden Rule. I hadn’t thought of that before.

  I don’t want to suffer—dukkha again. I want to be enlightened and compassionate. The compassionate part I can do—most of the time. Ultimately, though, I can’t not want what I want. I can’t not love whom I love. The only real way to end suffering and attain enlightenment is to eliminate all attachments. If I eliminate all attachments, I will suffer. Loving all sentient beings, including ants, just ain’t the same as loving another person. Besides, it would be really boring. That would cause me to suffer. It’s a catch-22, or as the Buddhists might say, a koan or riddle.

  Though he travels tirelessly around the world promoting his cause, the Dalai Lama is never coming back, never returning to his rightful place, his native land. His picture is not allowed to be shown in Tibet, which is ironic since the Dalai Lama, even in his absence, is its biggest celebrity.

  I’ve often wondered about his conundrum as a Buddhist. He writes books about how to be happy and he certainly is a jolly soul in person, laughing and giggling constantly. Yet, as we know from Buddhist philosophy, the only way to alleviate suffering is to not want, but since he left Tibet, he has spent his life wanting to return, wanting Tibet to be independent from the Chinese, wanting Tibet to still be the center of Buddhism. If that isn’t a cause for suffering, I don’t know what is.

  * * *

  Heading west now, on our way to Ethiopia, we stopped in a different part of India. The Golden Temple in Amritsar is the spiritual and physical home of the Sikh religion. What appealed to me about this belief system was the idea that all are equal, regardless of caste or sex or color. The Golden Temple, on an island in the midst of the holy Pool of Nectar, is the embodiment of that idea. Goodness and purity are what people strive for and the one God is everywhere and unknowable. It is important to do the right thing and stand by your deeds. Sikhs broke off from Hinduism because they could not support the caste system. Those who are baptized must wear an iron bracelet, men must not cut their hair but wear it in a turban—after 9/11 many Sikhs in the United States were vilified because people thought they were Muslim. Often, they must carry a wooden comb and a small dagger and must wear special underwear. They must not indulge in antisocial activity and are not allowed to commit adultery. They believe that when your heart is pure, you will see miracles. If you pray with a happy heart, your prayers will be answered. Happiness and sadness are both part of life. Meditation is imperative.

  * * *

  In Ethiopia, we were supposed to go to Lalibela, a world-famous site—in fact a UNESCO World Heritage site—full of churches carved out of red volcanic rock, with caves, crypts, grottoes, and galleries. After breakfast we boarded buses to the Addis Ababa airport for an Ethiopian Airlines flight to Lalibela. At the airport we were taken out to the plane, only to be told that the plane had mechanical problems but we were not to worry, everything would soon be fi
xed. I looked around the airport. I didn’t see any other planes that looked like they were about to fly. It was empty. We all got out on the tarmac next to the plane. The pilot and the flight attendants were standing there arguing with some mechanics, all with a lot of hand gestures on both sides. I could swear somebody was kicking the tires. The Ethiopian guide was talking animatedly to somebody who apparently was the airport manager, who was extremely agitated. We waited and waited, interrupted only by frequent assurances that the problem would soon be solved. Meanwhile the pilots continued their harangue with the mechanics. I and several others began to get cold feet. Suddenly my mouth went dry, my heart started pounding, my palms were sweating. I’m not the world’s greatest flier to begin with, but this situation seemed dire and a flight out of the question. I had absolutely no confidence that this plane would or could take off, much less get us to and from Lalibela in one piece. All I could think about were Ben and Quinn. What if the plane crashed? I couldn’t die and leave them alone. Who would take care of them? Eventually, still sweating, I bailed out, as did about half the group. Those who came across to me as either foolhardy or full of faith boarded the plane as those of us who had decided against the flight drove back to the hotel. We were given the choice of lounging by the pool and having a long lunch in luxurious surroundings amid the palm trees, or taking a van and touring the city. I chose, as did a handful of others, to tour the city.

  Although I know Lalibela would have been spectacular—and we heard that night from those who had gone (they came back alive) that it was indeed fabulous—I remained glad that I had stayed behind and seen Addis Ababa in all its realities. The contrast between the plush atmosphere at the hotel and the dilapidated houses and squalor and disease we saw in those hours was astonishing. It was Palm Sunday and many of the Coptic Christians were about in the city with wreaths on their heads to show they had been to church, many wearing their best clothes. The most horrifying and revealing part of the impromptu tour, as well as the most touching, was driving through what we were told was Africa’s largest market, teeming with thousands of people, a mass of humanity, many of the people plainly and visibly miserable. Along the streets we saw a man lying in the gutter, covered with huge lumps all over his body, being walked over by pedestrians, child beggars with stumps for arms and legs, old people stretched out on the pavement with flies circling their glazed eyeballs. There was a man beating donkeys and goats, tied up and unable to escape the lashes. Extreme poverty was evident everywhere we looked. Tin huts lined the roads, with hardly room for one person, let alone large families. The contrast to our opulent environment at the hotel with the elegant French restaurant couldn’t have been more stark.