where i live, the last traces of a winter storm which killed 22 people are melting away. i had the great fortune of making it through unscathed. my household didn’t even lose power. i had prayed that we wouldn’t lose power—not because i was afraid of the cold, which would have been reasonable; i was afraid of the yogurt i had just bought spoiling in the fridge, and i was afraid of being unable to use my electronics; neither of those fears were reasonable, but my prayers were answered all the same. mercies & blessings are wasted on someone as disordered as me, but i try to be thankful, and hold out hope that i will continue to enjoy the kindness of this cruel world.
i can scarcely believe that one year has passed since last winter, since my last visit to a temple. it is a humble house converted into a place of worship and maintained by the local Cambodian immigrant community. its location is only a brief diversion from the long road i take between home and work.
i carefully walked up the stairs of the wooden porch, still covered in ice. i stood at the door, rang the doorbell, and waited. there was no answer. no one was there to let me in. i stared at the lenticular print of Gautama Buddha posted on the door, swaying my head from side to side so that i could enjoy the 3D effect.
i hungered to be let in. i longed to bow down and leave an offering and utter a dedication to ghosts that may have once been my kin. i wanted to feel the presence of a monk. instead, i stood on that porch alone, rocking back and forth, looking at a plastic lens sheet.
i sighed and walked back to my car. i got back on the road home, and resigned myself to the worldly routine in which i have been stuck for many winters now.
“in this scarlet house of sin, does he ever hear the temple bells?”