God, I think, and feel something stir within me. I breathe deeply, trying to return to my thoughts in front of the tree exhibition. As I breathe, I become aware of my physical self, and that takes me to a more cognitive place. Here, I feel centered and shift my attention to my coffee, which I mindfully sip. The flavor is robust, fresh. And there’s power in this moment.
I take another sip of coffee, the hot liquid energizing, feeling wonderful in my mouth, throat. For a moment, I feel more positive.
My waitress returns with a coffee carafe, smiles again, then without asking or speaking, fills my cup. Women, I think, know how not to interrupt. I’m relaxed now, better able to be with my thoughts. I think about God and faith, feeling a visceral connection to the universe. As I breathe, the universe breathes with me.
My sandwich arrives. The waitress says nothing. I look at her, say “thanks,” aware that my voice doesn’t want to speak. I nod my head, we smile at each other, and I notice that she’s pregnant. Thin as she is, there’s a definite baby bump beneath her apron.
I breathe deeply, feeling the core channel of my body hold air, then let it go. Now I’m thinking that there’s some black place I’ve been running from.
I take a difficult bite of my portobello mushroom sandwich, which is thick, hard to get my mouth around. A tangy mayonnaise-based sauce drips from it onto my plate. I swipe the bitten end of the sandwich into the sauce, ready for another bite. My mouth is alive with the textures and tastes of this delicious food.
Sensation—perhaps it too is sacred. The Buddhists believe that suffering can be alleviated by engaging in the present, the utter-ness of the moment, the acceptance of reality or what is.
My pregnant waitress, coffee carafe in hand, makes her way to me. No words again. A slight smile, pour, nod.
God in all things—even my sandwich and coffee. My present moment. I pour a dab of half-and-half into my coffee, take a sip, concentrating now on the experience of the coffee, its warmth in my mouth, its taste. I swallow, the liquid warming my throat.
I do the same with my sandwich, except that I chew it thoroughly, feeling my jaw and mouth work. The complicated tastes combine. A joy—a spiritual practice, a living practice.
Wasn’t it Ignatius of Loyola who said that God is present in all things? And that spirit is found through practice?
That word again: practice. There’s so much we call practice. As a graduate student, I studied with the poet Robert Creeley, and he’d always say that life is a dress rehearsal, but he never said for what. Maybe he was suggesting that life is our practice, that we never get it right, that nothing exists beyond the rehearsal.
I bite again into my sandwich—complex, satisfying.
My waitress is back.
“This is excellent,” I say, as she stands by my table.
“I’m glad,” she says. “May I get you anything else?”
“Just the check,” I tell her.
Up and about in the museum, I find that I’m not quite ready to leave. I want to explore one of the permanent collections.
I stand before the African tribal collection of masks and old religious artifacts. Some masks are huge wooden things, with terrifying faces. Were they intended to scare? Does fear create obedience? Do we need consequences to behave ethically? Is it fear, that most primal emotion, that guides, controls, motivates?
In Hebrew culture class, the Rebbetzin told us that God always watched us, that whatever wrong act we committed, God would see and punish us.
I’m in front of a grouping of artifacts: a terrifying mask, a huge carved totem, a grass and textile shaman’s costume. Did these items help reach God or bring people closer to the spirit realm?
No answers.
I’m walking now through some abstract modern paintings and sculpture. On one wall, a draped tapestry of used bottle caps and metal pieces cut from aluminum cans, by Ghanaian born artist El Anatsui, hangs like a glistening fabric. Lines that Link Humanity is its title. I stand there—first at a distance, then closer up, then at a distance again.
A couple approaches. He’s probably in his seventies; she’s younger, I’m guessing. They’re dressed in coordinated shorts, pink tee-shirts, and white Nike athletic shoes.
The man, hunched and in pain, tries to straighten his neck to see the entire wall sculpture.
“Linda, we could do this,” he says.
“Start collecting your cans,” she replies, grinning at the man, who returns the grin—a pleased, intimate, knowing expression.
I eavesdrop, move closer to them.
“Yeah,” the man says. “We can do anything. We just need time.”
They walk off slowly to another gallery room. I hear the thumping of his cane, the shuffling of his feet. The woman supports his other arm; they themselves look like art.
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I get it into my head to return to the other building, go downstairs to visit the Egyptian collection. Exiting, I walk slowly, mindful of the fading heat, the thick humid air. As I enter, the cool air makes me feel like I’ve arrived in another country. I breathe it in and walk down the large, gracious stairs to stand in front of the small, about two feet high, “Bust of the Goddess Sekmet, circa 1390-1352 B.C.E.,” sculpted in granite or some hard stone, with a lion’s face and women’s breasts. The goddess of retribution, she and the dark forces she represents exist to take action against violence.
Yes, we want justice. When wrong is committed, we want the wrong-doer punished.
I think of Dennis and his wrong-doings—stealing, gambling, lying—and sigh.
Now in front of “Inner Coffin of Djed Mut, circa 715-525 B.C.E.,” I study its painted hieroglyphs, intricate designs, intended to secure passage to the next world. Is my brother dying? Will he need passage?
Suddenly, I’m very tired and know that I need to leave. I return up the wide staircase, past the information and ticket counters, and walk out through the heavy glass doors.