Pilgrim

Pilgrim:  1.) A person who journeys, especially a long distance, to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
(Dictionary.com Unabridged.  Source location, the Random House Dictionary)

The year 2003 is drawing to a close.  I've traveled from Flagstaff to the Midwest for the holidays, to visit family.  Now it's New Year's Eve and I'm in Chicago to spend a few days at my best friend's house before flying west again.


I don't go in for big celebrations at the new year.  There are usually too many amateurs out, too many drunks, and - in the neighborhood where I used to live - too many guns being shot into the air when the clock strikes twelve.  


Betty and I are in her old white Chevy Caprice, driving north on Lake Shore Drive.  It's still relatively early.  We exit the Drive at Irving Park and go west for a mile or two, then circle a block to the south and start searching for parking.  Luckily, the Parking Gods are smiling on us this evening - we find a space a mere two blocks from our destination.


We walk through the brisk winter air to an unassuming brick building on a primarily residential street.  Snowflakes tickle the parts of my face that are not tucked into a coat or scarf.  Several people join us on the sidewalk.  We nod to them, open the heavy wood door with the glass panes, and enter the steamy warmth of the building.


Inside, we remove our shoes before proceeding into the main lobby.  Betty slides hers into the last open slot in the built-in cubby holes provided.  I add mine to the growing jumble of footwear on the floor.  Racks have been provided for coats, but I leave mine on.  Sometimes the room is on the drafty side.  Betty sees someone she knows and goes to say hello.  I drift into the small bookstore.


Soon Betty returns and we walk up the carpeted stairs.  We greet and take programs from the quiet man stationed at the top, then enter a small foyer.  It is crowded with chairs that spill out from the main sanctuary:  the overflow seating.  Passing into the larger room, Betty and I recall the first year we attended this New Year's event.  The room was unheated and half painted.  There were cushions on the floor for the thirty or forty participants who had braved the brutal cold to show up.


Now, nearly a decade later, the event is at capacity and the decor is more elaborate.  The walls are saffron, trimmed with an earthy shade of red at the columns.  The high ceiling is painted a vibrant blue.  Prayer flags and bright paper lanterns hang from the ceiling.  The statues on the altar gleam.  A priest wearing loose grey garments lights sticks of incense and places them in shiny bowls along the front edge of the altar.


As the air fills with the sweet scent of cinnamon and jasmine, we find seats about halfway up the aisle and settle in.  I read over the program.  In the eight or nine years we've been attending, very little has changed in the content of the ceremony we are here to take part in.  There will be meditation, recitations, chanting, a dharma talk by one of the sangha leaders.  Then each of us will set fire to the past year.


Betty and I are at the the Zen Buddhist Temple.  As the annual Kindling Light of Wisdom Mind ceremony begins, I pull a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket and worry it between my fingers.  For a brief moment I am impatient.  I want to get the preliminaries out of the way and get right to the good stuff.  Then I remember where I am.  I am only supposed to be here, now.  I slip the paper into my pocket.  Take a deep breath to quiet my mind.


This New Year's Eve ceremony is built around the idea of forgiveness and letting go, for the purpose of clearing space in your life for the coming year.  Each participant is given paper and pencil and asked to list people they feel have wronged them, or those they have wronged, since January first.


In the past I've waited till the ceremony was underway to write my list, and not had enough time to finish.  This year, I have been giving the list some consideration since Christmas Eve.  I wrote it earlier in the day during a moment of calm.  When the call comes for the congregants to make their lists I think of a few more additions.  I'm still scribbling as we line up around the edge of the sanctuary.  One by one we make our way to the altar, where the monks stand in front of brass bowls half full of water.


The sameness of this ritual from year to year comforts and grounds me in ways that few things can.  It is one of the best ways for me to chart my internal progress.  The first year Betty and I attended, I struggled during the meditation and chanting.  I lost my place frequently as my mind wandered in circles.  My list was made up mostly of people I felt had wronged me.  This year, I stay with the chants more easily and retain focus during meditation.  The list I cradle between my palms is largely comprised of those I feel I've wronged through my actions or words.


I bow to the monk and hand her my list.  She smiles and holds the paper to the flame.  I watch as the list is consumed by fire, then as the ashes are swallowed up by the water.  Pressing my empty hands together, I bow to her again before turning away.  I feel lighter as I walk down the aisle.  My pilgrimage for this year is complete.

Painted wood statue, Seattle Asian Art Museum