23 VOLUME 8 |ISSUE 2 |2017
are mom-and-pop operations. You can get anything you could ever
want here: specialty chocolate, liquor, groceries, Greek food, Lebanese
food, Chinese food, manicures, hairstylists, real estate, movie theaters,
banks. Convenience within steps of residential bliss. I can have as
much solitude and quiet as I want at home, and yet be smack in the
heart of things in 7 minutes. The very best of both worlds!
...
In the SGI, there was no solitude. In various ways, it was discouraged.
There was never time for quiet reflection, for downtime. We were
expected to be in constant motion, continually serving. To
seek time for ourselves was selfish. We were always in
emergency mode: The clock was ticking and we had
a world to save. No time to question, no time to
think. That would be pure self-indulgence. Our
master, Daisaku Ikeda, knew the direction
we needed to go in. To ruminate over his
decisions was to doubt. To doubt was
to show disunity. To show disunity was
a sin. There was always something to
be done, some member who needed
encouragement, some activity that needed
to be attended to.
In those days, I would get up at 5 a.m. do
morning prayers chant for an hour while
kneeling in front of our altar go to work go to a
meeting at 7 p.m., which I was responsible to lead
stay after the meeting to encourage people, to listen
to their problems, to entice guests to join stumble home by
10:30 p.m. spend another half hour on the phone reporting try to
clean the house a bit have a marriage then fall into bed by 1 a.m.
On 4 hours’ sleep, I, like the others, was in a state of sleep deprivation,
a most miserable condition. Not only was I too tired to reason, but my
body ached. It felt like it was crying. I just felt lousy.
...
I walk along 5th Avenue. It’s still dark. A few people are out.
Sometimes, especially in summer, in front of the local bar a few
stragglers remain. I hurry past, hoping none of my teenage students
are among them. That would be awkward. After a block or two, I
take a break from the hot, humid air and sit on one of those friendly
benches. What a luxury to feel safe, a woman all alone in the night, in
the middle of the street. This is my hometown: Bay Ridge. This is the
best of it: its safety, its quiet, its beauty.
I ran from this place when I was young because nothing ever
happened here, because of its blandness. Buddhism seemed very
exotic after a lifetime of Catholic nuns and people who had rules and
explanations for everything, but no sensuality, no love of life.
And then, after the disaster, my life ruined, after finding out the
particular group I’d been part of for 20 years was nothing more than
fanatical, a cult, I began to long and long for this place.
For a long time, I stalked it! From my perfectly nice little studio
apartment in Queens, I would look at pictures of Bay Ridge online:
sledders at Shore Road park 4th Avenue after Hurricane Sandy the
Verrazano Bridge at dusk or at dawn any shot of a snowstorm. When
I finally got the chance to move back, I could not believe my fortune.
I was in a daze. I didn’t care that the only thing I could afford was a
basement rental.
I rediscovered the fact that the water is never far away. I can easily walk
to the water from my house (yes! before dawn: safe, secure, to watch
the sun rise). And the land and the character of the buildings subtly
change as they near land’s end. Just like in a beach town, everything
gets spaced apart and calmer as you near the water. You can stand
on the corner of 82nd Street and 3rd Avenue looking toward the
Verrazano and swear you are in a summer resort town somewhere.
I reach the laundromat and the young man greets me with a smile as
he opens the door. It’s a 24-hour center, but he sensibly locks the door
between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. If I were still in the cult, at this time of day
I’d be up and out of bed, not out of choice but obligation. I’d
be on the floor, in front of my home altar for more than
an hour, chanting. There would still be, according
to the group, only one way to pray, only one way
to see the world, only one way to understand
it, and only one correct way to respond to it.
There would be no time to feel the world, no
time to, as the poet Girmay says, fall in love
with its feral self.
My hometown laundromat is designed
elegantly, well lit, bright, and cheerful.
Hanging lamps are quasi bubble-shaped.
There’s a well-appointed children’s play area
with enough wonderful stuff to make you wish
you were a kid again. There are two large-screen
televisions. On Sunday mornings, they offer bagels,
cream cheese, and coffee gratis. For me, the stacks and
stacks of magazines were the most exciting thing.
The young man knows me. Without a word, he turns up the air
conditioning and gives me a small, shy nod as he crosses the room. I
thank him. It’s just the two of us here now, and he is not supposed to
turn the air on until 7 a.m.
I put the white clothes and dark clothes into two different washers,
add the soap and the money, watch them get started, and then
sit down in the area near the magazines, right up front, right near
the large picture window that my friend, the attendant, has made
spotless. The window looks out onto the tranquil street, which is
hanging in that exquisite moment before dawn, light just kissing the
clean-swept pavement.
I am alone with it all: light, streets, trees, sky, the first of the day.
It belongs to me because I love it so. I bow my head, make my
obeisance, and let it overwhelm me. Ravaged, my heart is filled with
joy. n
Note
[1] A British term gaining popularity in the United States that means
“equipped” or “decked out.”
About the Author
Mary O’Connell, Member Profiles Editor of ICSA
Today, was a member of SGI, a Buddhist-based
group, for close to 20 years. Her life was saved
when she happened to find ICSA (then AFF)
online. Subsequently, she met Lorna Goldberg,
LCSW, PsyA, and past president of ICSA, who has
helped her recover, imagine a new life, and create
that new life. n
are mom-and-pop operations. You can get anything you could ever
want here: specialty chocolate, liquor, groceries, Greek food, Lebanese
food, Chinese food, manicures, hairstylists, real estate, movie theaters,
banks. Convenience within steps of residential bliss. I can have as
much solitude and quiet as I want at home, and yet be smack in the
heart of things in 7 minutes. The very best of both worlds!
...
In the SGI, there was no solitude. In various ways, it was discouraged.
There was never time for quiet reflection, for downtime. We were
expected to be in constant motion, continually serving. To
seek time for ourselves was selfish. We were always in
emergency mode: The clock was ticking and we had
a world to save. No time to question, no time to
think. That would be pure self-indulgence. Our
master, Daisaku Ikeda, knew the direction
we needed to go in. To ruminate over his
decisions was to doubt. To doubt was
to show disunity. To show disunity was
a sin. There was always something to
be done, some member who needed
encouragement, some activity that needed
to be attended to.
In those days, I would get up at 5 a.m. do
morning prayers chant for an hour while
kneeling in front of our altar go to work go to a
meeting at 7 p.m., which I was responsible to lead
stay after the meeting to encourage people, to listen
to their problems, to entice guests to join stumble home by
10:30 p.m. spend another half hour on the phone reporting try to
clean the house a bit have a marriage then fall into bed by 1 a.m.
On 4 hours’ sleep, I, like the others, was in a state of sleep deprivation,
a most miserable condition. Not only was I too tired to reason, but my
body ached. It felt like it was crying. I just felt lousy.
...
I walk along 5th Avenue. It’s still dark. A few people are out.
Sometimes, especially in summer, in front of the local bar a few
stragglers remain. I hurry past, hoping none of my teenage students
are among them. That would be awkward. After a block or two, I
take a break from the hot, humid air and sit on one of those friendly
benches. What a luxury to feel safe, a woman all alone in the night, in
the middle of the street. This is my hometown: Bay Ridge. This is the
best of it: its safety, its quiet, its beauty.
I ran from this place when I was young because nothing ever
happened here, because of its blandness. Buddhism seemed very
exotic after a lifetime of Catholic nuns and people who had rules and
explanations for everything, but no sensuality, no love of life.
And then, after the disaster, my life ruined, after finding out the
particular group I’d been part of for 20 years was nothing more than
fanatical, a cult, I began to long and long for this place.
For a long time, I stalked it! From my perfectly nice little studio
apartment in Queens, I would look at pictures of Bay Ridge online:
sledders at Shore Road park 4th Avenue after Hurricane Sandy the
Verrazano Bridge at dusk or at dawn any shot of a snowstorm. When
I finally got the chance to move back, I could not believe my fortune.
I was in a daze. I didn’t care that the only thing I could afford was a
basement rental.
I rediscovered the fact that the water is never far away. I can easily walk
to the water from my house (yes! before dawn: safe, secure, to watch
the sun rise). And the land and the character of the buildings subtly
change as they near land’s end. Just like in a beach town, everything
gets spaced apart and calmer as you near the water. You can stand
on the corner of 82nd Street and 3rd Avenue looking toward the
Verrazano and swear you are in a summer resort town somewhere.
I reach the laundromat and the young man greets me with a smile as
he opens the door. It’s a 24-hour center, but he sensibly locks the door
between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. If I were still in the cult, at this time of day
I’d be up and out of bed, not out of choice but obligation. I’d
be on the floor, in front of my home altar for more than
an hour, chanting. There would still be, according
to the group, only one way to pray, only one way
to see the world, only one way to understand
it, and only one correct way to respond to it.
There would be no time to feel the world, no
time to, as the poet Girmay says, fall in love
with its feral self.
My hometown laundromat is designed
elegantly, well lit, bright, and cheerful.
Hanging lamps are quasi bubble-shaped.
There’s a well-appointed children’s play area
with enough wonderful stuff to make you wish
you were a kid again. There are two large-screen
televisions. On Sunday mornings, they offer bagels,
cream cheese, and coffee gratis. For me, the stacks and
stacks of magazines were the most exciting thing.
The young man knows me. Without a word, he turns up the air
conditioning and gives me a small, shy nod as he crosses the room. I
thank him. It’s just the two of us here now, and he is not supposed to
turn the air on until 7 a.m.
I put the white clothes and dark clothes into two different washers,
add the soap and the money, watch them get started, and then
sit down in the area near the magazines, right up front, right near
the large picture window that my friend, the attendant, has made
spotless. The window looks out onto the tranquil street, which is
hanging in that exquisite moment before dawn, light just kissing the
clean-swept pavement.
I am alone with it all: light, streets, trees, sky, the first of the day.
It belongs to me because I love it so. I bow my head, make my
obeisance, and let it overwhelm me. Ravaged, my heart is filled with
joy. n
Note
[1] A British term gaining popularity in the United States that means
“equipped” or “decked out.”
About the Author
Mary O’Connell, Member Profiles Editor of ICSA
Today, was a member of SGI, a Buddhist-based
group, for close to 20 years. Her life was saved
when she happened to find ICSA (then AFF)
online. Subsequently, she met Lorna Goldberg,
LCSW, PsyA, and past president of ICSA, who has
helped her recover, imagine a new life, and create
that new life. n
