Zen

Zen

By Alexandra Manziano

My Dad, an Irish-Italian, is a hothead. That’s why he took up Zen. That along with the encouragement from some of his like-minded buddies, most likely a symptom of the religion’s growing popularity among middle-aged, suburban white men. Guys who just want some damn inner peace and enlightenment, man! 

Details aside, my father is a born-again Buddhist. For as long as I can remember, we’ve had a meditation garden with little Buddha statues and tiny fountains sprinkled throughout our yard. We all acknowledge that it’s pretty ironic. I mean, when’s the last time you’ve heard a Zen practitioner howl, “Hey! Don’t step in front of those rocks! Respect the fucking Buddha!” 

My father has been wandering the Eightfold Path for enough years to have belonged to several different Ashrams, Zendos, and oh, hot yoga studios, too. He’d never seem to stay in one place for too long, though. The location would always seem to come and go, shrouded in a mystery of spiritualism and foreclosure. 

I always know if my dad’s had a rough day when I smell the burning sandalwood incense as I come home. The bedroom door is shut, and the giant blinds in front of his meditation alcove are drawn, and if you hold your breath, you can hear the trickling whisper of the small fountain sitting next to him. 

“Go sit” is what my mom tells him after he’s repeatedly given her the play-by-play of his drawn-out day. 

So, he would sit, and it would calm him down. At least for a little while, anyway. As a kid, he’d tell me about how he swears he’s transcended, claiming that he was floating on his pillow. I didn’t believe him then, but I think I do now. 

I think I can now understand being able to separate yourself so far from the physical realm that you feel like you’re flying above everything else. His mind must go a mile-a-minute. I know mine does. 

So, when it’s been a long and tiring day, instead of yelling profanities at the TV, Frank will try to float on his pillow. 

I’ll try to follow.