Every year I visit my hometown in Poland. Being there only once a year gives me a unique opportunity to observe impermanence in action: how people and places change, getting older by a year in a split second when my ghostly memory is confronted by its ghostly apparition.
A few days ago, while in Poland, I was closing the gate in my parent’s garden on a hot July evening holding a can of beer, listening to White Pony. I stopped for a second to reach for the keys and exactly like some 20 years ago Feiticeira was on. I headed to town to get even drunker. Just like 20 years ago.
Why must this bloody sadness and nostalgia hunt me? You can imagine how ecstatic I was when I was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude.
I tried to come back to Nembutsu practice. Negative thoughts overwhelm me. I don’t know how to handle them. My meditation practice is nonexistent. It is so great to practice. It makes me a batter person. But it is so hard to come back. I am ashamed of myself. So I tried to practice Nembutsu, but that horrible 35th Vow completely removes any credibility of Pure Land in my view. Unless I am missing the point. Again.
35. If, when I attain Buddhahood, women in the immeasurable and inconceivable Buddha-lands of the ten quarters who, having heard my Name, rejoice in faith, awaken aspiration for Enlightenment and wish to renounce womanhood, should after death be reborn again as women, may I not attain perfect Enlightenment.