the temple
april 29th 2024 6:15 pm ︎
The floors are clean- so, so clean. I want to gaze into their gloss forever. They’re washed by hand after class. I love them; they make me feel clean as well. I want to walk on them barefoot despite them being so cold- like plunging my feet into a chlorinated pool. I want to be those floors. So carefully swept and wiped and cared for, so perfectly lustrous and strong despite being trodden upon since forever. Floors far older than you and I. Worthy of a manifesto. So poised and beautiful and sound.
I struggle to speak of the temple without mentioning the floors- whenever friends come visit me, I excitedly mention “Did you see the floors? Can’t you tell how clean they are? They wash them by hand.” The mover who first helped get my furniture in the building nearly broke my heart when he answered with an “Oh. Hadn’t noticed.” Wiped the smile right off my face- I tried to hide it, but my disappointment in our interaction was palpable. Witnessing this sort of blatant underwhelm... well, I wasn’t ready for it. I genuinely had to sit down and rationalize it to myself: so many bizarre and sensationalized details associated with my moving into the temple, so many questions on people’s minds- and I soar past them to mention the floors. As if that will justify my choice in their heads, as if their glisten will immediately get them to understand why I moved here... In all fairness, it would’ve convinced me.
Could anyone outside myself ever understand just how much it’s moved me to see oak softened into stained glass? How much it’s moved me to scan the wooden floor and be able to distinguish someone’s reflection with its color? When I sit down on the sidelines of the dharma room to watch people train, it’s like they’re dancing on a mirror.
I’ve yet to clean the floors by hand since moving in, but I long to help the boards breathe better; to clear away any speck of dust that lay stagnant between them. Never mind my bad back; Never mind the pain of looking down. I want to glide my hands over the shellacked ground. I want to sun my complexion in its reflected light. I want to bathe in its woody aroma and marvel at its structural integrity. I want to know how these floors, every groove and warp, every swirl and ring, hold me each day.
Thank you for the extra layer of sanity provided to me by these floors- I didn’t know I was looking for it.
The floors are clean- so, so clean. I want to gaze into their gloss forever. They’re washed by hand after class. I love them; they make me feel clean as well. I want to walk on them barefoot despite them being so cold- like plunging my feet into a chlorinated pool. I want to be those floors. So carefully swept and wiped and cared for, so perfectly lustrous and strong despite being trodden upon since forever. Floors far older than you and I. Worthy of a manifesto. So poised and beautiful and sound.
I struggle to speak of the temple without mentioning the floors- whenever friends come visit me, I excitedly mention “Did you see the floors? Can’t you tell how clean they are? They wash them by hand.” The mover who first helped get my furniture in the building nearly broke my heart when he answered with an “Oh. Hadn’t noticed.” Wiped the smile right off my face- I tried to hide it, but my disappointment in our interaction was palpable. Witnessing this sort of blatant underwhelm... well, I wasn’t ready for it. I genuinely had to sit down and rationalize it to myself: so many bizarre and sensationalized details associated with my moving into the temple, so many questions on people’s minds- and I soar past them to mention the floors. As if that will justify my choice in their heads, as if their glisten will immediately get them to understand why I moved here... In all fairness, it would’ve convinced me.
Could anyone outside myself ever understand just how much it’s moved me to see oak softened into stained glass? How much it’s moved me to scan the wooden floor and be able to distinguish someone’s reflection with its color? When I sit down on the sidelines of the dharma room to watch people train, it’s like they’re dancing on a mirror.
I’ve yet to clean the floors by hand since moving in, but I long to help the boards breathe better; to clear away any speck of dust that lay stagnant between them. Never mind my bad back; Never mind the pain of looking down. I want to glide my hands over the shellacked ground. I want to sun my complexion in its reflected light. I want to bathe in its woody aroma and marvel at its structural integrity. I want to know how these floors, every groove and warp, every swirl and ring, hold me each day.
Thank you for the extra layer of sanity provided to me by these floors- I didn’t know I was looking for it.