So I Built Me An Altar

It probably has to do with my time with the Catholics but I always felt that things like altars and statues and acts like genuflecting and prostrating and other such nonsense were best left for places of worship. Still, I was an altar boy and even though I got to be part of the show, the stage always fascinated me. I don’t know whether it was the fact that everything was oversized or the amount of gold leaf used or the way everyone magically went silent as they got close but there was something supremely reverent about it and I’m sure that’s what drew me to performing on actual stages when I grew older.

When I was younger and found out that Buddhists had altars in their homes, it creeped me out. I mean, as both a Catholic and an avid film goer, I knew that the only people who kept altars in their homes were people who performed ritual sacrifices. Everybody knows that, right?

But I had an Uncle who was a Buddhist. He was my first and for years my only real exposure to Buddhism. As I learned about my Uncle’s Buddhist practice, I found out that he too had an altar. Knowing that he was one of the most peaceful people in the world, I knew the sacrifice notion was just foolishness on my part and dropped it but I still never really understood the point.

As I began studying Buddhism myself, I read about how they were focalpoints to aid one in their practice. Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah - see, here’s the thing: Things can be explained to you and you can understand them mentally but until you experience those things for yourself, you don’t really get them.

A few years ago, when I first started to take an earnest interest in Buddhism, I found out that my Uncle was dying. I was told it would be soon so I made plans to get back out to San Francisco as soon as I could, which would have been about a week and a half. The night before I left, he passed away. It was a real blow because I was unable to see him and talk to him but knowing about his faith, I did feel a certain sense of peace. It was more about loss for me. I still went out to San Francisco to attend the funeral. When I arrived, I found out that the funeral was scheduled for the day after I was to leave. I had to be back at work on that day and couldn’t change my plans. So basically, I’d come to San Francisco for nothing, or so it seemed.

The day after I arrived, I decided to spend the day in The City by myself. I’d rented a car – a Jeep actually – so I figured I’d might as well put it to good use. The first place I went was the top of Bernal Heights. That’s one of the hills that rises up out of San Francisco’s streets and it’s the hill I grew up on. Sitting up on top of it early in the morning, I had a view that was mostly obscured by fog. Many would be disappointed but I live for the fog. Sitting in a blanket of thick, cold, fog make me happy in ways many people can not fathom. It’s not unlike sitting in front of a large blank movie screen. Sure, you could just see a big white sheet or you could see things appear. You could create your own movie in your head. Watching the fog is very much like that.

From there it was off to Noe Valley for juice and a bagel but then where? Somehow I ended up at a place I hated as a child. I ended up at my grade school. The site of many bullying sessions where I was the victim. The place where Vince, Omar, Kevin and I used to smoke pot during recess. (In 7^th grade, mind you. In 1977! So please stop with the “kids today” speeches.) I found a need to roam it’s halls. Perhaps see if one of the teachers I had might still be teaching and show them that I made it. But what do I find? It’s still summer vacation. The school is closed. Bastards.

So I wander down the block to the basilica. This is the place where I did some time as an altar boy, where later I played guitar in the somewhat hipper masses and where I eventually came to believe that God did not exist.

I entered and, as is still the case whenever entering any Catholic church, had to fight the urge to dip my hand in the font and cross myself. (They really get you when you’re young.) Moving into the church, I took a seat, near the back in case of a sudden lightning strike. I took a moment to settle in and take in the austerity of the place. Whoever designed the place, really understood the effect of architecture on the human psyche.

Once leveled, I notice the customary old Latina in the first row, kneeling and saying her rosary. You just know she was there every day. Their dedication is stunning. We could all stand to have that level of commitment to something. To anything.

There was the odd cleric and layman moving to and fro furiously, arranging flowers and placing items as if to say, “God will not wait for my lazy ass.” I could see the two lights on the confessional lit. Some poor schlub spilling his guts about things that probably don’t really matter in the grand scheme - and if they do matter, he should probably be speaking to someone else. It was everything that I remembered from my youth and many of the reasons I left the church.

But then I noticed that one massive thing that had been sitting directly in front of me all along. The altar.

Of course, to just say “the altar” isn’t quite correct. Some will tell you the altar is just the table. There’s the reredos which is the wall that sits behind the table, sometimes with pictures of saints. The cross, which in Mission Dolores Basilica is at least life size, though I’d say it’s larger than life – it’s rather horrifying, really. You have the aumbry and lectern and the huge vases filled with flowers and the little kneeling benches where the altar boys wait with their bells, even lighting and sound equipment. The whole thing really is a stage but of course, we just call it the altar.

The power of this image just bashed me between the eyes. Even with my complete lack of belief, I couldn’t deny the ability of this structure to focus my attention on the subject at hand.

I stayed a while but fearing retribution for having soiled this holy place with my heathenness, I got up, put my hands in my pockets as I passed the fonts and exited the building.

I spent the rest of the day moving from place to place in a free form motion. No requirements. No goals. Just go until you have a reason to stop. I ended the day at the Buddhist Bookstore and got as much out of talking to the staff as I did out of the books that I purchased. All in all, it was a perfect day.

Good thing too because the next day I found out that there were two services for my Uncle. The one that the family was holding that I was going to miss and one that the members of his sangha were holding that took place the day I was out seeing The City.

So I would miss both opportunities to pay my respects to Uncle. But I think – and I could way off base here – that in doing what I did that day in The City, in reattaching momentarily to my hurtful past, acknowledging it, then letting it go, then seeking out a new way, I may have paid more respect to Uncle George and his way of life than anything I could have done at either of those services. I sure hope so anyway.

So back to the altar.

I had largely forgotten about my altar experience until I went to see the Dalai Lama last week. Upon entering the auditorium the first time, I was greeted with an open stage open which sat, I’m guessing, four rows of maybe eight zabuton on either side of a large throne. Some of the zabuton were occupied by monks and nuns. All would be soon. Behind the last row of zabuton on each side were a row of chairs. On one side, the row contained a number of Benedictine monks. On the other side were a number of women that I’m assuming were Catholic nuns of some sort. Behind the throne, hanging in front of the backdrop is a massive (I’m talking like 80 feet high) tapestry of the Buddha. Everything is decked out in maroon and gold.

BANG! Between the eyes again.

Suddenly I’m having every experience in front of every altar ever, all over again and that’s when it hits me.

“focalpoints to aid one in their practice”

Of course! Having an altar doesn’t make me a ritual sacrificer anymore than it makes me a Buddhist or a Catholic. I can only be those things if I practice those things.

Here’s an example. I own a baseball bat. Does that make me a baseball player? No. Only playing baseball can make me a baseball player.

So once I’m back home, I start pondering the altar idea. Do I need one? Do I want one? Well, my little practice spot is kind of shabby. It doesn’t particularly inspire me to meditate. To focus on the subject at hand. It does kind of sound like having an altar might be appropriate. But what does that entail? Do I need to buy stuff? Is there some particular layout that I have to get right? Is this whole endeavor going to start to irritate me at some point?

Then I found this thread over at e-sangha. Great stuff. I discovered that while the altar should definitely focus you on the subject of the Buddha’s teachings, part of how it does that is to speak directly to you. The best way to do that is for the altar to be very much a part of you. It should take on part of your personality. I realized I already had everything I needed. Here’s what I used.

• 1 old steamer trunk
• 1 concrete Buddha statue from WalMart that was going to go into the garden next year
• 1 maroon fleece throw blanket
• 1 “Teaching of Buddha” book
• 1 “Atisha’s Lamp For The Path To Enlightenment” book
• 1 dorje

The Buddha statue is perched on top of my homemade zafu. I found one that supported my back better so I thought I’d give mine to the Buddha. In front of the altar, my zafu sits on my homemade zabuton. As time goes on I’m sure I’ll add more as I find things that suit me but I’ve found that when I bow, then sit on my zafu and look up at the Buddha, BANG! Right between the eyes.

Works like a charm.