of religions and languages.
When I was five
(the four of us were living
in Mrs. Truitt's garage),
my mother told me it was time
for me to learn about God.
She sat, in a cross-legged
posture that I now know
as sukhásana,
at the foot of my little bed.
She said, "long, long ago,
so long ago that you can't
imagine it," (this was starting
to sound interesting to my unformed,
heathen brain)-- and she proceeded
to tell me about the passion
of Christ. I was disappointed,
and I remember thinking to myself,
"Oh no, not that old story again!"
I'm not making this up.
But remember that I was the product
of several (probably many)
lifetimes.
Still sitting on my cot,
my mother then taught me
to sing "Tantum Ergo,"
a famous and very literate
Latin benediction hymn
by Thomas Aquinas.
As it happened (my father
came in the door
while she was still singing
Tantum Ergo),
that was about it
for my early religious
education.
Later, I remember standing
by my mother's side at Mass,
and letting the rosary that dangled
from her fingers
coil into my palm,
while the priest in the pulpit
droned on. Bored, I remember thinking,
"I'll bet I'm not going to do this
when I grow up."
I knew, of course, that the price
for that might be hell,
but at the time it seemed
a small one.
As it turned out,
I was right.
In those days the Mass
was still in Latin,
a Latin that still
serves me well.
You had to eat fish on Fridays,
not the good kind
(my mother was afraid of the bones),
but either dry salmon patties
(cheap in those days)
or frozen fish sticks.
Even today, I can't look
at fish sticks.
In high school I taught myself Hebrew.
I must have been a good teacher,
because another love was born.
Later, I almost converted
to Judaism,
but it was not to be.
I learned Sanskrit by reading
the Bhagavad Gita,
but philosophically I agreed
more with Gymnosophists and Jains,
Nagas, Tantriks, and non-dualists
of every sort.
Now, as an old man,
I agree dietetically
with the Vaishnavas,
since neither they nor I
can eat onions.
I felt close to neo-pagans,
who satisfied my heathen
brain, and served up
respect for women
along with their cakes and ale.
Always, I loved ritual.
Give me candles and incense,
cakes and wine,
flowers and fruits of the season,
and I'll find a beautiful way
to use them.
All of these were, and are,
my friends.
All have some of the pieces
of the puzzle.
All have some of the words
by which we are to live,
and not by bread alone.
Only the Jews, though,
have matzo brei,
and crazy Hasidim
who dance and sing
for joy.
