Text and Design by Sisix

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I’m not religious. I’d barely call myself spiritual, unless you count staring at the ceiling, whispering “please” as a form of prayer. You could say I’m 99% atheist. The remaining 1% is that stubborn hope that maybe there’s something more; a bit of mystery, some kind of cosmic sequel, a reward, or, better yet, a wonderful surprise.

 

Once in New York, I was staying in a miserable hotel above a pub on Amsterdam Avenue. I couldn’t sleep because the old man next door had his television on at full volume - some depressing shopping channel selling fake Persian rugs. His door was open so when I went to the bathroom, I saw him: sitting alone, still, dissolving into the chair, as if waiting for nothing. A sweeping sadness came over me;  that kind of sad that doesn’t move, just settles in your throat.

 

The internet wasn’t working, my phone had no credits, so I also turned the TV on. Morgan Freeman was talking about death. Oh, perfect, I thought. Of all possible subjects… But strangely, I didn’t change the channel, because something in me was still searching for a way out of that sudden agony. I took it as luck. Or a divine sign, if you will.

 

I don’t remember the program very well, I think Morgan Freeman was interviewing someone who had died and come back,  but I remember what the man said:  

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                                                 . ݁₊ ⊹ Dying is fantastic! ⊹ . ݁˖ . 

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He described floating above the earth, drifting over endless green fields, moving slowly through clouds filled with thousands of butterflies. He said he felt an indescribable joy; a sense of belonging, as though he’d finally returned to the place he was from.

 

And I thought,  All right, then. That doesn’t sound so bad. Who wouldn’t want that?

 

My remaining 1% is the part of me that hopes the old man will eventually float out of the hotel window and spin above the clouds.  Even if there’s no soul, maybe the last second of your living brain emulates the exact thing you’ve always hoped.

 

You may be familiar with the Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho in Bangkok. I’ve been there more than ten times. I know, it sounds like a weird spiritual crush, but every time I go, I’m overtaken by a rare kind of joy. It’s 45 meters long, 15 meters tall, and completely covered in real gold leaf. He lies inside this massive building full of patterns, carvings, and textures, a sensory overload that reminds us of the variety of life.

 

His feet are immense, a spiritual comic book about how to reach enlightenment across multiple incarnations. His toes carry spiral patterns, like galaxies; prints from another world, adding to the overwhelming sense of cozy infinity you feel there.

 

And his face, Holy Cosmos, his face! That’s the face I want when it happens.

So serene it would make a three-month-old jealous. Not laughing, not smiling broadly, just that subtle, perfect curve of joy. Like Yoda's smile: Worry not, Luke, all is bliss.

 

His eyes are nearly closed, but not all the way, because he’s not asleep; he’s dying. That’s the whole point. It’s a dying Buddha, in his final moment during Nirvana, transitioning after completing all possible incarnations. He is leaving the loop on a literal golden exit.

 

How soothing is that for dying? This is why I say, I'm not religious, but if I had to pick a religion, let’s say the airplane was falling, the elevator stuck, and I had to make a choice fast, then I would pick Buddhism - or better, my understanding of it. I would pick my understanding of Buddhism in Thailand, to be precise. 

 

I should say this upfront, before any assumptions are made: I haven’t really studied Buddhism. When I was a teenager, I bought a book on Zazen during a George Harrison My Sweet Lord phase - which, yes, I now recognize as a tangle of British Hare Krishna idealism layered over a song that was essentially stolen from black artists. A heap of cultural appropriation that, to me, growing up in 1990s South America, translated simply as: Zazen! I bought the book, but never practiced. So there it is: my introduction to Buddhism, via a non-Buddhist Beatle.

 

Later, I traveled to many Buddha-rich places, and of all the I’ve wandered, Thailand holds something else entirely. The way he is everywhere is so comforting! He is in a 7-Eleven, nestled beside instant noodles and coconut milk; atop an ATM, half-hidden by sun-faded prayer beads, on tuk-tuk dashboards, wedged between broken rosaries and swinging dice. He’s there in pharmacies, half-smiling next to the ibuprofen, or hovering above mango pyramids at fruit stalls, watching over dragonfruit like it’s sacred.

 

His gaze simply accepts you without judgment, as you are, no matter what sins you’ve committed, unlike those little Baroque angels in Rococo European churches.

 

I mean, as someone who went to Catholic school as a kid, I can’t help but compare. You enter a church, and it feels like Mel Gibson is directing a scene. Everyone is suffering, from angels to saints to Jesus to Mary, chain. Everyone is either crying blood or has their mouth half-open in horror at something. Is it me? Was it that day I stole a cherry at Whole Foods? You leave the church feeling like you should crawl home on your knees, carrying a piano, two priests, a couple of donkeys, some chains, and cutting your eye under the moonlight while your hand is full of burning ants.

 

Guilty as charged, I often leave Thailand with a little Buddha to gift someone or myself. I’m not proud of it, especially because religious souvenirs bug me as hell. I always wonder about them: why so many? And why does every single religion mass-produce them as if they’re campaigning for elections?

 

There’s the undeniable affair between capitalism and religion, and we all know how profitable religion is. But beyond that, I’m always intrigued by the appeal of such objects.

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Maybe they are so appalling because they are the materialization of the nonexistent, a palpable proof of what you’ve always, deep down, suspected: that this is all fiction. You buy the beads, the saint, the Bible, the Quran, the kippah, the tiny San Francisco sitting with 2 rabbits and a robin; you build the little altar, and there, see? It exists. You buy souvenirs because you need evidence of your scriptural faith in this material world.

 

The need for such big statues and monumental Christs on top of mountains is the need to solidify the eternal. Maybe it’s to give us something tangible, something we can hold onto in the face of a vast nothing.

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Call me 99% atheist, but there’s that rogue 1%, a glitch in my matrix, that buys a tiny 80-baht Buddha in a Bangkok night market and tucks it into the wardrobe like a secret playlist. He’s just there, chilling, glowing under my cramped shirt rack. And every morning, I clock him, smile back, and close the door like a scene change. Cut to: me, pretending I don’t believe in anything, while totally believing that one tiny thing is backing me up for the entire day, or even better, for an amazing surprise at the end of It all. Amen, Insha’Allah, Shalom, Saravá, Namaste!