Free Your Mind and the Rest Will Travel

“Chee-no-da-da-da-da-ming-no-da-da-da-da-la-laaa.” The chanting in Japanese lasted for 30 minutes. Like the other 15 adults in this living room in Perugia, Italy, my hostess held a little white book containing a collection of Japanese mantras with the Italian pronunciation below each corresponding line. Following the words with her index finger, she hoped I understood Italian pronunciation well enough to chant with the group. I felt like a child following a hymnal at church.
I was surprised and disappointed that instead of a party, the big event my hostess boasted about over email turned out to be a Buddhist prayer meeting.
After the chanting, everyone pushed their chairs into a circle and took turns sharing how the mantras helped them overcome addictions and anxiety. One tiny woman with short layered black hair and fitted clothes told of how she had been saying the mantras everyday since her mother died. With tears in her eyes, she explained the peace she felt.
About two hours into this time of encouragement, my mind stopped straining to translate the conversation. My eyes followed the intricate swirls on the harem pants sitting next to me and counted how many were wearing Birkenstock sandals as I drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke, the meeting was over, and people were standing in groups talking and eating off of delicate china plates. My hostess brought English speakers over to talk to me. Each wanted to know if I felt anything during the chanting? Speaking Japanese wasn’t necessary since they believe in the power of those words. They told me stories about how fearful they were until they began chanting and meditating. I too could feel the calm they experienced if I would give chanting a try. “Would you like to join a group like this back in the States?” they asked.
Was karma getting back at me? In high school, my family hosted a girl from Spain. Instead of going crazy with other teens, she and I went to Bible studies and youth group parties in addition to Sunday morning and evening church services with my family. She was Catholic, but we tried to convert her to our evangelical Protestant faith.
Walking around the Fontana Maggiore after the meeting, my hostess asked if I would chant with her the next day, making me think how persistent we were to the Spaniard.
I declined chanting with her and still have not tried, but I have my own copy of that little white book. My hostess gave me an English version-- a souvenir of my shifting point of view.