Rebuilding Taj Mahal

Rebuilding Taj Mahal

A shrine, by definition, Is a scared place. Shrines are dedicated to Buddha, Ra, Dolci and Gabbana, the Great Bambino… We build palaces and stadiums and malls and tape tattered baseball cards up inside rusty lockers, all to give us the “feeling.” I believe that the “feeling” we chase depends on who we are, and where life has taken us. But the outcome is the same: we stay sane, praying to our shrines.

My shrine is less shoebox and candles, and more my own private Taj Mahal. A year ago, walking through the great curved double doors, your footsteps echoed on pretty pink granite squares, flecked with gold. The main hall had hundreds of closed doors and corridors lining its walls, and a waterfall cascading into a stream that ran the length. If I fancied a sit, I could pause on a cute little wicker bench and feed the butterfly koi that taste the air with their snouts, greedy for the food and attention. The hundreds of doors that ran up and down the arbor each contained a separate shrine - ex-boyfriends, old jobs, experiences and general observations from my short life on this planet. Whether in need of solace, or humor, or warning, there was a door to enter. I could turn the handle, step over the threshold, and remember why this had warranted a space in my sanctum. My neuroses had order, and offered me all the benefits of a therapist, with none of the bothersome trips to an office.

Then, when I was 25, my parents announced their divorce. I watched, helpless, as the granite foundation of my shrine simply vanished. The walls shook, there was a small dust cloud, and then – gone. When I opened those great carved doors, I teetered forward, desperate not to be caught up in the great black emptiness that has replaced my safe haven.

For the first few months, this new void bewildered me. Where had my foundation gone? What abut all those experiences and people that shaped how I see the world? I was lost, and quickly losing my sanity. Then, about Christmas time, while I helped my Dad decorate cookies at his new apartment with all three of my little sisters, it hit me: my foundation was my parents. Without their stable base, my granite had lost its hold, and I lost all my perspective.

In a way, this is a problem reserved for the older children of divorce. We build our foundations for the way the world works, including relationships, on our parents. My two younger sisters seemed to have no problems understanding how this huge change affected their lives, but I was still lost. They will have the opportunity to work this new development into how they understand and view the world. I have to rebuild all that.

It is slow going, laying the path into the void. Each new slab of granite has to be examined closely and placed exactly, so I know what it underneath. Some small headway ha been made, and I can open some doors now, but it’s such hard work, and I cry a lot with the weight of all the raw materials. Sometimes I can feel my heart sinking into the emptiness, and I take some time off to recuperate my soul. Chocolate helps. So does hubby. And my fuzzy cuddle kitty.

So I rebuild, sometimes daily, mining new foundations from my memories. It’s not pretty yet. This new shrine has to be stronger than the last, more impervious, so that the earth shaking doesn’t do as much damage. It’s taking longer than I had hoped. But the water fall is on order, and I am waiting on the violets to bloom again and brighten the way.