I’ve been sprinkled with holy water; immersed myself, head to toe, sans makeup, nail polish, clothing, and moisturizer, in a mikvah (the Jewish ritual bath); and finally had an Asian woman snap her fingers at me.
ItalBuJu. That’s not a typeface, like ItalGaramond. Nor is it a typographical notation to italicize BuJu, a gently mocking colloquial term for a Jew who practices buddhism. An ItalBuJu–that would be me, triple threat, descendant of devoutly Roman Catholic Sicilian peasants and Irish farmers, convert to the Hebrew faith—bat Avraham, bat Sarah–and a Buddhist. That’s a lot of comparative religion in one lifetime.
But it all was oddly natural and easy, with never any storms along the way. And maybe, finally a port. A few weeks ago, I took refuge vows with Acharya Arawanna Hayashi. I vowed to take refuge in the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha. As the preceptor told us, when we’re in the hospital and they ask, “What religion?” now we can answer, “Buddhist.” Um, okay. Actually, I could answer a lot of things.
I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, with 12 solid years of Catholic school (which gave me a very fine education, I have to say, and a great sense of discipline that has served me, and others, well to this day). Still, despite a first confession, First Communion, and numberless rosaries, scapulars, First Friday masses, and Stations of the Cross, it didn’t really take. Aside from the usual precocious troubles with god and the theology of original sin, I liked Jesus well enough, (tho’ I never could consider him divine), but I never felt anything transcendental there amongst the nuns.
My Italian relatives prayed more often to Sts. Jude and Anthony than to Jesus, I think, invoking Tony fairly regularly: “St. Anthony, St. Anthony, my keys can’t be found. St. Anthony, St. Anthony, I know they are around.” That, or some similar formula, usually produced the missing car keys in under three minutes. The Irish relative was prone to scattering replicas of the miraculous Infant of Prague statue among the bric-a-brac. The key to the I of P, as we called him, was that it was good luck to tuck money under him. Good luck for us, anyway, when it was time to buy candy, cigarettes, or beer.
But I stepped up the fervor at 13, when it was time for Confirmation. See, Catholics get a “confirmation name,” a moniker I earnestly desired. My ecumenical and progressive parents believed that children should decide things for themselves. Things like a middle name. They never gave any of their children a middle name, to our great shame. No middle initial. No tripartite monogrammed sweaters for me. O, the pain. Plus, the letters of my name added up to 13, an unlucky number. Or 4, the Chinese number of death. That no middle-name thing was just a bad deal all around. I couldn’t wait for Confirmation and promptly remedied the issue with the name Elizabeth. Whew. Then I basically never went to church again.
When I fell in love with my husband and we decided to marry, I fell in love with his huge, noisy, very Jewish family and the Jewish tradition, too. I loved bar mitzvahs, Rosh Hashanah, Passover, even Yom Kippur. I loved the Jewish emphasis on earthly justice, on learning, on reading Torah and studying Talmud, on debating, on arguing over theology, politics, and economics—arguing, even, with god. I read about the obligations of mitzvah and tikkun olam—performing good deeds for others; repairing the world. I learned Hebrew. I studied for two years, and I converted. Appearing before a bet din, a court of three rabbis, I answered questions on history and observance, and I immersed myself in the ritual bath, the mikvah.  Like Ruth.
It was great. My mom went with me, even to the mikvah. (They are very ecumenical.) Everybody was very supportive, including my Sicilian grandfather, who had been a diamond dealer on 47th Street, with numerous Jewish colleagues. At my shower, he turned to my mother-in-law and made a remark in fluent Yiddish, nearly giving her a heart attack. When everybody went to a celebratory lunch after the bet din, at Sal Anthony’s Italian restaurant, we saw Woody Allen shooting a movie across the street. The Italian Catholics considered it a good omen, and my mother took off like a rocket after poor Woody, hoping for an autograph. I got a Hebrew name and chose Elisheva. (She was the wife of Aaron.) I figured it was enough like Elizabeth that I wouldn’t forget it.
Time passed, and life happened. I kept up with temple, celebrated Purim, and began exploring yoga, on and off the mat. Hinduism wasn’t for me, but the Buddhist philosophy of many of my yoga teachers intrigued me. Its nontheistic, experience-based, practical philosophy and psychology made sense. Buddhist mediation also worked. I studied Shambhala and Zen Buddhism. I sat with Theravadans, at a zendo, and with some Tibetans. I read dharma books and considered learning Sanskrit. I joined the IDP, which I consider my sangha. My husband cut out articles about rabbis who also had received Zen dharma transmission. He considered the association of Allen Ginsberg and Shambhala founder Chongyam Trungpa a good thing. He was down with the BuJus.
So, finally, after three years of Buddhist study in the Shambhala tradition, I took refuge in the Three Jewels. The Buddha shows it can be done—he woke up and used his wisdom to help others wake up. The dharma are the instructions for doing so. The sangha is the sticky, messy, abrasive, wonderful bunch of people who are doing it too. A bunch of us repeated the refuge formula. The preceptor snapped her fingers. And I got another name.
I didn’t get to choose this one. Of course, everyone taking refuge, everyone committing to destroying ego-clinging and self-cherishing, was somewhat obsessed with their upcoming name. I was pretty interested myself. I had three already, all beginning with E. (such chutzpah!) Somehow, I had little hope for another vowel. Others had names like Jewel Moon and Lotus Dancer. For myself, I predicted “Random Noun String.” Actually, what I predicted was “block of wood,” which cracked up the other Italian Catholic in my refuge group. Not far off the mark. Others got “all-joy dharma holder,” “egolessness lion,” and “[something] earth holder.” I got “insight moon lake.” AKA random noun string? It didn’t begin with E. I didn’t choose it for myself. Finally. Hooray!
So this PaisanBuJu, part of the whole mishpuchah of would-be bodhisattvas, has enough names for now. And perhaps too much chutzpah. And not a single regret.