Nothing, of course, for Shakespeare = nothing, as in nothing, also as in noting, as in gossip, and noting as in overhearing, and noting as in overhearing gossip, and no thing, as in what a woman has between her legs. My mother believed in all of these nothings. Nothing was sacred. Noting was sacred. No thing was sacred.

Well, opposites attract. We are told this. Paula Abdul has seared this into our brains. My parents were attracted, that much is clear. But they were repelled too, and just as forcefully. I don’t know what that means. Magnetization was not the only force at work, I suppose.

After breakfast the next morning, we found Serena waiting for us on one of the Center’s whitewashed boulders, immersed in her copy of the Dhammapada, a verse collection of the Buddha’s essential teachings, a picnic basket on the ground between her feet. It was the first truly hot day since we’d arrived, and everything was oversaturated and filmy. I could already feel the sweat beading on my lower back, dampening my t-shirt. Even Janet looked a little deflated, but Serena radiated perfect nonchalance, stretching one leg and then the other as she read. Now I see what a firm grip she had, how rigidly she composed every scene, the life of tableaux vivants she built up around herself. Now I imagine the way she must have propped herself up just so, waiting for us. But that day, she seemed to have sprung from the ground, as much a part of the landscape as the rock beneath her thighs, as unconcerned and constant as the punishing heat itself.

Serena hopped off the boulder, and the three of them linked arms automatically, and somehow the linking didn’t limit their movement but freed it. Janet picked up the basket, Laurel took the book, and they all began to walk. I didn’t mind the exclusion as much as you’d think: I still loved them as a set. Their movements and conversations were like an expertly dealt deck of cards, every exchange quick and sure and easy. Muscle memory. I can’t help but remind you, here, that the heart is also a muscle.

So even if I hadn’t worshipped their collective beauty, or their declarative freedom, or their easy belief in my father’s religion, I would have worshipped this: their flagrant, defiant belonging to one another. I worship it a little even now. Yes, despite everything—no, because of it. I am perverse, you see. Please note that I never pretended otherwise.

You should also note that Buddhism, as a mode of thought, has little use for worship, and none for idolatry. The Buddha told his followers to trust their own experience. He instructed them not to accept anything blindly, even if it came from him. If what I offer is helpful to you, please use it, he said. If not, throw it away.