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THE FOOTSTEP ON THE PATH
Om Mani Padme Hum…The jewel in the heart of the lotus…A holy mantra of the
Tibetan Buddhists plants itself in my mindstream, as suffering conditions neurons, and
doubt conditions the heart. Here, in this meditation room, seeing in a glass vase an
isolated lotus with its purple petals transparent to the light, an experiment begins. I have
become my own laboratory, to see if these spiritual teachings can ease the engulfing
flames of life and conquer this mind of isolated thoughts. I want to find something real
for myself, for others, and end suffering. Here it begins, or else here it fails, to find this
jewel or to realize that it is only an illusion: there never was a truth, there is a world and a
humanity, and a never-ending stream of pain.
The lotus flower is the symbol of enlightenment. Planting its roots in mud, it
grows and then blossoms into perfect symmetry and beauty. The jewel is the inherent
light and mystery, the amazing power that cannot be explained. That mystery draws me
to the spiritual path, the brief moments of awe, the incredible display of nature, and the
mysterious powers of the mind. Certainly modern life is not devoid of awe before the
mystery. My conditioned self cannot possibly be the center-point of truth. If so, the lotus
is dying and has no beauty to offer anyone.
The enlightenment of this mind will be a battle: darkness rules where I wish light
prevailed. My attempts at calming the manic pulse of alpha waves and providing relief
from depression, have been through the use of substances. Alcohol bliss and marijuana
trancsendence have always offered me respite but never offered a lasting solution. The
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medical profession offers pills, but their drugs are no different, and still a cycle of
suffering continues. A burgeoning awareness that the pill-culture and the self-meds of
society are illusion drives my next actions. Existential feelings of anger, despair and
alienation fuels me to take complete responsibility for my being and step out of the
ordinary that has conditioned me. Challenge social practices and discover the essence of
the mind through this self-experiment.
I choose dharma practice as a path to health. The Tibetans are largely responsible
for the imprint of buddhism on American society. Their modus operandi is: change the
mind, study its dynamics, let impermanence be the impetus towards an effort to master
one’s life and even one’s death. Go into the suffering, don’t alleviate it in a stupor and
miss the truth that is there. That is the burgoening realization dawning on me.
But strength and confidence elude me. Here is one of the oldest spiritual paths,
foreign to modern life. What if there is no relevance? What if the spiritual path is dead
and negated by the philosophers and thinkers of the postmodern era? Maybe it is a waste
of time. But, with the same deep incompleteness with life that motivated the Buddha and
everyone who has followed, a turn towards dharma practice has been made, and I find
myself in a meditation room with strangers engaging the practice for better or worse. The
modern psyche is the experimental ground for the efficacy of the practice.
The Tibetan meditation room has an allure which is rich, colorful, beautiful, not
the existential black of my shirt and pants. The walls are the deep maroon of the Tibetan
tradition. Thangkas, the Tibetan spiritual paintings, line the walls clothed in trim of bright
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yellow, deep-hued blue, and purple, with imprints of gold lace on the cloth. Sunlight is
scarce, a candle flickers in prominence next to the vase of the lotus, and white cloth is
drawn across the windows concealing the early morning sun. The fresh colors of the
room glow as the last impression on my mind as I close my eyes and count my breaths:
one, two, three. I straighten the spine: where is the energy that flows as power through
one’s body? Thoughts are disparate and consciousness is cement, brutally heavy, poured
out unskilled as the foundation of this life and drying quick against time. Memory wishes
to die into the present of moments, but the kleshas, the mental disturbances, rule with an
iron fist and pound consciousness into its death spiral. The silence of the room. The
silence. How to achieve this silence?
Om Mani Padme Hum adorns the front wall inscribed in a white holy script that
flows as if poured out of a sacred vase onto the world. A dharma teacher in lotus posture
leads the meditation seated under the mantra garbed in white, posture steady and
practiced, and faces us, the practitioners. She takes the Tibetan chimes, two metal disks
inscribed with the mantra, and pinching the leather cord tying them together, lets them
hang, and with an imperceptable movement of the hands, chimes them together to signal
the chant. The chant, slow to the rhythm of human life, beats a pulse of the lost heart
remembering, a naked sorrow thrown into the world alone. Om Mani Padme Hum.
The chant is repeated in its slow tempo for a quarter hour and my mind settles into
calm and the present moment. Silence, and then the chirping of a bird. Memory tries to
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reawaken modern life but is settled in the stillness and balance of mind. Calm, peace, joy,
all of this. A taste of the benefits of the practice draws me to further meditation sessions.
The meditation ends when the Tibetan bells ring clear in the silence. Then, I look
at those who participated in the meditation session, preparing to move from the room to
work. Several young men folding blankets, ready themselves for their journey to begin
the difficult work of constructing a temple at the country retreat center. Older women,
some sitting in chairs not supple enough for the lotus posture, also fold their blankets
before their own work of dharma preservation. A young girl, unknown and silent, seems
transparent as willow leaves swayed by the breath of the chant. She is Asian, quiet as a
Japanese Haiku that disappears in silence. She suffers from acne on an unpolished face
like the lackluster neglect of an old lost bronze buddha. She folds her blanket with her
willow hands and places it on the others, the last to do so, as if reluctant to part with the
warm comfort of her dharma.
5
THE STUDY OF TIBETAN LITERATURE
Friday nights I study Tibetan literature. We translate Tibetan texts into English.
Our main text of study is Shantideva’s Guide to the Bodhisattva Way of Life, or as named
in Tibetan, The Bodhicaryavatara. The text is at the heart of the Tibetan tradition, and
educates one in the attitudes and practices of the bodhisattvas, the selfless beings acting
for the benefit of humanity.
Class opens with chanting the Tibetan alphabet. The abc’s of Tibetan are a sacred
script, as the written language had developed solely for translating buddhist writings from
the original Pali to Tibetan. The dharma center I study at has the largest collection of
preserved Tibetan texts in the world. Ninety-eight percent are untranslated into English.
The path of ancient masters is before me. The exquisite poetry demands an audience.
These voices of enlightenment are in America and their wisdom and truth I wish to
absorb. I close my eyes and chant the Tibetan language.
My mind wanders to Friday night, and party, beer, marijuana. Masters, I will be
back! I see my friends, then chilled bottles of beer and their stash of dope. My impulse to
go kicks in, the cushion is a chain, and my butt starts to hurt.
Ting! Ting! Ting!
Stephanie, our teacher, chimes her Tibetan bells. I open my eyes and see her
hippie hair, her wire-framed intellectual glasses, and her smile. She is so joyful to be
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teaching dharma. She has studied with nuns in Tibet and knows her stuff. In her German
accent she asks me for my translations.
“We are on your translations. How did they come out?”
“Not so well.”
“Well, why don’t you read what you translated?”
I try and look calm and collected. I am a vote of no confidence against myself.
With a quick response, I render a translation of the text:
“If one fails…”
She looks at me, her eyes behind glasses accepting and open. Being a good
teacher and instructor in dharma, she sees me through pure vision as a seed waiting to
sprout into a strong vessel for dharma.
She says, “Do you see anything else?”
“There’s something about lightning and a dark night.”
The class looks at me. I want to go. Go out on the town and alter consciousness
by the lightning path of drink and smoke.
Stephanie uses her expertise to show connections in the text that might reveal the
meaning of the Tibetan script. For her, too, it is guess work, but she is able to see and
intuit the patterns of the language. The Tibetans carved their writings on rectangular
wood blocks and blotted them with ink to then press parchment against them to form
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pechas, their style of book. Because every word is carved out on wood, they skip a lot of
words and particles, and connections are implied and not explicit. Furthermore, I have to
try and translate the text with an old Tibetan-English dictionary published in 1902 in
India. But, no problem, I am a student on the path, a beginner, and I will get better. As a
class we work through my passages and after forty-five minutes put together buddhist
philosophy.
Stephanie says to me, “Alright, now read what it is we have interpreted as the
meaning.”
I read Shantideva’s reflections on the bodhisattva path.
This leisure and endowment, which are so difficult to obtain, have been acquired, and
they bring about the welfare of the world. If one fails to take this favorable opportunity
into consideration, how could this occasion occur again?
Just as lightning illuminates the darkness of a cloudy night for an instant, in the same
way, by the power of the Buddha, occasionally people’s minds are momentarily inclined
towards merit.
We are safisfied with our interpretation. She takes off her glasses and rings the
Tibetan chimes, and we chant the alphabet and sit silent, and then the session is over. I
am done. My impulse to leave is strong and I head out of the house. Time for the
lightning path. Off to Dave’s I go.
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I get on my bike and cruise down the Berkeley hills. Dave has left the dharma and
lives the dot-com dream. He came to California to work for the Tibetan Aid Project, and
once he contributed to it through some computer work, he took off to make money. He
lives with a pretty Burmese woman and in the apartment next to his is his brother from
Washington D.C., a teacher. His name is Tom.
As I ride, I feel my strange postion between two worlds. I live in Berkeley, which
even in its beserk way, is still modern society. I study dharma, the teaching of
enlightenment, not a casual conversation piece. Buddha said his way is swimming against
the stream and challenging social reality. Tom and Dave once opened the door for my
escape into the normal reality of work and a social life. Tom would mentor me on a
career as a teacher. But I thought about dharma, my experiment on myself, the thought
that turns the mind toward intense practice: could this opportunity come again? I
hesitated, and then dharma won. I have a nice little job as part of my work-study program
preparing books for the Monlam Chenmo, the World Peace Ceremonies held in Bodh
Gaya, India. The Tibetan refugee community gathers at this holy spot of buddhism each
year under the sponsership of the head lama, Tarthang Tulku Rinpoche. I know its
importance to the tradition. I did not want to bail on my commitment to the shipment.
I pull up to their apartment complex and lock my bike on a steel fence and walk
up the cement flight of stairs.
I knock on Dave’s door and he answers.
“Hey, Dave, what’s up.”
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He looks at me an nods his head. “I’m glad you were able to escape for a few
hours.”
He stands aside with the door open, and I walk into his apartment and see he has
been busy working at his computer. I examine the screen to see an indecipherable
language—computer programming. Unlike Tibetan, this study makes lots of money.
“How has work been going?”
He says, “Well, I’m working for a new start-up company in the city, and we are
really busy with clients right now.”
“Do you like this work?”
“Yeah, but all these start-up companies are like those old Western town props
from Hollywood, you know, a store front that shows itself as real but is held up from the
back by planks as a fake. In the last meeting I tried to argue that we create something
real, for the investors who are being had, but I just get, ‘oh, the idealist and ethics guy,’
and I’m shut down. So, I’m busy working on this Java application certificate from UC
Extension—I’m proud of that.”
The Bhurmese woman is there. Her Asian skin is soft gold and her wavy black
hair rich and dark and mysterious. She comes from a buddhist country and is in America
because her father is an ambassador. She moved into Dave’s after a fight and break-up
with a previous boyfriend. Even though her upbringing is in a buddhist culture, she does
not ascribe to the religion. For her, buddhism is passive and the people in her culture
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submissive to religious tenent. I have reflected on parallels Nietzsche made who
criticized the “buddhistic peace” of nirvana as necessary for weaker natures unable to
cope with reality’s harsh truths. But she is a good solid woman. After she breaks up with
Dave she turns to a study of the dharma, and I worked with her quite a bit helping at-risk
youth in San Francisco.
But, I am not here for a dharma discussion, or to help anything other than my own
head.
“Hey, Dave, where is your smoke?”
He nods his head. “It is over at Tom’s. I am ready for a break, too.”
We go over to his brother’s apartment. His brother is my size, tall and strong, and
he wears black rimmed glasses fitting of a teacher. I can tell by the look in his eye he is
not happy seeing me.
“Hey, Brett,” he says sharp and with reserve.
I nod my head at him. Dave goes to the refrigerator and gets us beer. He then goes
into the back for smoke. I look around his room. He has a vase of flowers. I see if
conversation might be a bridge to understanding.
“Who gave you the flowers?”
“They were given to me by one of my student’s mom, for helping out her kid.”
“That’s cool. I’m glad you did that.”
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My comment seems to bounce off of him. I search for another avenue of
conversation.
“So, do you like teaching the seventh grade?”
“Yeah, I joke around with the kids, it’s fun. I’m Austin Powers at lunch.”
He brushes his eyebrow with a sly look in his eye and points his finger at an
imaginary kid. He continues to talk.
“I work with them on their skills. I tell them, ‘Hey, you guys are going to need
this in the future,’ and they relate to that, see that I want to help them, and we get down to
work.”
I can tell he likes working with kids and being a teacher.
He says to me, “How is it working for wimpoche?”
Dave comes out from the back room and hears his brother. Dave says, “He calls
him that.”
I look at him. He tries an Austin Power’s smile, but not being in the seventh
grade, I don’t respond. I think of what to say. The Bodhicaryvattara enters my mind. The
text and its negotiation with reality, the buddhadharma’s emphasis to guard the mind.
Where would there be leather enough to cover the entire world? The earth is covered
over merely with the leather of my sandals.
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Likewise, I am unable to restrain external phenomena, but I shall restrain my own mind.
What need is there to restrain anything else?
The experiment: do more than just regain peace of mind. The study of dharma is
always in relation to others. Master one’s mind, and master the situations at hand. I do
not have this.
I decide to say, “It’s alright what I do, I am helping out other people.”
“Does working for wimpoche help other people?”
I pause, then respond, “It is one of the hardest things I have done. You have to sit
there and look into yourself and explore issues.”
He says, “A monk exploring myself!”
Dave steps forward and breaks out the marijuana and his pipe. Perhaps an attempt
at a peace smoke. I see the smoke and become happy. So seemingly does his brother.
Tom takes the green plant material and places it on a plate that has the image of Jesus.
The shepherd eyes of Jesus and the red robe haloed with spiritual light get smothered
under the marijuana.
He sucks in smoke and then passes the pipe around. We suck in our smoke with
the THC alkaloids and my mind shifts perspective. We begin drinking our beers.
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The Dead are playing an archived show, and there is some talk about the shows. I
am the only one who saw the shows before Garcia’s death. The hippie road influenced
me, but not too heavily. I like the music. I like their version of medication.
Even when accompanied by body and speech, feeble mental activity does not have
results such as Brahmahood and alike, which the mind alone has when it is clear.
The Omniscient One stated that all recitations and austerities, even though performed for
a long time, are actually useless if the mind is on something or is dull.
My mind has eased into the high and the music sounds the way the Dead meant
acid rock to sound.
“So, you guys never saw a Dead show? That sucks. There was nothing like a
Dead show.”
Tom speaks up: “Did the California boy like the Dead shows?”
I look at him and my mind is fluid with chemicals and boundaries have dissipated.
The peace smoke did not dispell a harsh light from his eyes. He expects me to do
something. I search my mind for verse from the Bodhicaryavatara but nothing comes.
We look at each other, eye to eye.
He turns to his brother and whispers something into his ear. I can feel a sting but
do not do anything. He walks off proud of himself and inflated, but I do not have a
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response. I look at Dave who is looking away; not malicious and evil, but aware of the
situation. A sentiment from my text enters my mind.
Just as those standing in the midst of boisterous people carefully guard their wounds, so
those standing in the midst of evil people should always guard the wounds of their minds.
I turn and nod my head to Dave and go. I walk down the flight of cement stairs to
my bike and unlock it. On my journey up the hills to the dharma center, the cold of the
night sobers me and the THC and alcohol that had filled the neuronal gaps dissipates. The
chill stings my face and presses through clothes into my being. My mind is running with
the events of the night. My practice is shoddy and but a glimmer of the words that inspire
the Buddha’s tradition.
I continue up the hill until I can no more pump my feet against the pedals and the
steep incline of the hills. I get off my bike and continue pushing it until I come to the old
Si Yu House, the Berkeley frat house the buddhists turned into a merit generating
machine. I stand at the base of the massive house and have to cock my head back to look
to the top of the roof. I put my bike in the storage room at the base of two wings of stairs
that arc up the incline carrying to another plane of existence. My legs make their final
tired pump up the left-wing of the stairs and then I reach the balcony. I look down across
Berkeley to the Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate, illuminated by strings of lights
stretching across the body of water. The clear night is beautiful and cold and transparent
to the heavens.
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Something is different. I hear a chanting from beyond the walls, an odd thing for a
late Friday night, even for a dharma center. I search my brain if I missed an important
event. Opening the door, the chant is more clear but one with which I am not familiar.
The deep gutteral voices of the two Tibetan lamas in the house synchronize a slow paced
rhythm from behind closed doors. Tibetan incense is heavy in the air like clouds from a
spiritual sky descending to earth. The Bardo has been crossed, eyes are no longer
necessary for what has happened, a ritual guides the dead. Hectic faces glide by, and an
ambulance has already come and gone.
I see Abbey, a dharma teacher, with her frazzled and wild professor hair. I look in
her eyes and see not fear but also not the normal squint of her compassion. There is
shock. The dark black of her pupils are wide as if to shadow out normal vision and accept
the imprint of another world entering our house.
She sees my confusion and says to me, “Lisa is gone. We found her in her bed.
She overdosed on sleeping pills.”
The words come slow. I try to see her image in my mind, this girl withdrawn too
far into dharma, a whisper that leaves only silence. She committed suicide in the refuge
of the sangha. I knew nothing of her, this girl so quiet and fragile in her skin. She was
quiet but not fearless in her relations with us, but she took the greatest leap: I cannot
believe she did it.
The lamas chant from Padmasambhava’s text known in the West as The Tibetan
Book of the Dead: The Great Liberation by Hearing in the Intermediate States. The ritual
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is meant to guide her from her confused state in a Bardo, a passage between states of
existence, to a favorable rebirth.
O nobly-born, you will experience three Bardos, The Bardo of the Moment of Death, the
Bardo of Reality, and the Bardo While Seeking Rebirth. Of these three, you are
experiencing the Bardo of the Moment of Death. Although the Clear Light of Reality
dawned upon you, you were unable to hold on, and so you wander. Now, henceforth, you
are going to experience the other two Bardos.
With undistracted attention to that with which we are about to set you face to face, hold
on;
O nobly-born, that which is called death has now come. You are departing from this
world, but you are not the only one: death comes to all. Do not cling in fondness or
weakness to this life. Even though you cling out of weakness, you have no power to
remain here. You will gain nothing more than wandering in this Samsara. Be not
attached and be not weak.
Let go into the clear light, trust it, merge with it. It is your own nature, it is home.
I feel a pit in my stomach. A few older ladies from Brazil are holding each other
and crying. Monty, a newer member to the sangha very much on this side of the doors,
walks by and with trepidation looks through the corner of his eye towards the locked door
and chant. Mystery is on the other side of the door. What do the lamas know? Can they
enter a death-consciousness like the texts say and influence the Bardo? For me, it is too
abstract to think of, but the girl’s fate could be any one of ours.
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The pit in my stomach is not compassion. There is a sorrow, that a life is gone,
but what good was the practice for this young woman? Maybe it even was the door she
needed to enact suicide, for she carried out her death inside the buddhist sangha which is
now practicing for her rebirth. The spiritual path has pitfalls, abysses one opens up to--it
is not light and ease. Sharp edges and dangers surround one’s life. I hope, whatever death
is, it is better for her. This girl, whose silence wrapped around her like a meditation of
withdrawal against the storm, is gone.
18
FRIENDS
Work on the shipment of books to India continues. Lisa’s death hovers over me
and my fellow workers, and whether or not there are ghosts, she haunts memory. The
lamas continue a three-day death ceremony, and there is a gathering of the sangha for
remembrance of the girl. The event sparks discussion of the precious human rebirth, the
rare occasion we have to use human life for its ultimate purpose, advancement along the
path of enlightenment.
I reflect on this sentiment as I study my Bodhicaryavatara verses. The
impermanence of life always informs the buddhist view.
Death does not differentiate between tasks done and undone. This traitor is not to be
trusted by the healthy or ill, for it is like an unexpected, great thunderbolt.
My enemies will not remain, nor will my friends remain. I shall not remain. Nothing will
remain.
Whatever is experienced will fade to a memory. Like an experience in a dream,
everything that has passed will not be seen again.
As reflections on death fill my thoughts, my mindstream suffers the events of the
last few days. I try and wrap the pechas but my hands shake; I try to concentrate but
voices and accusations break into my buddhist reflections. I leave my station and go
outside to pace and calm myself to no avail. I go to the bathroom and look into the mirror
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to see eyes sharp with daggers. Memory has cemented itself in my mind and my thoughts
are sucked in to a black hole where nothing else exists.
Now is the time to take care of this. Five o’clock is here and I can leave. The
diligent will stay for the shipment, but my delivery has to do with fists. I put my red
streaked apron away and store the wooden drawers that are used for sponging the pechas
red. With my hands stained red like blood I leave for Dave’s, to meet his brother and
damage him in a fistful of rage that will leave him broken.
Even in this life, as I stood by, many friends and enemies
have passed away, but terrible sin induced by them remains ahead of me.
Thus I have not considered I am ephemeral. Due to delusion, attachment, and hatred, I
have sinned in many ways.
On my ride I envision my means of attack. He has my Red Hot Chili Pepper’s
tape in his car, and I need it back, even as that music is playing loud in my mind and
drives my will towards violence. I will knock on his door, say “What’s up, I need my
tape,” and to the garage we go. There, with an announced, “Here we go mother-fucker,”
fists will fly. Emotion that has now become trained for fight pumps my legs. I feel better,
with a goal, a target, and the desire to hurt and destroy. The Chili Peppers amplify
adrenalin and strength. The months of translation and meditation are a small echo of
dharma whispering beneath the surface.
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How many malicious people, as unending as space, can I kill? When the mind-state of
anger is slain, then all enemies are slain.
I am a novice in the practice. I arrive at the apartment complex. I lock my bike
and I look up the flight of cement stairs. I feel my nervousness—if he were a small man I
would not do anything but he is exactly my size. I look again at my hands stained red
with dye. Do it.
I walk up slow and deliberate. The training of my body has been in Tibetan yoga,
not martial arts. Does not matter, I see my actions rehearsed in my mind. I go up to his
apartment door. Knock-knock.
I straighten my spine. Nervousness mixes with vengeance. My senses are on alert.
The time is ticking. I feel ready and confident. I take my fist and knock again. No answer.
I turn and go.
On my ride home, I feel a sense of relief. Nothing was going to stop me from this
fight, but, nothing happened. I know nothing will happen. I am left with pain and
incompleteness, and the energy of anger reverberates through my body in waves. But I
am going back to the meditation center, to the others who are calm and collected and
uphold the practice. At the center, I am at least surrounded by images of the dharma and a
soothing energy that can break through my avenging klesha.
In this way the mad elephant of the mind should be watched diligently so that it is not
loosed while tied to the great pillar of the thought of Dharma.
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I go up the hills and into the dharma center to see the closed doors and hear
emitting from them the guttural and deep chant. It is something from another world, a
foreign speech, a foreign tempo, a foreign purpose. I wish the lamas would come out.
They are saying prayers for a girl, who no matter the consequences to her spirit, freed
herself and here we are enslaved in the mind and suffering. Something more needs to be
done.
I go into the small meditation room and count my breaths. It helps me to see the
mind as a patterning of conditioning. Powerful influences imrpint themselves on
consciousness. In my witnessing these deeper structures, a key is offered to unlock
myself from this narrow prison. Everything is my responsibility. I let the violence into
my life, I live a sloppy life, unconcsious and unaware. The practice is developing a strong
awareness but I did not guard it and now have succumbed to the behavior of those around
me. I realize I need to strengthen myself in every way. Physically, emotionally, and
spiritually I want to become stronger. The experiment will be best conducted up in
Sonoma where I will have little distraction. I have been there for two weeks. One works
six days a week from seven a.m. to seven p.m. but it is a unique beauty and special. I
place in a request to work at the country monastery to build the new temple.
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SAYING NO ON THE SPIRITUAL PATH
This decision to take off for a monastery that is tucked away in the woods on a
hilltop above the ocean and engage rigorously in dharma practice, keeps weighing heavy
in my mind. It is not just the concrete work that indimidates and preoccupies thoughts. It
is going further into the dharma. What are going to be the repurcussions? How far down
that path will I go? The image of the monastery in gold copper above the ocean, shining
back to Tibet, becomes an iron chain attached to a spirit wishing flight! To follow one’s
desires even beyond their limits is my imagination’s focus. But then on the periphery of
awareness the ocean of wisdom beckons in its chant of cool sea breeze that blows from
the Eastern lands and distant shores. That call is from somewhere, a distance, a great leap
outside of the who I am. Like a treasure hunter sailing to that distant continent off the
maps of man, and to the ocean fog of forgotten mystery, I feel the pull of riches. A
pathway is laid rounding into the distance, and the groundwork to follow it open, but it
might disappear in the changing world.
Now that you have at last obtained this free, privelaged human birth, which is so hard to
find and so meaningful, it is worthwhile to transform your being in solitude without being
attached to this life, which is of such small importance.
Amid the clouds of impermanence and illusion the lightning of life dances:
Are you sure you will not die tomorrow? Death is unavoidable, so practice the Dharma!
The experiment will really kick into gear up there. Perhaps buddha nature will
shine through like gold. Again shining domes reflect the sun in a brilliant display of the
sky, clear and open, and full of warmth.
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But the desire for my life reigns supreme. I want to follow my passions and
desires and follow the open road! Imagination of possibility leaves me desiring fresh
rivers, mountains, forests, beaches, and adrenalin and excitement. I want to leave. Even
in the buddhist literature, adepts entering the tradition are prone to leave and escape. And
those are Tibetan adepts. What about me?
Finally, after a day of work on the pechas, I ride my bike back up to the dharma
center and I am greeted by the dean. She has a wide smile and shining eyes penetrate into
my being for she sees a step being taken.
She says with enthusiasm, “Your request has been accepted. The head lama would
like you to come and help with the prayer-wheel project and then in several months the
construction on the temple will begin.”
Spiritual dread sinks into my being as I fathom the step I am taking. Construction
work occupies the time ten hours a day, in the heat and in sweat, and one gets up at 5:00
a.m. every morning to fit in practice. I look her in the eye and speak.
“Listen, I have to go and make money. I will be back, but I cannot go right now. I
have a job opportunity I want to take.”
There. My bullet is shot. I am outta here. I stand tall, proud at my insurrection and
logical choice before a dharma teacher who in her decision process committed her life to
enlightenment from samsara. She looks at me and nods her head. She stands straight and
tall, too.
24
“I will tell him.”
With that, I’m gone. Free. My destiny might lead me out of the dharma! I have
tasted the path, done part of the experiment, and developed through meditation a more
wholesome state of mind. But am I strong enough? Strong enough to swim against the
stream and continue my path? I need space to think, and I go.
25
THE EXPERIMENT CONTINUES
My several months off bring a car into my life, and freedom, and pleasures—but I
find myself back in Berkeley one night. There is a full-moon chant at the dharma house
and I decide to go.
Again I walk up the flight of stairs that seem to lead to another realm and feel
intrepidation that it is me arriving at the house. I walk into the front door and there is the
dean, exactly as she was when I last saw her. She smiles at me pleasant and not surprised
at all.
She says, “Rinpoche has been asking about you!”
My commitment, that is what has drawn me here. I know it. My struggles to twist
out of dharma responsibilities are futile as if the wheel of life spun my karma inextricably
this direction. Being here among the presence of Tibetan dharma I feel I am completing a
fate. I look back at the dean. She has on her red marooned blouse, the color of the
tradition that her life represents.
I go down to the meditation room, where I began my experiment, and prepare for
the chant. I have not meditated for several months since I have been gone. People gather
in the room, and I close my eyes for the chant. The vision inside the mind with eyes
closed is not a blackness but a shade of maroon, just like the color the buddhists wear. An
interiority is beginning to unfold. The vast terrain of the teachings I have stepped upon
with a light footprint is starting to have the contours of a map. I easily settle into the
26
meditation and balance my mind clear and stable. I sense a treasure somewhere on the
map, and I don’t think it is fool’s gold. Tibetan literature goes through my mind again. I
decide I will go and help build the temple. After the chant, I tell the dean.
I drive up the Northern California coast to Sonoma and arrive at the General Store
that comprises Fort Stewart. Here, I buy a large bottle of beer and walk down a path to a
cliff that overlooks the ocean. The powerful tides meet the continent’s edge and break
into white foam under the sheer cliff. I look out to the horizon from which the tide
travelled. So far a distance to be asked to journey. I open my beer and sit at the edge of
the cliff with my legs hanging above the display of ocean and earth colliding. Such
violence is just underneath me. The beer flows through my blood stream in an ease and
comfort and I toast the vast ocean. This is my last beer for awhile. I am at the base of the
enlightnment palace, the supreme laboratory, where I have agreed to submit myself to
experiment and work. I am a Western man with various ego problems prepared to engage
the buddhadharma on its own terms to see if there is transformation. With the beer thick
in my blood stream, I leave the ocean cliff and walk back on the path to my car and take
the country road to the top of the coastal mountain.
The Copper Mountain Mandala shines in the sun. It is the largest Tibetan buddhist
monastery in North America. With my work bag of clothes slung over my shoulder I step
onto a bridge that arches over a moat. I cross and on the other end two lion statues roar at
me in their granite strength. I continue to the front entrance of the West side of the main
temple and stand before two massive sliding doors. Here it is, the last chance to reverse
27
course before entering the inner sanctuary. I put one hand on the handle of one of the
bronze doors and tug to no avail. I unsling my work bag and with both hands on the
handle commit all my strength to opening the door and it slides on its rail to reveal the
inner temple. Prayer wheels spin and hum, powered by electricity: old Tibet meets the
modern era. I pick-up my bag and walk on the red carpet to the corridor of the mandala.
To my right, I see Monty walking towards me in his signature blue overalls and
with his gold hair, but his face is dusted with coastal mountain dirt.
I laugh at him and say, “So, they got your ass up here!”
He musters enough energy to smile. He nods his head at me and says, “It is good
to see you.”
We shake hands, and I ask how everything is going.
“It’s good. We put these prayer wheels in. That was the hardest thing I have done
here. We had to complete it within the time-frame of a lunar cycle and ended up working
twenty-hours a day. But we did it.”
They did it without my help—I bailed and played instead.
I ask him, “What are you doing right now?”
“I’m working over next to the lama’s house on some irrigation. Right now, my
job is to light more incense for the hallway.”
28
I watch as he goes to a closet and grabs a package of pungent Tibetan incense and
lights their tip with a lighter before placing them in the holders between the prayerwheels.
“What are you doing that for, man?”
“The Tibetan incense is pleasing to the good spirits and wards off the bad.”
With an inquisitive, probing look at the new arrival, he asks, “Do you think it
works?”
I smile at his question and say, “It may not!”
Coming from Tennessee, Monty has a Southern accent that is slow and goodnatured, a voice that bears weight, from a heart that has burdens. His movements are very
balanced and his eyes clear. He has an energy that is calming but sad, yet there is a humor
to him. I tell him I will see him later, and I move to the kitchen where I know I will find
someone so I can check in. I walk down the hallway towards one of the corners of the
mandala structure where the kitchen is. As I come to the end of the hallway I notice a
bronze plaque nest to the prayer-wheels that has stamped in it a dedication. I read it.
May the merit of these prayer-wheels bring benefit to all beings throughout space and
time and may those killed in wars find a path to peace.
May the victims of wars find ease from suffering. May the rule of territories and
seperation cease: may the world be free of sickness, war, and natural disaster.
The people of America, this land of opportunity, deserve our lasting gratitude. The
founding fathers of America knew the value of freedom, the cornerstone of spiritual
growth and positive action. May their vision continue to prosper for centuries to come.
29
Below the inscription are the names of those who put in the prayer wheels, now
an integral part of the main temple, and I see “Monty Montgomery.” He did it. I think
back. I was supposed to be on that plaque.
But then I wonder: why such a dedication to ease the suffering of war when we
are in the new millenium? It is the year 2000, and we are not at any war. Too bad Tibetan
monasteries were not sprouting up at the beginning of the last century when they really
needed this dedication for those who perish in wars. But now, it seems archaic and out of
touch. Way more people will die of starvation than war.
30
SEEING A HEAVENLY VISION
Work on the new temple won’t begin for a few days. I am in the printing press,
collating thangkas considered inordinately sacred, preserved only in the mandala. The
Tibetan buddhist world amazes me, and these paintings are a glimpse into the secret
tradition that only committed buddhists ever saw. They are practice thangkas, now spied
on by my eyes, and used to empower advanced stages of meditation. The practitioner
visualizes their image in meditation and holds awareness on it. The pictures show
dhamapadas, the fierce dharma protectors with wild eyes and roaring mouths, and bodies
surrounded by fire. Their skin is a bright red-hot glow of energy as they blaze the trail of
enlightenment through the conditioned thoughts of the mind.
My favorite thangka shows what Freud would call the “primal scene,” with the
male and female bodies in a sexual embrace. The dhamapada’s fierce face roars out at the
viewer as he stands with a slim blue dakini wrapped around his torso. His body parts are
apparent, the dhamapada relishes in activity that looks to be sacriligious, but that is why I
like Tibetan Buddhism. Yab-yum symbolizes the union of energies. I stare and stare and
let the image imprint itself on my mind as I will never see these rare, secret practice
thangkas again.
A Buddha pictured in golden robes with a serene smile and his right palm raised
in the teaching gesture also is inordinate and beautiful. He is very serene and at peace.
Good old Buddha, always an example of inner strength and conquering.
31
I continue my work of collating the thangkas together and then it happens. From
out of dharma skies, dropped like a gift from a naked dakini whose compassion makes
the Buddha look like a dunce, walks in perfection. Hips sway, breasts more golden than
the domes of a mandala palace shine, and jet black hair flowing sacred through space is
the quintessence of enlightenment meditation. I look at her and our eyes meet and the
lightning bolt of enlightenment strikes my body and leaves me in delicious ego-death.
Transform me! Transform me!! I am committed to the path!!!
I drop my head down and look back at the thangka. Yab-yum. Yummy, yummy
yab-yum. What a perfect meditation. Now I know I can become a master. I look back up
at our guest, and I surmise who it is--the lama’s daughter.
She goes over to one of her father’s students and asks some questions concerning
the art we are collating. She needs to know how many of this thangka and that thangka
there are and they look on a computer screen to see the numbers. She gets her data and
then moves over to the tables where the thangkas are resting to check id numbers printed
on the back and begins to admire the art.
She says, “These paintings are so beautiful.”
“Look at this one!” I blurt out with an artistic appreciation that catches her
attention. She looks at me a second time and arcs her lips into a smile, and then she glides
over, not breaking eye contact, until she comes next to me and looks at the thangka.
32
And then, in the inner sanctuary of the buddhist monastery, I admire the perfect
sex-posture of the male and female bodies entwined, the dhamapada’s fiery red ballsack
hanging down, with the lama’s daughter.
“Oh, wow,” is what she says. Oh my god, she says “Oh, wow.”
I back up from the space of the thangka and she does, too. She introduces herself
to me.
“Hi, my name is Wangmo.”
Wangmo. We shake hands and I tell her my name and then she leaves.
I turn back to the thangka. Hah, Hah, Dhamapada! I have bigger balls than you
do!
That night the crickets sing a song to the heavens and I rest comfortable and free
in the best monastery in the world.
33
PRECIOUS OPPORTUNITY
The best monastery is starting to kick my ass. At 5:00 a.m. every morning the
gong makes the rounds of the temple and crescendos into a crashing sound wave that is
guaranteed to destroy morning dreams. Then, everybody moves to the meditation room to
engage in serious Tibetan Buddhist practice that includes prostrations to the image of the
Buddha, chanting the vajra guru mantra, and silent meditation. Its been freezing cold
walking the halls to the meditation and my head hurts. I want Peet’s Coffee—now-running a little kiosk next to the prayer wheels. But I am on sacred time, forsaking
comfort for the benefit of the practice and the generation of merit. The cold becomes a
reminder to don the armor of the dharma and complete the work.
Since death will come swiftly, with its implements prepared, what will you do then even if
you have abandoned spiritual sloth at this wrong time?
You expect results with no effort. So delicate you are and in so much pain. While in the
clutches of death, you act like an immortal. Hey, miserable one, you are destroying
yourself!
This limited suffering, which yields perfect Awakening, is like the suffering of extraction
when removing the pain of an embedded splinter.
Upon finding the boat of human birth now, cross the great river of suffering. O fool, there
is no time for sleep, for this boat is hard to catch again.
The Buddha stated that human existence is extremely difficult to obtain, like a turtle’s
head emerging into the ring of a yoke on a vast ocean.
34
I read The Bodhicaryavatara with its transcendent vision at breaks during the day.
I take my lunch on a tray out on the porch and from the rim of the monastery look out
over the Pacific Ocean as sea-breeze flows around me. The vast ocean is a symbol for
human birth, of rare and precious opportunity. Existence is so extensive and vast, and
somehow I, along with the other practitioners, have come across the dharma teachings.
They are the guide towards evolving the best human qualities of kindness, personal
power, and universal love. The other life-forms don’t have this and can only suffer and
survive in the struggle for existence. Most humans are caught in this trap and waste
human potential. But spiritual teachers carve out a niche in samsara for the practice and
development of the virtues. I feel the sun mix in with the cold ocean air and a balance of
perfect temperature is reached: the conditions for perfect practice and work.
As I read, the very best of precious opportunities arises, and I see Wangmo come
out onto the porch. She sits on the bench next to mine and we start a conversation. She is
a mystery, so beautiful and kind, and she has a rich feminine voice like out of a dakini
dream. I love listening to her speech. But she is the lama’s daughter—there is always that
awareness around her. As we converse I ask her about her unique life.
I say, “Hey, Wangmo, what is it like having a Tibetan lama for a father?”
She laughs and her dark eyes shine.
She says, “You know, it is not as strange as you might think--”
A dakini-mantra begins to enlighten my mind.
35
“Of course, I have been trained in buddhist studies since I was a little girl, and I
know a lot of the traditional prayers by heart and some of the secret practices--”
I want to do the secret practices, with all my heart I do!
“But, I am not enlightened—not even close. Maybe I will realize the secret
practices in my next lifetime, or the one after that!—“
This lifetime! This lifetime!!
She is happy and content as she talks and then she picks up her tray to go.
She says to me, “It was nice talking with you,” and then she leaves.
I try and keep my mind off her but find myself thinking of her too much.
My friend Monty comes from working at the Lama’s house to eat. He sits down
next to me and tells me I am to go there and help him with an irrigation project this
afternoon.
I see the lama in memory, from when I stayed here a few weeks near the start of
my studies. The Tibetan master, a man from the plains of Tibet. He embodies the
tradition, one of the last lama’s trained in the monastic system of old Tibet. He always
wraps himself in red robes like he is a living dharma, and his presence seems from a
higher realm.
I ask Monty, “What’s it like being around the lama?”
He looks at me and smiles.
36
“It’s a trip being over there. I just keep my head down and work, and try and be
normal. I’ve only seen him once, but he looks out from his house at you sometimes
intenesly, like he is reading you or something.”
I remember that, too. What was that? A penetrating gaze, an extraordinary
perception. He is the guide along the path fraught with pitfalls. The buddhist literature is
filled with adepts who cannot take it anymore and they ditch the dharma. Some come
back, some don’t. It is up to the individual, and I think the lama is looking into the
student, to see what kind of dharma practitioner one is.
After lunch and a rest, I begin my walk to the backyard of the private house. I
cross the moat and see bronze roofs and Asian lions reflected in its waters. The flowers
are in bloom and pungent and eveything is very beautiful. As I round a path that weaves
behind some trees, I see the roof of the house, and walk over the small slope of hill so
that everything comes into view. Then, lo and behold, there is a red robe, a red hat, a
meditation presence, another world.
Oh shit, the lama.
I walk trying to keep my look down, but I am right on path to meet him. I see him
looking at me, and I feel transparent, and wish I had control of my mind and meditation.
Recursive thoughts fill my mind, impressions from the day.
Big tits
Luscious lips
Those eyes
I come within his presence and his gaze.
Tibetan pussy
37
“Welcome,” he says, and looks, looks away, and that’s it. I want out of there and
walk over to Monty who is busy digging a trench.
The lama is not happy with me. I saw it clear in his eyes. It is because I ditched
his call when he summoned me to the monastery and followed his summoning on my
own time and threw my potential stay into jeapordy. That is not how the traditional lama
to student relationship works. I might be a pot turned upside down, so if a teacher pours
in the teachings, they run off the metal sides of my ego onto the ground.
I look at the trench, thick dirt and rocks. The afternoon sun is beaming down and
the Pacific shimmers a blinding gold light. My shades are on, and I feel the first bead of
sweat trickle down the inside of the lens and fog it. I take off my glasses and wipe them
clean and put them back on and grab a shovel. After a few sharp plunges into the earth I
know this is not enough and grab an iron pick worthy of my muscles and slam it into the
earth over and over until the ground is scarred.
As we work, a bulldozer driven by Stupawoman! moves back and forth over huge
piles of dirt. She is a longtime student and lives in a retreat room under the stupa on the
East side of the mandala and is its caretaker. The lama comes out of his house. He has a
cane, but his posture is strong and upright, and his build is solid. He points the cane at the
bulldozer and starts yelling in a high-pitched voice and directing it. It is not hot anger,
maybe it is warning: it is strong and echoes over the field to us. His voice is that of a
herdsman from the plains of Tibet, sharp above the wind, Asian and foreign. Here I am,
and here he is: how did this come about? And me! An individual who’s guidance comes
38
from self, suffering, desire: the higher realm a question mark in the face of reality and
life.
Stupawoman! guides the tractor just as she was doing before he came out. I see
the tractor pushing the dirt. Then the lama looks over at Monty and I. Oh, shit. That
bizarre high-pitched call. Eyes like the portals to another realm. I look down and hit the
gound with the pick out of a desperation. Who was that call for?
Monty and I finish digging trenches. I learn how to fix pvc piping for irrigation
and find it to actually be fun. That is the strange paradox of work: it sounds like it sucks
and I don’t want to do it but once I begin--even if its construction work-- it is interesting
and fulfilling.
We work diligently and talk.
Monty says, “Dude, I need a beer.”
I say, “Yeah, that sounds nice. What kind do you like to drink?”
Monty is quite the connoisseur: “The California micro-brews are the best. There
is a brewery up Highway 1 a little ways.”
“Maybe we should we go.”
“Let’s do it. Tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, for our day off.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I feel my dry throat in the heat. What a good plan. Why didn’t I think of that?
39
Finally, the workday ends. It is time to clean-up, go to dinner, chant mantra, and
then rest. My body is used to the easy work down in the city and is tired. It is only
beginning to orientate itself to the heavy work week. But that is what I am here for. Work
and work, practice and practice, see if the experiment leads to dharma truth in my being,
or if the rolling hills and the vast flat ocean and everyone under the sun is the final vision
for these eyes.
I walk over to the mandala and take off my work boots. I pull on one of the huge
sliding doors and go inside the hall without paying much attention to the splendor of the
dharma palace. The intitial awe has worn off, and I am tired. I take off my sweat and dust
covered shirt and wash my face. I put on a clean white shirt and go to the kitchen.
As I walk, the prayer wheels spin their merit to the world, and I hear people in the
kitchen. I walk through a doorway and then come to the swinging door of the kitchen. I
reach for the handle and through the small window see a form with black hair and dark
eyes. The door is pushed open and instead of the handle my hand touches hers, gentle and
soft. She looks at me, a world above this one in those eyes, but a magnetic gravity draws
me to her earthly presence.
“Hi, Wangmo.”
She nods her head as she looks into my eyes and touches my hand, and I hold the
door open for her. She makes her way back to her father’s house. I walk through the open
door.
40
We begin to chant in Tibetan and I follow the prayer printed on paper. I sound out
the words from the text and follow the cadence of the others, but my eyes drift to the
pictures. There are the dakinis resting on clouds in the skies above the earth on the
margins of the page. The Tibetan mantra rises and falls in pitch without my voice as I
look at their flowing forms.
41
THE FIRST PILGRIMAGE
Sunday has arrived. Pilgimage time! Monty and I complete our chores and then
head out to my truck and climb in to go down the mountain road to Highway 1. Cars are
flying by at sixty miles an hour and I tentatively pull out on the road when it looks clear.
I say, “Look at these guys, Monty, they are flying.”
He says, “Yeah, living up there your tempo changes. I cannot even come back
without getting sick.”
“The brewery is going to help with that.”
We pull out into the stream of vehicles like a fish out of water, and I have to gas
the peddle. My awareness is strong. A hawk circles upon the thermals above a field and
then dives down to the grass and clutches a mouse as it flies through the sky. I look back
on the road and concentrate on the highway line to drive safely and deliberately.
We get to the Mendocino Coast Brewing Company and park. Inside, vast metal
vats of beer dispense their liquid into the lines of beer bottles that clink and are capped
off by a huge industrial machine. Heaven, you are a golden ambrosia. I look at Monty
and smile. We decide on a beer to buy and purchase a half-case. This is the perfect
amount for a Sunday afternoon, not too much or too little. The pilgrimage will have to be
a weekly occurance.
As I am paying for the beer, I notice Monty reading a newspaper. But he doesn’t
like reading the news, we’ve both talked of how we don’t want to pay attention to the
42
outside world. I pay with our money and go over to him holding our half-case of beer,
and he still is intent on what he is reading.
I say, “What are you doing?”
He looks at me. “A terrorist attack happened in Kuwait against the USS Cole.
Some guys died.”
He shows me the paper with a photograph of a Navy ship with a big hole in the
hull. I feel bad for the dead soldiers but hope it does not start a war. He finishes the news
and then we go to my car.
We drive back along Highway 1 and come to the country road and pull off the
highway. I feel the weight of the upcoming work week sit inside my stomach. I begin to
ponder war. War is a failure of imagination, isn’t it? A failure to negotiate differences. Or
maybe it is one of the highest expressions of imagination, in how skillfully it is carried
out? It seems war always has some purpose to it, you just never know what. I recall the
plaque’s dedication to those killed and suffering from war and future wars and this
inspires me to keep my work going as a small contribution to something beside
destruction and killing.
Monty and I drive along the country road as massive redwoods engulf us in their
shade and dominance. We drive over a bridge that crosses the river and then come to the
slope of the road that goes up the mountain.
I say, “Hey man, give me one of the beers.”
43
He reaches down to the case and gets one for me and one for him. We clink
bottles and then drink the cool refreshing alcohol. Yes. A Sunday drive.
We arrive at the gates to the monastery, and Monty gets out and undoes the lock
combo. He swings open the gates and we are back. We pull up to the parking area and
then get out of the truck. There is not anything wrong with drinking beer in the
monastery, but nevertheless we are discreet, and I put the whole case in my backpack and
we go to my room.
We put on some Grateful Dead and start drinking. I relish in my beer buzz.
Basically, I am in a little paradise. No credit cards, no car payment, a buddhist palace as
my home, I feel at ease. I ask Monty how he ended up in the dharma. He tells me his
story.
“Back in 1991 I joined the Army. The day after, Saddam Hussein invaded
Kuwait, and I was like, ‘oh, fuck.’ So I go off to basic training and a few months later I
am in the desert.”
“Damn, dude, that sucks. What was it like being in basic training?”
“It’s way harder being here, man. Here it is all about the mind and dealing with it
and taking responsibility. In the Army you just don’t ask questions and you do what your
told.”
He takes some sips of beer and continues.
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“We were out in the desert living in tents and training in the heat and sand. It was
stressful because we were all waiting for the order to invade, but it never came. Still, I got
all fucked up. Came back, I start getting sick, and then my health deteriotes, and I get
body pains and depressed, and I want to sleep all day and not do anything.”
“What the hell was wrong with you?”
“I got Gulf War Syndrome. I went to the VA, and they took some tests and just
blew it off, gave me some pills, said I had PTSD and would get better with psychological
counseling. It was crap. I sat around for six months and my stepdad was like, ‘Let’s sue
the Army.’ You know, the bastard saw money. So I sat around for another six months and
did nothing while we talked with a lawyer and documented my life. Finally, I was like,
‘fuck this, I am not wasting my life on a lawsuit,’ and I joined the Rennaisance Fair with
my girlfriend. That led me out to California and the meditation center. Meditation is
really the only thing that helped.”
We both drink more beer in silence. Monty looks over at me. “Do you want me to
go get some smoke? I have some in my room.”
Neurons fire chemicals: “Yes.”
He goes off to his room, and I light an incense. He comes back and sits down on
the seat and packs his pipe. He takes small quick drags sucking in air as he smokes and
blows out a little plume of smoke into the stream of incense. He passes the pipe to me,
and I light the smoke as I inhale and then release the cloud of THC chemicals.
45
Monty says, “Damn, dude, you take hippie hits.”
A huge rolling cloud dominates the incense. Now, I have achieved nirvana. The
Dead sound like the best musicians in the world. I have a heavy work week ahead, but I
am looking forward to the challenge. The challenge is just beginning: the buddhist temple
for the benefit of all beings is to start, and guess what? It’s me who is the first volunteer
from the outside world! We finish the beers and the live show of ’69 Dead and Monty
heads off to bed.
46
THE HEAVY WORK BEGINS
The work-site is ready for the construction of the temple. It is to be called the
Cintimani Temple, the Wish-Fulfilling Jewel for All Beings. I have seen the blueprints,
and its final form is magnificent. But I am here for the very beginning, the foundation,
the basic path, that won’t even be seen but buried under the earth. Trenches have been
bulldozed into the ground and that is where the first cement pours will occur. Once a
strong foundation has been laid, we will build wood forms that will be filled with cement
to form the walls of the basement. The temple will be built to a height of one-hundred
and forty eight feet at a cost of eight million dollars.
There are several work-sites for the construction of the temple. The construction
crew is laying the foundation on the South side of the mandala. There is a foundry shop
as well located on the North of the mandala. The pours of bronze for the plating of the
giant buddhas occurs in the foundry, and some experts from the Bay Area helped set it
up. But to be true to the tradition of buddhist art, two Bhutanese artists, knowledgeable in
the art forms of Tibetan Buddhism, have been commisioned by the Queen of Bhutan for
the project. One is tall, who’s name is Tenzin, and one is short and stout, who’s name is
Gyalsup. They dress in traditional Bhutanese robes that are long and flowing and
patterned in the earth tones of indian red with shades of brown, drawn tight around their
waist by a cord. They have set-up several stories of scaffolding around the giant clay
forms of buddhas. To create the buddha statues, a plaster casting molded around a section
of the buddha becomes the model for a bronze pour to form a plate. The entire buddha
47
will be molded by these plates, and they will be reassembled on the temple to create the
bronze statues.
I go over in the evenings to help smoothe out the clay on the buddhas, and I watch
the Bhutanese artists work. Artists tap into a magic from within themselves that manifest
incredible forms of art, and Tenzin and Gyalsup work with the buddhas for fourteenhours a day. An aura about them of practice and concentration governs their movements
as their hands craft the amazing statues into Buddhas of serene contemplation and peace.
Dressed in their robes with their flowing hair they seem from another realm. Tenzin we
call Obi-Wan and Gyalsup is Yoda.
Before I begin my work in the morning, I walk around the moat of the temple
several times with headphones on listening to Chopin. I like the Heroic Polynaisse and
the Scherzos, their power and triumph. Large prayer flags snap in the wind and the light
is perfect, not harsh and not too bright, and the Pacific in this morning light is a deep
magnificent blue as it stretches to the horizon. Inspired by the scenery and music, I walk
down the slope from the main temple to the work site to face dirt and rebar. Here, the
heavy work begins.
I jump down into the trenches that are dug into the earth five feet and work on
constructing rebar cages for the cement pours. We tie together rebar poles with metal
twists to form the cages. The metal twists are a few inches long with a loop on each end.
By wrapping them around the joints of two separate pieces of rebar and pinching the
loops together, a tool has a hook grabs the loops and by pulling, the tool twists the ties
48
tight at the rebar joints, securing them. The temple’s construction is meant to last a
thousand years. This is my long lasting contribution to the earth. Every twist will be
buried in cement, but I hone my concentration like a Bhutanese artist to make my work as
perfect as possible. Under the heat of the sun and the layers of dust streaking my hair and
skin, I imagine the wish-fulfilling jewel in its completion reaching up into the sky.
The thousand years are not what is important. The buddhists always relied on
extraordinary perception, vision that transcends the world by overlaying meaning and
purpose on concrete reality. The work is work on myself, a wish-fulfilling jewel planted
in the secrets of the heart, not yet known, but redied, to be brought into existence when
the time is right.
As I work on the rebar cages, a flight of F-16s fly over the mandala and dominate
the ridge top with jet-engine power. I wonder at them and their frequent flybys. Does a
glimpse of the mystery break through their war training while flying over this spiritual
flower of North America? Is that what draws them back or is it just the novelty of this
place? Whatever it is, they love flying over us in formation and piercing the sky in their
strength.
As they clear the sky-space and their roar lessens, a dharma teacher and author I
work with, Arnauld, who’s book is about dying and valuing life, says, “Look at those
beautiful planes.” I wonder at the dharma teacher’s respect for the lions in the sky.
He says, “They are flying over the dharma aren’t they? We don’t have
communists breaking our heads in, do we?”
49
I ponder that point. I continue laying out rebar. My muscles are tired but it is
almost break. My mind flashes back to the dining hall where there is a book on the
Chinese takover of Tibet with pictures that show a lot of pain. Chinese military are
beating Tibetans with clubs, they round them up at gunpoint, and there is despair on the
Tibetan’s faces. One man I saw reading it got tears in his eyes. The lama calls Tibet a
prison house. The forces of evil can spread their shadow over a country quickly, even a
country the size of Tibet.
Break comes, and it is time for coffee and bread. The work crew conglomerates
next to the shed where we keep all the tools, and we drink good strong coffee and eat. A
newspaper is passed around, and a vigorous discussion begins about the outside world
and politics. It is the 2000 Presidential Election. There is a tie between candidates in the
electoral college and the new president has not been announced. I could care less. As a
dharma student I am only interested in my practice and the development of my mind. I
even pride myself for having not voted for once. I see intense dharma practice as an
effective progression along the spiritual path because the outside concerns of the world
do not distract one. Nevertheless, everyone else is in discussion over what has occurred.
It turns out the election is stalled in the Florida Supreme Court. Gore has the
popular vote but George Bush has more electoral votes, and it is an unprecedented
situation. I thought the old saying that politics and religion don’t mix is why we are up
here, in a monastery, away from the shenanigans of the world. But at every break and
before dinner there is an update on what is happening. Florida’s Supreme Court does not
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allow a recount of the state’s votes and George W. Bush is given the election. One more
reason to go to Nirvana!
As the work weeks progress, I feel myself becoming stronger. Not just physically
to meet the demands of the work, but inside myself a strength has developed. Progress on
the temple is a joint effort, and everyone involved contributes to the energy and draws
from it. For me, a strong male energy that I never received in the transition to being a
man I absorb from the work site. I never received this transmission of power as it is not a
rite within society. This power to create and balance sun energy has been replaced in
America by the social roles of working for money and playing sports. This neglect opens
up the terrible dark masculine, the unaware-to-his-mission masculine, the ego in a selfcentered pursuit for fulfillment. The strong solar energy of the masculine becomes
replaced by American presidents.
I work with Stupawoman! She is from L.A. and in her hayday musy have been
attractive. I don’t know why she is in the dharma, but she cetainly does. Her motivation is
so strong she carries rebar, pours cement, and has streaks of sweat run down her dustcaked face, but nothing stops her. She completed the three year vajrayana meditation
retreat under the stupa –one of the few Western women to do such a thing. I admire her
and try and keep up with her.
A stockbroker comes down to the site to work sometimes. He always looks a little
out of place. I have driven with him in his Mercedes and I admire him, too. He puts on
his work gloves and hammers away at the wood forms we are now working on that will
51
be the cement pours for the walls on top of the foundation. I like him because he makes
money and is not ashamed of it or renunciatory towards it. The temple we are building is
funded through investment in the stockmarket—that’s where all the money to support the
project comes. The stockbroker balances two worlds and does his best with a hammer
even though he looks funny. Not Stupawoman! She is hardcore. She is out of here and
going to the next realm, probably because her motivation is stronger than the
stockbroker—she was a school teacher.
But the stockbroker has mutual friends with my own father. My father was at
dinner with them and told them about me. They relayed this information to Allen, the
stockbroker, knowing his participation and connection with the monastery, assuming
correctly that he must know me. He told me this as we walked to the stupa one day.
He said to me, “You have a very unique karma.”
I guess. I don’t know what the fuck I did to get it.
52
A VAJRAYANA POWER MEDITATION
At night, I go to the meditation room by myself to practice Vajrayana
visualization. Vajrayana is the “highest vehicle,” the practice leading to enlightenment in
a single lifetime. The vajra power of the lightning path arises in the base of the spine and
shoots up vertebrae after vertebrae until one’s whole nervous system is infused with
power. At least, that is what the secret teachings say. I am like a virgin curious to know.
Traditionally, a master who knows the disciple empowers the practitioner to
practice these teachings. But because of translations of Vajrayana texts for the Western
world, advanced Vajrayana meditations are readily available. I have a text called
Creation and Completion, which gives instruction in the visualization of the union of
energies. It is a high art and the practice thangkas help to guide the mind towards the
awakening of enlightenment powers.
I settle into my meditation, count my breaths, watch my mind wander and wander
but keep myself planted onto the seat of the zafu until my mind calms. The meditation
room is a powerful support for practice as I am surrounded by images of the dharma. I
begin my visualization.
I envision the secret image of the dhamapada and dakini I witnessed in the
printing press. I hold that image in my mind, the fierce energy, the lovely form, and vajra
power fills my body. I continue to meditate and create the image in greater and greater
size until it fills up consciousness. The power of the thangka streams through me and ego
wanes and energy waves pulse through my witnessing mind. Images emerge from out of
the dark backdrop of mind space and yab-yum becomes more clear and focused. The
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dakini grips him and fire envelopes both of their forms. I recall the text’s instructions.
Merge with the image. Become the divine bliss-body of reality!
My visualization becomes intense. I envision myself enwrapped with the form of
a dakini, her legs around my torso, her lips pressed against mine, her eyes and hair
flowing indistinguishable from the dark of mind space. The secret female energy merging
with the masculine, uniting together in bliss; I know the dakini as if from beginingless
time.
My spine’s base ignites into a fire. I feel the vajra bolt rise.
“Yes!”
“Oh wow!”
Dakini beauty! Hold onto me, press upon me yourself! Enlighten the vajra bolt of
my being!
It is rising and rising. I can feel it coming.
I cannot take it anymore. I feel I could explode. The Vajra path is too powerful. It
has overwhelmed me. I rise from the zafu and pace up and down the meditation room
before the sacred images. I have to go to the kitchen and get water. The altar of the gold
Buddha, to which one prostrates to show respect before leaving, is in front of me, and my
instinct to lay myself prostrate upon the floor before the Buddha has me drop to one
knee.
No! That’s not sacred! Just go to the kitchen.
I step out of the room and turn right to walk down the passageway from the corner
of the mandala to the kitchen. The hallway has no lighting, and I am relieved I am
54
concealed in the dark with only the prayer wheels making any sound. As I walk, stiff and
deliberate in the dark so I don’t crash into anything, I near the lama’s office. I hear
voices, and then the plains of Tibet, and then from out of the office space emerges forms
and the flowing garments of a robe.
Oh shit, the lama.
He turns in the light emanating from his office and peers into the darkness of the
passageway to see a form approaching him.
He says, “Who is that?”
He takes a moment before seeing it is a tall form and then he raises his cane at me
and yells, “You go that way!”
A quick reversal and I am out of there. I retrace my steps, and then I pass the
meditation hall, cut the corner of the Southwest side of the mandala, and continue on to
my room. I sit down onto my bed and reach underneath it for a beer. I open the bottle and
drink the cool and refreshing liquid. I am exhausted from physical and mental exertion. I
finish the beer and then fall into a deep sleep.
55
A QUESTION
Progress on the construction site has been going well and the rebar cages have
been created. Cement truck after cement truck have come to the monastery and poured
tons of cement. The next step of the foundation has been building the wood forms that
create the walls of the basement so that the real temple can be erected. The walls we build
are fifteen feet tall and have vertical rebar cages in them. The pours have gone successful,
and we have stripped the wood forms off the new walls and now need to cure them and
polish them off of excess cement.
I stand on the scaffold at the top of one of the cement walls and support a
jackhammer with my left hand like it is an M-60 and with my right hand pull on the
trigger and destroy excess cement. My arms shake against the machine and my muscles
absorb its power. I love it. With every pull of the trigger I dominate the space of the
entire monastery and send shockwaves over the land. I see another spot that needs
destruction, and I walk down the wood plank of the scaffold, position myself in front of
the cement that oozed out of the wood form during the pour, and pull the trigger and
again absorb the power of the machine with my arms. I finish and rest the jackhammer
atop the cement wall to wipe sweat off my forehead. I take off a glove and then remove
my safety glasses. As I stand upright and open my gaze beyond my work, I see above me
lining the temple’s outer pathway, the line of prayer flags swaying in the wind dispersing
their prayers. Joining them, jet black hair flows with the wind to bless it and an emerald
blouse flaps like the flags. Wangmo is walking along the path and looking down at me. I
56
wipe away my sweat and put my glove back on and the protective glasses back over my
eyes.
Adrenalin draws me back to my work. I turn from her to hammer away at
concrete and destroy excess cement in exploding chunks that fly off my body and through
the air. I release the trigger and feel the flow of strength through my body. I look up again
and Wangmo is still there, standing this time, and looking at me. She turns her body to
go, but her eyes hold their attention on me, and from far off they are the mystery of the
secret practice and the realm of primordial being. Her eyes release their gaze, and then
her head turns to follow her footsteps.
I know she went to the main temple for lunch. I have been thinking a lot about
Wangmo, about her situation in the world and what she wants to do with her unique life.
She works for the dean of the dharma center who runs his business as a stockbroker in
Orinda which is my home town. I have formulated a question I want to ask her. My
question weighs on me. Do I have the balls to do it? I put down the jackhammer and take
off my gloves. I remove the safety goggles and climb down the scaffolding. Cement
chunks are all over my arms, gripping my arm hairs, covering my shirt. I go up to my
room and take off my shirt and stick my head under the faucet of running water to get out
the dust and grey stone. I put on a new shirt and look in the mirror. There, a proper
looking construction worker if I ever saw one. I go from my room to the kitchen.
The food is set upon the counter in large bowls. I take my salad and my pasta and
my bread and a drink and put it on a lunch tray. I head out to the porch and to the sunlight
brightening the day.
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I see Wangmo on a bench eating her food and looking out on the Pacific. She sees
me and shifts her eyes towards me and smiles. I smile at her and ask if I can sit next to
her. She nods her head and I sit down with my tray on my lap and we both eat. I feel my
nervousness and do not know how to proceed.
After a few moments of just sitting there she says, “I saw you down on the
foundation working. I think it is incredible what you guys are doing. I cannot wait to see
the new temple when it is complete. It is going to be the most amazing one here.”
I nod my head and try to think of something to say but can only feel gravity. She
looks back out on the ocean. I feel my question dwelling in the pit of my stomach, what I
want to ask her, but for the nervousness. As she looks at the ocean, I view her gold
beauty, her exotic features and black hair. She is Tibetan and Egyptian and French and
Dakini-born like no one else I have seen. I breathe and continue to feel my nervousness
but then all thought but my one thought ceases in my mind and I completely enter the
moment.
I say slow and deliberate, “Wangmo, can I ask you a personal question?”
Her attention draws away from the ocean and she looks at me. She nods her head
and signals an openness to what I might have on my mind.
“Are you supposed to marry a lama?”
She turns her body to me and laughs in surprise. Her amusement is in her smile
and in her bright eyes and I breathe a sigh of relief. That question was released from my
soul and body.
“No, that is not expected of me. The tradition is not so strict that I have to even
58
marry a buddhist, although it would probably help.”
Yes! I did it. My mind goes blank and I have nothing else to say.
Wangmo sits with me for a few moments and then she takes her tray and gets up.
She has not finished her food. She nods at me as she leaves but not in the normal way,
this one is more reserved. I don’t care: I asked my question and my answer was given.
The sea breeze reaches me in a cool refreshment as I eat my lunch. The Vajra
temple of the West side of the monastery is the highest temple and stands straight and
strong as I contemplate my success. I feel refreshed and strong and put away my dishes to
go back to the jackhammer to get my afternoon workout.
59
ANOTHER PILGRIMAGE AND AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER
We climb to the top of the mountain, the extraordinary light of the Asian copper
domes catch my eye through the pine trees and massive redwoods. There are only
glimpses of shining metal architecture, but the dragon’s head of the corner of the roof can
be seen in the distance. The end of the country road is before us but then from a clearing
in the woods, a soccer ball streaked with dirt zooms out in front of the car and hits the
side with a thunk. I look at my sideview mirror and see it roll out into the middle of the
road. I stop the car and look in the direction of the throw.
It is the Indian reservation. Consisting of wood cabins, old and run down, with
decks that look upon a disheveled yard ruled by scrawny dogs, a group of people are
gathered next to their homes. Graffiti on a cabin’s wall is an image of an eye with wavy
lines around it. The image is spray-painted in black, and there are other streaks of spray
paint on the walls. Pulling over off the road, we see the inhabitants looking at us but no
one has come out for the ball left in the road. The car is in park, and Monty gets out with
beer in hand to get the ball.
I look at the pack of people. There are old and young children checking us out.
Young kids with energy sparked by strangers being present look at us with unchecked
stares. Old Native American women, stout in their posture, squint at us from old leather
drawn faces that are red, like the colors of redwoods, but after they have fallen in the
forest and decompose. I can see through the back window Monty run to the ball and pick
60
it up with his free hand and roll it towards them like a bowling ball while holding his beer
in his other hand.
As the ball bounces in their direction, he moves back towards the car, and as he
approaches the door, I hear a voice speak out our direction, young and sharp.
Monty walks over to the Indian community. After a few moments he sticks his
head into the truck’s cab.
He says, “Hey, dude, these Indians want us to come to their place.”
“The Indians are asking us to go over there?”
“Yeah.”
He looks serious, not worried, but like it could be sketchy, and I look towards the
place and the run down shacks, and unkept yard that is dark underneath the trees. I want
to get back to my room and drink sitting in lotus posture listening to the Dead.
“Let’s just go,” I say, looking him in the eye with a quick nod of my head.
He nods his head back at me in agreement, but from out of the little gathering of
Indians, a young man appears, very distinct because his red-patterned bandana around his
head is the only color among them. His energy is benevolent enough and he comes up to
the car.
“Hey, you guys want to come in and see our reservation, as our guests?”
Monty looks at him and says, “Yeah, sure, that would be cool.”
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Monty looks back at me. Why not? We’ve been invited into their home.
I pull over to the side of the road and park. I get out of the car and know that I
have a gift. I open the top to my camper shell and climb in to get the case of beer nestled
up against the far end of the truck bed.
We walk by the group of Indians and the young one’s are giggling with big
smiles, but the old ladies look very serene, not friendly. I feel a weird tension in the air,
but the young man with the bandana leads us past them and into one of the wood
structures.
Inside the cabin, everything is disheveled. There are two more young men the
same age as the Indian with the bandana and they are sitting smoking cigarettes. Monty
and I nod our head at them and one guy puts out a cigarette in an ashtray filled with
cigarette buds. The place reeks of their smoke. I take a seat on a saggy bed that has one
thin blanket on it and Monty takes a seat on a wood chair. I look around the room. There
are some red hawk feathers strung together hanging from the wall and some black and
white pictures of some old Indians that must be their elders, dressed in Native American
style clothing. But the pictures are smudged, like water ruined them, and I can only see
streaks of the original photograph.
The Indian with the bandana speaks.
“My name’s Colorada.” He nods at me and Monty. He looks at his friend and
introduces him. His name is Steve, and he has black short hair and a red-skinned face.
62
Steve wears blue denim and has on a pair of tan Carhart workpants and a black leather
vest. I immediately wonder why he does not have a name like Red Elk or Mendocino or
something, but then he does not don the accoutrements associated with Native
Americans. Steve takes his pack of Marlboros and offers us a smoke.
“Thanks for inviting us here,” I say and I take one of their smokes and Monty
does the same.
“Do you guys work at the buddhist monastery?” Colorada asks.
Monty says, “Yeah, we are constructing a new temple. He’s doing construction
work and I am helping build this huge buddha statue that is going to be on the outside of
the temple when it is all done.”
Monty is so cool. His voice is slow and Southern, and he is simply grounded. He
comes from a poor family and would tell me stories of how in Tennessee they would eat
possum if they ran one over on the road—just take it home and cook it--and they would
also shoot squirrel. He has on his blue overalls and sits down relaxed. He seems to relate
to them.
Monty says, “Here are some beers.”
Colorada reaches over to the anchor steam case next to me, the orange box ripped
open so we can grab the smooth curved-shaped bottles of golden beer. His wrist is all
slashed, groove upon groove of slashes. Anyone meeting him would have to see them,
63
this violent carve pattern, like a tattoo, but no ink, even though it once ran blood red.
Somehow he survived?
He sees I am staring at his wrist. He must be used to people looking at his wrist
when he first meets them, and he looks at me direct, through his glasses as he takes a
beer. His eyes are dark and withdrawn like there is no iris or center to them. I see a
challenge in them, a look that has been somewhere else and doesn’t give a shit, a simple
suicidal inclination, and poverty. The three take the beers.
We drink and talk. I don’t have much to say. I try and look around for a
conversation starter. I look at them and nod my head. They are laughing amongst
themselves, enjoying the beer.
We keep drinking and it turns out I have a hard time keeping up with their thirst.
They are good at downing beer. I get to my fourth beer and the talk turns back to their
neighbors, the buddhists.
Colorada asks Monty, “What is it like working over there? I know you guys slave
away all day.”
Monty says, “Yeah, we work hard, but the work is good. I work on a buddha
statue. It is a massive clay buddha that’s the model for a bronze statue. When I stand at
the base of the feet and look up, I am like, damn, this thing is impressive, and I am kindof awed by it all, it is a force.”
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Monty looks at me and says, “I keep thinking, ‘man, I am gonna be taking rebirth
in a buddha realm my next life.’”
Colorada shakes his head and laughs. His laugh is pessimistic and he looks at us
from behind his glasses, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“A buddha realm! You guys are long gone, hopeless! Don’t you know they
brainwash you at that place? It is a total cult. People are there forever and they never
leave. They work you to death and you still never leave.”
The other two take long drags on their smokes and continue filling the room with
a haze. Their eyes are drunken and unclear; like Colorada’s eyes they have withdrawn
into darkness with no iris. Those eyes don’t stop looking. Both of the Indians light up
more cigarettes and exhale plumes of smoke that drift in the air above Monty and me.
I try to be nice.
I say, “You guys must be descendents of the Pomo Indians. That is pretty cool,
except what happened to them. I always thought in a past life I was an Indian, like a
shaman.”
He looks at me and asks, “How do you know that?”
I say, “I don’t know, I just always liked Native American culture. Also, when the
buddhists bought the land here, the lama did all these rituals and ceremonies to appease
the spirits of the land so that the construction projects would go off well. He had a lot of
respect for—“
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“The spirits of our land. Do you see what we’ve got? Our kids barely eat. We’ve
got one teacher who teaches every grade. We survive on our own.”
“Alright, man, I don’t mean to piss you off. I am just here studying buddhism.”
Colorada’s voice is high-pitched. Steel anger emits from his drunk eyes. The beer
is speaking off his alcohol breath. Steve starts laughing really high-pitched and
boisterous. His eyes squint, and their mouths open to show yellow and cavity strewn
teeth.
We come to the end of the case of beer, and Monty and I have kept up with their
alcohol consumption and we are all equal—six beers each. It was a drinking marathon,
not the slow, deliberate Sunday afternoon listening to music and conversing on life. I feel
wasted. Colorada still is on the topic of buddhism, laughing, and putting his fingers
together like he is meditating, and he and his buddy are in an uproar. I contemplate
beating them into a pulp right there. They probably have weapons, though.
Instead, I make an observation.
“Don’t you two know you are Tibetans? It’s proven. Etymologically, the Navajo
and the Tibetans are the most closely related to each other, through DNA structure. They
look exactly alike. The Tibetans and the Central Asian peoples were the ones who
crossed the Bering Strait to North America.”
But the alcohol does not mix with them. They look at me, but are just laughing.
I’ve learned lessons about being a guest.
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I say to Monty, “Come on, dude, time to go.”
We get up and I exit the cabin and Monty says a few things to them and we go to
the truck. A scrawny dog comes at us from under a porch and I turn to face it as it starts
barking and acting tough. I don’t turn my back or eyes on it. Monty and I make it to the
truck and get in.
I say, “Fuckin-a, I knew I did not want to be there. Goddamnit, they drank all our
beer, too.”
Monty says, “Calm down, man, I’ve got a few more in my room. Let’s just go
back and forget about it.”
I don’t forget easily. I don’t like being attacked, expecially when it is a flanking
move, like what those Indians pulled. We are at the end of the country road as it meets
the ridgetop road, and I don’t turn right to go back but turn left and keep driving.
Monty looks at me.
“Where are you going, man?
I pull out a CD of Nirvana and put it in the car stereo.
“I don’t feel like listening to the Dead, goddamnit.”
The music starts, and I turn up the volume so it is slamming our ears with angst. I
feel the pulse of my blood race and grip the steering wheel hard. Trees are flying by.
Monty yells out, “Dude, slow the fuck down! You’re going sixty miles an hour!”
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I pull my foot off the accelerator. Monty turns down the music. He looks at me
and speaks.
“Look, just turn around, we’ll go to your room, we’ll smoke and chill out. We’ll
just make it a longer day and hang out before going to sleep for work tomorrow.”
“I’m fuckin’ tired of working on the shitty-mantra temple. It’s all bullshit. I
should just go right now and and crash into the new wall so I can be done.”
“Look, just turn around and let’s go back.”
Of course I listen to him. I turn the car around and we head back. We come to the
gate and Monty jumps out of the car and opens it, and I drive through and wait while he
closes it and then we go to the parking area. We get out, and I am walking behind him.
The temple’s roofs and domes jut up over the treetops and dominate the sky.
Fuck. I am going to be hung over, and I have to pour cement tomorrow.
I take both my fists and raise them at the temple and extend both my middle
fingers and mouth ‘fuck you!’ to the mandala.
I follow Monty into the inner temple, and he stops by his door and goes in to get
his supplies. Before entering he looks at me as kind as he can.
He says, “Alright, man, I’ll be right over.”
I go to my room and sit on my bed. Monty comes in, still with his caring look on
his face. He has his backpack and sets it down and pulls out two beers. I tell him I don’t
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want one so he pulls out his smoke and pipe. He left the door open so I go to close it, and
in the fading light I see Tenzin walking towards me down the hall. He walks with both
his hands grapsed against his torso, the long sleeves of his robes covering them, and
seems to be doing a walking meditation. He looks at me in the doorway as he passes and
keeps going.
I close the door and turn back to Monty.
“Hey, Monty, I wonder if the Queen of Bhutan will get pissed if we get her artist
stoned.”
He smiles but does not say anything. He gives me the pipe, and we both smoke.
Monty drinks one beer and then moves on to another and asks if I am doing
better. I say I am.
I feel that the beers have moved through my system, and I tell Monty I have to go
and take a leak. He nods and keeps drinking and I open the room’s door and walk down
the hall. The prayer wheels hum and the corridor is lit only with the wide-spaced lights
on the wall that do not string together their meagre illumination effetively and leave
shadows. I go in the bathroom and take my leak and then walk back along the lights and
darkness to the hum of the prayer wheels.
One of the prayer-wheels makes a creaking sound on its rotation. In the far
distance I can hear the crickets. I pass through poor light, and then shadow, and then
light, and more shadow.
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And then, from out of the depths of an unimaginable sea, I am hit by an incredible
force.
I am enveloped in another reality. A crushing weight is on my shoulders as if the
universe has collapsed on me and my body becomes transparent to a gaze that penetrates
my being with the anger and the wrath of a power not of the world.
I dare not turn. I cannot. I am locked in place and dominated by my master. I feel
wild eyes stare and stare deep into myself, probe and search, and my heart pounds and
becomes waves of crashing terror as I am gripped with fear for my life.
I see my door on the far side of a light’s illumination. Just make it to safety, it is
right there. I will my legs to move but I cannot escape.
Go!
Go!!
Go!!!
I focus all attention on the door. I move one foot and then the other. Concentrate
just on the door, just make it to the door--it follows--push open the door, now!
I fling my body into the room with all my force.
Monty looks at me surprised. I yell at him.
“Holy shit! There’s something out there!”
He jumps to his feet and goes to the door and slams it shut.
I collapse on my bed. I am able to turn around and look and I see only Monty,
eyes wide with a similar terror.
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He says, “What the fuck happened?! You’re white like a ghost!”
In a panicked voice I recount what just happened.
“I was walking back down the hall, and then all of a sudden this thing jumped me,
an angry energy was all around me. I’ve never felt anything like it. It could see all the
way through me. I think it started to remove me from my body, like it was going to take
me somewhere. Dude, I don’t know what it was but that fuckin’ thing hates me!”
Monty looks at me and then he looks back at the door. His knees buckle and then
he grabs his crotch.
He says, “I have to take a piss!”
I say, “I’m not going back out there!”
We look at each other. Monty looks around the room. His eyes go to the door that
leads to the porch.
He says, “I’m going to take a piss out on the porch.”
I say, “No! That thing will know you pissed on the mandala!”
He looks at me and starts grabbing his cock again.
He says, “I’m just going to use my beer bottle.”
He turns away from me and undoes his pants. He grabs the beer bottle and I can
hear his piss filling it.
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He turns his head to me and says, “Get me another beer bottle.”
I go over to his chair where his beers are and grab a bottle he emptied and bring it
to him. He takes it and puts a full bottle on the counter next to the sink. He’s leaning
slightly over pulling in his crotch to pinch off the flow of piss and then he stands upright
again and the strong release of his piss sounds as the bottle fills.
His strength keeps up, and he says, “Get me another one! This one’s filling fast!”
I go to get a third bottle but he only drank two. I grab his bottle opener and a beer
and go over to the sink and undue the cap and start pouring out the beer. He has finished
with the other bottle and is looking at me in desperation.
“Hurry up!”
As I pour, I start to laugh hysterically. An emotion of relief sweeps over me that I
am here with Monty, not out there with that mysterious presence.
I watch the last of the beer go down the drain and I say to him, “Dude, I am done
drinking and smoking in the mandala. That was it. I am doing nothing but work until I am
out of here.”
I give him the bottle. I start to pace back and forth in the room and the sound of
Monty relieving himself is the only noise. I am still shaken by the encounter. Just out of
nowhere with no warning it came.
Monty says, “I need one more!”
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“Damn, Monty!”
I repeat opening a bottle and pouring the beer down the drain and as I do, I say
goodbye to Sunday pilgrimage. I hand the bottle to Monty and he finishes his peeing. He
places the beer bottles on the counter and I look at the familiar label of our favorite beer.
A red hawk spreads its wings against the sky looking for prey. I am part of this world. I
don’t want to face that other world. The mystery shutters through me for a moment and
then passes. I feel the remnants of adrenalin flow through me from the shock to my
system. I tell Monty I want to go to bed. He puts his beer bottles into his six pack holder
and then goes to his room via the backdoor and the porch.
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THE SHAMBHALA PROPHECY
When the iron bird flies, and horses run on wheels, the Tibetan people will be scattered
across the face of the earth like ants, and the Dharma will come to the land of the redfaced people. Padmasambhava, 7th Century
This Sunday, Monty and I are hanging out in my room, not doing anything in
particular. We took a walk earlier on the retreat center’s grounds and enjoyed the sights
of the beautiful country. Now, we are resting and just talking with each other.
As we sit and talk, I see from the open door Obi-Wan walk by. I wave at him.
Instead of walking by, like he always does, he pops his head inside the door. He has a
mischevious look on his face, smiling wide and happy, his eyes pinched together and
kind.
He says, “No beer?”
Monty and I smile and I say, “No.”
Obi-Wan enters the room. The Bhutanese robe he wears flows over his body in
earth-toned colors of red and brown and is tied around his waist in a knot. The sleeves are
long and cover his artist’s hands within the warmth of the wool. I am sitting on my zafu
on my bed, and Monty’s blanket is wrapped around his body.
“Tenzin,” I say, “welcome, it is such an honor to have you here.”
He bows slightly with his Asian eyes so kind on his face and a smile so happy. I
wonder at him. Doesn’t he suffer at this place? I cannot make him out. We offer him a
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seat and in his Bhutanese robes he looks at us, this incredible artist of the ancient
tradition, sitting right there before us.
Monty looks at him. “Hey, Tenzin, what did you think of that pour on Saturday?”
“Very good, very big.” He searches for words. “I think we make Buddhas happy!”
We laugh, and then I have a question for him.
“Hey, Tenzin, how do you like America?”
“I been to Berkeley and here. I don’t know country. But American people-- good.
I am here for temple and then Bhutan.”
I say, “But you are in America. Don’t you want to see New York or something?”
“No, my teacher--” He struggles for words but then strings toghether thought.
“My teacher wants me serve him when I go.”
I look at him and smile. It is a rare individual. A beautiful individual. I feel a
respect for him and people like him in the world. I am happy, blessed, in the presence of
a unique artist. I feel humble at a true dharma practitioner, someone dedicated to it
without the doubts and impulses that urge one to fly away--like myself.
“Is your teacher a Nyingma master?”
“No, I study Kagyu.”
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The poets of the Tibetan tradition! This is incredible! Milarepa and his school-he’s one of them! I cannot believe this. I wish I spoke Bhutanese to search through this
resource of buddhist knowledge.
“You follow Milarepa! I try and translate his poetry into English. He is my
favorite poet!”
I have to ask him more. Monty sits there engaged in the conversation. I am the
one with all the questions.
“Do you really think Milarepa conquered the demons at the Longchen caves and
vanquished them forever? Did he ever teach lung-gom-pa to his students, or did it die
with him? Do you know it?”
Monty looks at me with a mystified expression. So does Tenzin. I was talking
way too fast. I change my questions.
“Tenzin, why are you building this temple?”
His smile all of a sudden disappears and his face is more serious. So he does think
this sucks! Yes! My mind is normal. I am so glad I have met this man.
“I am sent here by my Queen, with Gyalsup, to complete dharma. Dharma, it is in
new land, to prosper, to…” He searches for words. “To complete the teachings.”
“What do you mean to complete the teachings? Aren’t they complete now but just
need a new home since Tibet has been destroyed?”
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He again looks at me and his head moves up and down like he is floating on top
of a vast internal sea. He looks at me again with the same serious look. And then he
speaks.
“Everything is part of prophecy, the Shambhala teachings. The dharma spreads
across the world when world destroyed.”
What the fuck? Now what is the dharma going to do to me? A prophecy? That
sounds like heavy shit. I look at him. He is dead serious. OK, he is from Asia, they are
very religious and superstitious. The Tibetans did not exactly evolve society to a
scientific and rational organization. But what does he mean, prophecy?
“What do you mean complete the teachings and prophecy? Do you mean profit?
Like you can make money for Bhutan?”
“Oh, no, not money. Money not save. The prophecy, Shambhala. The dharma, it
comes for…” He searches for words, the words, he is searching his mind. “War. Tibet.
Kaliyuga.”
Oh, shit. The kaliyuga. The end of the age. The cyclical nature of time as it
repeats itself and one age ends and another begins. What the fuck? Is he serious? I look at
Monty. He heard it, too. Monty is not smiling.
“What do you mean, kaliyuga? What do you mean, war?”
He looks at me and the kindness in his eyes is gone. He is very serene and very
balanced but his eyes are serious. His speech is impeccable.
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“Tibet is the first, the others follow. Soon, the whole world…War. Evil…” He
gestures with his hands, expands them to encircle a globe, searches for words..
I say, “The whole world is at war?”
And that clicks for him. He points at me and nods his head.
“Yes. War. Evil and killing. Tibetans just beginning. Soon, all.”
Holy shit. He believes it. I practice my breathing. I question my tee-totalling,
marijuana-free vow. I look at him. His Asian face is somber but very intelligent and
aware and meditative. Now I don’t know what to say.
Monty looks at me and begins to speak in his slow Southern way.
“I have heard of the Shambhala teaching. It says there is going to be an evil
empire that takes over the world and controls everything and ruins spiritual truth. People
are selfish, they do not respect others, there is violence, crime, hatred and war.
Everything really begins falling apart and then there is the crackdown by the evil empire.
That’s when freedom is gone, but everyone is too afraid, too tricked, to see the truth.
They become like zombies and obey. After that, the Shambhala people, the holders of
spiritual truth, unite, and somehow with truth they destroy the empire.”
I sit there and absorb this idea. To me it is fascinating, and I like the ancient
beliefs and philosophies of the world cultures, but again this makes no sense. It is the new
millenium, humanity has the remnants of archaic impulses, but there is no need for big
wars. In my travels in the world, I have found people to be generally good, and they don’t
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want to inflict violence—it is only when you get psychopaths like Hitler that things get
out of control. But everything is more connected now and a spiritual, or at least rational,
development of the mind is occuring. You have random terrorists attacks like what
happened to the USS Cole but for the most part peace is the future.
I ask Tenzin, “But don’t you think we are responsible for the course of the future,
not a prophecy? I mean, we are doing this here, at the monastery, to help avert wars. It is
the new millenium, there is potential for a change. Humanity cannot help but get better.
Of course conflicts occur but the twentieth century is the past. You learn and move on.
Nobody wants to go through history again.”
Tenzin shrugs his shoulders. “There is war. The dharma, it is not in Tibet. But, it
is not destroy, it is not
die—“
He tries to express an idea, and I help him out.
“Indestructible,” I say.
“Yes,” he tries out his new word. “’Indestructible.’ Dharma is real. We are
fortunate beings…luck…But the world, the kaliyuga, not fortunate. The age,
not…‘indestructible.’”
He looks at us with clear open eyes and then continues.
“But the Shambhala people…They lead, they live, but many die.”
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We sit in silence. Our speech has been slow and deliberate to help Tenzin with his
understanding. My own understanding is challenged and confused. I know there is no
way that a prophecy is just going to happen, like it is laid out in stone and that is where it
all goes. But he doesn’t view it that way. I decide to change the subject back to realistic
matters.
“Tenzin, how long are you going to stay at the monastery?”
He puts up his hand with his palm spread before me and all five of his fingers
stretched out.
I blurt out, “Five years!”
My shock is obvious. He is committed. What a different world and individual
from me. I can’t handle any more dharma work, even though I am given a privelaged
glimpse into the Tibetan worldview and spiritual practice. Too much samsara is in me,
too much I need to do, and I want to be out in the real world. Still, in the presence of this
spiritual adept, I feel very calm and inspired to try and make a difference in the world-like I am--even if I don’t believe in the Shambhala Prophecy.
We sit around the room for a little while longer and Tenzin stands up and looks at
us. He has his very kind eyes and a kind smile, a hallmark of people from this part of the
world. He bows to us very humbly with his hands pressed together like we are masters or
something and both of us dip our heads towards him, too. He straightens his body and lets
his hands relax to his sides.
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“The merit from your actions I feel brings benefit to you, others, and may the
Buddhas and Bodhisattvas sit in your heart—all time!”
Damn! He does not know my mind. He then leaves, and Monty looks over at me
with this smile spread across his face like a blessing. We sit in silence and ponder the
moment. I don’t know what to make of it all, with his belief in this prophecy thing he
kept talking of. But meeting these rare individuals is the most enlightening experience;
more than reading, or meditating on retreat—they can touch the heart. I don’t know how
people from the Himalaya have nurtured such an amazing heart.
I bring awareness back to my own mind and look at the mindstream. I think of the
kaliyuga. Maybe the prophecy has a point.
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THE RULE OF IMPERMANENCE
One morning, after having committed for several months to work and practice, I
am walking along the pathway around the main temple and I look down on the cement
structure we have created. All that toil and work, there it is. And it is only the beginning!
The temple still has years ahead of it. But as I look at what I helped create, I realize I am
about to leave. I fulfilled my duty, did my job, and lasted through this great challenge. I
listen to Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G minor as it captures in sweeping notes triumph and
the anguished heart. The piece climaxes and then falls into the sorrowful last chord with
which it had opened and then fades into silence. I am going, my stay at the mandala to
end, as everything ends.
I walk around to the West side of the temple along a solitary path through some
woods. There I am alone. This path, so strange in its unfolding, led me here: I was blown
like a leaf by circumstance or karma. The solitary path extends through the woods. I look
out at the Pacific Ocean that covers a third of the earth, and in the ocean of human tears
that covers the rest, deep spiritual sorrow streaks my face on this wayward journey of a
seeker lost and alone in the world.
That night I go over to Monty’s room and tell him I am going to leave. He always
knew but tries to convince me otherwise.
“You should stay. Lets take this place over. They are looking for leaders to carry
it into the future.”
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But I shake my head.
“No, man, I am going. There are other things I want to do.”
He looks at me, and I see the value of my spiritual friend. He does not grasp or
steer my actions, he lets go as our fates part.
We sit in the silence and I know we both wish we had some beer to drink to
remember our time spent working and engaging in dharma practice together. I do not
know what his fate will be. He might stay, he might go on. They value his work at the
foundry, and I think he will stay for awhile.
I say, “If I ever see this weird dude doing prostrations along Highway 1, pushing
along a case of beer, I’ll be sure to pick you up.”
He smiles at me and I continue.
“Or if not, good luck on your work here, man. Maybe in some distant time I will
see you in a buddha realm.”
“You are a good person. I am glad I got to know you, and I hope you find what
you’re after.”
During my last week at the monastery, he blasts Primus’s music out of his room
in the evenings, no doubt disrupting the blessings of the prayer-wheels. Once I leave, I go
back to Berkeley and when I unpack my truck, I notice a very rare book among my stuff
that he stole and gave to me, of a recording of the building of the monastery. I love the
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book. I especially like the pictures it has of Wangmo as she was growing up. I don’t
know if I will see her ever again. She already has left here and is in the world where I
know she wants to be. That was the one thing she did not tell me about having a Tibetan
lama as a father: she doesn’t want enlightenment and its heavy responsibilities, its tasks.
But she has dharma in her as shines through her from her heart.
Before I leave, I put in a request to go to India for the Monlam Chenmo. I believe
I have worked hard enough on dharma projects to ask this, even though spaces are
usually for long-term students. I feel my novice mind has developed a respect for the
practice and that my efforts have been motivated by a sincere desire to improve myself
for the benefit of others.
Back in Berkeley, I learn that the head lama has granted me a rare opportunity to
participate in the ceremony. With excitement I prepare for my upcoming spiritual
pilgrimage to India. Little do I know that going to the seat of the Buddha’s enlightenment
will present the ultimate spiritual challenge.
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THE WORLD PEACE CEREMONY
2001
The San Francisco airport in the early morning sees another group of Americans
preparing for a trip. We look normal like all the other travellers who might be going to
Hawaii for Mai Tais and beaches. But not quite. We are on a pilgrimage and our vacation
is a break from samsara. Following the Buddha’s footsteps is to be our walk along the
beach, and holy mantra our inebriation. We have our luggage packed, and in our money
belts we each carry seventy-five hundred dollars, to be brought through customs for
donation to the monasteries. Like all trips, I am excited and don’t know what to expect,
but I feel a special affinity for my being here with the group, because it is the hardest
project for which I have ever worked.
Our group is lead by Bob, a dharma teacher who has gone to several ceremonies.
He is our wiseman for navigating the culture of India and gives us tips on making it
through the journey. He gave us all a care package of throat lozenges, Vitamin C, Tums,
all for dealing with the harsh living conditions. He says he has never made a trip to India
withour becoming very sick.
“Alright,” Bob says to the group, “be sure to always have your money belt on
you. We don’t have to declare the amount through customs so there’s no real need to take
it off until we get to India and then I will collect all the money. Once we land in Delhi,
we are going to take the three-day train ride to Gaya and go to Choki Nyima’s monastery
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as his guests. The books will already be there and then we will meet with Wangmo and
Pema and set up how we distribute the texts and the thangkas.”
My heart jumps. I put down my backpack and get out my journal and go behind a
large planter away from everyone and there I write with a furious hand my streaming
thoughts.
“Wangmo is going to be there! Yes! I knew it! My karma is good! What is she
going to think when she sees me again? Maybe she won’t care. But she is going to see
me! I cannot believe I am going to be with her in Bodh Gaya, India!”
I put down my journal and smile on my luck. I get to see her again, and I knew I
would. Perhaps a destiny is unfolding, I cannot help but think to myself. Perhaps this is
my destiny. Perhaps I am to be like my poet-bodhisattva hero, Milarepa, and follow a
lama, receive the teachings, and achieve enlightenment in a single lifetime for the benefit
of all beings! My fate, my life, the karma with which I have been born!
Pure joy flows through my system. I had no thought I would see her, but it is
going to happen. I try and mentally prepare myself for the event by imagining our
meeting, but I let it rest until the moment it happens. India, it turns out, is bizarre and
challenging enough to preoccupy my attention.
After a twenty-two hour plane ride we arrive in New Delhi. The flowing script of
Hindi announces we have arrived in another land. It is January, 2001, and I am arriving at
a ceremony to reaffirm humanity’s commitment to peace. We spend only one night in a
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hotel before going to the train station, but even the first few hours in India overwhelm
me. Poverty is pervasive, and crazy, intense suffering. There are a lot of beggars, and so
many people have been submitted to gross injustices to their humanity. The Buddha’s
first noble truth is becoming very apparent in this land.
But then we get on the train to cross Northern India and the experience becomes
the journey through another world. The train ride takes us across the state of Bihar, the
poorest part of India. Sights that have no parallel with America or Europe or any other
country I have seen are shocking. There is a pervasive poverty, a malnousished reality,
that is harrowing. As the train passes the dust landscape, the scenes outside the window
look like the fallout after nuclear war. The people are dressed in ragged brown clothes
reminiscent of the sand people from Star Wars. No beautiful saris, just bland brown. At
night, we pass by train stops where people have gathered around meagre fires fueled by
thin sticks and brush that grew from the impoverished soil and emit a meagre flame.
Samsara has stripped itself bare to show its true horrifying face. I am starting to wonder
what this enlightenment thing is really all about. Being here, I don’t think moving beyond
Buddha’s first truth of suffering is possible. There is no cessation here, no joy, this is
pure hell.
Bob is the one among us suffering. He already is sick to his stomach and spends
most of his time in the bathroom. His condition is a strong warning to us to not drink the
water, to close your mouth when taking a shower, and only eat from legitimate places.
We all hope he gets better because he is critical in running the distribution of texts.
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We arrive at Gaya at night. We get off the train and are now immersed amongst
the malnourished. A crazy, diseased Indian cackles at us in the delight of the horror-show
we have entered. Huge rats scurry amongst the tracks. The people are small, not strong,
and in a battle I could destroy the hundreds of them, just me against them. While looking
out on this scene, two people approach who emit a semblence of health. I notice Pema,
accompanied by a Tibetan who wears the yellow robe of a Geshe, or buddhist teacher,
who has accomplished a degree in buddhist studies equivalent to a Ph.D. No one feels
comfortable around the extreme poverty and we are led through the crowd to taxis. Once
inside the cars, we are driven to the monastery where we will be guests for the ten day
ceremony. We are shown beds and Bob becomes my roomate. The first thing he checks
on is the bathroom. The rooms are dorm style so he has to walk down the hall for the
communal bathroom. He goes to the bathroom, and I go to bed, and before he comes
back I have fallen asleep.
The next day, in the early morning, I sit up in my bed and look outside my
window and the enchantment of my journey begins. A little ways in the distance is a
large stone carved Buddha, the size of a building, sitting serene with eyes closed. The
sunrise colors the stone body an orange hue and birds fly through the air and land on its
head and shoulders. I go downstairs with Bob and we eat simple food. He is very careful
of what he takes. He has been sick with digestive problems before and asks the host how
the food was prepared. He is assured that the kitchen is clean and sanitary and both of us
eat a malnourished dal that is worthless compared to the dish in Indian restaurants in the
U.S.
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We head out to see the Enlightenemnt Stupa of Bodh Gaya. Riksha drivers await
at the monastery’s gate and we climb into the back of a buggy attached to the driver’s
bicycle and he peddles us towards the stupa.
A smell of rotten smoke, like the burning dead of the sand people, permeates the
air. I take out my bandana and wrap it around my nose and mouth. As I ride in the pale
and chill morning, I pass the red-marooned robes of the Tibetan buddhist monks. A
conglomeration of the Tibetan community in exile that I have seen so many times in
pictures is now right before me! They walk in pairs and some by themselves in the calm
of the morning.
Bob says to me, “Our first text distribution will be on the South side of the Stupa.
We will meet Wangmo and Pema there and coordinate with the monks to give out the
books.”
Through my bandana I say, “Wangmo and Pema must be strong women to be able
to deal with this place every year.”
“Oh, they are strong, alright. They must get it from those sturdy Tibetan genes of
their father.”
I say, “They’ve had unique lives being his daughters.”
“Yep, but certainly beautiful girls. I’ve seen them grow up and blossom into who
they are. I can’t believe they are all grown up and probably will be getting married soon.
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Can you imagine being married to one of them, and having a Tibetan lama for a father-inlaw?”
“Yes!”
He looks over at me and I tell him, “I asked Wangmo if she is supposed to marry
a lama, and she laughed and said no.”
“Really?” he says to me in a long inquisitive way. He turns his body a little in the
riksha to square his shoulders to me, interested I asked her this question. He continues his
inquiry.
“What else did you ask her?”
“Oh, nothing, we have talked about the dharma, that’s all.”
He looks for a few seconds more and then settles his shoulders back into the
riksha seat. He’s had a lot on his mind, since he is going through a divorce from a woman
who he married in the sangha. I don’t know if he ever was the happiest man. He’s a little
uptight about things. But, his life has been benefitted by his buddhist responsibilities. He
works with Wangmo at the stockbroker business, or did, before she went to work for their
London office.
The riksha pulls up to the gates of the Stupa and Bob and I pay and then get out.
Outside of the gates, lines upon lines of beggars wear brown and ragged clothes that
drape their skeletal bodies. I look into their dimmed eyes to see the first truth in all its
reality. There are swarms of people and Bob and I separate as we each follow different
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interests. I look at the front entrance of the stupa, and over the huge gate a red dyed
banner, with a yellow outline and black block letters in the center, reads:
Welcome to the Monlam Chenmo
World Peace Ceremony
2001
Here it is, the upholding of the tradition for the benefit of all beings. Certainly, we
as human beings are going to leave war behind. I think of the Shambhala Prophecy and
make a note to ask monks if they know it. As it turns out, I do not follow through on this
thought, as my inquisitive nature becomes drawn to a holy desire that interests me much
more.
Upon walking under the banner, the pulse of buddhist mantra becomes clear and
streams into my ears and my being. The Tibetans have gathered as the community in
exile and are practicing their precious buddhadharma. These monks! Thousands of them!
My heart moves out of respect for Tibetans. The world crushed their civilization, but the
world has also helped them rebuild.
I walk to the entrance of the Stupa on the North side. I enter under the portico and
before me is the Enlightenment Stupa. It is a rectangular stupa with intricate geometric
patterns carved into the stone, and it juts up high into the sky. I drop my head and look at
the surrounding scene to the sea of monks. Thousands of them! There are tarpaulins setup for shade and at the head of each conglomeration sits a head lama in front of his order.
I descend the steps to the base of the Enlightenment Stupa.
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I walk along the inner pathway before all the monks. The monks look at me,
dharma supporter from California, shades on and bandana around my face like a villian. I
head to the South side of the Stupa where the texts are stored on pallets. I come to the
South side and continue to see maroon everywhere but then a different color, a different
shade of light, and the glory of feminine virtues shine turquoise and blue from a Tibetan
dress.
With hymns that are seas of melodies, I praise the Oceans of Virtues.
The monk’s disappear as the morning sunlight shines off of her like off of the
Pacific when it is calm and clear and at peace with the tides. I look from her dress to her
face and eyes—Wangmo, the Tibetan princess.
I take off my bandana. We look at each other.
“Hello, Brett.”
“Hi, Wangmo.”
I have not seen her since that time on the porch with my question. She has been
out of the country working and I notice her hair is a different style, an English style,
much shorter and straight. It does not look as good. But everything else is the same,
including a distant vibe I last felt upon seeing her walk off.
She is standing in the ranks of the ceremony with her sister and then walks up to
the head lama of the Nyingma school to receive a white kata. I see the spiritual scarf,
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pure and holy, placed over her neck, as she bows to receive it. She walks from the lama’s
seat, her hands folded in blessing, back to her place in front of the sea of maroon. I, too,
am called to receive a kata. I walk up to the lama and see in his eyes buddhist
compassion. I bow my head and place my hands together to receive his blessing and then
move down the walkway back towards everyone else, and her. She sees me receive my
blessing.
I do not walk back towards her or her sister but go to the boxes of pechas that are
stored on the South side. Here, under the shade of a tree, I sit. I close my eyes and the
enlightenment bolt does not strike. Instead, my cosnsciousness brought from America is
with me. I remember friends turned bad, and then my quest and experiment begun in the
meditation room in Berkeley. I recall the cement that was my consciousness and the dark
existence with which I entered the dharma. And now, after the work and effort to shine
like that jewel at the heart of the lotus, I am again a mind in doubt.
How can I delight in the cycle of existence when constant, long-lasting enemies fearlessly
dwell in my heart?
While I have promised to liberate beings throughout space in the ten directions from the
mental afflictions, I have not liberated even myself from mental afflictions.
This world overwhelmed by mental afflictions is incapable of accomplishing its own
interests. Therfore, I must do it for them. I am not as incapable as the world is.
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Aloneness and void again fills my heart. The rule of suffering pervades myself
even now among the monks and at the seat of Buddha’s enlightenment. I am a distance
from my hopes and aspirations. I rise from my meditation discouraged.
I look over the wash of maroon and then dark eyes pierce into my heart. A vajra
bolt hits me and the passionate ceremony of the aeons passes between our eyes. Those
dark eyes, concealed under the shadow of the bodhi tree, are desiring. She won’t stop
looking: with all the majestic powers of the sky-dakinis, her eyes radiate the diamond
starlight of hidden ecstasy, and I the disciple follow the procession of ceremonies.
I break the gaze. Monks walk by. I sit again under the tree, vajra lightning
through my spine. Precious love floats blissful through the putrid air, over the maroon sea
and lands in my heart to cloak me in a robe stained with passionate blood. This is my joy
and purpose; this my enlightenment from suffering; my hope and desire. I place my hand
to my chest but feel the white silk of the kata. To wrap it around your waist, chanting the
holy mantra of pure passion. This! This! Just let me this!
I open my eyes and the monks sit serene in lines amongst each other. She has
gone. I get up and circumambulate the Stupa. Not along the inner pathway; that leads
close to the bodhi tree where Buddha sat and became enlightened. I go to the outer
pathway that provides a long course to walk off energy.
As I walk, I pass a Tibetan buddhist doing prostrations along the path. He is an
old man, and on his hands are wood paddles that he slides on as he prostrates. He has a
callous on his forehead, a thick of skin from the thousands upon thousands of prostrations
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to the ground he completed on his journey. I learn he walked from Tibet to be here. How
did he escape Tibet? I thought it was a prison-house? I reflect on Obi-Wan’s admonishing
of the evil empire spreading its tentacles across the world. I again question his belief. I
watch the sturdy Tibetan in his extreme religious devotion to his practice. He has made
the pilgrimage, a great accomplishment in the Tibetan worldview.
The heat has become strong and to ease my thirst I take my bottle of water and tilt
back my head and drink. I feel something at my feet. A small old Indian man in his
meagre white robe with the skin and bones of his chest showing, is doing prostrations at
my feet!
I bow to all the masters who have attained primordial liberation and out of compassion
remain here, dredging the depths of samsara.
I look down at my first disciple. He keeps up his prostrations and I get annoyed. I
want to shoo him away. Then I see his eyes focus on a card printed with the image of
Buddha I am carrying in my hand. He continues prostrations to the point where I start to
laugh. I give him the card, and then one final long prostration from him sends him on his
way.
I am circumambulating the Stupa with several hundred people. The outer path
around the Stupa is probably a quarter mile of walikng. After several laps I become tired
and on the East side of the Stupa, which is covered with a taurpalin, I take a seat with the
monks and meditate. My mind becomes very calm with the mantra and its tones and
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rhythms penetrating deep into consciousness. This is the beginning of the mantra
permeating consciousness: even as I go to sleep at night, I hear it pulse in my mind, and
even in my dreams, the mantra continues. This phenomenon lasts for months after my
return to America.
As I sit among the conglomeration of monks on the East side of the Stupa, the
head lama motions for me to come up to his chair. I get up, and walk forward with the
monk’s eyes on me and I meet Sechen Rabjam, who’s grandfather was one of the most
famous of all the lamas in Tibet. The generation that was part of the diaspora was a very
unique collection of men as they were trained in the tradition before its destruction in
their homeland, and then heroically preserved it, by presenting the teachings to the
Wesern audience.
He has questions to ask me.
“Did you work at the mandala temple in Sonoma?”
“Yes, I did. I helped build part of the Cintimani Temple.”
“I was there when they were building the Vajra Temple. That place is beautiful.
What are your plans while here in India?”
As he asks me the question, Shechen Rabjam disappears. She walks by along the
inner path. Her head turns to me, her eyes desperate, calling, the dakinis have fallen from
the aerial skies to suffer in the flesh. I know my power, I understand my duty, this, this,
nothing but this.
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I answer the lama’s question.
“I’m going to achieve enlightenment in a single nighttime.”
He looks at me, and then I ask if I can take his picture.
On his lama’s throng, he smiles at me, and I get a great picture. I look at some of
the other lamas for a picture and one gives me the “hang loose, dude!” sign with his
thumb and pinky extended and his other fingers curled into his palm. I take his picture.
Right on, I am not saying I know the truth behind the tradition. I don’t want to go there
right now. I am simply going to go to another place.
The turqouise light continues its orbit around the center of the buddhist world.
This time, she is more focused on the path. She walks by herself, dignified, and with
goodness in her heart. At least she has that: as dakini clouds evaporate above an earth that
needs to be quenched from suffering, at least she has that.
I go back to the monks and sit down. I try to meditate but cannot. Several minutes
pass before her return, and then she is again on the East side. My meditation is worthless.
Go to the path, walk the path to enlightenment, walk and walk, feel the center of the pull
of gravity and the lightning bolts of energy rising and rising in the deep rhythms of the
blessed chant.
I stand up from my seat and go to the path. Older Tibetan women are walking on
it while spinning prayer wheels. They sing a sad sorrowful tune that dampens my heart.
But then I see her before me. My heart, compassionate female, open it! She stops next to
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her sister, and they sit down on an ancient stone ledge part of the Enlightenment Stupa.
Our paths are to cross.
I walk along the pathway to Wangmo and Pema.
I nod my head at both of them and ask how they are doing. Both are doing fine. I
ask if I can sit down next to them. Wangmo says of course. I sit and take out a water
bottle to drink and look at the West side of the Stupa and the head lama and monks. I feel
her presence leaning into me.
Wangmo, eyes open like stars on a clear night, asks me, “What are your plans?
What are you going to do?”
Wangmo darling. Oh, Wangmo. It does not happen that way.
I look at her and her eyes, this woman raised so beautifully in the Tibetan
tradition of compassion and goodness. Her heart is good. My heart is good. I will never
hurt you. It was not my fault. The darkness that spun the world was not my making. I
have only this. Come to only this.
I look at her and say, “Well, I just met Shechen Rabjam, that was pretty cool.”
She says, “You can stay with him! He is one of the coolest of the lamas. Do you
know he is our age and his grandfather was Dilgo Khyentse?”
I say, “Yeah, I know.”
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We look at each other. She has a nice precious smile on her face. Her posture is
very animated and open, like her whole body can hear the chant, or her whole being feel
the power of the vajra enlightenment spire. She looks at me with eyes noble and dewed
over with the pristine clear waters of a dharma spring satiating and inviting the special
one to drink. Yes, Wangmo, there is truth in your beauty, and I wish to make you happy.
We stop our conversation for a moment, and I look at the head lama presiding
over his congregation of monks. I then notice Bob looking at us from the pallets of pecha
boxes. His face is serene and taught, like he is getting sick, and he looks at me too long. I
smile at him and wave. He looks for a few seconds more and then turns back to the boxes
of texts.
I ask Wangmo, “What are your plans? Are you going back to your job in
Orinda?”
She says, “Well, actually, I live in England now—“
“Yeah, I know you live in England. Are you coming back to California?”
She does not answer right away. Her gaze looks into the distance. England is her
escape. Her modern haircut and her modern life is in the limey-land. Wangmo is worse
than me—she left the continent to go find freedom from dharma responsibilities. At least
I sweated it out and did it. But she has to come back. The iron grip of dharma won’t let
her wander through samsara too far.
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Finally she says, “My home is California, and I go back quite a lot to see my
father. Are you going to be their for work?”
I think of work inside the dharma. Concrete, rebar, the boss, dhamapadas. I look
into the distance, too.
“Yeah, I will probably see you up there.”
Time has moved to the afternoon, and we have responsibilities for text ditribution,
and we wish each other a nice day and move to different sides of the Stupa.
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THE DAKINI PUTS OUT
THE FLAMES OF EXISTENCE
A few of us are going to participate in an offering of food for the beggars. We go
to one of the monasteries where the Tibetan monks have poured brown rice into zip lock
bags. I am warned by Bob to be careful during the offering, and to carry a big bottle of
water with which to hit beggars, so as to control them. Alright, whatever, they are just
scrawny beggars--they cannot do anything to me.
Bob has done this before and his advice is to pass out the bags of rice quickly and
just not stop. He tells me again not to be afraid to hit them with my water bottle. We have
a huge truck that is loaded with brown rice and are almost ready to go. But then,
Wangmo and Pema show up and go to Bob to ask him some questions about the pecha
offerings. They discuss options as to how to give the books out systematically to the
various monasteries and come up with a plan. They thank Bob, and then Wangmo comes
up to me and smiles.
She says, “I hope the food offering goes off well. Good luck!”
“Thanks, Wangmo, I will tell you later how it went.”
Bob looks over at us. He has been having digestive problems from the food.
Looking at his face, I wonder if he is about to have an attack.
We climb onto the back of the huge dump truck loaded with bags of brown rice
and head out to a field to meet the beggars. The field is a large cattle coral, and we pull
into the inside of the wooden fence through a gate. There are hundreds of beggars lined
up outside of a smaller gate where cattle are herded in and out, and here we go to meet
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them.
Two monks stay on top of the dump truck to pass bags down to us, and we start
letting the beggars in and giving each one a bag of rice. Many mothers are holding babies
and plead for more. Young men and boys push there way through the line and into the
cattle coral up to the truck itself. They jump and climb and assault the vehicle for the
food. I tower over all the beggars and reach up to the monks and hold bags of rice high
over my head but beggars jump and claw their way up my torso, grabbing my shoulders,
trying to pull the bags down. One beggar from behind me jumps up and rips open the bag
I am holding and grains of rice spill on the ground. A few women begin clawing the
ground for the rice, and mixed in with the dirt, they fold use their clothes to hold their
food close to their bodies.
I drop my bags of rice and let the beggars rip them apart in a fight for the contents
and then take my water bottle and start hitting anyone in my way. My first hit was soft
but then I smash the water bottle against their heads and torsos as hard as I can. A few
have stormed the truck and the monks try and defend the rice but now bags are flying
through the air and complete chaos erupts into a riot. Angry and desperate people
surround me, and I have lost all sight of my peers. I hear the dump truck roar to life. It
starts honking a low-pitched weak horn and then moves through the swarm of people.
Beggars are hanging onto the sides and two monks are throwing bags of rice out for the
mob to fight over. I go and climb onto the dump truck as we leave the area. Once the
cattle coral is cleared, the truck accelerates for our retreat leaving the beggars to fight
over the remains.
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The whole experience is exhausting. As we drive back to the monastery, I feel the
emaciated hands, and see the suffering eyes, of these people. A chill runs through me. We
get to the monastery, and I leave to walk back to my room. Riksha drivers want my
business, but I need to walk to pace off energy.
I return to our room, and Bob is already there in bed with the covers over his
head.
“Bob! You’re alive! How in the hell did you escape?”
He replies, “I climbed on the back of a guy’s motorcycle and took off.”
“Wow. That experience was intense!”
I sit down on my bed and contemplate passing out like Bob when there is a knock
on the door. I get up and open it.
Oh, it is her!
She is wearing a Tibetan dress, this one black with aquamarine sleeves that cover
her arms in shining silk. Her eyes communicate a mystery of meaning like the Tibetan
language only this time I understand. I breath in and out, my heart a pecha that needs to
be pressed with the holy script of her desire.
Wangmo says, “I came to check up on you. I heard what happened. Are you ok?”
“Wangmo, it was a disaster. I cannot believe what they would do for grains of
rice. I feel pretty shaken.”
She has compassion in her eyes.
She asks, “Is Bob here?”
“I’m here!” he says behind us.
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She continues to look up at me as she passes and enters the room.
She goes over to Bob and sits at the end of his bed. He sits up looking really tired,
the way he looked on the train ride across Northern India to here. She asks if he is ok. He
shrugs his shoulders and passes off a small smile. She then looks at me again, her
compassionate eyes offering solace. The day was a defeat, but it is not over yet.
Then, she stands up, and glancing at me, she goes and sits down on my bed. She
puts her hands on the edge of the bed and leans forward. There are several chairs in the
room, and I pull one up in between the ends of the two beds. Wangmo’s eyes are the
enchantment of a Vajrayogini lovingly embracing life with her perfection. Her body is an
open and suggestive prayer. Her lip’s potential to speak the holiest, most beautiful mantra
of the universe, awaits me.
Bob sees everything. He and I share in the knowing of the subtle queues of the
mysterious language. He looks at me. His face takes on that withdrawn look again trying
to regain control of a situation.
Then his face begins to pucker into an agony. He attempts to conceal it but for the
twitches that tremble across his cheek. His face becomes red with Indian spice. I can see
the pain. India is pushing its way through his digestive tract. Yes! Run for the door to the
bathroom, leave us! Not even the hour long agony, just a little squeeze, just fifteen
minutes, it is all I need! Now is my chance to jump the bones of the lama’s daughter!
He looks at me. I look back my eyes wide and hopeful like on Christmas morning.
He contemplates what to do. The attack is building its momentum. Yes! I can see the pain
in his eyes! Yes! The suffering is becoming unbearable! Yes!
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Wangmo is oblivious of Bob’s internal pain. Her compassionate eyes water both
of us with understanding over the failure with the beggars, her presence soothes our
defeated hearts with appreciation and support. Poor Bob, so quiet in his reflection and
sunburned from his day in the sun.
She continues to sit on my bed and look at me. Wangmo! I am not going to say a
single thing. I will lay you out on the bed, my training in buddhist prostrations to be the
litmus test of my practice, and press myself upon you in the holy embrace of our human
race. My lips pressed against yours, the tension will finally be released. Oh, this tension.
The vajra bliss body of reality! Buddha, your blessings!
I look back at Bob. Then I see the results of his years of practice. He sits there as
stern as a Japanese master set in stone. He looks out the window at the grand Buddha and
breathes in and out. His eyes glaze over and then shut ever so slightly, as his meditation
conquers the suffering of the body.
No! I look at Wangmo, her compassionate beauty a heaven sent blessing of joy
and inspiration. She will be leaving tomorrow, and I am close to my journey to
Kathmandu. Life is parting again, paths to be followed separate and distant into the great
forest of life. She looks at me and smiles. The Buddha behind her in the window sits
serene and solid in his meditation. He is observant and unmoved by the interplay of life.
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THE BODHISATTVA VOW
The head lama of our guest monastery wishes to have a special meeting with our
group. We are told this by Pema, who studies under his tutelage at a dharma center in
Kathmandu. The lama’s name is Chokyi Nyima and it is a great honor to be invited to
meet with him. After the day’s ceremonies, we all shower and put on clean clothes and go
down to the meditation hall to wait for his summoning into his office.
His office is a meditation room decorated with buddhist décor. The room’s
ambience is studious and learned, and many leather bound books in the Western style, as
well as orange-clothed Tibetan pechas, line his bookshelves. The room is colorful with
Tibetan chevrons of yellow and blue hanging on the walls and from the tall ceilings. The
lama sits on a chair higher than the meditation cushions which we have as our seats.
Behind him is an altar that has a gold statue of Buddha. The Tibetan artists always were
responsible for creating amazing buddhas. The Tibetan buddhas are not fat jolly fellows,
they are the Buddha, the leader of the world, the enlightened one who blazed the path out
of suffering. He has a serene smile, closed eyes, and his torso is draped in an Indian robe
that goes over one shoulder and leaves his athletic physique bare. His hair is curled short
and black. He raises his right hand in the teaching gesture. The Buddha’s teaching is
considered lived and disseminated by the high lamas.
Chokyi Nyima is a very friendly and happy lama. He greets us with engaging eyes
and with a wide smile on his face. After we take our seats, he welcomes us to Bodh Gaya
and asks how everyone is doing. Nobody is deathly ill. He then takes from out of his robe
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a small vile that contains tiny black pills. He describes them as holy medicine pills
empowered through their blessings in ceremonies where the vajra guru mantra was
chanted one-hundred thousand times. They are to help with our merit and health. He gets
off his seat and gives us each one. I swallow the small black pill.
He returns to his seat smiling and then speaks to us in a serious but engaged
manner.
“I know you think that all I gave you was just a small black pill, maybe with some
magic qualities in it because we Tibetans say so, but I want to tell you something, about
yourselves and being here. Swallowing that pill is similar to entering the buddhadharma.
“In our deluded state, we are like a man who, unaware of the treasure buried
under his house, believes he is poor when in fact he is very rich. That is because the
treasure of buddha-nature is buried in all of us. We fall into delusion when we forget our
buddha-nature and see the world in terms of self and other.
“It is extremely difficult for us because we live in these degenerate times. Pure
perception has been replaced by skepticism. One takes one look at the world and
concludes human nature must be evil. But this is not the case. If, through introspection
and meditation, you look deeply at the mind itself, you will apprehend the most
fundamental aspect of consciousness—pure awareness. This basic nature of mind
remains unspoiled even though obscuring emotions might temporarily cover it.
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“But to attain this buddhanature and make it solid, not just having it be fleeting-seen here and there, but actually unveiled as the true essence of one’s life--one needs to
ground it in one’s practice. Commit to it.
“To commit to the path, we need to know how and where to begin. We, as
buddhists, follow Shantideva’s Bodhisattva vow. Traditionally, those fortunate enough to
do this under the Bodhi tree are considered the luckiest of all. Your practice will triumph
over all obstacles. The pill imprinted with the vajra guru mantra is similar to taking the
vow. All the effort of others to benefit the world is now part of you. In your turn, all the
effort to benefit the world can be dedicated to others and be part of them. Let me repeat
the vow for you.”
He stops momentarily, and then in a slow, reverent voice, he recites a passage of
the text I have heard before.
Just as all the previous Sugatas, the Buddhas, generated the mind of enlightenment,
And accomplished all the stages of the Bodhisattva training, so will I, too, for the sake of
all Beings, generate the mind of enlightenment and accomplish all the stages
Of the Bodhisattva training.
“You go to the bodhi tree and repeat these words from the depths of your heart.
But taking this vow is no small commitment. You reap the benefits of the tradition but
also represent the tradition. Don’t do this lightly without pondering the significance of the
vow. Only you can decide.”
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He ends his talk and his face is solemn with the weight of his words. Then he
immediately shifts back to his cheerful self.
“Here, let me meet each of you!”
One by one, he calls us up to his chair and there he takes one’s hand and closes
his eyes and reads the individual, saying aloud the qualities he senses to the group, like he
is unwrapping fortune cookies. Thomas is the first.
“My name is Thomas.”
“You are a special addition to dharma! Very hard work and very focused!”
The next person goes up to him.
“My name is Steve.”
“Look at this! Someone so unique and so full of vitality! All your aspirations will
come true!”
The next person.
“Hi, my name is Stefanie.”
“There has been a lot of suffering you have overcome. But I feel a strength in you
that I know will be with you for the rest of your life.”
The next person is Bob.
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“Ah, yes, Bob. I remember you from previous years. Is your health getting better?
Here, let me close my eyes.”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“You are a true dharma protector. May your health improve and your life bring
benefit to beings!”
Now my turn. Yes, the new adept, the next Obi-Wan, defender of the good and
warrior for the path. I walk up to him and then rest on my knees and look into his
cheerful eyes as I give him my hand.
“My name is Brett.”
He closes his eyes. His face is capable of even more solemnity.
“You don’t know.”
And then he releases my hand, and I look at him, and then I creep back to me seat,
and that’s it. After a few more introductions and readings it is over and we are excused.
After that interchange I am ready for bed. I go upstairs and prepare myself for
tomorrow. But as I fall asleep I think of his words and my being in the dharma. Maybe it
is over my head. Maybe I am a fake. My mind has no enlightenment in it. I ponder the
bodhisattva vow. I wonder if I will take the vow. I count my breaths and think of the
buddha statue outside and fall asleep.
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THE SEAT OF THE BODHI TREE
It is the last day of the ceremony and I go out of the North gate of the Stupa after
text distribution and there encounter the horror of the world. America does not have these
unnatural terrifying realities. A child with a crutch twists his leg around his neck and
waves it at me with his hand extended in a beggar pose. He is capable of this inhuman
feat due to his parents breaking his hip at the joint at his birth, welcoming him into the
life of a begger. I refuse to give money.
Other local kids of Gaya latch onto me and learn my name. Two young boys
become my friends, and we kick a piece of leather used as a hackey sack. Their names
are Sanchen and Mandrup. They invite me for Indian chai, and we go to a large tent that
creates a dust-filled café. We go there and sit on an old bench with a carpet draped over
that makes for comfortable sitting shaded from the sun. We talk about life in America.
They want to know about the Chicago Bulls, and ask if I have ever seen them play. Sorry,
kids, I spend my time in dharma centers.
They show me the scams that are part of Gaya and that I have fallen for. Kids
have been taking me to vendors where there are school workbooks, and I have bought
them for them. I learn the kids then sell them back for money. A couple of the kids doing
this to me on a regular basis I see and chase down through the street but just to scare
them and let them know I am onto their scam. It is not possible to become angry.
Sechen and Mandrup help with the book distributions so at least they work. They
carry boxes from the storage space where the books are contained to the Stupa. They
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never ask for anything, just my company and skill at hackey sack. I like the look in their
eyes. They still have childhood, and all their limbs are intact, so I guess they are lucky.
One day we are sitting at the café drinking chai and Sechen asks if I want to go to his
village. To his village? OK, I will go. The village of the sand people is my next stop.
Sechen speaks quickly to Mandrup, and he takes off towards the road next to the
entrance to the grounds of the Stupa. I finish my tea with Sanchen and then we go to the
entrance where there is the road and a taxi waiting for us. We all three climb in and drive
for a little ways to the village of Gaya.
The village houses are made of mud bricks stacked one line upon the other in a
haphazard way. Straw sticks out and flutters in the wind. A young Indian woman is
gathering straw and wears one of the few saris in the area. It is bright blue with dark
maroon patterns weaved into the cloth. The sari is very beautiful and she smiles wide at
me and my eyes focus on the red dot in the center of her forehead. Her sari and her smile
are the only beauty I see. I follow the two young Indian boys to a hut and then I am
invited inside. I duck low under the entrance and enter a sparse small room. There is only
a wood table and two chairs. Sanchen takes me through a portal to another room that has
a straw mattress on the ground, and here I am invited to sit.
He says, “Welcome to my home. This is my room. I am bringing in my sister. Just
wait a little and there will be my sister.”
I look around for something to comment on but there is nothing. The room has a
little open window allowing in some light. I hear a slight scraping walk coming towards
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us from the other room. Mandrup enters quiet and still. A gurgling noise accompanies
him.
Madness, in the form of a little girl, enters through the door frame. Her limbs
shake, her eyes are bewitched by disease, and from a mouth lined with spittle she laughs
a hysterical cry that is mindless and void of intelligence. She stands there looking at me
and shaking and my stomach twists in an uncomfortable encounter with life gone wrong.
Sanchen says, “Please, sir, this is my sister. She has polio. Please give me money
for medicine for my sister. I need to go far away to other villages to see doctors to get
medicine for her. Please, sir, give me money for my sister.”
I look at her again and her eyes roll in all directions and back behind her eyelids,
and white blankness stares at me and she smiles in fits of cackling laughter.
“Please, sir…”
“Alright, just make her go away!”
Sanchen motions with his head to Mandrup, and he leads the little girl away as
she gurgles on saliva and laughs. I look at the Indian boy. There is a silence between us
and in his eyes is not the sharp edge of the others in their struggle for survival. His eyes
are clear and bright and shining with tears. I reach down to my money belt and take out
the forty dollars I have and give it to him.
He takes the money. “Thank you, Brett, I will go to the Stupa and pray for you.”
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“I know you will.”
The hut has little light as I look at him through my own lens of tears in the truest
way to see the world.
I get up and shake his hand and wish him the best. I am afraid to walk through the
space of the front room in case that mess of a girl imprints herself more on memory, but I
escape the hut and go out into the open air. The sun is shining and there is no sign of her.
I know she is too long gone down the road of disease for medicine to reverse her death.
The taxi has been waiting for me, and I get in to go back to the Stupa. We drive
out of the mud village of Gaya to the ceremony and pull up to the Stupa’s iron gates, and
I pay the driver and get out. The top of the Stupa’s spire protrudes over the treetops, and
the monks walk calm and serene in their robes. Beggars sit with their taught hands
extended and plead with me through suffering eyes. I try and look beyond them, I do not
have the strength, but their moans and pleading call back my attention. Their faces are
skulls that somehow still live and breath and their eyes stare at me, malnourished and
diseased. I walk forward empty of strength to the Tibetan community of practitioners.
Right now I go to the Protectors of the World whose power is great, who strive to protect
the world and who eliminate fear.
Likewise, I earnestly go for refuge to the Dharma that is mastered by them and that
annihilates the fear of the cycle of existence, and to the assembly of Bodhisattvas as well.
O Protectors, I, negligent and unaware of this danger, have acquired many vices out of
attachment to this transient life.
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A single path cuts through all that is before me and guides my steps towards a
purpose, a center, the pilgimage of the pilgrimage, to the seat of the practice. I walk on to
the Stupa’s entrance and go under its gate, and cut through the people walking on the
outer path. I descend the steps to the inner path and begin my walk towards the Bodhi
tree.
Since beginningless time in the prison of existence, you have endured the punishment of
the threefold suffering. Yet you remain unconcerned—rotten heart!
Now is the time to conquer the citadel of great bliss.
A shivering and uncomfortableness with life overtakes my being, and an
existential dread of living engulfs me. Not India, in naked suffering, terrifies me; seeing
its true face is at least real. Suffering that has been brushed over and groomed out of
awareness boils up into my heart. To live so near to lies that they are truths and to take
the truths and discard them as meaningless. Wrong perception and wrong thought for an
entire life.
I see the Bodhi tree. It has lived there for hundreds of years, the grandson of the
Buddha’s tree. I stop at the black wrought iron gate and look at the seat that leads to the
vow of all time.
I push open the gate and remove my sandals, and I am under the shade of the
bodhi tree for the first time. Wind blows around me and scatters a few bodhi leaves at my
feet. The mantra sails on the wind and its rhythm carries my aspiration for success as I go
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to the tree’s base. I sit down on a meditation cushion and look before me to the path that
has stretched into humanity’s past for twenty-five hundred years.
Shakyamuni Buddha! My eyes are no longer the eyes with which I started! This
path started by you now ends with you! Here, in your first spinning of the wheel of the
dharma, you taught suffering and its root cause, the grasping of the self. This ruined self
has become strong like the roots of your tree. I have been watered and nurtured in the
most precious of soils and now your great compassion I see. Buddha! O, Buddha! I can
see! How do I do this? How go forward? My sight is watering my cheeks, flowing to
your roots, and this pain has become me and my stay in the world. Buddha! The host and
stream of your disciples are with me and as me. This humanity that acts not knowing, this
harm, I walk with it but I have been taken by you, by your hand, to be guided towards the
hope of the world. Buddha! I do not know what to do.
A bodhi leaf pushed by the wind dances on the ground right before me and I pick
it up. A film of dust covers it, a little tear in its body where I stepped. I hold it outlined
against the Stupa. The leaf is the perfect shape of a heart. A single vein runs down its
center and on each side of the leaf perfect round lines flare out and come together at the
base. I have never looked at the bodhi leaf in my entire study of the dharma. The vow, it
leaves my mind, and the mantra-whisper of the breeze moves the branches of the Bodhi
tree and becomes my meditation. Existence subsides and the pulse of my heart calms
itself ever so slight. I close my eyes into darkness. Listening, I place the leaf in my shirt
pocket next to my heart.