A few days ago, during his dharma talk, Rinpoche looked down at the candle on the altar before him. The flame flickered in his glasses as he said, "Life is like candle... always running down. Time is running." In these bodies, Rinpoche said, we are continuously travelers and guests. In the end we always part from everything we meet, and this separation is necessarily painful.
This dharma tidbit struck a cord with me. I cannot believe that there are only TWO MORE WEEKS before classes in Bodh Gaya end and we all leave for our independent study projects. I love it here, I've made wonderful friends, and, although I'm bad at meditating, I've found some semblance of peace. And time is running. This fact doesn't seem to bother Rinpoche, but he is a highly realized being. I am not a highly realized being. Sometimes I argue that I like being unenlightened, that the slings and arrows of human desire are beautiful and wonderful and well worth experiencing. But in moments of preemptive nostalgia--like now--I wander if that jolly Tibetan Guru isn't perfectly right about everything. It's a good thing I have an infinite number of reincarnations to figure things out, I guess.
I will conclude with an entry I wrote in my journal that pretty much sums things up:
Time, where are you going? Stop for a moment, please, and look at that blackbird perched perfectly in the tree outside my window. Stop breathing down my neck! I know I'm going to be old in a heartbeat, with wrinkles around my eyes and an immanent awareness of my own mortality. But can't I forget that, just for a moment? I'm in India right now, and there's a blackbird outside my window. He's preening his feathers. He doesn't look concerned.
10.28.2009
10.27.2009
Random Expressions of Here
I spent last weekend in the ancient city of Varanasi, and I saw the sun rise perfectly red and perfectly round over the Ganges. A man bathing on the Ghats laughed to me like laughter is a language, our rower rowed the boat with a half-smile, and I understood with the depth of my being why cultures the world over worship the sun.
On that same Ganges, near the burning Ghats where bodies are cremated, I was approached by a man carrying two cages filled with blinking, snowy owls. Bodies burning.. nocturnal beings faced with daylight... It's like I was an observer of someone else's sacred nightmare. "For two-hundred rupees," the man said, "I'll set them free."
Our new meditation teacher is Yoda. An acclaimed Tibetan Rinpoche is teaching us this week, and he is purported to be George Lucas's inspiration for that Jedi sage. Yogi Mike told me to guard my mind around Yoda/Rinpoche, and I wonder if he can see through walls. So far, I have accrued no Jedi powers, but I'm bad at meditating.
With the beginning of the Tibetan meditation section, I'm experiencing strange resonances between now and my summer in Tibet. Monks in gold and burgundy robes, Tibetan script, ceremonial white scarves... to me, these things will always be inseparably intertwined with the 72 children with whom I fell in love this summer. When the Jokhang temple was mentioned in lecture today, I knew exactly what it smelled like.
For Halloween, I am going to be a sugar glider. I have explained the concept "sugar-glider" to an Indian taylor, and I am excited to see the result.
On that same Ganges, near the burning Ghats where bodies are cremated, I was approached by a man carrying two cages filled with blinking, snowy owls. Bodies burning.. nocturnal beings faced with daylight... It's like I was an observer of someone else's sacred nightmare. "For two-hundred rupees," the man said, "I'll set them free."
Our new meditation teacher is Yoda. An acclaimed Tibetan Rinpoche is teaching us this week, and he is purported to be George Lucas's inspiration for that Jedi sage. Yogi Mike told me to guard my mind around Yoda/Rinpoche, and I wonder if he can see through walls. So far, I have accrued no Jedi powers, but I'm bad at meditating.
With the beginning of the Tibetan meditation section, I'm experiencing strange resonances between now and my summer in Tibet. Monks in gold and burgundy robes, Tibetan script, ceremonial white scarves... to me, these things will always be inseparably intertwined with the 72 children with whom I fell in love this summer. When the Jokhang temple was mentioned in lecture today, I knew exactly what it smelled like.
For Halloween, I am going to be a sugar glider. I have explained the concept "sugar-glider" to an Indian taylor, and I am excited to see the result.
10.21.2009
On Silence and Painted Cows
So there is an incessant dichotomy that plays out in my existence here. On one hand there is silence, and on the other hand there are painted cows. Let me explain.
Silence means incense. Zen fills up all the empty spaces created by silence, so that being nothing, silence is a flickering candle and thus everything. Silence is the peace of a bell ringing, because sometimes bells are vacuums that remind you of the one true sound in the universe. Meditation can't help but be silent, even if your mind is screaming. The black robes we wear for zazen swoosh silently like bat wings. We chant the Heart Sutra to the beat of a drum in remembrance of what cannot be said.
Painted cows mean fireworks. The cows are painted for Diwali with polka-dots--yellow, orange, blue, red, and green. The painted cows are part of an unending festival mosaic, where existence is expounded in a sacred Hindu dance party. When they sleep, painted cows dream of explosions. In the liquid eyes of these bovine masterpieces, there is a pantheon of bright lights and cheesy techno songs stuck on repeat. Painted cows don't care if the sun goes down, and they always sing.
So this is the dichotomy. However, I have learned from Zen that dichotomies are bullshit. Ergo, silence and painted cows are two sides of the same coin. This, mind you, is a ridiculous coin--it is Hindu, it is Buddhist, and I always see it spinning.
Silence means incense. Zen fills up all the empty spaces created by silence, so that being nothing, silence is a flickering candle and thus everything. Silence is the peace of a bell ringing, because sometimes bells are vacuums that remind you of the one true sound in the universe. Meditation can't help but be silent, even if your mind is screaming. The black robes we wear for zazen swoosh silently like bat wings. We chant the Heart Sutra to the beat of a drum in remembrance of what cannot be said.
Painted cows mean fireworks. The cows are painted for Diwali with polka-dots--yellow, orange, blue, red, and green. The painted cows are part of an unending festival mosaic, where existence is expounded in a sacred Hindu dance party. When they sleep, painted cows dream of explosions. In the liquid eyes of these bovine masterpieces, there is a pantheon of bright lights and cheesy techno songs stuck on repeat. Painted cows don't care if the sun goes down, and they always sing.
So this is the dichotomy. However, I have learned from Zen that dichotomies are bullshit. Ergo, silence and painted cows are two sides of the same coin. This, mind you, is a ridiculous coin--it is Hindu, it is Buddhist, and I always see it spinning.
10.15.2009
Things I have learned in the past 24 hours:
1) When we circumambulate, my feet can feel the sunset that seeped into the marble on the Western side of the Japanese temple.
2) I like ice cream dipped in chai.
3) Dipwali--the "festival of lights"--is celebrated early with lots of explosions all the time.
4) Tickling is universal (no wonder it's in the Pali texts...)
5) Writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
6) It's nice to have solidarity in the library when half of your anthropology class learns that writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
7) The resident ghost gets feisty around 2:30 a.m.
8) The kitchen staff starts cooking breakfast for the monks around 3:45 a.m.
9) The rooster starts crowing at about 4:10 a.m.
10) It's really weird to still be in the library at 5:00 a.m. when Meg walks by everyone's room ringing the wake-up bell.
11) If I go to morning Zen meditation with absolutely no sleep, I am able to dream with my eyes open and therefore become convinced that I am sitting in a roomful of multicolored frogs on lily pads.
I still love it here! But it's time for a nap! And then a 24 hour Zen meditation retreat wherein I will never not be meditating, eating, or sleeping!
p.s. A fellow Carleton student that is on this program in keeping a wonderful blog. It has a ton of pictures, and a completely different perspective on what it's like to be here: http://cvoyant.posterous.com/
2) I like ice cream dipped in chai.
3) Dipwali--the "festival of lights"--is celebrated early with lots of explosions all the time.
4) Tickling is universal (no wonder it's in the Pali texts...)
5) Writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
6) It's nice to have solidarity in the library when half of your anthropology class learns that writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
7) The resident ghost gets feisty around 2:30 a.m.
8) The kitchen staff starts cooking breakfast for the monks around 3:45 a.m.
9) The rooster starts crowing at about 4:10 a.m.
10) It's really weird to still be in the library at 5:00 a.m. when Meg walks by everyone's room ringing the wake-up bell.
11) If I go to morning Zen meditation with absolutely no sleep, I am able to dream with my eyes open and therefore become convinced that I am sitting in a roomful of multicolored frogs on lily pads.
I still love it here! But it's time for a nap! And then a 24 hour Zen meditation retreat wherein I will never not be meditating, eating, or sleeping!
p.s. A fellow Carleton student that is on this program in keeping a wonderful blog. It has a ton of pictures, and a completely different perspective on what it's like to be here: http://cvoyant.posterous.com/
10.10.2009
Form is Emptiness/Emptiness is Form
Um, so a lot has happened. Like really a lot. Although I certainly will confront failure in my aim to update you all on what it is like to exist here, I will enumerate some things below. First, let me re-establish that a) I am living in a Burmese monastery, b) I am living in the strangely sacred chaos of rural India, and c) I am trying to learn how to meditate. Ok, now here are some snapshots of things that have happened:
Durga Puja
This is a celebration for The Ultimate Big-Mamma Mother Goddess. In honor of her power, two forty-foot tall wooden men with umbrellas on their heads are set alight (on the same field where the Dalai Lama gives his annual address). They are full of firecrackers. As I watch the towering statues explode in technicolor and gradually topple, a GIANT monsoon thunderstorm descends on the crowd. Everyone runs screaming as the second giant man falls with one last burst of fire, and I am swept through flooded Indian streets between motorcycles and rickshaws and errant cows. I am so wet that my fancy sari--which I am wearing to honor the occasion--dies my entire lower half bright green.
Bodhi Seeds
It is the end of our three week Vipassna meditation section, and we are all meditating beneath the Bodhi Tree. I struggle, as per usual, against a) sleep and b) my manic wandering mind. Just when it seems that sleep is going to win the battle, something small and hard bounces off my skull. I open my eyes and behold a seed pod. "Thank-you, tree," I think, "you might be right about that."
Zen
We are now learning Zen meditation. This means that we wear black robes, sit with ramrod-straight backs, bow a lot, and are no longer allowed to label our various weaknesses. Our Sensei is a small man with a large laugh, and he doesn't often make sense, which I like. In fact, he explains very little. The other day, when we were meditating at the Japanese temple, he said that we should put our hands together in prayer position if we want to get hit with his stick. He neglected to mention why one might want to get hit with his stick. He then walked around giving people resounding whaps on the shoulder.
Monkey Research
Our Vipassna teacher, U Hla Myint, said that meditating is like "monkey research." According to him, my mind is a band of monkeys. It is my job to observe it and understand how it operates. I think of U Hla Myint now, during Zen meditation, as a Yellow Monkey paws at the glass doors of the Buddha Hall. Monkeys are extremely rare in Bodh Gaya, but this one is brave and hungry--he smells the basket of bananas that the Burmese pilgrims left as an offering. As we leave meditation for breakfast, he saunters into the Buddha Hall and eats the Bonzai tree on the altar in one bite.
Ghost Stories
I sit up in bed in the middle of the night. I think I see my roommate walking around the room looking for something, but then I remember that my roommate is gone this weekend on a meditation retreat. Afraid, I suddenly become fully awake and turn on my headlamp. The person, however, is gone--there are just clothes drying on my clothesline. The next day, I learn that the students that have lived my room, almost without exception, have had similar encounters. They are never informed of the haunting, and this program has been coming to the Burmese monastery for thirty-years. "It's not a harmful ghost," says the director of the program, chuckling, "If you're scared, you can have Sister Molini send it loving-kindness."
In Praise of Bells
I am learning to ring the bells for Zen mediation. Even though the roll-downs require finesse and precision that I have not yet acquired, this is fulfilling. In fact, if it weren't for certain restraints of the fabric of reality, I think I would like to become a bell. I bet it would feel wonderful to ring.
Durga Puja
This is a celebration for The Ultimate Big-Mamma Mother Goddess. In honor of her power, two forty-foot tall wooden men with umbrellas on their heads are set alight (on the same field where the Dalai Lama gives his annual address). They are full of firecrackers. As I watch the towering statues explode in technicolor and gradually topple, a GIANT monsoon thunderstorm descends on the crowd. Everyone runs screaming as the second giant man falls with one last burst of fire, and I am swept through flooded Indian streets between motorcycles and rickshaws and errant cows. I am so wet that my fancy sari--which I am wearing to honor the occasion--dies my entire lower half bright green.
Bodhi Seeds
It is the end of our three week Vipassna meditation section, and we are all meditating beneath the Bodhi Tree. I struggle, as per usual, against a) sleep and b) my manic wandering mind. Just when it seems that sleep is going to win the battle, something small and hard bounces off my skull. I open my eyes and behold a seed pod. "Thank-you, tree," I think, "you might be right about that."
Zen
We are now learning Zen meditation. This means that we wear black robes, sit with ramrod-straight backs, bow a lot, and are no longer allowed to label our various weaknesses. Our Sensei is a small man with a large laugh, and he doesn't often make sense, which I like. In fact, he explains very little. The other day, when we were meditating at the Japanese temple, he said that we should put our hands together in prayer position if we want to get hit with his stick. He neglected to mention why one might want to get hit with his stick. He then walked around giving people resounding whaps on the shoulder.
Monkey Research
Our Vipassna teacher, U Hla Myint, said that meditating is like "monkey research." According to him, my mind is a band of monkeys. It is my job to observe it and understand how it operates. I think of U Hla Myint now, during Zen meditation, as a Yellow Monkey paws at the glass doors of the Buddha Hall. Monkeys are extremely rare in Bodh Gaya, but this one is brave and hungry--he smells the basket of bananas that the Burmese pilgrims left as an offering. As we leave meditation for breakfast, he saunters into the Buddha Hall and eats the Bonzai tree on the altar in one bite.
Ghost Stories
I sit up in bed in the middle of the night. I think I see my roommate walking around the room looking for something, but then I remember that my roommate is gone this weekend on a meditation retreat. Afraid, I suddenly become fully awake and turn on my headlamp. The person, however, is gone--there are just clothes drying on my clothesline. The next day, I learn that the students that have lived my room, almost without exception, have had similar encounters. They are never informed of the haunting, and this program has been coming to the Burmese monastery for thirty-years. "It's not a harmful ghost," says the director of the program, chuckling, "If you're scared, you can have Sister Molini send it loving-kindness."
In Praise of Bells
I am learning to ring the bells for Zen mediation. Even though the roll-downs require finesse and precision that I have not yet acquired, this is fulfilling. In fact, if it weren't for certain restraints of the fabric of reality, I think I would like to become a bell. I bet it would feel wonderful to ring.
10.02.2009
To the Bodhi Tree
Oh Bodhi, tree of the Peepul
Your thousand leaves are a thousand eyes, all open.
Those peacock plumes flutter,
whispering eulogies for fire.
I know you know, Grand Rooted One,
that I'm an intensity junkie--
a lover of slings, arrows, and human imperfection.
With all of your eyes, you've surely seen
me laugh to keep from crying.
But, I wonder, Sir Bastion of Leaves (or Eyes)
if you remember what it's like to sleep
and sweetly dream of waking.
Your thousand leaves are a thousand eyes, all open.
Those peacock plumes flutter,
whispering eulogies for fire.
I know you know, Grand Rooted One,
that I'm an intensity junkie--
a lover of slings, arrows, and human imperfection.
With all of your eyes, you've surely seen
me laugh to keep from crying.
But, I wonder, Sir Bastion of Leaves (or Eyes)
if you remember what it's like to sleep
and sweetly dream of waking.
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