A Site for Sore Eyes
A line in the prayer I am supposed to chant at the outset of meditation practice says: Let me realize that samsara and nirvana are inseparable, and I got to realize that last week. I mean the whole week, because I spent it at my teacher's monastery, living in the company of monks and laypeople devoted to them and the Dharma they represent.
It was a terrible week of nightmare news, samsara on steroids. Syrians being shot dead by their own soldiers just for walking in the streets, Libyans tearing themselves apart, Africans starving or being scorched to death by tyrants, Russian children drowning in a decrepit boat, and of course more of all the evil that men do in Washington DC., this time hurling the nation through the debt ceiling to doom because they can't stand the idea of sharing.
And yet I watched people share the love and give peace a chance. The monastery monks were essentially Tibetan and the laypeople fussing all over them in perpetual motion with food and tea were, for the most part, Chinese. So I had to keep in mind their very palpable pride of purpose vividly contrasted with the bloodlust of Beijing for the total eradication of Tibet. I had to keep in mind that Mao's cultural revolution and the mass gold rush of the last decade were built over the Middle Kingdom's buried history as a Buddhist nation. Such a faithful nation, I was told that newly affluent Mainland Chinese are now making a pilgrimage to this Tibetan monastery to pay homage because there aren't that many being built fast enough over there for them. They want to be part of something beyond collecting money. How's that for the double samsara/nirvana standard.
It was the week of Canada Day and July 4th, both celebrations of New World nationhood. But that isn't much to celebrate anymore because nations are communities, a sharing of place and time and wealth, and childish, noisy bullies in our place and time don't want to share anything, thank you. Mine, mine, mine. All private, no public. And here you have it: America has no money for schools, firemen, national parks or seniors without a golden parachute but in a matter of moments $86 million manifested for one team in the color war we call Presidential Elections.
My iPhone was the bearer of despair but my eyes were the bringer of joy as everyday about 100 of us of all colors and cultures sat together to pray that everyone soon finds themselves in Dewachen, the vast paradise of no pain. People helped each other find seats, get prayer books, get a ride to a cup of coffee. They shared computers. Someone organized a discussion group to help the bewildered. Twenty Canadians showed up one morning with croissants, omelets and real coffee. Several people made themselves readily available to help the 94-year-old get around; I saw two people give up their chair to someone whose disability seemed greater. One woman, with a pronounced French accent, worked indefatigably, despite her 62 years, from 8 am to 10pm mopping floors, watering trees, tilling soil for vegetables, serving lunch and brewing tea. And like the equally challenged monks, never lost her bright smile or sense of humor.
One night after evening practice, a well dressed young woman tapped my shoulder and asked if I came to this place often. I don't know why she selected me, I truly don't, to tell her about the Buddha represented by the sky-high brass statue that is the glittering focal point of the place. She wanted to know about meditation and how it came to me. By the time I finished my story, the room had emptied out except for the energetic Chinese shutting down the webcam and audio systems, watering the flowers and packing up the prayer books. She beckoned a man with a small child.
"We are desperate," she explained, "because our daughter suffered very serious burns to her arm and she cannot recover. She is always in pain and her body is shutting down. I know the woman who comes here every night to cook dinner for the monks and she suggested I bring my daughter to see if somebody here could help. We just met the most beautiful man who gave her a blessing (that was Rinpoche, who also gave her--I could see--an amulet) and since she saw him, she's stopped crying. Maybe my friend is right: this is a place for healing."
I sat with this woman and her daughter for a few minutes more, encouraging her to return and also to stay in touch with me. She gave me her card: she has an MBA and is an entrepreneur. The next morning amid all the nightmarish news on my internet app, I saw an email from her. "After returning home from the temple, my daughter slept very well (she hasn't slept through the night in months!) and she was extremely happy today. This turnaround has really prompted me to want to find out more."
I went downstairs and found that volunteer breakfast of croissants and coffee. Life can't get much better than this, I told myself, even if it's confined to a monastery. But that of course is the point of the monastery, the challenge if you will. To carry the beauty of meditation into the mess of post-meditation and transform it from samsara into nirvana.
~Sandy Garson"Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"
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posted by Sandy Garson @ 9:25 PM
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