That uncertainty always happens, of course. We could use the analogy of our being here together; we are not quite certain why I am talking or why others are listening—but at the same time, it happens that way. It may have happened in the magical sense or the accidental sense, but it did happen, we can’t deny that. It is quite certain, as far as we are concerned, that we are not going to wake up and find ourselves in our parents’ house with breakfast ready for us—that’s not going to happen. We are here. You may not know why you are here, or what the hell you are doing practicing Buddhist meditation and listening to a Tibetan freak. But it is happening nevertheless.
—Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, Transcending Madness
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2002
“I’m going to a nyinthun tomorrow.”
“Nying-tonne…?” Jeremiah smiles.
“Nyin-thun. It’s a three hour meditation session at the Centre.”
“Three hours? Isn’t that like…totally hardcore?” He laughs.
“Actually, once you’ve been doing it for a while, three hours isn’t hardcore at all.” I look at him in disbelief. “It’s not that bad. It can even be fun.” He laughs again. It’s clearly a challenge, though veiled in friendly demeanor the way you might dust cupcakes with icing sugar. I look at Stella.
“Go if you want to…I’m not going.” It’s a chance to learn more about this man. Spend some time with him in a safe environment. Why not? What do I have to lose?”
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2020
I awake to the robins in the early morning, and settle into the new book Stella bought me—No Retreat—and a coffee.
Shakyamuni Buddha—also known as the historical Buddha—was a person like you or me, a member of the Sakya clan. We’re all the same, whether we realize it or not, from the dawn of time to the last survivor of our species. In every moment, we can live our lives with conscious intent, or try to hide from the world and respond reactively from within in our self-centred cocoons.
I think of Shakyamuni Buddha the same way I think of Sir Isaac Newton. Newton discovered the laws of motion and universal gravitation. By “discover,” we mean that Newton recognized patterns within the physical universe that could be expressed mathematically, and which could be empirically and predictably demonstrated, time and time again. So far as we know, he is the first human to have described them that way. We accept the force of gravity for what it is in our lives. We can even feel the force of gravity at all times, if we pay attention. But we don’t walk around calling ourselves Newtonians. Why are some people so interested in calling themselves Buddhists?
What was Shakyamuni Buddha’s contribution to humankind? He left his family on a quest for truth, and claimed to discover it. This may be a case of moral luck or it could be karma, depending on your perspective.
According to the earliest written commentaries on the Buddha, recorded several hundred years after his death, Siddhartha Gautama articulated a meditation technique that reduces suffering in this world, when practiced in conjunction with seven other guiding principles. Shakyamuni shared this technique with others from within a broader ethical framework known as the Noble Eightfold Path.
“Okay, sure,” says Stella after I read her the quote, “But get one of the people who talks like this to work in health care and tell me whether you need to worry about ethical frameworks; that’s just concepts. In health care you’ve got people in front of you with emotions and opinions and all sorts of ailments and you have to work with them. We don’t have time to think in abstractions, we’re working with our hearts and minds and investing in people. Not ideas.”
“Exactly. I’ve told you before, I think you’re a bodhisattva—but I know you’re not Buddhist. I told Théo you’re a bodhisattva.”
‘You did?”
“I did.”
“What did you say?”
***
Cameron Island, 2017
GONGGGGGGGG
I enter the shrine room, offer my three prostrations and take a seat across from Théo. Formalities aside, we get down to business.
“I just read Street Zen again, you know, about Isaan Dorsey, the founder of the first AIDS hospice for gay men in North America.” Théo nods. What remains unspoken is the Abbot’s former life as a transvestite speed addict.
“Issan was speaking with Shunryu Suzuki once, and he said, ‘You know, I thought about asking you if I could receive the precepts and then I decided that it felt like too much of an ego trip. So I’m just going to continue to practice and study.’ To which Suzuki replied, ‘That’s fine with me, because that’s all the Vow is saying anyways.’
Would you…” I eye him carefully. “Would you agree with that response?”
They are in the same lineage.
He nods, wondering where I’m going with this. There’s an inquisitive tone in his reply.
“Ye-e-e-s…?”
“Then why take the Bodhisattva Vow?” It’s an honest question. He thinks deeply.
“No one’s forcing you.” We sit with the response for a moment. “Everyone’s different. I can only tell you what my reasons for taking the Vow are.” His face is solemn; it is the face of an old man.
In essence, he’s saying: I didn’t ask you to come here. “If you don’t want to take jukai, don’t take jukai. If you want to take jukai, take jukai. It doesn’t have to be a problem. But it’s a commitment to Zen, and the ceremony doesn’t happen right away. It can take years before you’re ready to take jukai. There’s a process.” He pauses and reflects. “If you’re here, it’s because you’re looking for something, not me. What are you looking for? What do you think is here that you can’t find anywhere else? You have to be prepared to bring your whole self to the practice. Are you ready to do that?”
I reflect. Who do I take myself for? I have no idea what’s going on. Am I just an experience junky? If I’m going to open my heart to anyone, why wouldn’t I do so with Stella? Or our kids? Not Théo. I am here to realize that.
“Honestly, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know why you’re apologizing. It’s actually kind of refreshing. But Francis…your life will not be an easy one if you don’t open your heart.”
***
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2002
Fifteen years earlier, I hop on my bike and arrive at the Sangri-la Meditation Centre at 8:30 AM. It’s housed in a large yet discrete wooden church, with massive Garry Oaks all around the property. The front of the church dons a sign, “Good News Evangelical House of Worship.” If things don’t work out with the Buddhists, I can always try them out.
I lock up my bike and walk around the side of the church. A flight of steps leads to a deck on the second floor of an adjoining building, which must be the Meditation Centre. Prayer flags flap lightly in the cool morning air, with notes of an Arctic breeze. Shoji blinds line the windows that run the length of the ground floor. Through the gaps between paper and pane, glimpses of gleaming wooden floorboards are visible.
It’s a nice fall day; not quite frost, but the leaves are falling, especially in this older neighbourhood with mature trees, character and craft homes, many spruced up with brightly-coloured exterior trim.
The sound of a truck engine. Jeremiah pulls into the parking lot in his red GMC. He looks at me somberly through the windshield; one arm rests on the open driver’s side window. He brakes with a lurch and hops out of the truck and doesn’t roll the window up. When the door slams shut, it has that hollow metal sound like it might fall off any day.
Jeremiah’s large frame blocks the sun rising behind him as he faces me. Swimmer’s build.
“Mornin’.”
“Morning.”
“So’re you ready for today?” He breaks into a grin.
“Sure.”
“Well I’m not. I drank too much whiskey with Siobhan last night. I’m hung over.” Jeremiah guffaws loudly.
How very fucking Buddhist. From what I gather about the Sangri-la tradition, Jinpa Lhawang—the founder of the school—is rather fond of whiskey himself. There are stories. Some members of the Centre studied directly with him. Jinpa’s attendant before his death, Dr. Martine Simon, makes appearances from time to time.
Oooooohhh…..
Jeremiah pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door that leads to a wide nondescript hallway.
“It looks like we’re the only ones to show up this morning!” he chuckles. Jeremiah unlocks and opens another door on the right side of the hall. “This is the reception area. You can hang your coat over here.” He points to a row of hooks, hangs up his coat, pulls off his shoes, and places them underneath. I do the same.
Jeremiah walks down a wheelchair ramp with a three-metre partition in front of it. He stops at the bottom where there’s an opening in a black curtain. I follow; he pulls back the curtain, steps through the opening, stops again, presses his palms together and bows with a fold from the waist.
The bow is neither overly formal nor casual, like a familiar handshake between two longstanding business partners. I step through the curtain after Jeremiah and also bow, not without wondering what this is.
The meditation hall is spacious, clean and bright.
The room has a vaulted ceiling, probably four metres at its peak. Five zabutons [square cotton padded mats] line the back of the room, followed by a row of four, another row of five…a total of —five-four-five-four-five: twenty-three. There’s an elevated platform at the front of the room—like a stage—with a metre-high, two-metre long altar on it.
Jeremiah gestures and whispers, “Have a seat on any one of these cushions. If it’s not comfortable, try putting one of those smaller round cushions on top. He gestures to a stack of cushions along the wall behind. ” I nod, dumbfounded, in awe of the space, wondering what the fuck I’m doing here, as he steps up onto the stage, turns ninety degrees and takes a deep bow. He bends down and pulls an incense stick out of a cardboard tube on the altar, places it in a holder, grabs a matchbook, lights the incense, puts back the tube and takes another deep bow, this time to the incense.
I try to get comfortable on my cushion and watch with a combination of curiosity and fear. My knees are so far above my hips, it’s a wonder I’m still poised on the cushion. If I apply pressure to my knees to lower them, I get sharp pangs of shock through my system.
I go to the stack of cushions on the other side of the room and grab another one. Sitting higher, I’m less uncomfortable.
Jeremiah settles onto his gomden [meditation cushion, in this case rectangular] and brushes off his zabuton. A massive glazed azure ceramic singing bowl rests on the stage next to him. He grabs a nearby wooden striker, raises his arm and pauses half-ceremoniously before contact with the bowl. It offers up a rich, throaty roar.
GONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG.
And the race begins! Going nowhere. Within two seconds, the thunderous roar of my own insanity is inescapable. Kinhin—walking meditation—is even worse with the bodily activity and its corollary increase in heart rate and blood flow, plus with the widening of the peripheral vision during walking, the experience only intensifies—to be brought to a resounding halt as I jolt from the sudden sound of the high-pitched CLACK of the wooden striker, indicating a return to our cushions. I could just rush him.
I run towards the altar and lunge at his throat.
“Motherfucker!” I scream as he falls backwards off his seat. I jump on top of him and swing at his face.
I allow myself the fantasy.
I want what’s best for Stella; she deserves it. But what’s the attraction?
My tinnitus is amplified. Maybe I should just get up and walk out. He’s the only one here, after all.
Keys sound in the front door, followed by the distinctive ka-clack of a loose panic bar as the door swings closed again. There’s the clunk of shoes in the closet and the shuffle of feet down the ramp and into the shrine room. I catch a glimpse of Arthur—a senior teacher in the community—as he leans towards Jeremiah.
“You locked the front door,” he whispers a little too loud. Jeremiah stares at Art, then turns and stares at me. Art does the same and smiles meekly. Jeremiah gets up and they both go into the kitchen. They talk in muted tones as I sit resolutely through it all, wondering what the fuck this is. The shuffle of feet once more. They bow as they exit the kitchen and re-enter the shrine room with clipped bows. Jeremiah returns to the altar. Art finds a cushion.
Bow, gong, sit, walk, bow, gong, sit, walk, sit. Sit sit sit sit sit sit sit. Fucking meditation (not to be confused with a meditation on fucking, or meditation during fucking). Fantasy, fantasy, fantasy, boredom, boredom, boredom, work, Stella, the kids, childhood memories, Mom, sadness, trauma, anger, victimhood, more sadness, neurosis, paranoia, followed by the realization that this is so fucking boring. Followed by the realization that conceptualizing the experience is just another example of thinking. Does it ever stop?
Peace and stillness, my ass. Ring the fucking bell! My body is killing me!
Jeremiah picks up the striker, raises his hand and pauses ever so briefly, then strikes the rim of the bowl.
GONGGGGGGGG
Did we chant at the end? I can’t remember.
“You did it!” Jeremiah says outside, excited, as he grasps my arms with his. “Your first nyinthun!”
I start to hang out a lot at the Centre. I attend Sangri-La Open House every Wednesday from 7:00 – 9:00 and serve tea and cookies to new initiates. Howie, the Spiritual Director of the Centre, offers a guided meditation at the beginning of every session. How many times do I listen to the instruction?
Seat. Recognize you’re being supported, and that the earth will not let you down.
Knees. Slightly lower than the hips. Pelvis on a slight inclination toward the floor.
Lower back. Slightly rigid. Open chest. Hands rest palm-down on your thighs.
Eyes. It seems to depend who you talk to. I’ve heard anywhere from three up to eight feet, until the more advanced stages of the technique.
Chin. Slightly tucked in, so it’s angled down perhaps a centimeter, no more.
Head. Imagine a string running through your body, from the cushion to a strand of hair that is being held taut above your head.
Afterwards, there’s open discussion. To begin, Howie usually says something like, “You know, there’s a question that I’ve been thinking about for years, and I wonder if we could talk about it: ‘What’s the difference between mindfulness and awareness?’”
***
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2020
Meanwhile, back in the present: a well-established New York newspaper publishes the article, “Mindfulness is Now a Subject in Great Britain.” The only mention of mindfulness I can find on the government’s website states:
Children will learn to regulate their emotions using relaxation techniques such as breathing exercises and other mindfulness practices. Mental health researchers will conduct a longitudinal evidence-based study to provide schools with rigorous data on the effectiveness of mindfulness-based interventions related to student mental health and well-being.
Were the methodology not so prescriptive; were the criteria for membership not so stringent, and were it not so expensive, I’d join the club. Entrance requirements for the Reducing Stress Through Mindfulness (RSTM TM) program include completion of the eight-week face-to-face Introduction to RSTMTM training and a ten-day silent retreat. All I’ve completed is a self-paced online RSTM TM eight-week course without an instructor and a handful of three-day Sangri-La weekend retreats and Zen sesshins.
I nonetheless convince admissions that I’m a credible candidate for the program. What does that tell you?
The training costs $5,000 and involves five days of intensive processing. Should you choose to become a certified RSTM TMinstructor, you must then conduct 120 hours of supervised facilitation. Mentor-supervisors charge between $120-180 per hour, commensurate with other programs specializing in a professional therapeutic intervention, such as counselling psychology or clinical social work. It’s a means to legitimize the program participants’ financial investment.
“You know, people might want to share their personal issues with you,” says Stella.
“Yes, I realize that. I’ve thought about that.”
“Well, why would you want to expose yourself to that? Is it because you enjoy being in the company of vulnerable people?” Is that the attraction? “I feel like that’s what happened to me with Jeremiah. He took advantage of me.” I nod. In hindsight, maybe she’s right. Maybe he is some sort of a predatory fucking pervert son of a bitch after all. “You were unhappy, I was unhappy, he was unhappy. My blood-sugar levels were all over the map and I didn’t realize it. But what’s his excuse?”
It’s a question worth asking. Five years earlier, Jeremiah’s wife Siobhan accepts a high-level administrative position at the University of Victoria out of an interest in career advancement, which necessitates a move. They live in Kaslo, about ten kilometers outside of town, in a farmhouse that sits on over five hectares of mostly highly arable land. Jeremiah works odd jobs in construction with a local contractor and maintains a large garden, a modest cannabis plot and a cherry orchard with big enough yields for him to turn a profit at the local farmer’s market.
“I just can’t keep working at the college as an admissions officer…” Siobhan explains to Jeremiah. She’s bored and has had enough of the small town life; Jeremiah’s devastated. Siobhan is resolute. She’s going; he can join her if he wants.
Once the property’s sold, there’s no turning back. Siobhan works extra hours at her new job and Jeremiah pursues an Activity Worker certificate; there’s lots of work in residential care, what with all the old people in this town. Stella supervises his internship.
***
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2002
There’s a knock at the door. I answer—it’s Jeremiah.
“I’m going to Vancouver to help my brother with a renovation for the weekend, and I thought I’d drop this off on the way.” He hands me a film cannister. There’s an awkward pause while I inspect the properties of the vial and stare at him. It’s a peace offering; a gesture of good will.
“Did you want to come in?”
“Nah. I’d better leave. I’ve got to catch the ferry.”
“Okay, well, thanks…”
“Okay, see you around.”
He might as well have said, Here, we both know you’re as much of a stoner as I am, so why not medicate yourself while I continue to explore my relationship with your wife? Or maybe he’s just trying to quit.
She’s made her position clear. I have no idea what else to do, so I carefully roll a joint.
What are our options? She talks about having two husbands. As much as I like the idea of someone else helping satisfy her needs—emotional especially—it seems like an improbable solution. What about sex? That’s the biggest question, of course. For now, all I can sort out is that I need to at least establish some loose boundaries.
“For the time being, we’re officially separated.” I tell her, and take off my wedding ring. It feels good to slip the ring off and realize how trapped I’ve always felt by what it symbolizes to others. But who do I kid? I’m still trapped. I’m not leaving the kids. I can’t leave them. I love them too much, and Stella’s in no shape to look after them by herself—her head is somewhere else. That’s not to suggest that I’m in any shape to look after them on my own, either. And it’s not that she’d hurt them, and it’s not that she wouldn’t do her best, but this can’t possibly last forever …
***
Jeremiah and I meet for a hike at Thetis Lake and take Seymour Hill Trail. There’s a clearing with exposed rock at the top, circled by full grown madronas and mature Garry oak. Dead dried leaves and peeled bark are scattered across the forest floor. Lichen and dried moss cling tenaciously to the sun-blasted bedrock. The day’s heating up; a chorus of cicadas entertain. We plop down on a bed of moss and take in the view. The air is still.
“I used to stash my weed up here, so Siobhan wouldn’t find it in the house.” He snorts and glances off to his left. “In a plastic bag, buried under that tree over there. I’d put that boulder on top.” I look at the tree, a lanky, nondescript juvenile pine, and the rock underneath. It probably weighs close to twenty pounds.
We stare down the slope toward the lake. Shards of sunlight reflect off the water, past the groves of arbutus that populate the hill.
“What’s going on, Jeremiah?” It’s an honest question. Jeremiah stares at the water below and takes a deep breath.
“I have no idea.” He turns to me and shakes his head. “But there’s definitely something happening.” We both laugh. A shadow briefly blocks out the sun’s rays overhead and we look up. A turkey vulture with an immense wingspan passes directly above us, coasting on a thermal, clearly on patrol. I’ve never seen one fly so slowly and close, its pronounced red beak in full focus. The sun’s rays pass through the tips of the vulture’s wings.
“Obviously stealth reconnaissance from the enemy,” I say. Jeremiah laughs. “Do you love Stella?” He pauses.
“I do love her, yes I love her. But I’m not trying to hurt anybody…” I laugh. Could his concern be genuine?
“Well that seems inevitable. I think she loves you too. She seems to want to spend a lot of time with you.” He laughs, shakes his head again. They play tennis together, among other activities. I have little interest; instead I bury myself in books. Tennis just reminds me of how I was terrorized on the courts as a child. Now I’m terrorized by a black cloud wherever I go.
“She’s a great woman.”
“Do you love Siobhan?” He takes a breath and exhales deeply through his nose. “I’ll always love her. But we’ve had our differences. I had a good life in Kaslo, but she was so unhappy. I didn’t want to move here, but she wasn’t prepared to stay. We thought maybe things would get better if we tried something different, but they’ve only gotten worse. It’s probably better for Erica to be in a bigger town in the long run anyways, and there’s still time—she’s only four. We thought maybe a kid would make things better before that, but it hasn’t really helped. Siobhan’s always been…preoccupied. But so have I, I guess.” He picks up a rock by his feet and gives it a toss. It lands with a thud in grass. A raven caws.
It all come to a head one day when Siobhan returns from work. Jeremiah’s high and is mowing the lawn. Siobhan gets out of the car, approaches him with a determination clocks him on the jaw and pushes backwards on his ass.
“You’ve never been there for me!” she yells.
“Now she’s gone on vacation in Ontario with Erica for two weeks, to spend time with her family at the family cottage. I’m doing renovations on the house while she’s gone. It feels like I’m always doing renovations…” He laughs again. “I was doing renos with a contractor in the Kootenays, and repaired the old house we had in the country in my spare time…” He shakes his head. “I put a lot of work into that house, and I’ve been helping my brother…” He sounds resigned. “And now I have to renovate the attic of the house we bought in Langford. But it’s taking forever, because my buddy Al offered to help, and he brings over this really good weed, and gives me more than I can ever smoke!!” He chortles. “It’s hard to find the motivation…I end up working on my paintings instead, which is what I really feel like doing, or going to the Centre.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“What? The weed or the marriage?” he laughs again and shakes his head. “And the problem is, it’s taking way too bloody long to get any work done because we’re always so high.” I laugh with him. “But Al’s my best friend, and he helps me out, and I know he enjoys the company, but I really want to stop.”
“Hm.”
A breeze picks up. “Dralas,” he remarks plainly, “Tibetan spirits. They inhabit the elements.” He turns to me. “What about you?”
“Me? I’m having an emotional breakdown. And in theory, ideologically, I don’t believe in the institution of marriage…although once you’re married, it does seem to change the way you look at it and think about it. It becomes something different from what you thought it was from the outside…you know? You choose to give it meaning—I find myself telling people I’m married, or that I’ve been married for so many years…You know? There’s a kind of shorthand embedded in that statement. As though it actually does mean something to be sanctioned by the institution.”
We get married at city hall with two witnesses, so Stella can get onto my medical plan here in BC. The marriage isn’t important to us; we don’t need it. We’re in love and nothing else matters. Except when we’re not.
Stella’s impressed by the fact that Jeremiah wants to quit. After all, here’s someone who’s at least actually trying to work with his mind, instead of—as she describes in a letter to me—her fucking stubborn impulsive husband,
<…who is probably at home right now, lying on the couch reading, waiting for the phone to ring. While I go to work on my bike, so he can have the car to try and find a job, because I’m nice that way and I’m trying to be supportive, but at the same time I’m pissed off that I’m working forty hours a week in a private nursing facility, and I just learned that I missed a unionized job with excellent benefits by two fucking weeks. >
“Smoking so much dope doesn’t fit with what I want to aspire towards.” says Jeremiah.
“In terms of what?”
“In terms of taming the mind. Ostensibly, as a Buddhist practitioner I’m trying to tame my mind. You can’t do that if you take psychoactive drugs all the time, because they’re just a big Hinayana head trip.” He guffaws.
“How is it that you plan on training the mind?” Robins chirp persistently in the distance.
“Jinpa Lhawang says that the most effective way to train the mind is through meditation practice. And through meditation, the ego is gradually dismantled because it no longer has anything to prop itself up against.” I wonder if he’s just parroting what he’s read. The sun’s rays warm up the clearing we’re in. And so what if he is?
“How long have you been meditating?”
“About eight years. I’ve been hanging around the Centre for eight years. “ He shakes his head. “They put up with me, and I try to contribute—mostly by helping with renos”—he laughs—”But I need to get serious about my meditation practice, or otherwise what am I doing it for?”
“I have no idea.” I look at him, but I see right through him. Why is that?
“I mean, what have I spent the last eight years of my life doing, if I don’t continue to try and deepen my practice?” Deepen your practice? What the hell does that even mean? It must not be just a practice, but also a lifestyle. He must practice many styles.
“One of the rules of the Vinaya—the vows that monks take when they enter the stream—has to do with not indulging in intoxicants.”
“But you’re not a monk.”
“That’s true, but even in the secular tradition, there is agreement that in terms of the Eightfold Path, right mindfulness involves not willfully clouding your judgment.” It remains my greatest obstacle to taking any prescriptive “spiritual path” seriously. If it smacks of coercion via paid membership or social engineering, I’m out.
“What are you doing this Tuesday?
“This Tuesday? I have no plans, actually.”
‘You should join us for the next Open House.” So it begins.
Here I am. Facing a senior member whom I suspect is fucking my wife.
Back to the breath. It is the power vested in these institutions by their membership that allows these injustices to occur at all. I become a member of the community and start paying monthly dues.
***
Every night, I slide the coffee table over to one side of the carpet, pull the futon mattress off the couch and onto the floor, and unroll my sleeping bag. It’s best for both of us. I lie awake in soaked sheets from night sweats, consumed by the chatter in my head. I read at any hour of the night until I fall asleep again, and average two or three masturbation sessions an evening—a by-product of physical stress, I guess.
I walk a lot at night. One night I sit at a bench with a guy under a full moon and we talk for hours. He’s older; his wife just left him for another woman; they’ve been married for twenty-five years; she’s a Buddhist.
***
I start to smoke; roll-your-owns and the occasional wine- and rum–infused Colt. I laze in the hammock and puff on a Drum in the back yard when Stella comes home.
“How was it?” I ask her.
“It was good,” she responds cheerfully. I imagine her going down on him, him taking her from behind.
***
Jeremiah’s indiscretions eventually lead him on a quest for atonement.
“I’ve been seeing a counsellor.” He tells me. “And I tell him about all the crazy shit I’ve been going through, and we just laugh…” whereupon he laughs his deep, throaty laugh, and I find myself joining in as per usual. “Siobhan and I have decided to give it another go, and we talk better than we ever did before.” Stella and I also reconcile.
***
I decide to make focaccia and grab a finger bowl from the cupboard, to sprinkle water on the dough as required while I knead it.
I buy the finger bowls at the dollar store, seven of them, when I build my first shrine. The incense, the candles, the chanting, the vajra and the bell, it’s all very interesting to me now. How I ended up here. When people leave stereo speakers or furniture out on their lawns for free, I often think about how I could build shrines with them.
With the advent of the Mindfulness movement, in the absence of professional standards across traditions, a new consortium of meditation instructors has filled the void, creating an online intentional community; an international body with a corollary Code of Ethics, apparently sorely needed in this day and age. And guess what? The membership costs money, with the most visible benefit being that you’re taken seriously by other like-minded individuals. One expectation of maintaining professional accreditation is that you attend a ten-day silent meditation retreat every year, so that keeps the business of meditation—and let’s face it, most retreats are Buddhist, so that makes it the business of Buddhism—alive and well.
Back at the Centre after the first nyinthun, I inhale the literature. These people like their books, so in that regard I fit right in. After six months, I’m immersed and have only scratched the surface. Nearly twenty years later, I still feel that way.
There seems to be an implicit expectation that somehow our behaviours change with the advent of giving ourselves over to a bigger cause. Have they? Have I?
***
“How many of you have meditated before?” asks Howie at Open House. Of the seven people seated in a circle, only one raises her hand meekly. “Good,” says Howie gently with a twinkle in his eye, “What kind of meditation?”
“TM.” Howie smiles and nods.
“How do you feel tonight?”
“It feels good,” she says, and smiles, “I feel kind of…” her eyes roll upwards as she finds the right word. “Peaceful.” Howie nods again and also smiles.
“Good. That’s good.” How about you? He turns to the tall young man with unruly hair next to her, dressed in casual khakis and a dress shirt.
“Yeah.” He says in a deep voice with confidence, “I felt really calm.” One by one, they share their experiences of collective goodness.
Who the fuck are these people? My turn.
“Well I’ve been hanging out here quite a bit for the last six months, and all I can say is I’m really happy that you’re all feeling so blissed out, because I still feel like I’m going crazy pretty much every time I sit down on the cushion.” Howie laughs.
Countless hours of meditation later, sometimes I still feel that way—though less often than before. Then again that’s when I maintain my practice. If I don’t sit, I don’t have to intentionally and consciously subject myself to all the crazy shit I make up. A lot of the time it’s maddening. Especially when you’re out of practice, it can feel unbearable and actually amplify self-hatred and feelings of despair. Although it’s not about getting anywhere, nor are we ever actually still either, at least as measured hurtling through the conventional time-space continuum.
***
It’s the end of a practice session at Open House. Howie strikes the deep-throated bowl next to him and it booms.
GONGGGGGGGGG…
Howie places the striker lightly on the rim of the vessel and smiles playfully. As he applies more pressure, the ringing gradually rises in pitch.
…GONGGGGGGGGGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
***
“It’s like a sharp knife,” says Howie during one discussion period, “You could say that a sharp knife inherently possesses a kind of virtue; through which it expresses its true nature.” Surely he’s thinking of Manjushri, whose sword is said to cut through dualism, and thus delusion.
“Even dull knives have virtue,” I retort. He looks at me, and he smiles, nods, and responds, “Even dull knives have virtue. That’s true.”
After tea and cookies, when everyone’s left, he tells me, “You’ve clearly entered the Mahayana.” I nod, not understanding.
“I think I’ve finally decided this isn’t a cult.” He looks at me, expressionless.
***
We set up the meditation mats in a circle for another Open House post-meditation discussion. Tonight, Howie decides to have some fun. One at a time, we walk around in a circle with a spoon filled with water in one hand. It’s monkey mind; unstable, prone to easy upset—being tamed by the use of a panoramic concentration technique: awareness. The visual sticks. He’s good with visuals.
I attend Council meetings; they’re open to all. “You know Francis, we can give you a key if you want. You can hang out here even when there aren’t formal sessions, if you’d like.” Art offers. I assume responsibility for the Centre’s library, and I join a group involved with rebuilding the Centre’s website. I’m invested.
I start going to half-day sits on the weekends and complete the seven levels of Sangri-la. So what? Each level is understood as a different point of entry into a comprehensive understanding of the Sangri-lalian world view. The concepts build on one another; there is a formal curriculum. And if you want to move through it, you need to commit heart and soul and Guru worship is a given. The weekend retreats spark a renewed disdain for hierarchy in me, and yet no one’s forcing me to be there. This has everything to do with Stella.
***
It’s my Sangri-la Graduation Weekend meditation retreat, where we receive a pin as per The Tradition. We’re told in no uncertain terms to dress for the occasion.
“I mean it’s not like high school grad, but it’s not like jeans and a t-shirt either.” Says Howie. So I wear my black rotting zombie-head long-sleeved SNFU shirt with camouflage cargo shorts. [RIP Mr. Chi Pig. We saw SNFU with Ray in 1990 at Foufoune Electriques.]
I’m in my last Private Audience with Arthur.
“I couldn’t care less about the Seven Levels.”
“I used to be like you. Angry.” Arthur says in a deadpan voice. There’s only one thing to do: nothing.
***
I’m at a Council meeting. We discuss the weekly Wednesday Open House. Art says, “There are a few people who have recently expressed some reticence about the use of chants in the Wednesday Open House. And I just want to reiterate that chants are a part of our tradition, and if that bothers people, then they are always free to leave. But we shouldn’t water down The Tradition in the hopes that more people will be attracted to the Centre.”
“And we don’t want to pretend that we don’t chant when we do, because then they’ll just think we want to play with their minds.” Jeremiah mimics a mad scientist and laughs a hearty laugh. I laugh too. None of it makes any sense.
“I mean this with respect,” I begin, “But I’m not comfortable with a tradition that includes chants to dralas, if it claims it’s secular. From a rationalist perspective, that’s just pure unempirical, unverifiable superstition.”
Lhawang’s mission is ostensibly to bring the Sangri-la mandala back to its Buddhist roots, following criticisms that it has strayed too far from its origins with the advent of the secular stream. As opposed to having Sangri-lalians and Sangri-La Buddhists, there will now be only Sangri-La Buddhism. It’s a way to make his mark on the organization and show that he’s not the same person his father was.
If we agree that the primary reason for the existence of any institution is for it to continue to survive, one means to support that project is to create a flexible institutional framework that can adapt to whatever context it finds itself in. Core values and beliefs remain static to a degree, but local customs are also introduced, adopted and transformed. In the west, Buddhism is in a period of transformation with the spread of mindfulness and American Buddhism, sometimes used as an umbrella term for the various Zen, Insight, Tibetan and Theravadan groups that practice, among others, in North America.
“Now that’s enough!” barks Howie. We spend many hours together in this room, facilitating the Open House sessions. It’s the first and only time he ever raises his voice at me. I never return.
I never did like the Sangri-lalian anthem.
***
Shrine decorum is fascinating. I love the esotericism of the altar. The bright colours, the two schools represented with their different regalia. Howie bows to the altar, lights the incense and then bows to it. He settles onto his cushion, bows to the singing bowl, and literally sets the tone for the evening.
GONGGGGGGGGG
Howie faces me from the stage ; I’m immediately conscious of my posture.
After the session, we close up and Howie turns to me. “I’m going to Colorado to be with my kids. I don’t know if or when I’m going to be back.”
“What? When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.” He extends his hand and smiles. “Take care.”
“You too, Howie.” He looks at me and smiles. Shit! Howie’s leaving!
He returns three months later.
***
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2020
Back to the breath. A news release publishes the report of a third party law firm assigned to investigate the allegations made against Jinpa Lhawang, among other members of the community. “Generosity Divine Lord” my ass.
Seventeen years after his appointment as the new spiritual leader of the Sangri-la lineage, a lawyer hired to conduct a third-party, independent review of complaints of sexual misconduct against Lhawang concludes that the accusations leveled against him are “highly plausible” in at least three out of seventeen reports, based on the corroboration of testimony.
–The Sangri-La Sun (vanity glossy of the organization)
Victoria, Vancouver Island, 2002
Back to the breath. I take a weekend workshop on Prison Dharma with a senior teacher from Colorado, founder of the Sangri-la Prison Network, instrumental in spreading the meditation diaspora in “correctional facilities” far and wide. He is later convicted for the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Holy madness.
Crazy wisdom.
Get me the fuck off this track! [_/I\_Saul Williams]
Back to the breath. And we’re all there, listening to the sound of the rain, and a robin sings on the other side of the farm and pierces the mind, the tree frog croaks, and…
“Walking.” And so on and so forth.
***
I read most of Jinpa Lhawang’s work. I’m lucky that things didn’t work out between them.
It’s hard not to relish in the aesthetic, ironic, karmic perfection of it all. To which Stella might reply, “What the fuck does karma have to do with my getting diabetes? Or growing up with the parents I grew up with?” What the fuck is karma, anyways?
Sometimes I tell people, “It’s actually a Sanskrit word. It means action.” So what?
Dependent origination. Causes and conditions.
***
Cameron Island, 2017
“This is not a question, and I realize it’s just thoughts.” Théo nods. ”You mentioned ‘moments’ in your talk earlier.” He nods. “But there are spaces between those moments, which are moments themselves—and when you try to cleave them apart, it just leads to a kind of infinite regress travelling in all directions, to the point where you realize that there is no past, and there is no future, and there is no space, and there is no time…there’s just this…whatever it is that’s happening.” His grey eyes stare straight through me.
We discuss secular meditation.
“I think that…” he pauses. “I think that it’s safe to assume that in this day and age, in this culture, the notion of karma can be dismissed.” His eyes are downturned as he nods and agrees with himself. I nod as well.
“What does it look like to become a student?”
“With me?”
“Yeah, with you.”
“Well, first you have to ask.” We both laugh.
“Ask what?”
“Ask if I’m willing to be your teacher.”
“And then what?”
“Well I have to agree.” We both laugh again.
“And what if you do?”
“Then I become your teacher, and you become my student, and we enter into a formal student-teacher relationship.”
“And what does that look like?” He pauses.
“Well, it’s different for every person. I have students all over. Many of them I only speak with infrequently, on the phone or we exchange emails. But there are also disciples here on the island that I see every week, almost all year.”
“And what does that look like?”
“What?”
“Having disciples.”
“We chant, we sit, we walk, we have dharma talks, we study scripture…It’s a little less formal than this, sangha members come over to my house once a week.”
“And why do you do it?”
“Because I took the Bodhisattva Vow;” he considers. “I’ve committed to save all sentient beings. It’s the reason I was put on this Earth, apparently, but I also write poetry, and translate, and have a family. Honestly Francis,” Those eyes; an overcast sky reflecting on a lake. “If it wasn’t for the dharma, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I have explored these words for years. Lately I’ve been brushing up against the Vow, reading more literature specifically on the subject of Buddhist ethics and the Bodhisattva Precepts. Trying to understand multiple perspectives on taking the Vow, the role of repentance involved, the degree of compliance expected…in the absence of karma, why adhere to the precepts?
It’s like a checklist for how to ethically navigate the human condition—guidelines considered favourable to the individual, the community, and the natural world. Human flourishing, as one well-known teacher and practitioner describes it.
What are the technical requirements for teaching meditation? It seems to vary from tradition to tradition. What’s stopping me from providing guided meditation? After all, I convince the Wellness Committee at work that to lead brief meditation sessions could be potentially of benefit to the organization. I submit a Letter of Intent that is conditionally accepted to attend a ten-day RSTM training, further to my financing the remainder of the program.
But I can’t do it. To cleave meditation practice from the Eightfold Path diminishes its significance. In a stress reduction context, meditation involves restorative and rehabilitative aims. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not why I still meditate almost twenty years later.
What happened to the dharma being freely offered? Why do we need a new technique? Why can’t we just sit? Even if you could catch up on the last fifty years of Buddhist-mindfulness literature in English, that’s only the beginning. To be taken seriously as an expert in sitting, you should have a strong grasp of at least Pali, if not Sanskrit. If you’re a Zennist, Japanese; or a Vajryanist, Tibetan. And any combination thereof.
I keep coming across the Dalai Lama quote, “My religion is kindness,” but I don’t feel so kind. I don’t reach out to people much, and I’m no longer especially social at work.
I don’t have a tradition. In the absence of a tradition, I’m still trying to understand what it is that I’m doing. Secular meditation is probably more accurate than secular Buddhism. But what is the goal? There is no goal; that’s exactly the point. It’s not about trying to get anywhere. That’s what makes it different from any other practice.
We do nothing; there’s nowhere to go anyways. It’s about being in this life. I don’t spend time with other Zen or even Buddhist practitioners; I’m bit of a hermit in plain sight that way. It’s been a few years since my last retreat; every time I return, once the high wears off, I’m back to wondering what just happened. Usually I have some sort of psychological episode upon my return.
I’m wary of the idolatry and patriarchy inherent in the teacher-student relationship—that goes all the way back to Shakyamuni. Not only that, but there are extended periods where my practice falls off the map entirely—though my academic immersion in the dharma in broader terms has rarely wavered over the years. Books, podcasts, online courses, articles.
Jinpa Lhawang’s suicide comes as a surprise to all of us, and leaves the Sangri-la Corporation in shambles once the truth about him goes public. Revelations finally surface that the group sex between Jinpa and numerous male and female partners is “more likely than not” true. Stella always thought it was a pickup joint.
The diaspora has spread far and wide. Jinpa’s acute sense of humour and keen interest in American culture and the burgeoning hippie movement were the catalyst for a newly-minted American Buddhism, a fusion of secular and traditional values successfully trademarked as the Sangri-la franchise.
I see Jeremiah again at the beach once, a few years later, wearing this ugly as fuck orange fluo toque.
“I did a dathun!” he exclaims.
“Are you seeking positive praise? Do you feel better about yourself now that you’ve sat on your ass for thirty days?”
“No, I’m going to do even better than that. I’m going to become the Director of the Victoria Sangri-La Meditation Centre.” And he does.
Graphically Inclined 
Leave a comment