Dalai Lama on Our True Nature

As a child, I thought I could fly.  I studied the birds taking off and landing, wondering what made bumblebees buzz and stars shine.   

His Holiness, the 14^th Dalai Lama says, “We have to consider what we human beings really are.  We are not like machine-made objects.  If we were merely mechanical entities, then machines themselves could alleviate all of our sufferings and fulfil our needs.  However, since we are not solely material creatures, it is a mistake to place all our hopes for happiness on external development alone.  Instead, we should consider our origins and nature to discover what we require.”

Early in life I was the lucky recipient of much love.  My parents adored me and my maternal grandmother, whose house we lived in, regarded me as her life’s purpose.

Tenzin Gyatso, who still calls himself a simple monk, explains, “Leaving aside the complex question of the creation and evolution of our universe, we can at least agree that each of us is the product of our own parents.  In general, our conception took place not just in the context of sexual desire but from our parents’ decision to have a child.  Such decisions are founded on responsibility and altruism—the parents’ compassionate commitment to care for their child until it is able to take care of itself.  Thus, from the very moment of our conception, our parents’ love is directly involved in our creation.”

My parents definitely wanted me—and they were deeply in love when I was conceived. 

“Moreover, we are completely dependent upon our mother’s care from the earliest stages of our growth, Dalai Lama instructs. “According to some scientists, a pregnant woman’s mental state, be it calm or agitated, has a direct physical effect on her unborn child.”

My mother was fully happy awaiting the birth of her first-born child.

“The expression of love is also very important at the time of birth, His Holiness says, “Since the very first thing we do is suck milk from our mother’s breast, we naturally feel close to her, and she must feel love for us in order to feed us properly.  If she feels anger or resentment her milk may not flow freely.”

I was born into the lap of luxury in terms of love, but ours was a no-frills life.

The embodiment of Compassion noted, “Then there is the critical period of brain development from the time of birth up to at least the age of three or four, during which time loving physical contact is the single most important factor for the normal growth of the child. If the child is not held, hugged, cuddled or loved, its development will be impaired.”

Because I received the necessary nurturing, by the time tragedy struck when I was nearly three, I could withstand the absence of my parents from my life—due  to Father’s extreme illness and near death  necessitating Mother’s having to  work two jobs.

Grandmother held, hugged, and loved us through this crisis. 

CONTROL

SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)

I have never thought I was much of a control freak.  I have always bragged about being able to go with the flow.  Sometimes the flow was more like a tsunami or a toilet flush, but I adjusted.  Yesterday, though, I was exposed as the control FOOL that I really am.

At about 5 p.m. I was finishing up a project that had taken me about three days and approximately 14 hours to complete.  It is a proposal to a literary agent, complete with query, sample chapters, etc. etc.  To writers, creating the query letter and the proposal are sometimes harder to do than writing the entire book.  Whether you get through to a publisher hangs on that initial letter, or at least that is what is preached to us.  Frankly, for a long time, now, I have announced that I knew that God is in charge of my life so I was aloof when I wrote things, not too concerned about whether they were accepted or rejected.

Yesterday showed me that I am not the detached spiritual aspirant that I thought I was.  I was finishing up the last edit of the material I was going to print and send when suddenly the current went off.  In India this is a common occurrence, so I didn't even blink.  I knew the computer had about 10 more minutes on battery and I was literally only seconds away from being finished.  In semi darkness, not looking at the keyboard, which I rarely do having been properly taught by my high-school typing teacher decades ago, I pressed Control Save, to keep the material in the perfect shape I'd finally achieved.  It was with a sense of pride and joy that I completed my three days of work.

Then, all of a sudden, I saw the screen go blank!  Everything was deleted! What was happening?   Then the computer signaled that I had only a few seconds to shut it down and exit since the electricity had not come on yet. With a huge sigh of frustration, I did that.  Waiting for the lights to come back on I managed to call my computer technician and he said not to worry, the "lost" material would be able to be restored somehow.

Before long, the electricity was back on and I was madly searching the Recycle Bin and every other place on the Mother Board for my file, "Submission Details".  After 29 minutes of mounting frustration, I knew the sad truth. The material was vaporized! 

Even the help of the computer genius could not restore the document.  The only submission detail to be noted was me—in a state of complete powerlessness.  I stared and stared and stared at the keyboard.  Then I saw what might have happened in the quasi darkness.  I timidly asked the fellow, more than half my age: What happens if you accidentally hit Control Z instead of Control S?  He said, with the serenity of detachment, "Everything gets undone."  My heart thumped madly. I felt faint.

It was of no comfort, whatsoever, that he and I realized simultaneously what had happened.  In fact, I felt humiliated and more powerless than ever.

I did rant at the stupidity of a system that allows you to UNDO what you've done without any backup warning, such as asking, DO YOU WANT TO UNDO THIS?  You know, the way you are asked if you really want to delete something into the Recycle Bin!  But my ranting only elicited smiles of sympathy, (or were they smiles of glee?) from the handsome young man.

When he zoomed off on his brand new motorcycle I came to my grandmotherly senses.  Why did I imagine, once again, that I was in control of anything in my life?  I had forgotten what I'd struggled for years to integrate into my conscious awareness, God is the only Cause and the only Effect.

With much humility I bowed my head remembering once again that it is better to go with the flow, not with my cement will.  Obviously, the query and the proposal letter were just not meant to be sent out as they were. 

Today, I will remember who the Real Doer in my life is! I don't want to be exposed, again, as a Control Fool.

Sai Baba on Actions

(A short Essay)

There I am, walking hurriedly to the bazaar, with a long list of errands that must be done.  Suddenly I run in to P who seems to have all the time in the world.  She wants to chat.  I explain that I am in a hurry.  I act very interested in her plan to meet later in the week.  Inside, I am furious that I can’t just tell her that I have no interest at all in getting together.  I am repulsed by what I view as her laziness.  But I witness myself giving her a big, friendly hug and saying that I will see her later in the week.  Here is an example of actions that are not in sync with what is in the mind and in the heart.

According to the Avatar of the Age, Guru Sathya Sai Baba, “One’s actions determine one’s future.  Actions are of three kinds:  Thoughts are one kind, giving expression to them is another. Acting according to one’s word is the third.  The mind is responsible for the thoughts, the tongue for the speech and the hands for the actions.”

What I could have done was simply speak the truth.  Instead, I carried P’s idea to meet later in the week around, like a rock, inside myself, wondering how I would handle the situation.

“The combination of thought, word and deed represents the human state,” Swami Sai told His devotees.   “These three account for man’s pleasures and pain.  Recognizing this, one should understand that he is accountable for his actions.  No one can escape from the consequences of his deeds.”

 On contemplating Swami’s words, I realize that I am going to continue to suffer the consequences of my actions regarding P, if I do not explain my actions. When I ring her up, she accepts my words.  In fact, she thanks me for being honest. What a relief.

Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba emphasized, “But anything can be achieved through God’s grace.  Hence man should strive to win God’s grace.  The result of one’s actions is realized over three different periods of time.  In some cases, the results are immediate, as, for instance, when one slips and sustains a fall.  In some cases, the results occur after a few minutes or hours.  For example, the food you take in the morning is digested after two hours.  When you sow a seed in the ground, it takes some months or years to grow into a tree and yield fruits.”

Sai Baba was direct, “Some fools imagine that they can get away with bad deeds because the consequences are not immediate.  But the consequences are bound to occur some time or other….  People who may have done no actions of any kind in their present lives may still suffer from the consequences of their actions in previous lives.”

Obviously, I knew P in ages past and never was able to be honest with her.  Mercifully, in this lifetime, by the Grace of my Guru, I let go of the need to be false with her.

Inside Mohammad’s Tent

SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)

Thank You God!  This morning I discovered Mohammad’s Restaurant on the Main Road that rings around Bodh Gaya.  At last—a relatively warm place to sit and drink real milk coffee, not the usual watery imitation I’ve been encountering since I arrived.  At Mohammad’s the tent is made of canvas, covered in plastic, so it at least stops the wind.  And the kitchen fires send little blasts of heat out into the dining area.  When you first enter the cozy atmosphere you feel like you are melting.  I have finally un-hunched myself and straightened up for the first time in days. I can actually stand tall.  Inside Mohammad’s tent I remove my woolen hat and gloves.  Before long I peel off my outer layer of sweaters.  I’m not close to enlightenment, but I had found a kind of nirvana.

The surprise of finding a pure vegetarian Muslim-owned-and-operated restaurant full of “foreigners” in Buddha Land pleases me.  I like the diversity.  Chocolate cream pie.  Apple pie.  French fries. Banana pancakes.  Tibetan momos.  Chinese lo mien.  The menu is also diverse—and each item is startlingly inexpensive.

At 8 a.m. the place is abuzz with conversations in a variety of languages.  An international crowd of heady Buddhists very hep on practicing their Dharma, as they call being good, debate over the meaning of the Kalachakra Initiation and other related topics.

Pretty Betty hails from Hong Kong, is half Chinese and half English and an airline hostess who hopes to find an American husband who will do what she calls a “paper marriage” with her so she can settle in the U.S. and be near her guru Rinpoche who is “mostly based in California.”  Betty wants only a marriage on paper, though, “no murky stuff,” as she refers to the joys of connubial bliss.

Betty’s Tibetan-style prayer wheel is of the designer kind, made in California with “more than 80 million prayers inside it on micro-fiche,” she claims.  Spinning the prayer wheel equals saying the prayers in full yourself, apparently; and, as she puts it, “You are gaining merits for the next life.”

Another way to gain merits, according to these New Age Buddhists hanging out at Mohammad’s, is to perform prostrations—moving from stand-up positions to kneeling, to lying down on the floor and rising up again, folding the hands at the crown, the mouth, and the heart in between. It is best, they agree to wear yoga pants or workout attire when you do these spiritual stretches. These aspirants are not talking about a couple of sets of 12 or 15 prostrations; they are talking in the hundreds of thousands per year!

Four days have disappeared.  Chunks of experience deleted.  Where is it? Gone with the winds of change.

Today I meet Harold E., a self-styled shaman from Philadelphia, USA.  He says he came to Bodh Gaya because, “I just got caught up with some monks I met in south India and I traveled north with them because they were coming up here for the Kalachakra.”

Harold E., in his 40s, is about six feet nine inches tall with a white Afro and a salt and pepper beard.  He’s about the size of a Canadian mountain bear.  There’s nobody with eyes that could miss seeing him.  And Harold E. seems to like that. To make matters more conspicuous, he carries his didgeridoo—given to him in Australia, he says, by aboriginals—wherever he goes.

At Mohammad’s the didgeridoo—about five feet long—rests beside him at a table where he chats with a variety of seekers.  Does he think he got to be in Bodh Gaya for the Bodhisattwa Initiations because of good karma, one of Harold’s new fans, a 21-year-old student from New Hampshire, USA asks.

“Karma Sharma—I don’t really buy it,” Harold E. replies. “I figure I got here because I was lucky and, most importantly, I wanted to come—just for the experience.”

Yet, it will be Harold E. who’ll be playing another instrument, a large Australian conch—on the second morning of the initiations.

“The powers that be asked me to play because they saw my conch and said it was a very sacred instrument,” he said.

Then, Harold E. removed his didgeridoo from its case and began blowing ethereal dreamtime music through it.  Everyone at Mohammad’s couldn’t help but notice the performance.  Whether they wanted to or not, they listened.

Shaman Harold, who wears an African jungle theme sheet as a cape over his jeans and T shirt, told us that he had visited indigenous peoples in many parts of the world.  In fact, he has his own website that he maintains in order, “To help all native peoples who have been displaced by so-called modernity and whose innate skills and talents are often unrecognized.”

What’s more, and mysteriously, all these indigenous peoples have concurred that Harold E. is a priest—an up-lifter of the dead in spirit.  In each of their particular languages his name turns out to be the same.  For instance, to some of the Red Indians of the Americas, he is, “God of the Wind Who Comes with Thunder and Light.”  To others Harold E. is, “He of the Wind.”  The Kahunas of Hawaii call him, “He Who Heals the Healers.”  And, to the Australian aboriginals, he is simply, “Strong Breath.”  Whatever it is, when it comes to talking about his talents, Harold E. is definitely long-winded.

He gives me a demonstration of his power.  He takes my left hand and holds it between his two palms.  Then he blows his breath into the center of my palm, the one on the hand he’s just held.  Most astonishing to me, I start weeping uncontrollably. Then, after a good cry, I suddenly feel relieved of all my burdens.  The feeling of peace I experience lasts for several hours.

Does Harold E. have healing powers or was I just grateful to be touched by a man?  Whatever, his touch brought with it the lesson of my complete attachment to the world.  I want a loving relationship.  I want to be kissed.  I want to be held.  I want …. 

Yes, of course, my Guru who teaches non-attachment, the dropping of desires, and the mirage of the body-mind-complex is certainly laughing at me.  But he also teaches, “Be happy.  Don’t worry.”  So, hear in the warmth of Mohammad’s tent I am full of joy and all my worries have dissolved like the morning fog.