You know, as I look back on my life now, the happiest times were when I was penniless. There is something about living on the edge . . . an intensity, a realness, a creativity that always wilts in the face of security.
I finally reached town, and brazenly walked into a bank; full beard, dirty clothes, mismatched socks and all, and talked them into letting me make a collect phone call to Janet.
. . . No answer; phone disconnected. Oh no! Okay, I had one more chance; that she had returned to Shasta Abbey. The guy at the bank raised his eyebrows but nodded that I could try one more time. I think he saw the desperation in my face.
I dialed, and couldnt believe it; Yoda answered and actually accepted my call, telling me that Janet was at the Oakland Priory, an extension of Shasta Abbey in the Bay area. I called the priory and sure enough she was there, sick as a dog and in bed with the flu, but patiently awaiting word from me, and immediately wired some money for a ticket on my old dog.
I hung up and looked into the eyes of the banker, and I dont know if either of us will ever forget that moment. There is something about helping people that beats hatred in so many ways.
I was a master of escapes I could pull off simple ones, like losing myself in the music at a concert, or complex ones where I would surrender myself to someone or something completely, willing to sacrifice my life for them. Within these precious moments, my worries about myself would disappear. I only wished that I could make those kinds of psychological releases permanent without the uncertainty of a fleeting cause or tenuous relationship. What if I could prove in my heart that my self didnt really exist? Couldnt I then release this self forever and be free from its excruciating burden? The unwelcome alternative was to continue to believe in my self, where instead of a release; I could only look forward to eternal incarceration. It was futile, trying to escape this human condition so front-loaded with constant stress, by somehow making something happen. I didnt believe, yet, that everything, in fact, does change, even the feeling of release. Its all so impermanent, the good, as well as the bad. Perhaps true freedom isnt a condition of mind or something brought on by a cause. Maybe its just there, always, simply waiting for people like me to realize it.
But I still believed in myself; I couldnt deny it. Things were changing, however, gradually and strangely. Loving kindness, compassion, gladness, equanimity, these were cropping up without warning in small ways. On the trip back to California, the bus stopped for some diesel fuel and a case of motor oil in one of those non-descript towns where you wonder why people live there, and how they make a living. I was tired of chips and candy bars so I ran across the street to a grocery store, praying for some yogurt or something. I hurried in, keeping a wary eye on the bus across the highway, when I noticed an old man, maybe in his late eighties, old enough to have a hard time getting around. He was carefully helping his frail, crippled wife slowly walk down the grocery store aisle with his arm around her, holding her hand. He was so gentle; a lifetime of shared experiences reflected in his patience. Maybe this was the only adventure they had left now, shopping at this local grocery store.
I stopped in my tracks, and right there in the main aisle I wept unabashedly. The cashiers must have thought I was a just another crazed hippie, but how else could I express what I was feeling inside . . . this loving kindness? I only noticed it at times like these, when I recognized the underlying love in others. Only then did my relentless antagonism toward them lessen. But I couldnt maintain it this loving kindness, not yet, and soon I became wrapped up in myself again.
So many times, I had thought that I was on my way toward being compassionate and loving, only to be disappointed time and again as my real self raised its ugly head. I would think about how compassionate and loving people behave, and then I would mimic them as if I was saintly. It was all a sham. I still considered kind people to be stupid, merely marks to be taken advantage of. But then, there were the occasions when my heart soared at the Abbey, allowing me to empty out all the baggage and meanness for a moment when I understood that perfect morality that was the epitome of perfection. I wanted compassion so badly, but the feeling never lasted. If I looked closely, all I saw was me; a person that was despicable. It was all about me, and I could care less about anybody else. But I could now at least see this, and it was a place to start from.
After every lofty experience at Shasta, I would devote myself, however I could, to helping others at the monastery. I found helping others to be difficult, however. I would try to help various lay people who were visiting, and they either didnt appreciate it, or would become dependent on me to do things for them that they could and should have done themselves, making both of our situations worse. I was not cut out to be a do-gooder; it was more of a concept than a reality for me. My fledgling compassion had no wisdom yet to accompany it, and I wasnt following my heart, which wanted to take what I found within myself and use it to complement everything around me. I was using my mind to decide what a do-gooder should do, but that was way too contrived.
No matter what I accomplished, a dissatisfaction remained that I could not overcome. Simply helping others was nice, but it didnt go deep enough. The one who thought that he was helping was the problem, and I had no idea how to approach that.
I seriously questioned if I would ever sincerely develop those beautiful qualities of loving kindness, compassion, gladness, and equanimity. How could I while still harboring these persistent selfish desires? Could I ever acquire enough personal security, or must I forever fight for what I wanted, pushing others aside, always trying to be the first in line and the last in loyalty? What was the answer?
This yearning in my heart was definitely growing, this feeling that Im on my way home but have forgotten where home is and how to get there. Is it possible that a psychic, unconscious memory of my spiritual roots was drawing me back? Was it by negation that I was discovering the little tricks in life that constantly fooled me and made me forget? Little tricks like the falsehood of permanence, or the promised happiness that always slips through my fingers like water, leaving me discontented and disoriented and the myth of something substantial behind it all? Were these things steadily pushing me toward truth? I was trying to travel unencumbered now, but I was still hanging on to something. What was it?
E. Raymond Rock of Fort Myers, Florida is cofounder and principal teacher at the Southwest Florida Insight Center, http://www.SouthwestFloridaInsightCenter.com His twenty-eight years of meditation experience has taken him across four continents, including two stopovers in Thailand where he practiced in the remote northeast forests as an ordained Theravada Buddhist monk. His book, A Year to Enlightenment (Career Press/New Page Books) is now available at major bookstores and online retailers. Visit http://www.AYearToEnlightenment.com
Siddhartha Life And Marriage
No comments:
Post a Comment