Lotus and Lily Field Notes

Here’s reason #62 why I love Buddhism:

By recognizing that our relative existence is pervaded by suffering, when we are in the grip of suffering we can just relax and experience it–rather than increasing the intensity and duration of the suffering by resisting it.

That’s the academic version.  The experiential version is: when the dark depths of despair open up under me, I now find myself a bit more able to relax, trust, open into it: the useful thought is: “why would you expect it not to be like this?  what reason do you have for hoping that it won’t be like this?”  And this offers surprising light and hope: first by taking away the cosmic tragedy of it all and allowing me to connect instead to its great ordinariness.  And second, such an attitude does allow at least a glimpse of what unbinding might look like.

But the best thing about such an attitude is that it keeps you off the bottom.  The “wisdom of no escape” enables you to avoid the stark staring terror that is generated by the struggle to get away.  In Buddhism, the struggle to get away makes absolutely no sense and flies in the face of all useful practice.

Of course, what I’ve just described isn’t really the “experiential version”–which is something more like “oh my god oh my god I can’t stand this I can’t stand this please make it stop please make it stop wait what if it won’t ever stop what if what if oh my god oh my god no escape no escape no escape hm still no escape still no escape maybe i can just be here with no escape and oh my god still survive what then what then hmm still here still no escape oh my god it hurts so much but i’m not escaping and if oh my god i just keep on oh my god i can just a little start to breathe just a little just a little

(Interestingly, this is roughly what runs through my mind when I’m climbing a steep hill on my new bicycle.)

And, what if, as Jack Nicholson said, this is as good as it gets?

And I love Buddhism because the Buddha in his compassion saw and recognized the profound non-tragedy of suffering and saw through it and identified the remedy.  Jesus was, I think, and understandably so, rather caught up in the tragedy of suffering, as are his followers.  But at least as of today I think the Buddha’s unwinding offers more practical ordinary help for actually dealing with the circumstances of suffering.  Glamorizing, reifying, solidifying the suffering, in the Christian style, might make it more meaningful (hmm, but that’s interesting–what’s wrong with more meaningful?) but it’s not going to make it go away.

But I suppose that’s the Buddhist point as well: identifying the nature of suffering is not about making it go away; or rather you have to not care any more about whether it goes away before it has any chance of going away.  Just one more of those damned cosmic jokes the Creator of the Universe seems to love so much.

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There are times when my little Buddhist-Christian gig just sails along–maybe like a catamaran on its twin hulls, the sail set just right, the wind perfect, the sea blue and vibrant as my hulls cut through it.

Then there are times when there is no wind, no hulls, no sea–when the idea of moving along this ungainly twin path seems just as silly as any single path, just as foolish as no path at all.

The last week or so has been kind of like that: void of course. (You could parse that astrologically: “void-of-course”, or more colloquially: “void, of course.”).   After a lot of accomplishment it is natural, I suppose, to enter this trough of uncertainty–this is probably why Woody Allen takes one day off between films and then starts on the next one.  But for me anyway the creative path requires some fallow time, even though it generally drives me and everyone around me completely nuts.

So that’s where I am right now, fallow, trying to soak up the excess energy in various quixotic fantasies of creative possibility.  What will probably emerge is More of the Same: more chant, more Buddhist study, more tedious and careful weaving together of irreconcilable philosophical and historical perspectives.  But in the empty space I inhabit right now, I can envision grand possibilities, great creative edifices of newness and splendor that stretch to the outward limits of imagination.  I have been reading a bit of fantasy and science fiction lately, which stirs up curious notions of projecting chant-like activities into the realm of imagination and possibility.  For years I have been bound and disciplined by the historical contingencies of chant in its original time and place:  what would happen if those boundaries were transgressed?
Ah well, I can dream, can’t I?  As I say, doubtless the imperative qualities of stability and sanity will lead me once again to my carefully tended garden of the real; I’ll close the gate again on the vast tropical landscape beyond my borders and pick up my rake and hoe.

And yet the stretching feels so good, is so exciting and exhilarating.  I’m not ready to let go of that, not quite yet.

However, grounding events await: Peregrine is participating in a 5th anniversary service commemorating 9/11, we’re starting to prepare for a recording later this fall, and though my Buddhism class has at last, after 15 months, come to a close, we are continuing forward with a book study group that I think will feel pretty much like what I’ve been doing.

And one more meandering thought in this meandering post: Victoria is back in town, and there is a certain unmistakable and utterly delicious sense of joy and wonder at just being able to be ordinary with her in our ordinary space.  That in itself is as deep and rich and breathtaking as anything else I could imagine or would ever want to imagine.

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Last night a friend of mine was involved in a performance of opera scenes, the culmination of the 10-day Accademia d’Amore Baroque opera workshop. It was quite spectacular in many ways: an orchestra pit full of early Baroque instruments (Four theorbos! Countless lutes and harps! A whole legion of viola da gamba players!), two-plus hours of one amazing scene after another from Monteverdi and Rossi, with brilliant vocalist/performers. It was a pure delight to be present.

The section that really caught my attention, however, and stirred up a number of thoughts, was a section that presented a series of sublime 17th century settings of texts from the Song of Songs, with music by Monteverdi, Schutz, and Palestrina. The music was absolutely gorgeous, sung most exceptionally well by a mixed quarter with continuo accompaniment.

But I found the staging to be a bit problematic. The erotic text of the Song of Songs was played “straight” as it were, with the lover and the beloved doing some serious panting for one other; at the end a group of heavenly nymphs bring the couple together for their consummation.

Perhaps I’m being overwhelmed by prudishness, but I felt sad that the more mystical understanding of the text that was promulgated throughout the middle ages were nowhere in evidence. Although it’s true that the world of Baroque opera is not the most spiritually sophisticated world imaginable, I just can’t believe that the authors of these settings would have been completely unaware of this deeper layer of meaning. Despite the obvious human love descriptions that lie on the surface (and which the performance heavily emphasized), there is a cosmic dimension of love and connection that seems to me to bring out the richest and most potent aspects of the text.
So at least during that section I found myself sitting there wishing and hoping for more ways to share the hidden depths of this vastly important and misunderstood text. I’ve been thinking for a long time about doing some kind of program or teaching with the many chants based on Song (and I know at least of some of those chants are the basis for the incredible settings we heard last night). So maybe this musically beautiful but conceptually somewhat frustrating and inadequate presentation will stir me up to move forward with this idea.

But despite all that, it was a rich, lush, scrumptious slice of Baroque opera sublimity. What a rare treat that Seattle has become the home for this great workshop.

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The other day I had a conversation with a co-worker about religion and spirituality (what a nice gift, by the way–that makes two like that in the last three weeks.  It’s been something of a rarity, and therefore very very precious to me.)  I was saying at one point that I feel like Christianity is just in my bloodstream and I can’t walk away from it, and she said, “well, I can, and I did.”  And I believe her–she said it with clarity and conviction.  But it makes me wonder: what is it that makes some of us feel perpetually entwined with the religion of our youth?  Why, despite all our resentment and philosophical disagreement and longing to be free and unfettered, why do we stick around?  OK, for some of us that sticking around is a peculiarly careful and well-orchestrated version, like, um, maybe a Buddhist-Christian version or something.  But we don’t just walk away.

At times I wish I could.  I don’t like feeling the constraint of it, the obligation of it.  Yes, I’m drawn to beauty and mystery and the historical richness.  And every once in a while I feel moved by the Passion, or the vision of Moses on Mt. Sinai, or a turn of phrase by Paul or the Psalmist that gets the goosebumps going all over again.  But there’s an undercurrent of a voice: “give me freedom!”

And this is where my Buddhist teaching kicks in, encapsulated in Trungpa’s great line “the Myth of Freedom”.  Or Pema Chodron: “The Wisdom of No Escape”.  So given the inevitability of the conditioned life, as long as we choose to live on the checkerboard of good and bad, right and wrong, suffering and pleasure–why not Jesus?  He’s as good a companion in this vale of tears as any other teacher.

Not sure whether this comes across in the words above or not, but I find myself sunk in pathos this evening.  Some of it comes from a film I just watched, Fierce Grace, about the life and particularly the recent stroke experienced by Ram Dass.  Stirs up all kinds of stuff: the impermanence and vulnerability of the human person, and the immense emotional openness and joy Ram Dass displays, layered in with the ecstatic, almost pentecostal expressiveness of neo-Hindus that are part of his scene, and also the problems and possibilities of the guru and what people bring to such a personage, and what they expect, and how one is obligated to respond (etc. etc. blah blah blah).   There was a point in the film when a couple talks about losing their 12-year-old daughter, who was murdered, and the letter Ram Dass wrote to them, very compassionately and consciously reminding them that this was a form of teaching for them–and I just wept and wept.  So I’m still a bit wobbly.

Wobbly too because I miss my partner who is 9 days into a 14-day trip, that stage of being apart where the missing starts to become a tangible presence all the time (probably a good part of the reason why the story of the parents losing a child hit me so hard).  Wobbly also because all my performing (for now) is done, and wobbly because on my way home from work today on my bike I didn’t see a curb and ran into it at full speed; the bike’s front wheel stopped but the rest of us (me, the back of the bike) went flying, and next thing I knew I was flat on the ground with the bike on top of me.  A little surprising, to say the least.  It must have looked rather spectacular because a number of people, including a Seattle city cop, came running up to me afterwards to see if I was OK.  Very fortunately I came away with 8 or 10 interesting-looking scrapes on various limbs, only a couple of them bloody.  My bike’s mirror broke and the gears are making some rather peculiar sounds, but otherwise all is well.  I must confess to a certain sense of joy and youthful pleasure at the experience; nevertheless, given impermanence etc. etc. I will be more careful.  One particular irony is that today I debuted the new flourescent windbreaker I purchased to make me more visible to cars.  Now if I can just get my own eyes to work properly I justmight have a fighting chance.

I have migrated a bit from the stated title of this topic, which has to do with my own various comical and ultimately unsuccessful attempts to get Jesus the heck out of my life, and my wonderment and admiration for those who can do so successfully.  I’m beginning think, nearing the end of my fifth decade, that it’s just not going to happen.

And if suddenly, I should wake up tomorrow with a nice clean uncomplicated slate, ready to become a Bast-worshipper or an opera lover or maybe a (somewhat more careful) cycling enthusiast with no particular strings attached–well then, who would write this blog, anyway?

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I have remarked here before that my Buddhist friends are often uneasy with Christian stuff.  I don’t blame them but I wish that weren’t so.  So it didn’t surprise me too much that not many of them were at the medieval death ritual performance on Saturday night.  But it was quite gratifying to have one of the sangha members speak to me of how profoundly they were moved by the experience.   It spoke to this person on a level deeper than dogma or language–something else was moving and working through the ritual process we depicted, something that, though it might not be good dharma teaching from a Buddhist perspective was nevertheless true in some incontrovertible way.

I have that experience a lot with this Christian ritual stuff.  On the surface, not very appealing.  In the depths, deeply satisfying and meaningful and nourishing.

The other very nice thing about Saturday was the chance to see a number of students and retreat alumni (seems like they almost outnumbered the conference participants who stuck around after a long and intense day of sessions).  It was so wonderul to be able to exchange warm hugs with so many people: I don’t think of myself as the huggy type, but with this group it feels so easy and natural.  Very rewarding.  Yet more evidence that our little chant community continues to grow and deepen.

And I feel very grateful to the other participants, Jeri and Claudia and Ken and Erin and Amy and John and Dan, who played and sang like angels and carried our “dear departed” with care and conscientiousness.  I always like to work with people whose hearts are open and are committed to harmony of spirit as well as harmony of sound vibrations: this was a wonderful group to work with.

It’s been a big job putting this event together, and I hope to spend at least a few days breathing and recovering before plunging into the next project.  Peregrine is recording in November, and that will take some planning–and we’ve been invited to participate in the five-year anniversary service of 9/11 at St. Mark’s.  (We were there five years ago, on the Night Of, and it certainly feels appropriate and satisfying to join in this memorial.)  V and I have a smattering of events over the next couple of months.  But somehow–don’t know how yet–I hope to carry forward the energy of this death ritual work we just completed.  Ritual reconstruction, and a bit of staging, and a combination of male and female voices with harps–there’s something in there that deserves further attention.  The details remain to be seen, but as always I do look forward to watching things unfold.

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Did I mention that I love Gregorian chant?  Tonight was the dress rehearsal for Saturday’s “Medieval Christian death ritual” event, and though I was whirling and swirling through sound checks and setting up props and coaching the bier-carriers (sort of like spear-carriers, only different) and singing and coordinating clothing and sorting out processional roadblocks–though I was terribly busy and distracted I also found myself very, very moved at several points during the evening.  Yes, Christianity is stuck on this relationship with God stuff, and yes from a Buddhist perspective that can so easily become a crutch, a delusion, a fantasy–and yet the Psalms, especially in this context (“Oh Lord, do not let me go down into the pit”) that devotional longing for the Divine Other just felt poignant and human and deeply honest.

My early experiences of a personal God were decidedly mixed: in the overheated emotional atmosphere of an evangelical upbringing it quickly became impossible to distinguish between the genuine and the ersatz.  I can’t believe that in among all the many many thoughts and feelings I had during those years there wasn’t something truly precious and genuine.  But this is why precise analytical tools are so incredibly valuable: if you can’t identify what is genuine, then the true genuineness does’nt help a whole lot–you can’t ever be sure you’ve really seen it.

But in there somewhere, something rang me like a bell and helped to wake me up–I’m convinced of that–and tonight I felt it again.  If that touching poignant sense of connection to what the Sufis call the Beloved can be purified, clarified, exposed to analysis and evaluation, then I’m sure it’s something like that enjoyment body the Buddhists like to talk about: the beatific vision.  Cosmic union.  Really reaching out and touching all that is.  Because what is the romance of the syrupy religious experience but the by product of the shedding of ego and a sign that one is indeed moving closer to one’s center?  It’s just important not to confuse that romance of the Thou with the reality of the One.

Looking back at my first sentence, I’m not sure that in this case it’s really Gregorian chant that I love.  I think what I love, at least at this moment, is the Christian liturgical vision.  When I can just be with it in its purity, it speaks to me with such simplicity and profundity.  Very, very good stuff.

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It appears that my 15-month-long series of classes at Nalanda West is drawing to a close.  We had our last class session tonight, and rumors of a possible additional extension turned out to be false.  There is the possibility the our loyal and wonderful group of students may continue in a quasi-official “book group” mode.  But after our final debate-style exam week after next, an era comes to a close.

This was a very good session on the concept of the three kayas, or “bodies”, of the buddhas.  Since buddhas are by their nature beyond conceptual thought, this material is all presented as “‘messages to the conceptual mind”.  What is so can only be hinted at in very inadequate terms.  Still, I find it fascinating–thrilling, actually–to put my mind to work on these questions.  I do believe that mental exercises of this kind helps to open up space to experience these subtle and slippery states of consciousness more directly.  And the truth is that I find these wisdom teachings to provide a great deal of insight into how things work here in ordinary reality.  The difference between my momentary awareness of things-as-they-are and the awareness of a fully enlightened buddha is not trivial–OK, I get that–but there is, this tradition says, some relationship between them and these moments of insight are very useful both as instruction and as inspiration.

An extra bonus this evening was talking with one of my classmates about her ambition to read Joyce’s Ulysses as a mother of two toddlers.  Now that’s what I call a sublime aspiration…

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Our Lotus & Lily group met this evening–we’re discussing the book Buddhists Talk about Jesus, Christians Talk about the Buddha.  For our group of committed Buddhist-Christians (of various stripes, but all committed in our ways) it’s not exactly the ideal book, since there’s a lot of “Buddhists think this, but Christians think that” stuff in it.  For people like us, who make a practice of melding and integrating and sometimes holding paradoxically to both traditions, that creates an unnatural chasm.  Still, the essays we read were fodder for an excellent and wide-ranging discussions, from the perennial “enlightenment/salvation” favorite to stories of junior high Bible camp and catechism to a poignant exploration of how one’s interactions with a fundamentalist co-worker might stir up fears that inhibit one from plunging into the dharma.

Among the many good insights stirred up by this discussion was this: Christian salvation takes place at the very beginning of the process, at baptism or conversion or somewhere in there–this is then followed, in the wisest forms of the Christian tradition, by a lengthy and indeed endless (in this lifetime) effort of formation and transformation as we are “changed into His likeness” through instruction in virtue and spiritual practice and acts of charity and compassion.  Buddhist enlightenment takes place at the end of a lengthy and ultimately very analogous effort of formation and transformation.  I thought that was quite profound and interesting: each tradition places its defining event at a different point in the journey, and that placement has deep consequences and great potential and important limitations.

So while in my recent thinking I have been putting a great deal of emphasis on the difference between Christian salvation-by-other and Buddhist salvation-by-self, the framework above de-emphasizes that difference, and helps me to see it as possibly a nuance of approach, almost a matter of style.

In the end it comes down to, what will get us off our butts and engaging in the process of becoming awake?  Do we need that lovely touch of the savior to get us going?  Do we need a confidence invested by us in the universe, saying “you can become enlightened if you want to?”  Sounds to me an awful lot like that can be boiled down to psychological differences between individuals.

And where we ended up was: just take the next step.  The last thing we need is to get all wound up about one ontological status or another.  I don’t think either Jesus or Buddha would say that anxiety about ontological status is the road to the kingdom.

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At times, when I peer into the depths of traditional Buddhadharma, I find myself swept off my feet, loving its wisdom, profundity and subtlety, and just ready to let everything else go and enter the path of meditative equipoise, compassion, and the movement toward a truly awake and aware state.

And other times I am bemused by the smells and bells, the romance of communion, the body of Christ, the Biblical tradition, the mystics poets and saints who have immersed themselves in the Christian stream and thereby have become immeasurably richer.

And there is the rest of the time, when I am bobbing like a cork on the sea of complications, soaking up the manic diversity of the contemporary world, and seeing how the fleeting insights into the dharma or the teachings of Jesus might shape and open and reveal the mysteries of the endless cavalcade.

Today is one of those “rest of the time” days: last night we went to see Little Miss Sunshine, a truly brilliant film with pungent and wonderful Buddhist overtones, and some lovely sly Christian subtexts as well (the alienated teenager son wears a t-shirt that reads “Jesus Was Wrong”); not the least of the film’s many delights was its excellent score, which included a few tracks by Sufjan Stevens, whom I’ve *heard about* for some time but had never actually *heard*.  So I’ve been Pandora’ing him for most of the day, which is leading me to a string of wonderful groups I’ve never heard of who inhabit a similar creative, intriguing, appealing space.

Of course, this is all sandwiched between the pure wonderfulness of being able to successfully and hilariously send up my co-workers and our bosses in the parody song musical I wrote for our annual work retreat–just shots of pure delight at being able to crack everyone up so thoroughly and therapeutically.  And, on the other side of bizarre multicolored pogo stick that is my life, the steadily approaching drumbeat of my “medieval death ritual” concert next weekend, which is coming together beautifully and with its own perfection.

And there is the deep sadness of V about to leave for California for a couple of weeks, and all the brilliance and not-quite-over not-quite-sadness of a gorgeous August Saturday, and the wonder of overhearing a super-hepped-up Ethiopian-language Pentecostal church service in Ballard this evening (best show in town, I guarantee), and the utter thrill of seeing my sister-in-law win a NATIONAL rowing title at the Green Lake Regatta yesterday.

In the Buddhist-Christian context I guess this is all just to say: I am floating in a sea of of wonders, not quite a focused religious path, exactly, but tons of material for reflection and gratitude and, I hope, discovering pathways toward greater wisdom and compassion.  Somewhere in the midst of all this, grace flows and dharma grows and life goes a little deeper.

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Back this evening from my office retreat, about which much could be said, but in this venue I will limit my comment to: I’m feeling very blessed by my opportunity explore right livelihood with a very sympatico group of people.  What a gift.

The particular retreat experience that’s worth sharing, though, is a lovely conversation I had with a co-worker based in Ohio (the HQ of the company I work for is in suburban Columbus).  I discovered that he is working on a novel in the style of Charles Williams; I already knew that he was a member (attendee?) of The Vineyard, an interesting evangelical Christian movement.  Our conversation was a reminder of the many long involved talks I got into years ago at Simpson Bible College in San Francisco, when my sister and future brother-in-law and a small group of other friends sought to explore the intellectual and artistic possibilities of our evangelical roots, particularly through the writings of the Inklings, that seminal British group of Christian writers and thinkers (not all evangelical, but with that  basic orientation).

I can date the birth of myself as a thinker and (at least would-be) writer to those days.  So it was in one sense a sort of homecoming, or at least a piece of nostalgia, to engage in this conversation.  But it was more than that: I found my colleague orthodox and thoughtful (what an intriguing combination!) and very interested in my comments on Buddhism and Christianity.  He noted that the mentor who led him to Christ many years ago has become a Buddhist.  He believes Jesus is the way to God but recognizes that humans created in the image of God discover other ways to connect to Him.  He listened carefully and spoke passionately, and it was just one of the best and most heartful conversations I’ve had in a good long time.  I don’t think either of us needed to sacrifice our integrity or our passion: I felt listened to and respected and I hope he felt the same way.

I don’t talk to evangelical Christians much at all these days; Seattle doesn’t have too many and they don’t run in my circles or I in theirs.  But whenever I have one of these rare encounters, I find myself wishing there were more opportunities to share and converse with my former co-religionists.  It seems important and valuable somehow–a part of myself in a way, but also an opportunity to stretch and think differently.

I’m not making any big statements or commitments here (this is just a blog, after all), but I like the way this window into the old Inklings days popped open a bit.  An interesting light is flowing into my chamber.

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Just got home from a lovely rehearsal with several friends, for the Christian Death Ritual concert we’re doing at Nalanda West next weekend (ulp!).  But things went very well tonight, with harp friends and chant retreat friends and Blessed Sacrament friends and Peregrine friends all coming together.  We made some nice music and had a great time, all in the service of recreating a ritual for the dying that’s nearly a thousand years old.  It just seems totally right on to fit these things together.

I heard a Buddhist teacher say one time that Buddhism has a reputation for being gloomy when it fact is quite the opposite: it offers the antidote to suffering, which of course requires that you look at the condition, which makes it seems obsessed with suffering.  The outcome is joyous, if the process is not always so.

I was thinking of this tonight as we sang the Christian chants for the dead.  Thinking of it also when reading a couple of excellent books, The Stripping of the Altars and Medieval Death.  In the late middle ages there was an obsession with the macabre: the Dance of Death, grinning corpses, memento mori.  But what is that, if not a reminder of the transience of human life, an attempt to turn attention away from the limitations of physical experience and seek something deeper?

On this point I think traditional Christianity and Buddhism are in perfect alignment.  Not so much what to turn your attention to, but what to turn your attention from:  the illusory sense of permanence and satisfaction in worldly goods and worldly pleasures.

For the most part, the chants we are working with don’t hang out in this zone: they are chants of healing and redemption, rest and comfort.  But there, lurking in the background, are the fires of judgment, with their simple message: don’t get stuck in what seems to be in front of you–there’s a deeper reality than that.

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I have been having such a groovy time hanging out with the bodhisattvas lately.  So when Peregrine went to sing at St. Mark’s this morning for the Feast of the Transfiguration, I was looking forward to the music but not really looking forward to the service.  I kept Buddhistically silent during the Nicene Creed, and yawned through the sermon and the prayers of the people.  We sang beautiful chant (Peregrine really is singing quite well these days), but there wasn’t a whole lot happening for me emotionally during most of the service.

After we finished our communion anthems (some really groovy medieval-style harmony to wrap it up–sounded great) I noticed my lone Episcopal Peregrine colleague slip downstairs to grab a little bread and wine.  And since I only take communion about once a year, usually at our Peregrine summer fill-in-for-the-choir service, I slipped downstairs too.  Not really thinking why or why not.

And something happened.  OK, the earth didn’t exactly move.  But there was a shift of some kind, chewing that bread and drinking that sherry-tasting wine they serve there.  I walked back to the choir loft through the brightly sunlit aisles of the cathedral, feeling different, and wondering, once again, what it is about this maddening, immense, confused, brilliant, wise, and utterly ridiculous tradition into which I was born?  There are still hooks there, and sometimes the thing still just moves me, despite myself.

Ah, well.  It will sort itself out, right?

At the moment (apart from little shots of unexpected glory) I am totally swamped, getting ready for a work-related staff retreat this week, and also putting together this very exciting recreation of a medieval Christian death ritual a group of us are performaing at Nalanda West a week from next Saturday (August 19).  Between the two I likely won’t be blogging much this week.

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One of the key distinctions between Buddhism and Christianity is in their attitudes to the source of liberation:  traditionally, Christianity assigns that role to the Savior, while in Buddhism there is a pretty strict emphasis on the need fo individuals to find their own liberation.  (There is an escape clause in some Buddhist traditions,, however: one can get the help of the Buddha or others to be reborn in a Pure Land, where self-liberation becomes a much easier task.)

As I’ve said before on these pages, I’m really attracted to the individual responsibility of the Buddhist path.  So it was with some surprise, during a meditation session this morning, when I stumbled across a notion (ah, notions.  Can we really trust those notions anyway?) that I was not alone, that buddhas and bodhisattvas galore were standing by to assist me on my journey.  Very much like the sense I’ve had on occasion that Mary and the saints were standing by to assist me.

In my last post I wrote of the two wings by which “the victors” can soar to enlightenment: relative truth and absolute truth.  From an absolute point of view there is nothing that can be identified as singular, permanent, and independent; from this perspective the notion of some sort of “entities” that actually affect “my” liberation is just so much conceptual claptrap.  But, on the other wing, these wonderful beings, whatever they might be bejewelled bodhisattvas or bloody martyrs, serene cosmic buddhas or Most Compassionate Virgins, are right there, available, intending to make use of all their accomplishments, all their merit, all their grace-given purity or steadfastness or humility or potent wonder-working powers–they are ready to use those powers to help *us*.  To help *me*.

So however important it is for me to continue to diligently pursue the study and practice that helps prepare me for liberation (and it’s very important), I’m just basking right now in the beautiful notion, shared by both of my core traditions, that there is help: when the road gets long or the burden gets heavy or the accumulated karma gets to be too much (or the laziness or anxiety or whatever it might be that stands in my way)–at that moment there is some shining being that is up ahead on the road there, profoundly wise and skillful like the best imaginable helpful character in the best imaginable fantasy novel, and totally focused on helping out.

I could stand to learn a thing or two about helping out better myself, in my own decidedly non-enlightened state of being.  But it sure is reassuring (at least tonight, when I kinda sorta grasp the idea) to contemplate who’s out there to lend a hand.

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Today I came across a great teaching, from the Madhaymakavatara of Chandrakirti (and let me just say that I would never have expected that a phrase like the Madh… of Chand… would roll off my fingers so easily–although given that I used to start each day, in my early 20s, with a rollicking good read of the Iliad in Homeric Greek might have been a clue).

Anyway, this is the text we’ve been working with my class, an exposition of the 10 bodhisattva bhumis. But the important thing is this image in the text:

Spreading the vast immaculate wings of relative and suchness,
These sovereign swans fly ahead to lead the flock of beings,
Through the powerful winds of virtue,
They proceed to the other shore of the victorious ones’ qualities.

As so often, coded language: “relative and suchness” refers to relative truth and absolute truth: the conventional realm within which we act as though we exist as separate beings, and the absolute realm within which no distinctions, no form, no emptiness, no nothing, no not nothing…

And these “realities” are both necessary, both carry beings forward like the wings of a swan toward enlightenment. This really starts to remind me of the “Mahayana Mark” teachings of John Keenan about the wilderness and the world of human interaction. Hey, it’s the middle path! To get it right, you need both: the way things really are and the way they seem to be–the bliss of meditative absorption and the post-meditation engagement with the world.

Way back in college (bible college, no less) I had a professor who used to talk about the “healthy tension” of the Christian path. Another formulation is “eschatological tension”: the right-now-but-not-yet of a world in which Jesus is Lord but he hasn’t quite shown up again (though we’re expecting great things any day). I think this two-wing idea is a similar notion. And the “sovereign swans” know that both are needed, and make use of both, and in fact make their way along perfectly well–just perfectly well–with both realities at the same time.

As I understand it, the Buddhist teaching is that, as you ascend the path, the distinction between relative and absolute starts to waver and disintegrate, dissolving completely somewhere right around the moment of total enlightenment. For the rest of us, we’ve got these two wings to work with, and we just use them the best we can.

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