Former Buddhist Patriarch Dies

On March 12th of this month, a monk who had been the Theravadan Patriarch of Cambodia, and who had been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts at reconciliation after the disastrous regime of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge, died here in New England. A Website devoted to Maha Ghosananda can be reached at

http://www.ghosananda.org/index.html

Five years ago, soon after the events of 9/11/01, he came to speak at the Cambridge Buddhist Association. I wrote up my impressions of the event. It seems fitting to share it now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~O~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oct. 5, 2001

October 3rd, Wednesday, I went to the Cambridge Buddhist Association to sit and to hear the Ven. Maha Ghosananda speak. Ghosananda, outside of Cambodia during the bombing and the Pol Pot regime, labored with great effort and often courage to help rebuild Cambodia, and was four times nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

A somewhat frantic email from Dharman pleaded for help setting up at the CBA for the visit. Apparently, everyone else assumed, as I did, that others would answer. I have the excuse of living out of town, but I went in a bit early to see if there were any odds and ends requiring an extra hand. Dharman said he would assign me something, and then went off in a flurry. As I was doing the various things to get ready for zazen -- remove watch and affix to belt, loosen belt two notches and unbutton top button and lower fly one-third, extract juzu from pouch, etc. -- a woman in her thirties came into the coat/waiting room, and asked if I was one of the people in charge. I belonged to that sangha, yes, could I help? She informed me that she had studied there at the CBA with Lama So-and-so, did I know him? Then she asked if it would be alright to do her Vajrayana meditation during the sitting period. I told her that anything but zazen was strictly forbidden. And the monks can tell! When it seemed that she was taking me seriously, I said that the CBA, though generally tending to a Zen format, was non-denominational. Oh, good! She was looking for a sangha like that!

Dharman blew in and asked me to look in the ivy that covered the ground in the front yard for a key to a Mercedes that belonged to one of the trustees. It would free him to do other things. How did it happen to be in the front yard? Long story, he said, declining to explain. He pointed out the areas where it could not be, and the areas of greatest likelihood, and gave me a bicycle lamp held on the head like a miner's light, to go search in the dark in the impossible ivy that held its leaves horizontally above the ground at precisely two-and-a-half inches. "There! Now you look Welsh! Do you write poetry?" "Doesn't everybody?"

After a few minutes, the lamaist student, A---, came out to help. Of course, she started where Dharman had said the key would not be, and would then go over the ground I had just searched. But I was not inclined to give directions, and doing anything for the sake of the sangha was a worthwhile thing, even if useless. The ivy was such that several eye passes might still miss a single key, so more eyes were welcome. A--- pattered away at me. Sometimes her voice was an unintelligible murmur in the sound-dampening vegetation under the low bush-trees, and I just grunted acknowledgement that I had heard her, though I had no idea what she was saying. And of course, she found the key! She gave me the key to give to Dharman, and I gave it back to her saying she deserved the glory. She said, "Oh, but I don't need any merit. Do you need any merit?" Probably. But more to save on pointless argument, I just gave Dharman the damn key.

I realized I was a bit thirsty. Ven. Dharman Stortz Shakya had just come out of the kitchen and closed it behind him. I entered and found two diminutive people there about the size of American 7- or 8-year-olds. Was one of them Ghosananda? But would he wear white? We exchanged polite bows and I signed that I wished to take some water. As I did, I decided that these people were female Asians, one old and one older than that. We again bowed with many smiles as I left, wondering if I had caused any difficulties with minor precepts.

Back in the foyer and about to take my seat in the zendo, I saw an elegant East Asian woman descending the mansion's stairway. She reeked of serenity! She wore a high-waisted dress, the style of which I associate with Korea, though I would have guessed her to be Japanese, with a black top and sleeves, and bell-like white flaring skirt. I gasshoed to her and she returned it with utmost grace. Behind her, Ven. Pannaloka was all smiles when he saw me, and after gassho, took both my hands in his.

I thought, What a whole lot of communication just happened! We all just made perfectly understood wishes for each other's well-being, though we might have difficulties expressing anything in words.

For some reason, Dharman thought sitting Rinzai-style, facing inward toward the center and the people opposite, would provide more room. I took a seat on a cushion not too far from, and opposite to, where I thought the Venerable would be sitting. A--- sat in a corner a few seats down from me. We were fifteen minutes early -- I could observe (without moving my eyes) other people taking their seats. The Asian woman in black and white dress sat two seats to my left, all her motions epitomes of grace and precision. A slight man with rakusu sat between us. A Westerner in rakusu and brown robe sat between me and A---. Directly opposite me were a middle-aged woman and a grey-bearded man who seemed together -- they had come out from the inner part of the mansion with Dharman earlier and my impression was that he had been giving them instruction. To their left, a dark man in robes. To their right, where Shodo Harada-roshi and his interpreter had sat and where I expected Ven. Maha Ghosananda, the two small women in white took their places.

The temple bell in the stairwell was rung by Ven. Pannaloka, though I don't know how I know that. Five minutes later, the large rin was struck three times to signal the beginning of zazen. Ten minutes later, the bearded man opposite seemed to catch himself, as if he had been falling over in sleep. From then on, he fidgeted more than anyone else I ever noticed fidgeting in a zendo, shifting leg positions, hands flying all over. I thought I could hear A--- shifting a bit as well. The sitting seemed longer to me than the usual thirty minutes. Dharman later mentioned something about having a "full period" first.

The kinhin line formed -- there were no gaps, it was a continuous string of persons all through the zendo rooms. Never saw that before!

At the klack! of the blocks, I was right next to my seat, disoriented for a split second, wondering where it was that I was supposed to go! As I sat down and before I put on my glasses, I had an impression of a middle-aged white woman on a Florida beach in a bright, bright orange dress and matching sunhat, sitting at the head of the two lines of zabutons in the main room. It was Maha Ghosananda, right shoulder bared, but otherwise wrapped in an almost dayglo orange kesa. His hat seemed like a knit cap of the same color, the size of a turban, riding unsteadily on his head. His skin color would not be unusual on a Vermonter in March. Guess he doesn't get out in the sun much any more, due to his age and health.

Dharman spoke, saying we had an extended first period to leave the second period free for Ven. Maha Ghosananda to speak. He helped people in the auxiliary areas bring in their zabutons and zafus and arrange them at our end of the room facing our guest. A---, holding out her zafu, rather loudly told Dharman, "In my tradition, we don't use these to meditate!" The monk just looked at her kind of blankly and kept on trying to arrange the room. I turned about 45 degrees toward him in a relaxed cross-legged posture. Others hugged their knees or maintained zazen posture. Dharman placed a cup of tea by MG's right knee, but the elder did not seem to notice. He did see the cup placed by his left thigh by one of the white-clad women, and took a sip. I and the audience slipped into a relaxed, respectful waiting for the words to begin.

After many long minutes, I glanced at MG's face. His eyes were closed. He did not seem to have any inclination toward speech -- I thought he was meditating! My "relaxed" posture became strained without all those little movements we do unconsciously, and I envied the man on my left, who had kept zazen posture. I thought of how Rev. Matsuoka once got up during a zazen service to do something in the back of the temple, and I became certain that he had lost track of time -- the usual eternity of zazen stretching into a hellish mix of being stuck in my own escalating desires and fears, and dependent on the uncertain attention of this mysterious man. David Chadwick related an episode when Suzuki-roshi likewise got up and took a walk, doubling the time for a sitting. Was the Venerable's silence a teaching? I thought it just as likely that he suffered some amount of senility and misunderstood what was expected of him. I tried to unobtrusively adjust my posture back to zazen position. (Amazing how loud and obvious such movements are in a quiet zendo!) The Asian woman in black and white placed her hands on the floor, then straightened into zazen also. The poor man opposite me was going through a worse hell than I ever did, judging from the amount of limb movement he was making. The whole zendo seemed to fall into one or the other mode: calm return to zazen, or anguished, but (pretty much) silent, bewilderment.

I felt sorry for that man opposite, and somewhat concerned about Dharman's state of mind. I glanced at him, sitting just behind MG. Dharman seemed to be in zazen as well. It was not my problem. It really was not a problem at all! Pannaloka sat in the timekeeper's seat, apparently untroubled by the peculiar situation. How would this end, if MG sat until the signal to end the period was given, and the period would not end until MG had finished talking? Speech must start if it is to end.

I observed the "tension" between tension and calm in the zendo, feeling one, then the other. I wished for the agitated man to know that there was no reason to be either anxious or bored. Perhaps this unplanned strangeness would count as a great lesson in the man's life. It was teaching me that my reactions had changed greatly since I first attended Matsuoka-roshi's zendo. Entertainment, observation, amusement, wishing for resolution, confidence that it would happen, and just breathing.

Finally, after about an hour, Dharman rose from behind MG, bowed deeply before him and, still kneeling, requested whether he could ask a question. The elder assented. "How should we as Buddhists respond to the recent attacks?" "Forbearance!" Buddhist practice is based on three things: forbearance, wisdom, and [Something else -- sorry! Generosity?]. Forbearance is the most important.

At first, I followed him with difficulty. Was he another Asian Rorschalk inkblot, providing an opportunity to clothe the foreign teacher with wisdom discovered from within oneself? My ear got used to him quickly, though. Especially as he repeated the same teachings several times, to a variety of questions. Evidence of senility, or merely worn-in teaching that had proved its worth?

"There are 84,000 Dharmas! They are all contained in feeling! Mindfulness is the key to it all. Be mindful of your breath -- breathing in, breathing out. Buddha Gotama said that a person unmindful of their breath is already dead. When you listen to me and I speak well, you have a good feeling. When you listen to me and I do not speak well, you have a bad feeling. When you listen to me, but you are not mindful, that is a neutral feeling. The body is a vehicle and mindfulness is the driver -- you do not want a vehicle without a driver.
"Buddha asked his son, Rahula, 'What is the first Dharma?' Rahula could not answer, so Buddha answered for him, 'The first Dharma is eating!' Everything is eating everything else -- the eye eats sights, the ear eats sounds, the tongue eats tastes, the nose eats scents, the body eats feelings, the mind eats thoughts!
"Buddha asked his son, Rahula, 'What is the second Dharma?' Rahula could not answer, so Buddha answered for him, 'The second Dharma is cause and effect.'
"Buddha asked his son, Rahula, 'What is the third Dharma?' Rahula could not answer, so Buddha answered for him, 'The third Dharma is three kinds of feeling -- pleasant, unpleasant, and neutral.'
"Fourth Dharma -- the Four Noble Truths!
"Fifth Dharma -- the five aggregates!
"Sixth Dharma -- the six senses!
"Seventh Dharma -- the seven limbs of enlightenment!
"Eighth Dharma -- the Eightfold Noble Path!
"Ninth Dharma -- the nine Transcendental States!
"Tenth Dharma -- the ten wholesome acts!"
MG went on to describe the Buddha's dying words, "Life and death are like a dream and vanish while you hold them -- take care!" He said, "This is the last, the 84,000th Dharma, and it comes back to mindfulness."

Others ask various configurations of the same question: How are we to deal with the terrorist attacks? The ancient Venerable replied with various configurations of the above. It was useful to me to hear it several times, to understand what he was saying. Essentially, we already know how to react, personally, according to Buddhism. We find the calm within our emotions, however hard or easy that may be.

A younger monk (about my age or younger -- I find it difficult to guess the age of Asians) spoke of being in the bombing of Cambodia. Half a million tons of explosives were dropped in four years on the previously peaceful and economically content Cambodians. Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger ordered the bombing on the idea that the Viet Cong were using Cambodia as a stage to attack South Vietnam from. If every ton killed just one person, that's a half-million dead! And each bomb left a pond where there was fertile rice paddy. The young men of the villages were infuriated, and Pol Pot armed them with weapons the Chinese were quite willing to deliver. When the U.S. withdrew from Vietnam, the Khmer Rouge turned on the populations of the cities, calling them American lackeys, and killed them. And then the Chinese demanded payment for the weapons, so there was not enough rice.

The monk described how he and most felt about America from what he saw of it from movies and its policies in Southeast Asia. Americans were guided by three motivating desires: power, money, and sex. But then he had become a monk and traveled in his studies, escaping death in Cambodia and eventually living in the U.S. What a surprise to see how beautiful this country is, and how wonderful its people! The terrorists must see America the same way as he once did. If only the government would embody in its foreign policies the fairness natural to most Americans!

A--- said something about there always being light in the darkness. "Yes!" MG said. "Life consists of pairs of opposites. When we have darkness, we can find the light!"

At one point A--- asked if it were proper to recite her protective mantras for our military. I was struck by the peculiarity of the question, a Vajrayanic point being put to a Theravadan in a non-denominational setting. A. L.'s personality formed in my mind! A---'s behavior made a lot of sense if she had borderline personality disorder. But the elder smiled ahttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifnd said, "Do not make 'my' military! Remember Anatta!" For some reason, that broke a tension in the room and people chuckled. But A--- said, in a voice audible enough at least as far as my ears, "But he didn't answer my question!"

It was ten o'clock when Dharman ended the meeting. We would have had refreshments, but the monks had to rise early to prepare for the next day's monks' meeting. I saw my friend Peter in the coat room and lost track of A---, though I was curious about her mental state on leaving. I wondered whether she still thought this sangha suited for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~O~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another story about MG (shorter, though) is on Zen teacher James Ford's site:

http://monkeymindonline.blogspot.com/2007/03/maha-ghosananda.html

Archdeacon Roman

Sunday morning, March 18, I went to my parents' church in the Fenway. My cousin had left a message a few weeks ago that Archdeacon Roman had died. At the time, I did not have the car running, so did not attend his funeral.

Fr. Deacon Roman had a resonant voice, ideal for the deacon's part in the Orthodox Liturgy. I can hear its exact timbre even now. He cut a very exotic figure, with long, stringy hair and somewhat scraggly beard (not unlike my own), and the purple velvet Kamilavka, the archdeacon's cylindrical hat. From my earliest memories, I have imprints of the sensory aspects of the Orthodox Liturgy: the brightness of the candles and icons and vestments, and the stately motions of the clergy; the smell of the Holy in the incense; and especially the voices of the choir and clergy in the singing of the ancient poem, in Old Slavonic. More recently, the singing is mostly in English, but still mythical. The Archdeacon voice wove through the magic of the ceremony, reigniting the sacred in those toddler's memories.

He had cancer, but it was a combination of blood clots in the legs and intestinal bleeding that did him in. I heard that he approached death with dignity and faith, as is appropriate for any deeply religious person.

May we all go so composedly, whatever our views.

http://holytrinityorthodox.org/articles_and_talks/In%20Memoriam.htm

A Meeting

[The Medicine Society meets on the second Friday of the month during most of the year, from October to April. It is a collection of individuals bound by teachings and customs, that shuns publicity as a hindrance to its functioning as a spiritual vehicle for its members. It's not really secretive, just appreciating obscurity as freedom. For this reason, I use initials rather than names when speaking about it or the people within it. Usually the names abbreviated thus have two or three words of the nature of "Weasel Tracks."]

Having a car again enables me to attend Society meetings again. I missed the last one. The Society functions as a tribe as well as a school. Our spirituality involves each other, so we know the importance of going to as many of its events as possible.

When I got to the hall we use, the medicine man had not arrived yet, so I sat in the warm car with the engine off. SF and her basset arrived from Connecticut, needing pit-stop facilities but the hall was locked up tight, front door and back. I suggested she use a stand of pines not far off for privacy, while I gathered brush for the ceremonial fire we would light later.

Towns down here in eastern Massachusetts are getting hinky about open fires, so the Stone Lodge people acquired a fire-pot about a yard across, on legs about two feet high, of black iron. The welder even decorated it with cross-inserted circles at the quarters, the cross being a sacred symbol for many another than Christians. The swastika is likewise used sometimes, but its association with Nazism has cost it much frequency of use. SF returned, I finished the preliminary layout of the fire, and we retired to wait in her warm car and catch up on the year since we last saw each other.

The medicine man, RD, who had formed our Society, showed up with SH of the Stone people. Already in his eighties, RD still is the main influence for us all. Grey-eyed Abenaki. Possible evidence for pre-Columbian European contact in New England. Imitating his notoriously flirtatious manner, I complained, "You guys showed up just as SF was giving me her phone number!" She feigned shock and RD laughed.

The hall opened, and we did various things in the basement to set up for the meeting and pot luck, then relaxed into socializing. RD was alone upstairs, so I talked to him for a few minutes. I wasn't sure what was to be the order of the meeting and when to light the fire. We try always to have a fire in the center of our circles, something to burn up the sacred herbs we throw into which to make smoke to accompany our prayers skywards. "The fire is all set to light. Should I light it now?" "Sure," said the medicine man. I should have known better than to take this answer on its face.

I went outside and SH joined me at the fire-pot. The fire went right up and was perfect for ceremony. Only thing was that my idea of what was to happen and RD's were not very close. I thought we were going to have the opening circle at the fire. Nobody came out. After a while, I went in to check, and found the meeting going on full swing. I realized my error.

In the twenty years I've spent in the Society, I've often been reminded of similarities to what I've read of training in Japanese Zen monasteries. The young monk is never told exactly what to do, but yelled at (or worse) whenever he does something wrong. As he gets older RD forgets or misremembers things, and this puts people in difficult and uncomfortable situations. The older people are not dismayed by this, but others tend to be so upset over what they see as their own mistakes that some of them never come back. To me, it looks like something is using RD, often without his noticing, to offer us opportunities to solve situations with grace and kindness, and to grow in our inner confidence, patience, and skill.

At one point in our history, when the Society was going strong and many people were involved in regular events, RD asked a meeting, "Should we consider incorporating a legally chartered group? There's benefits to being a nonprofit religious organization." The people said, "We have relied on the guidance of the Spirit rather than writing ourselves a bunch of rules and regulations. Since it's worked well so far, why should we change? And let's stay out of the government's attention."

It's true. I've marveled at how the Society runs. Almost anyone who applies for membership is accepted. If they are problems, they simply stop coming to meeting and Gatherings. We have no chiefs -- RD just calls himself a medicine man and teacher -- but our camping Gatherings are a marvel of efficiency. A village of tents forms, and people simply do what's needed, looking after each other as well as themselves. When plans do go awry, people just figure the Spirit wasn't in favor of the enterprise. Or, sometimes, someone's heart had a darkness.

The fire was not to be left unattended. This evening's meeting was to be a sharing of personal spiritual experiences, which I am keen on hearing from other people, whatever I may make of their credibility. Obviously, I was going to miss most of the meeting, since the fire was for the closing circle. Though I would miss the talk, I could talk with the fire, hardly a hardship for a FireKeeper. SH said he'd stay when I suggested we need not both be there, so, we talked. I told him about things about my life, and he told me about his experiences with the medicine of his people out by the Great Lakes. When, at one point, I laughed at the monkeywrenches RD had a tendency to throw into the workings of my plans, he said, "Looks like it was just a way for the Creator to arrange for us to talk."

RD with Weasel Tracks

Another Folk Singer

Last fall, before the election, friends were discussing what ethical obligations we might have towards political action. I proposed that one should at least make one's views known.

This whole world is a conversation between humans, amongst humans and with plants and animals, mountains, sea and sky, with history and the momentum of social change, with potent unknowns, the sun, the galactic black hole, and the whole big whiz-bang of it. And now we're wired together by screens and keyboards, and there's a new dimension to our social discourse.

David Lowery of Cracker sings

What the world needs now is another folk singer
Like I need a hole in the head.

How many bloggers are joining the conversation daily? Is anything I have to say worth adding to the ocean of words?

When I was in high school and just after, I would ride around Boston on public transportation and gaze at the thousands of windows in all the apartment houses, wondering what magical lives of interest go on behind the shades. After many miles and years, I realized that very few were likely more interesting than my own.

A few months ago, I turned 60. Amongst Native Americans I know, my opinions would have long been respected just for my age. They have this idea that the older you get, the more and better you know. It should work that way.

One of my best jobs was driving a cab around Marin County, California. A real pretty place to drive around all day. There have been times when it was the richest county in the country, per capita. Lots of people retired there, so many of my customers were older. Elderly women frequently took cabs to beauty parlors. Since the company wasn't that big, chance would often fall that you would pick up the same lady on her way home. We had a routine, the old ladies and the cab drivers -- when one came out, she'd ask how she looked, and the driver would wonder aloud if she were the same person that he brought there. They hardly tipped well, the dears -- they still lived in a time when a quarter tip was substantial -- so the game was just for the tender-hearted fun of it. They really never looked any different than when they went in.

One busy Sunday, I took a woman in her seventies to a salon, and then I got a call out to Fairfax. After leaving the main street, I followed roads that curved hugging a high hill two miles up to near the top of it. A robust woman with a thick white braid hanging to her waist got in and asked to be taken to a store in San Rafael. I enjoyed her cheerful pleasantries. When she got out, the dispatcher sent me back for the woman at the salon. I played the usual game, and took her the short way to her elderly housing complex. She wasn't quite able to get out of the back seat by herself, so I offered her my arm. It took more effort than I expected, but she got on her feet and paid me. Then, referring to her difficulty getting out of the cab, she smiled and said, "Never get old, sonny!" I was about thirty then. I said nothing, but her words stayed with me. She didn't even know she was wishing me an early death. Well, again, I got my Fairfax fare and headed for her home. Don't remember what we talked about, but I remember feeling good with her in my cab. I was about to turn unto the curvy roads up the hill, but she made me stop so she could walk. She had two heavy bags. "Are you sure?" I asked. She gave me a look that conveyed that presence I've felt only from long-practiced religious people or old Indians. With a voice full of compassion for me, she said, "I'm sure. You don't get to be 92 by sitting on your ass."

I've thought about those two women ever since. The seventy-year-old was a nice person, but her life was not as rich as it could be. From the gift that day of driving these two ladies, and many more older folks, I began to see that there were two paths into old age. In one, you stay open to learning, welcoming the changes of circumstance as well as you can. In the other, you tend to freeze the way you see things out of fear that life is slipping out of your control. You tell a story to yourself that let's you believe everything will be alright. But you're just going to get older and sicker and some day you will surely die. Why shut out what's really going on for the sake of a self-told fairy tale.

What's really going on is a life of immeasurable beauty.

Presumably, I'm on the better path, but I've been wrong before. Hard to judge yourself accurately because, you know, you're biased. But it doesn't matter; the thing is to keep writing and join in the discourse and see what happens.

Another folk singer that sings her songs well is always welcome.