I had a dream that ended with a scene in which I sat on the left side of the tour bus, gawking out the window as usual and seeing many people at the side of the road and litter on the ground. Standing still among these people was the tall and skinny figure of Death, wrapped in black rags. Even the face was covered with black rags.
My throat is full of phlegm and my nose is full of snot. Nonetheless, I crawled out of bed and headed down for our morning meditation. After we practiced our sitting meditation in the same hotel room as last night, the reading was about death and decay, rather appropriately given that we are in Kushinagar, where the Buddha died. The reading included gruesome stuff, reminiscent of Tibetan visualization practice. Hey, let’s take a field trip to a charnel ground! How peculiar it is that I dreamed about the Grim Reaper after arriving in the village where the Buddha died. It seems to me like more than mere coincidence.
I had time after breakfast to wander around the hotel courtyard, and on the path I met up with John and Yvette. We admired the trees around the lawn, such as clusters of thin bamboo tied together to form a mushroom shape, and a strange little fig tree with branches sticking out like the branches at the top of a stupa, above the dome. We stood near a small orange tree growing tiny oranges. Yvette said her mother had had a tiny orange bush like that, but much smaller, on her treadle sewing machine. “This tree shows what that little orange bush had the potential to become,” Yvette said. “We all have the potential to bloom into something greater.”
Shantum took us to the Paranirvana Stupa, during the monks’ lunch break. It was before noon, and Shantum explained it would likely be the monks’ last meal of the day. I have read that this practice of eating early in the day and fasting later prevents food from distracting monks and nuns from their practice. After I return to the States, I intend to only have breakfast and lunch, no dinner, but my lunches will certainly be after noon, not before it. I am sure that eating with others, such as houseguests, will prevent my sticking to this schedule all the time, but except for the exceptions I truly resolve to have only breakfast and lunch.
We walked along a path amid red brick monastic ruins, similar to the ruins at Deer Park and Nalanda. In the distance, amid the crumbly brick structures and trees, stood a small white building, the Paranirvana temple, which marks where the Buddha died. The roof curved like a barrel over the one story, and centered at each side of the roof was a large circular window. Below the front window was a veranda with big, bright red columns contrasting against the otherwise perfectly white façade. Flanking the central door were circular niches that may have once contained Buddha statues.
Behind the temple loomed a large stupa in good shape considering its obviously advanced age. The temple in front did not look especially old, because it was completely intact, sporting glass windows, and covered with a fresh lick of white paint. We walked on the path past small trees and a hedge and up a few steps leading straight to the front doors of the Paranirvana temple, which is built on top of a big square brick ruin with a metal railing all around the temple and stupa.
We entered through the front door. Centered inside is a gigantic reclining gold Buddha made in the fifth century CE. The statue is beautiful and on a larger than life scale; the Buddha lies on an ornate rectangular platform and looks so peaceful, as if he were napping. In front of him are various offerings, particularly of incense and oranges.
In a far corner, a row of five Tibetan nuns chanted soothingly in soprano voices while we circumambulated three times. I finally noticed that the walls were plain grey cement blocks; they did not draw attention away from the marvelous gold Buddha that dominates the small room and predates it by several centuries.
We sat down on the floor facing the Buddha statue’s front. The nuns departed and were soon replaced by three maroon-clad monks who sat in the same back corner. While we sat looking around or meditating, a young monk in a red robe approached the Buddha statue, got down on his knees, placed offerings in front of the Buddha, and pressed his palms together. Shantum continued telling us the story of the Buddha’s life, or in this instance his death here in Kushinagar.
The Buddha, at the age of eighty, was out walking with Ananda and ate something that disagreed with him and came here to lie down between two sal trees, tell his last teaching, and die. In the Buddha’s last talk, according to Shantum, he said, “Live simply,” and Shantum added, “No more silk scarves.” Ann and I exchanged an amused look, and I lifted a corner of my beaded and sequined paisley shawl.
Finally, as the tale neared its end, Shantum said, “’All conditions of reality are subject to decay. Strive diligently,’ the Buddha said. Those were his last words. In simple terms it means, ‘Change happens, and keep practicing.’”
2
An Indian or more likely Sri Lankan monk, standing in the doorway in orange robes, spoke with Shantum, who afterwards explained to us that the Paranirvana Stupa is both a temple and an archeological survey. The archeological people are responsible for the signs saying, “No offerings,” and a Burmese temple is responsible for the donation box that sits close to the Buddha’s head. It is funny seeing a sign that commands, “OFFERING NOT ALLOWED,” below the Buddha statue’s head and inches away from a plate covered in marigolds, a bowl of fruit, and a donation box.
After Shantum’s talk, several people in our sangha asked to see the vast gold reclining Buddha without the orange and red cloth draped over it. Shantum spoke to the Indian attendant, and he carefully pulled the offering cloths off. We gathered around and took more pictures. The Buddha is plated gold from head to toe, with graceful curving lines indicating clinging draperies.
I was among those who circumambulated again. I gazed at the gold body all the way around, and as I approached the Buddha’s huge feet, several people ahead of me stepped forward, leaned, and touched the feet. I thought that looked like a good idea, but then I became slightly nauseous, thanks to this virus, and decided against it. I did not want to fall on or barf on the Buddha. That just would not do. So I slowly kept moving, reached the temple’s threshold, turned back for one last look at the enormous gold Buddha, then turned and slowly stepped out and took a deep breath in the relatively fresh air. When you meet the Buddha, vomit on the Buddha. No, no, take refuge in the Buddha; don’t barf on the Buddha. After we had had time with the Buddha uncovered, not to be confused with a Buddha unplugged concert, the attendants tucked him back in, so he could sleep peacefully.
I circumambulated around the two stupas, the one housing the statue and the one behind it, which we can’t enter, and that Emperor Ashoka built to mark where he believed the Buddha actually died. By the time I returned to the Paranirvana temple’s front facade, five or six orange-clad monks sat in a row to the right of the stupa entrance.
3
I need to be more aware of death. Once in a while it has occurred to me that I should reject the Western attitude of avoiding death and pretending it will not happen, but I am not entirely sure how to go about doing this. Maybe I just need to think about it a little; I did once visualize myself as a skeleton while I was meditating. That’s simultaneously gothic and Buddhist. It would probably help if I get around to reading the entirety of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and if I read up more on Chod, a Tibetan practice that involves sitting in a charnel ground and visualizing a particular goddess tearing your body apart. Pleasant. Of course, Buddhism is not about blocking out things that aren’t pleasant but rather experiencing everything mindfully and seeking truth. I should also read the Mahaparinibbana Sutta; the original unwritten version of it dates to the Buddha’s death.
I know that I want my corpse cremated, and I thought I wanted the ashes scattered in earth, air, fire, and water, but now I wonder if maybe I’d prefer the ashes were poured into the Gangaji. On the auspicious side, that is, not the Ha ha, you’re gonna come back as a donkey if you die here side. True, there are plenty of people who live in India and would like their ashes to enter the Ganga, so it would be better if my ashes were scattered in North America or wherever I die.
This virus certainly won’t result in my death, but it is a reminder of impermanence and the fickleness of health. Impermanence is like death, which is a metaphor for impermanence, which is in turn a kind of death. That reminds me that the tarot card illustrating a skeletal Death actually represents significant change in general, not just literal death, despite the tarot scene in the opera Carmen in which the card predicts the title character’s demise.
A shift in attitude can be a death of a part of yourself, such as the transition from being in denial about something to having a better grasp of truth and feeling glad for the greater awareness. Likewise, such a change is not only death but also rebirth, because you have gained wisdom and knowledge. I know firsthand that shedding denial, such as my denial about relatives, can help an artist become more artistically creative, since naturally the artist has become more expressive and more observant; being in denial means putting up a wall between yourself and truth. Even that sort of impermanence, a shift in attitude, ultimately reflects the circular cycle of life, which goes from birth, to living, to old age, to death, and over and over again in the same cycle through countless lifetimes.
The Buddhist concept of being devoid of inherent existence is tied in with impermanence. Over the years, in this lifetime alone, I have undergone change in how I think, and that old part of me dissolves; so what is Me, anyway? We are constantly changing, constantly experiencing impermanence, and so we do not exist in the sense of being an individual entity, separate from the rest of the world. Gee, that connects impermanence with interdependence, too. I’m hardly surprised, since everything is connected; everything is interdependent.
I picture the Buddha lying in his golden robes between two tall, slender trees, with a large crowd of people gathered around. On his deathbed, and at the advanced age of eighty, his voice, I imagine, would not have been loud enough for everyone to hear. Perhaps when he answered questions, a younger monk announced the answers to the crowd in a booming voice. Meanwhile, the weary Buddha lay still and propped his head up with his arm and remained equanimous, fully accepting his death as inevitable.
My throat is full of phlegm and my nose is full of snot. Nonetheless, I crawled out of bed and headed down for our morning meditation. After we practiced our sitting meditation in the same hotel room as last night, the reading was about death and decay, rather appropriately given that we are in Kushinagar, where the Buddha died. The reading included gruesome stuff, reminiscent of Tibetan visualization practice. Hey, let’s take a field trip to a charnel ground! How peculiar it is that I dreamed about the Grim Reaper after arriving in the village where the Buddha died. It seems to me like more than mere coincidence.
I had time after breakfast to wander around the hotel courtyard, and on the path I met up with John and Yvette. We admired the trees around the lawn, such as clusters of thin bamboo tied together to form a mushroom shape, and a strange little fig tree with branches sticking out like the branches at the top of a stupa, above the dome. We stood near a small orange tree growing tiny oranges. Yvette said her mother had had a tiny orange bush like that, but much smaller, on her treadle sewing machine. “This tree shows what that little orange bush had the potential to become,” Yvette said. “We all have the potential to bloom into something greater.”
Shantum took us to the Paranirvana Stupa, during the monks’ lunch break. It was before noon, and Shantum explained it would likely be the monks’ last meal of the day. I have read that this practice of eating early in the day and fasting later prevents food from distracting monks and nuns from their practice. After I return to the States, I intend to only have breakfast and lunch, no dinner, but my lunches will certainly be after noon, not before it. I am sure that eating with others, such as houseguests, will prevent my sticking to this schedule all the time, but except for the exceptions I truly resolve to have only breakfast and lunch.
We walked along a path amid red brick monastic ruins, similar to the ruins at Deer Park and Nalanda. In the distance, amid the crumbly brick structures and trees, stood a small white building, the Paranirvana temple, which marks where the Buddha died. The roof curved like a barrel over the one story, and centered at each side of the roof was a large circular window. Below the front window was a veranda with big, bright red columns contrasting against the otherwise perfectly white façade. Flanking the central door were circular niches that may have once contained Buddha statues.
Behind the temple loomed a large stupa in good shape considering its obviously advanced age. The temple in front did not look especially old, because it was completely intact, sporting glass windows, and covered with a fresh lick of white paint. We walked on the path past small trees and a hedge and up a few steps leading straight to the front doors of the Paranirvana temple, which is built on top of a big square brick ruin with a metal railing all around the temple and stupa.
We entered through the front door. Centered inside is a gigantic reclining gold Buddha made in the fifth century CE. The statue is beautiful and on a larger than life scale; the Buddha lies on an ornate rectangular platform and looks so peaceful, as if he were napping. In front of him are various offerings, particularly of incense and oranges.
In a far corner, a row of five Tibetan nuns chanted soothingly in soprano voices while we circumambulated three times. I finally noticed that the walls were plain grey cement blocks; they did not draw attention away from the marvelous gold Buddha that dominates the small room and predates it by several centuries.
We sat down on the floor facing the Buddha statue’s front. The nuns departed and were soon replaced by three maroon-clad monks who sat in the same back corner. While we sat looking around or meditating, a young monk in a red robe approached the Buddha statue, got down on his knees, placed offerings in front of the Buddha, and pressed his palms together. Shantum continued telling us the story of the Buddha’s life, or in this instance his death here in Kushinagar.
The Buddha, at the age of eighty, was out walking with Ananda and ate something that disagreed with him and came here to lie down between two sal trees, tell his last teaching, and die. In the Buddha’s last talk, according to Shantum, he said, “Live simply,” and Shantum added, “No more silk scarves.” Ann and I exchanged an amused look, and I lifted a corner of my beaded and sequined paisley shawl.
Finally, as the tale neared its end, Shantum said, “’All conditions of reality are subject to decay. Strive diligently,’ the Buddha said. Those were his last words. In simple terms it means, ‘Change happens, and keep practicing.’”
2
An Indian or more likely Sri Lankan monk, standing in the doorway in orange robes, spoke with Shantum, who afterwards explained to us that the Paranirvana Stupa is both a temple and an archeological survey. The archeological people are responsible for the signs saying, “No offerings,” and a Burmese temple is responsible for the donation box that sits close to the Buddha’s head. It is funny seeing a sign that commands, “OFFERING NOT ALLOWED,” below the Buddha statue’s head and inches away from a plate covered in marigolds, a bowl of fruit, and a donation box.
After Shantum’s talk, several people in our sangha asked to see the vast gold reclining Buddha without the orange and red cloth draped over it. Shantum spoke to the Indian attendant, and he carefully pulled the offering cloths off. We gathered around and took more pictures. The Buddha is plated gold from head to toe, with graceful curving lines indicating clinging draperies.
I was among those who circumambulated again. I gazed at the gold body all the way around, and as I approached the Buddha’s huge feet, several people ahead of me stepped forward, leaned, and touched the feet. I thought that looked like a good idea, but then I became slightly nauseous, thanks to this virus, and decided against it. I did not want to fall on or barf on the Buddha. That just would not do. So I slowly kept moving, reached the temple’s threshold, turned back for one last look at the enormous gold Buddha, then turned and slowly stepped out and took a deep breath in the relatively fresh air. When you meet the Buddha, vomit on the Buddha. No, no, take refuge in the Buddha; don’t barf on the Buddha. After we had had time with the Buddha uncovered, not to be confused with a Buddha unplugged concert, the attendants tucked him back in, so he could sleep peacefully.
I circumambulated around the two stupas, the one housing the statue and the one behind it, which we can’t enter, and that Emperor Ashoka built to mark where he believed the Buddha actually died. By the time I returned to the Paranirvana temple’s front facade, five or six orange-clad monks sat in a row to the right of the stupa entrance.
3
I need to be more aware of death. Once in a while it has occurred to me that I should reject the Western attitude of avoiding death and pretending it will not happen, but I am not entirely sure how to go about doing this. Maybe I just need to think about it a little; I did once visualize myself as a skeleton while I was meditating. That’s simultaneously gothic and Buddhist. It would probably help if I get around to reading the entirety of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and if I read up more on Chod, a Tibetan practice that involves sitting in a charnel ground and visualizing a particular goddess tearing your body apart. Pleasant. Of course, Buddhism is not about blocking out things that aren’t pleasant but rather experiencing everything mindfully and seeking truth. I should also read the Mahaparinibbana Sutta; the original unwritten version of it dates to the Buddha’s death.
I know that I want my corpse cremated, and I thought I wanted the ashes scattered in earth, air, fire, and water, but now I wonder if maybe I’d prefer the ashes were poured into the Gangaji. On the auspicious side, that is, not the Ha ha, you’re gonna come back as a donkey if you die here side. True, there are plenty of people who live in India and would like their ashes to enter the Ganga, so it would be better if my ashes were scattered in North America or wherever I die.
This virus certainly won’t result in my death, but it is a reminder of impermanence and the fickleness of health. Impermanence is like death, which is a metaphor for impermanence, which is in turn a kind of death. That reminds me that the tarot card illustrating a skeletal Death actually represents significant change in general, not just literal death, despite the tarot scene in the opera Carmen in which the card predicts the title character’s demise.
A shift in attitude can be a death of a part of yourself, such as the transition from being in denial about something to having a better grasp of truth and feeling glad for the greater awareness. Likewise, such a change is not only death but also rebirth, because you have gained wisdom and knowledge. I know firsthand that shedding denial, such as my denial about relatives, can help an artist become more artistically creative, since naturally the artist has become more expressive and more observant; being in denial means putting up a wall between yourself and truth. Even that sort of impermanence, a shift in attitude, ultimately reflects the circular cycle of life, which goes from birth, to living, to old age, to death, and over and over again in the same cycle through countless lifetimes.
The Buddhist concept of being devoid of inherent existence is tied in with impermanence. Over the years, in this lifetime alone, I have undergone change in how I think, and that old part of me dissolves; so what is Me, anyway? We are constantly changing, constantly experiencing impermanence, and so we do not exist in the sense of being an individual entity, separate from the rest of the world. Gee, that connects impermanence with interdependence, too. I’m hardly surprised, since everything is connected; everything is interdependent.
I picture the Buddha lying in his golden robes between two tall, slender trees, with a large crowd of people gathered around. On his deathbed, and at the advanced age of eighty, his voice, I imagine, would not have been loud enough for everyone to hear. Perhaps when he answered questions, a younger monk announced the answers to the crowd in a booming voice. Meanwhile, the weary Buddha lay still and propped his head up with his arm and remained equanimous, fully accepting his death as inevitable.
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