Think of an Elephant

It was shortly after six in the morning when I stepped out a French door and spotted the driver Mishra, his assistant Viru, and the masseur gathered on the back porch, and I asked where the others went for meditation. The masseur led me up the driveway and past a beautiful old tree surrounded by a set of circular steps, which inspired me to murmur, “Wow!” We turned to the left and entered the woods, and within seconds I was in a small clearing where only five people were doing yoga. One of them was surprisingly Devendra, wearing a pale greenish kurta, white scarf, and white pajamas. Green tarpaulins lay flat on the sandy dirt and served as yoga mats, and I found a spot. Rikki was giving the yoga instructions, as she had in Deer Park, and I arrived halfway through the lesson.

We faced a beautiful and misty lake surrounded by crowds of extremely tall trees that the pale grayish blue lake reflected. One huge tree lay in the lake, and someone with no fear and excellent balance would be able to walk out onto the tree. I later gazed out at the lake and noticed a tiny island just large enough for one tall and skinny tree to sprout from its center. The air was misty and the atmosphere felt still and surreal. Enormous old trees full of birds framed the little spot where we practiced yoga and afterwards meditation.

After Rikki gave us her yoga instruction, more people showed up for meditation, and Shantum guided us through a meditation that, like most, sounded like something I read a few years ago in a book by Thich Nhat Hanh. Unfortunately, the virus got the better of me, and I choked through most of the meditation. I kept stopping to drink out of my bottle of water, but the cough simply wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to suppress it a little till the meditation was over, but I could only do that for so long. It’s ironic that the coughing fit attacked me when it did, since a meditation sitting is when I least wanted to cough. Of course, this was early morning, when I’m most likely to be congested.

Another distraction, and a much more amiable one than coughing, was the birdcalls. Crows cawed, peacocks meowed, many kinds of birds sang and chirped and twittered, and a couple of egotistical birds let out really loud and somewhat high-pitched and comical sounds close overhead. This was a series of “Coo, coo, coo, coo.” No, they were not cooing like pigeons; it seemed like the word they uttered.

We followed Shantum in a walking meditation to the big old tree, circled by several concrete steps, which had attracted my attention on the way to the sitting. My coughing died down after we stood up, and I was more able to enjoy and genuinely practice the walking meditation than the sitting meditation. I know that lying down is a position in which I’m most susceptible to congestion; apparently changing positions was helpful, even though I had been sitting up straight to meditate rather than lying. When we arrived at the tree, we stopped and stood before it, and Devendra told us a story about the tree.

When the Raj came here, there wasn’t any water, and the king’s guru was a medium who could communicate with spirits and believed the spirits are everywhere, including in this three hundred year old tree. A servant left sweets to the tree in hopes that it would reveal the location of the water. The guru, without knowing who had been giving the tree sweets, turned to the servant and told him to bring it offerings like oil, so he started doing that, and sure enough they soon had good water. People still leave the tree offerings, at least of marigolds.

Devendra gave us a little tour of his property. We admired flowers and trees on the lush grounds, saw an old white building in a far corner, and watched gardeners already busy at work. I can’t begin to name most of the trees, except for banyan and palm trees. A particularly odd tree was bare of leaves and rather small, and it consisted of tall, narrow branches that ended in gnarled lumps from which protruded many narrow twigs. A bright green hedge lined the front yard, and parallel to the hedge are countless pink rose bushes.

Devendra led us up the path toward the house. I finally noticed an assortment of terra cotta pots full of plants lined up at the edge of one side of the porch. Behind us stood a particularly tall hedge with an arched doorway cut into it. The Raj stopped at an old and hollow palm tree that is the residence of a six-foot-long snake. But it’s not a cobra; I’m thinking it’s harmless. Someone, probably a servant, meant to kill it because it got into the house, “but he didn’t have the heart,” Devendra said. In his enunciated Indian accent, the words sounded musical.

After our little walk, we passed a pale tree that wound its gnarled branches around a corner column of the porch. We walked up the few porch steps and entered the lodge through the front doors, and a few people already sat in the dining room for breakfast. The evening before, Feroza had said that she could stay just here for a week, and I certainly see what she means; it’s idyllic.

2
During breakfast someone looked out the window and said, “There’s an elephant in the garden!” Like many others, I headed for the nearest French door expecting to see a wild elephant stomping through the rose bushes with no Buddha to pacify it.

I stepped out onto the veranda and sure enough, just past the tour bus, an elephant with a skinny old turbaned man perched on top was walking in our direction. Shantum said that the elephant was a baby boy named Rajir, only a few years old. I walked up close to the pachyderm, took pictures, and thought he was a cute little elephant. Someone had painted pink and blue designs on his face. As I got really close, he raised his trunk in a curve and opened his mouth. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I interpreted it as a smile.

Shantum explained that we’re welcome to ride the elephant, but since I’m afraid of heights, I had no interest in doing so. Erika urged me, saying she’s also afraid of heights and that she cried the whole way up in the Statue of Liberty. After some coaxing, during which I remained stubborn and knew I wasn’t going to ride the elephant, she said, “You can tell me to shut up anytime,” and I laughed, thinking that was the end of it. I knew that I would not enjoy riding the elephant and it didn’t occur to me to try it.

The elephant appeared to be a bit hungry, and I ran inside and got a little banana for it out of my bedroom. I returned and held it out to Rajir, and he grabbed the fruit with his trunk, brushing my hand with rough wrinkled skin. He curled his trunk back and put the banana in his mouth. It was gone so fast; I wished I had saved more fruit.

I stayed outdoors long enough to watch a couple of people riding the elephant, before I entered through the French doors in order to drink more tea. I sat down with Shantum and Yvette, and Shantum asked, “Susan, are you going to ride the elephant?”
I said, “No, I’m afraid of heights. I wouldn’t even get on a horse when I was a kid.” Shantum was not beaming his usual charming smile on me.
“We should not let our fears control us,” he said sternly. “What is the worst thing that could happen?”
“I could fall off and get trampled,” I said.
“We are trapped by our fears,” Yvette said.
I stopped raising my cup of tea to my lips and looked at her in astonishment. I’d like to say that I jumped up and went to the elephant and climbed on it right after these comments, but instead I sat there feeling guilty, cowardly, and foolish. I even acted defensive enough to say, “I did climb the mountains and go inside little caves.”
Shantum nodded and said in a neutral voice, “That is true.”
Looking down at the white tablecloth, I said, “And some of the steps on the mountains slanted downward—that was really scary.” Neither of them pointed out to me that I was being defensive, but I sensed it on my own.

“Susan, what do you want to accomplish in your life?” Shantum asked.

It was a question that shouldn’t be too difficult to answer, and yet I was taken by surprise and did not know what to say, even though I thought I had figured that out years ago. Certainly, the rather un-Buddhist response, “Become a famous writer!” would not have been a good answer. I smirked and said, “You mean besides travel the world?” I felt stupid and inadequate and knew it was a lame answer.

What do I really want to accomplish in my life, besides make as much art as possible, whether I’m writing, sculpting, making collages, or costuming? I’d known for years that I want to change the world, to make it a better place, and to make a significant contribution to the overthrow of patriarchy and the start of world peace. But in the past few years I developed a tendency to think that I can’t save the world if I can’t even save myself.

A decade ago a friend back in St. Louis had said that she believes everyone has a purpose, and that my purpose in life is to not take things personally. At the time, I was disappointed and thought it sounded trivial. But after I exiled myself in Topeka, Kansas, it finally made sense. Buddhism is about not taking things personally, and it is also about not letting fear, anger, or depression run your life. It is about confronting the dark places that most people resist. I had gotten wrapped up in trying to do something about my anger and depression and had overlooked fear.

Instead of thinking about riding the elephant, instead of pausing and considering riding it, I had come up with my automatic, habitual response: “I’m afraid of heights, so I won’t do that.” But to progress on the path, I have to reject habits and confront my fears and aversions. How odd that didn’t occur to me, at least not on the surface, before the elephant came along.

When Shantum and Yvette finished breakfast and walked away, I went out to the porch with a fresh cup of tea rather than sit alone in the dining room. I felt sufficiently rejected without doing that. On the porch, Shantum and Val sat at a small white wicker table as spectators. I stood by the edge of the porch, sipping tea and watching people climb onto the elephant, yet something had shifted in my consciousness, just slightly, and I was no longer so certain that I was doing the right thing. I felt guilty, as if I had failed a test.

Now Val joined in with trying to persuade me to ride the elephant. She said, “This is an opportunity you might never have again, and this is better than a zoo. Back home, do you want to tell people you could have ridden an elephant in India and didn’t?”

I gulped down the rest of my tea, shrugged, and belligerently said, “Well, maybe I’ll do it after all.” I stepped off the porch and headed in the direction of the elephant. I wondered what on earth I was doing and felt like I was going on a suicide mission.

A white wooden step ladder stood next to the elephant, and before I got quite that far, Jagdish came from the house and called to me, “Susan, do you want me to ride the elephant with you?” I braced my teeth, the closest to a smile I could muster, and nodded vigorously at him, raising my eyebrows. I turned back to the ladder, and even it was scary, while my innards were feeling rather fluttery. Jagdish stood near by the time I started climbing the dreaded ladder, with someone on each side of it holding it down. I went up three steps and already had the familiar fear that I have while climbing ladders. I gripped the railing on each side and was shaking and felt my heart beating faster than normal. Just climbing to the top of the ladder was more than I thought I could handle.

The elephant is young, a bit ornery, and in training, as I had witnessed when I saw him walking with passengers. I got closer to the top of the ladder and could hear the trainer speaking sharply to the pachyderm, and the elephant’s back moved up and down and sideways. I froze as I watched, feeling fluttery panic rising from my chest to my throat. I ascended to the top of the steps, and I heard countless voices urging me to climb on. Oh, great, a big audience. Jagdish stood on the other side of the stooping elephant and was holding his hand out to me, and although I was afraid to stop gripping the railing of the step ladder, I didn’t think that at this point there was any turning back from this suicide mission, and I reached out with my left hand, took Jagdish’s hand, and swung my left leg over the elephant.

I had already been told that I have to hold onto the ropes. Fabric covered the elephant’s back, and running parallel on the top left and top right were ropes like bungee cord. As I got onto the elephant, I felt unstable and fluttery-nervous and grabbed the ropes with both hands but had my right leg tucked under me. The elephant rose from his squatting position, and in reaction to the nightmarish sensation of suddenly rising upward without my feet touching the ground, I let out a small, high-pitched shriek that should have attracted numerous stray dogs. Fortunately, I don’t think any people heard it.

Numerous voices urged me to get my leg out from under me, and I slowly and awkwardly moved my right leg so that I straddled the elephant’s back, gripping each rope and panicking. I had no inclination to look to the left or right and instead stared at the elephant’s back several inches ahead of me, seeing the checkered green cloth and the white bungee cords. I didn’t know who was speaking, but someone, probably Jagdish, asked me if I wanted someone else to be on the elephant, and I nodded vigorously, with my teeth clenched. The old trainer climbed up over the elephant’s head like a spry little kid climbing a jungle gym, and the movement of the elephant ducking his head inspired me to let out another, though even smaller, shriek. The trainer turned and sat in front of me. I still clenched my teeth in a mirthless grin.

I was vaguely aware that while this was happening, a crowd, including Shantum, had gathered around the elephant and was urging me on. This awareness that many people were watching made me feel extremely foolish. I lifted my head enough to notice that on the path ahead, Erika was taking pictures.

As the elephant walked, I continued to feel completely ungrounded and precarious and vulnerable. My feet were, I felt, supposed to be on the ground. After a few steps, I was no longer panicking. I still felt nervous but had gotten beyond the shrieking stage, as if I had reached a plateau of fear; it was no longer escalating. I even paid enough attention to the garden for a few seconds to notice orange roses and bright green parakeets flying to and from a tree. The trainer spoke sharply to the elephant through most of the ride.

My heart rate sped up again and I was shaky as the elephant went through the slow process of turning in order to go back. I tightened my grip on the ropes. I was not in control of where I was going: an animal was shifting under me, moving sideways. It was a different movement than when the elephant walked almost straight along the driveway. I felt a bit relieved while we rode back, because we had returned to the steady pace and walked more or less a straight path, but I was still nervous.

Near the small crowd and the wooden steps, the elephant sank downward. In reaction to the sinking sensation over which I had no control, I felt shaky and fluttery and panicky again, and I gripped the ropes harder. I didn’t have to endure the steps and instead took the hands of two guys standing by the elephant. I slid down easily and let out a deep breath as soon as my feet touched the ground.

People congratulated me for conquering my fear, but I was simply glad it was over. That was no joy ride: it was an ordeal. Short of my two car accidents, that was probably the most terrifying experience in my life. I did not feel brave or proud but simply relieved that I was back on my own two feet. That ride was certainly one situation when I particularly liked impermanence, because I knew I wouldn’t forever be riding the elephant.

True, I also felt like I could do more, that I opened up to doing things that I would have avoided, out of fear, before I rode the elephant. I could see myself, for instance, going out into my back yard and organic gardening, even though I avoid spending time in my yard in daylight thanks to the misogynist creep next door, who harasses me if he sees me in my yard, and who even pretended that my back lot was his junkyard, until I finally called the police, which of course was yet another excuse for him to harass me.

I realize now that I’ve been controlled by my fears: fear of heights and enclosed spaces, and fear of people, especially of relatives. I also have fear of ridicule, fear of being yelled at, fear of abuse, fear of contempt. Fear of financial insecurity is the main thing that keeps me from moving out to the west coast, to a more artist-friendly and wholesome environment. But now I am starting to get somewhere on the path.

In his commentary on The Dhammapada, Eknath Easwaran wrote that the elephant for Indians represents untapped power inside everyone, and the Buddha, who used elephants as a metaphor for strength and energy, was nicknamed Great Elephant (p.175). Granted, the elephant that I rode was a bit more like Nalagira, the crazy elephant that nearly killed the Buddha, than like the Buddha himself. People were afraid of Nalagira, and I was afraid of riding Rajir, a young and ornery elephant in training. But that just means that Rajir hasn’t gotten very far along the path and needs time, as I do.

I was walking away from the elephant, enjoying the touch of the solid pavement under my feet, when Shantum walked past in the opposite direction and said while smiling and looking straight ahead, “Good job, Susan.”
I smirked, shrugged, and said, “Thanks.”

After the elephant ride, I packed what little I had unpacked the evening before. I left my suitcase and backpack on the porch and carried my Nepalese passport bag and my mirrorwork bag. I found a comfy spot to write in my journal: on a marble bench in the center of the grounds. When it was time to go, I walked to the bus with Natalie and we talked about my elephant ride. She said, ‘It’s perversely fitting that Shantum was pushing you more than anyone else and that he let everyone else get ready before riding the elephant.” Actually I didn’t have any idea that anyone else was scared.

I said, “I never would have been ready for it.” I added, “I tend to feel guilty for having my fears,” but I was thinking of my aversion for my verbally abusive relatives, and just, well, relatives in general, when I said it.
She said, “Then you should embrace your guilt. You could write a sequel to Thich Nhat Hahn’s book Anger that would be called Fear.”

I seem to have an awful lot of negative emotions to embrace: fear, anger, depression, and guilt. However, in spite of relatives jamming down my throat their belief that I’m a horrible and worthless human being and that I’m not making any attempt to become a better person, I rather suspect that everyone has numerous negative emotions. I also happen to know for a fact that I am attempting to become a better person, while these vicious and hypocritical relatives, on the other hand, are set in their ways and make it extremely difficult for me to make progress.

Who knows, now that I’ve climbed steeper mountains with steep steps, entered confining caves in spite of my claustrophobia, and ridden on an elephant, maybe I’ll conquer my fear of financial insecurity and move to the west coast, to a psychologically much more wholesome environment and a thriving artistic community. Perhaps I’ll conquer my fear of relatives and remain equanimous even when they surround me.

I experience guilt for having emotions, particularly the troublesome emotions of anger, depression, and fear. I experience guilt for having so much rage and bitterness toward relatives. And relatives enjoy force-feeding me guilt-trips; in hindsight, I realize that I was brought up to believe I have no right to have emotions. It is part of that sick and twisted story my vicious relatives made up about me and about the world. But here I am, getting on a negative track as usual, something the Dhammapada addresses in chapter twenty-three, aptly called “The Elephant”:

Long ago my mind used to wander as it liked and do what it
wanted. Now I can rule my mind as the mahout controls the
elephant with his hooked staff.

Be vigilant; guard your mind against negative thoughts. Pull yourself
out of bad ways as an elephant raises itself out of the mud (p. 177).