The Mindfulness Training Ceremony

I’m not sure when or where this was, but Peter said of the poverty and squalor that, “If you think about it, it’ll drive you crazy.” He certainly has a point. I’ve alternated between blocking it out and getting really upset about it. While upset, I feel guilty for various reasons, such as not also living in poverty, and for being extravagant and frivolous. But when I block it out, it is as if I’m damming up compassion and kindness for the sake of my own composure, and that strikes me as something for which I should feel guiltier.

But perhaps what I’m doing is the Middle Way. I am neither immersing myself in the suffering, such as imagining in detail what it would be like to be this blind beggar, or that raggedy child, or that leper; nor am I completely and callously shutting it all out. I could drive myself crazy by immersing in completely unfiltered sorrow and empathy. Or I can do as I have, feel sorrow and write about the situation while alone in a hotel room, and think about the poverty sometimes. I should resolve to help out organizations like Care and the Global Fund for Women more, and in order to do so, I can spend less on selfish things like books, music, and unnecessary groceries such as chocolate muffins or cranberry scones. Thus I would be helping to do something about the poverty. Donating to charitable organizations that help the poor of India is so much more sensible than having a guilt complex over the poverty.

After breakfast, we rode the bus up the street, and I gave Shantum the page from my journal in which I had written out my Mindfulness Training Ceremony aspirations.

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At the Jetta Grove, the wallahs and beggars stay outside the gate, as they do at other sacred places, such as Bodh Gaya. However, they can hover right outside the gate, so it’s best to get to the other side promptly. On both visits in the past two days, a little boy played a drum and sang close to the bus. Just ahead of me, a wallah showed Mairgret a very pretty clay Buddha plaque that was rectangular and only a few inches long. She held her Buddha pendant and said, “It’s lovely, but I already have Buddha with me. I keep him close to my heart.”

We advanced up the same path as yesterday. This time I walked with Gail and Shantum. As we walked, he said, “Your mindfulness training aspirations are beautiful,” with a smile.

I smiled too and glowingly said, “Oh, thanks!” I was still smiling for a long time after that.
We continued strolling, and after a beat Shantum said, “I like coming back here. It’s one of my favorite parts of the pilgrimage.” And he giggled.

Gail said, “It’s so pleasant and calm here. I especially liked sitting under the tree and listening to your stories and enjoying the beautiful day.”

“And chasing wild monkeys,” I said with a giggle, while Shantum put his arm around my shoulders in a one-armed hug.

Our sangha climbed to the ruins of a building marking a previous structure where the Buddha stayed. It was a square brick foundation with steps leading up to a flat surface containing a central square that was one brick layer higher than the rest of the floor. Straight across from the steps is an entrance leading into a section that was only a few feet square, where I imagined the Buddha sat while talking with visitors. We all settled down on our straw mats around the edges of the square structure and got comfortable on them. I sat in the corner to the right of the smaller room’s entrance and thought of this as a place where the Buddha hung out: the Buddha Lounge.

Jagdish arrived with a small bouquet or nosegay of marigolds and wildflowers. He set up an altar in the entrance to the alcove: a book propped up the picture of the Buddha from the “In the Footsteps of the Buddha” brochure, and half a brick supported the book, and the flowers leaned from the back of the brick over the top of the book.

On the old structure where the Buddha used to meet up with people, we meditated. I breathed in and out and concentrated on my breath, but I soon found myself imagining I was sitting to the right of the Buddha. As with my other visualizations, he was a monk wearing a yellow robe, and he sat in the lotus position.

After this meditation but before the ceremony, a local monk, Nayapuya, climbed up the ruin on which we sat, and he gave Shantum shiny, smooth stones that he had found in the grove, to pass around to us. Shantum sponsors Nayapuya, who has been a monk for ten years. He is extremely tall, dark, and skinny, and looks like he’s in his twenties. He has been hanging out with our sangha at the Jetta Grove and on the ancient stupa, where Mukesh said he’d like a robe like Nayapuya’s, which is bright yellow. Rikki warned Mukesh that you have to give up a lot to be a monk.

In St. Louis, I had once commented to my friend Cara that if I were a nun, relatives wouldn’t harass me about not wanting to get married or have children, and Cara then said I could become a Buddhist nun. I briefly considered it, but I realized that it would get in the way of making whatever art I feel like making whenever I feel like making it, whether writing, sculpting, drawing, or needlework. Traditional Tibetan Buddhist art, for instance, is more like a craft than an art, because it has certain rules and is done a certain way; whereas my art is whatever I feel like making, in whatever style.

Later I started reading books about Asian Buddhist women, such as Being a Buddhist Nun, by Kim Gutschow, and the male domination and misogyny in the monastic system totally turned me off. In addition, I’m too bohemian and too much of a slacker to be a Buddhist nun; I take naps and stay up till late hours, for instance. But that doesn’t mean I can’t meditate and participate in the occasional retreat. Vipassana, or Insight Meditation, is an old Indian practice that does not have monastic organizations, at least in North America, and it is the practice that I mostly do. True, Theravada Buddhists practice Vipassana, but I identify with North American Buddhism rather than Thai or Sri Lankan Buddhism. And now I connect with ancient Indian Buddhism.

Standing before Jagdish’s makeshift altar and wrapped in a voluminous blanket-like brown shawl, Shantum took an incense stick and chanted, holding the stick to his forehead and praying, with the tip above his head, then lit it and placed it between two pieces of brick next to the flowers. He started the ceremony, explaining that after each question we’re supposed to do prostrations or at least put our palms together and bow.

Shantum demonstrated how to do a prostration: put your palms together, hold them up to your forehead, then below your chin. Get on your knees, bend forward with your hands to each side of your head and the tip of each index finger touching the tip of each thumb, in the mindfulness, or present moment, mudra.

I thought I’d prefer to bow with my palms together. Prostrating seemed so dramatic and subservient, even though this wasn’t as full a prostration as I’ve seen Tibetans do, when they lie down full length, face down. But when the time came, during the ceremony, I did the prostrations. They seemed like the right thing to do at that moment, in spite of myself. The prostrations were for several responses, not just one. Those of us who intended to do the Mindfulness Training, approximately six people, stood on straw mats in the slightly raised central square.

The central square has a bumpier brick surface than the smooth brick square encircling it, but we placed our mats on it before beginning the ceremony. First, with Shantum reciting, we took the Three Refuges and prostrated after each one.

With a ring of the singing bowl, Shantum recited the lines of the first mindfulness training, which is about refraining from killing and refraining from letting others kill (Hanh, Future Possible, p. 3). When he stopped reciting, Shantum rang the bell, and we prostrated. I placed my palms together, held them before my forehead, then at my chin. I separated my hands, forming the mindfulness mudra with my fingers, got down on my knees and bent forward, being sure to get as close down to the ground as possible. In sync with the other people who were undergoing the ceremony, I did this mindfully after each Mindfulness Training that Shantum recited.

Shantum then recited the second mindfulness training, which is about refraining from stealing and exploitation, respecting others’ property, and not supporting unethical businesses; it is also, by association, about practicing generosity (Hanh, Future Possible, p. 3). Again, Shantum rang the bell, and we prostrated. After three breaths, he rang the bell again, we got back into position, and Shantum recited the third mindfulness training. It is about refraining from sexual misconduct and preventing child sexual abuse (Hanh, Future Possible, pp. 3-4). Prostrating yet again, I was glad there was a straw mat between my knees and the rough bricks. Maybe giving us a bumpier surface on which to prostrate was intentional on Shantum’s part, to make the ceremony a bit ascetic. On the other hand, I’m certain it’s because we needed to be in the center of the ruins, where we had sufficient space.

Shantum recited the fourth mindfulness training, which covers unmindful speech. This is a broad topic, ranging from something as simple as refraining from gossiping to refraining from practicing foul language, to not using insults or verbal abuse. Basically, it is about not using harmful speech or negative speech, and about practicing nonviolent communication skills. It is also about reducing conflict, so it’s perhaps the most complex mindfulness training (Hanh, Future Possible, p. 4). Even as I listened to this, though it wasn’t the first time I heard the words, it dawned on me what a challenge the fourth mindfulness training would be, unless I completely cut myself off from my mother’s side of the family. Whether or not I finally did that, I should do the best I can in practicing mindful speech.

The fifth mindfulness training, and the last one that Shantum recited to us, is about practicing mindful consumption. This generally means being vegetarian or at the very least eating less meat (I think everyone doing the trainings is a vegetarian), not binging on sweets, not drinking alcohol or smoking or abusing drugs. It also covers not watching violent television shows or movies, not consuming pornography, and generally not taking poisons or intoxicants. It also pretty much covers not being gluttonous (Hanh, Future Possible, pp. 4-5).

During the prostrations, I remained aware of the bumpy bricks under the mat, and of how the blood rushed to my head when I had it down between my hands, and even for a few seconds I thought I would never be willing to prostrate. But being there with the group on ground the Buddha stepped upon, and undergoing the ceremony lined up with several others: Val, Natalie, Gail, Valerie, Rick and Dornora, the prostrations felt like the right thing to do. This was a serious and official ceremony, not my usual solitary practice.

Shantum presented our Mindfulness Training certificates individually, giving the person’s new name while doing so; it’s printed on the certificate. He gave me the dharma name of Fearless of the Source, and when he said it, a delighted murmur emitted from the bystanders. Hearing the name, I gave Shantum a Big Smile and walked up to him to take the certificate. He pressed his palms together and bowed to me and gave me the certificate, and I pressed my palms together and bowed to him. I felt blissed out and strangely as though I was confident for a change instead of painfully self-conscious.

Toward the end of the Mindfulness Training Ceremony, Shantum said we should repeat the Mindfulness Training at least once a month, so I’ll make a point of doing this on my own toward the beginning of each month. It’s possible that a time may come when I’ve joined a sangha that does mindfulness trainings, but I won’t rely on that.

We had a little time to roam around the Jetta Grove, and I walked among brick ruins that I had not explored previously, before I returned to gazing at the huge gold Buddha in the distance. But I encountered no monkeys. We gathered under the same tree as yesterday and formed a circle.

In India, memorable occasions are celebrated with a thread tied around the wrist; it eventually falls off, and thus you let go. Shantum performed the thread-tying ceremony for Elly and Peter, because they will be leaving us first, this evening. Peter sat to my right, and he choked up during his silent little ceremony with Shantum. I suspected that I would do the same when the time came.

It was then time to share our insight poems. Because Peter wasn’t ready to share his poem, he passed Shantum’s hat to me, and I was the second one to share. Slightly nervous and self-conscious, I looked down at my paper, on which I had written three poems in blue block letters.


My First Insight Poem

At the side of the road lurk frail, filthy figures,
goats with protruding ribs,
and litter scattered in the grass.
A tall, thin figure—Death—clad in black rags
stands amid these old souls.
Like lotuses sprouting out of mud,
brightly painted shrines
appear at every turn, every few steps,
in a dingy alley, as I step around cow turds.
And like lotuses sprouting out of mud
are the smiles of children who seconds before
were whiney and dirty beggars.


Impermanence

I wake from a dream of Death standing at the side of the road.
I hear words from a sutra on accepting death.
I visit the site of the Buddha’s demise and visualize him—
old, wrinkled, lying on his right side
and calmly uttering his last teaching.
I recall that the tarot card for Death means change.


Think of an Elephant

I light a bonfire and burn the script
I wrote for my fear.
I do not shed fear like a snake’s skin or
carry it on my back like a camel.
At last I begin confronting it head on,
climbing steep paths and an elephant’s back,
stumbling through dark and confining caves,
and helping Durga slay demons
of ignorance and fear.


At the last second I changed my mind about which poem I would share. I read aloud “Impermanence” instead of “My First Insight Poem,” which was rather more emotional. When I started speaking, as I anticipated would happen, people on the other side of the circle called out that they couldn’t hear me. So I spoke louder and deeper, as if I were angry (even though I wasn't) and apparently everyone could hear me, since I didn’t get any more complaints. The sangha knew when I was finished and all pressed palms together and bowed, as we did at the end of each person’s insight poem.

Everyone shared his or her poem, placed it in Shantum’s hat, and passed the hat along. This sharing was peaceful and inspiring, if a bit sentimental. We stood up and, staying in the same circle, joined hands and had a sing-along, using songs from Plum Village. I didn’t have any memorized and although some of the music sounded familiar from earlier moments on this pilgrimage, I don’t memorize lyrics quickly, so I didn’t contribute my voice much, but I enjoyed listening to those who did. Hopefully I did at least contribute positive energy, and that counts for something.

We then gathered on the other side of the tree for group photos. We placed lots of cameras on a straw mat a distance from the tree, and I could scarcely see the straw mat through all the black and silver cameras of varying size and shape. Jagdish, Mukesh, and Nayapuya picked each camera up off the mat and took the pictures, although at times the monk confusedly looked into at least one of the cameras. Ann said, “We should take pictures of them taking pictures of us.” When they were done taking one picture with one camera, they placed it on a different mat.

Sudatta Stupa

After lunch, we returned to the bus and, as we passed the Jetta Grove, Shantum pointed out to us a little pond on the right. He said, “While the Buddha walked from Jetta to Shravasti, he saw two boys throwing stones at fish. The Buddha stopped them, saying, ‘If you were the fish, you wouldn’t like it.’” This, Shantum said, was probably the pond where it happened, though I suspect it was larger in the Buddha’s time; now it is a tiny water hole. But I could see the two boys and the Buddha in yellow robes.

The bus stopped, and we were in sight of two stupa ruins, across the road from each other. We climbed the one to the south, called Pakki Kuti or Angulimala’s Stupa. Angulimala was a mass murderer who, Shantum had explained, cut off the fingers of his victims, but when he met the Buddha with the intention of killing him, the Buddha gave him a dharma talk. Angulimala underwent a remarkable transformation, as did the Emperor Ashoka, and Angulimala became a monk. This story is part of the mural on the walls at the Theravada temple by Deer Park. In the mural, Angulimala is shown in what looks like a dancing position and wearing his legendary necklace of fingers, symbolized as life-size human hand prints, and reminiscent of a fierce Tibetan deity or demon. I prefer a necklace of fresh marigolds myself.

Most of the sangha had already climbed up high on the crumbly brick stupa ruins by the time I reached the top, where I peeked down into a square aperture in the center. Shantum, next to me, said that Natalie wanted to go inside the stupa, and I looked down the aperture and let out an exclamation, or rather a coo, and Shantum said, “Susan wants to go, too.”

I followed Jagdish along with Natalie, Yvette, and Dornora. Upon hearing that I wanted to go, Mukesh warned that it’s an awfully narrow space, but as Natalie put it, “This is about conquering fear.”

“Yeah, that’s right!” I said like a little kid. We were climbing down the stupa during this conversation. I remembered the very dark and narrow path into the Saptaparni Cave and tried not to think about how nervous I had been.

Jagdish, Natalie, Yvette, Dornora and I walked around to a different side of the stupa. I caught up with Yvette and walked next to her. Jagdish was a few feet ahead of us and called out to someone in Hindi, and Yvette said, “It just sounds to me like 'Glababaglababla.'”
I said, “Yeah, me too. Gee, I should learn Hindi!”

On the bottom level of the stupa, we stepped through a low doorway and into a space with a lower ceiling; this was a brick passageway with a series of archways through which we had to duck. When we reached the large rectangular center and enjoyed much more space and light, we looked way up at the cheering witnesses who stood at the top of the square aperture that I had previously seen from the summit. Then with Jagdish in the lead, we headed for the archway across from the one through which we had entered, and it was much lower, only a few feet high.

Jagdish said I should go right after him, and he demonstrated how to do it: we had to get down on our hands and knees, and at first we crawled on dirt. So I went right behind Jagdish. We kept moving along the low passageway and because the next few archways were so low, soon we crawled on bricks that lay loose on the ground. This was rough, feeling the pressure of the hard and bumpy surface on my palms and knees, and it was scary moving through such a confining and dark space. Perhaps the people overhead had cheered too soon. One of the archways was only about a foot high, and eying it I wasn’t terribly sure I could make it, but I took a deep breath and was determined to go through with it rather than turn back. And I did it, with Jagdish taking a photo. After one more archway, we stood outdoors in the expansive open air, and it felt so great that I breathed deeply and looked around at the nearby field and the huge blue sky.

The sangha crossed the road to the other stupa, which is called the Kachchi Kuti or Sudatta’s Stupa. Sudatta was a wealthy merchant who was so impressed with the Buddha and his teachings that he spread gold coins all over the Jetta Grove in order to buy it from Prince Jetta.

By the time I approached the base of the Sudatta Stupa, almost everyone was climbing steps to the top of the brick ziggurat-like structure, but when I saw that the group was crossing one by one along a narrow bridge above a deep drop, I experienced a great deal of dread. I’ve already fallen and gotten hurt once on this trip. Shantum saw me and said, “There’s another route around back,” and several of us followed Jagdish to that route. Fearlessness is one thing, but situations in which it’s blatantly obvious that I could fall are best avoided. What a klutz. Maybe with more mindfulness practice I’ll be less accident-prone.

As Ann, Christine and I approached the back of the ancient Sudatta’s Stupa, Ann said she’d like a scotch and soda. I giggled and said, “Yeah, and right after that you can do the Mindfulness Training!”

Ann said, “We don’t talk about what I just said with this group!” This conjured another giggle out of me. It occurred to me that it would be totally whacked for someone to show up for the Mindfulness Trainings with a hangover. I carefully followed Jagdish up the back side of the stupa and joined the sangha, gathered at the summit.

When I was a teenager traveling with a school group in German-speaking countries, our tour guide, Heinz, made a joke about a tour in which a woman kept writing in her journal, “ABC.” After seeing her write this many times, the tour guide asked her what it meant, and she said, “ABC: another boring castle.” I could as easily write, “ABCS: another Big Crumbly Stupa.”

So here we are on top of the ruins of Sudatta’s Stupa, and Shantum is conversing with a group of Muslim women and girls. The ones who aren’t children are wearing black tunics and veils over their clothing. Shantum is translating for us, with Erika coming up with most of the questions and answers. The interview is on such topics as where the family lives, how old the kids were and what they did, and we learned that the girls were students. It’s nice to hear that they are getting an education, but they don’t look poor.

A bit earlier, another group of Muslim women hung out at the front of the stupa’s summit, along with some children. They wore black burquas and were a distance from us, since we’re perched up at the highest point, which is somewhat toward the back. Children and only one man accompanied the draped women. Looking at their feet, I could tell that they wore really spiffy clothing beneath the sober black, as do Muslim women in the nonfiction book The Nine Parts of Desire. They wore sparkly high-heeled sandals, and I saw glimpses of brightly colored pajamas at their ankles, even what looked like pale green silk on one of them.

Erika took a picture of the first group of Muslim women and children, and Shantum urged her to go over and show them the picture, as she does with others, especially children. For once, she was reluctant to do it, and we made comments like, “Don’t tell them you’re from the U.S.” I smilingly said, “Say you’re from Canada.” Val recommended the book Reading Lolita in Tehran, although I have to say I’m not crazy about Lolita. Ultimately Erika did approach the women and showed them the picture on her digital camera, but they quickly went away. Erika walked back and said they didn’t say anything.

As we watched the Muslim women and girls go, Feroza said, “Their husband told them to leave.” We watched them in the distance climb into a jeep, five women in black burquas, three children, and one man, and after they were all in the jeep, the women waved at us while the vehicle started moving, and we waved back. I felt like this was a warm fuzzy moment and a pleasant surprise. The second Muslim group waved much the same way when they started driving off.

Now three Thai monks (one in yellow, one in bright orange, and one in rusty orange) are standing at the front top of the stupa and a group of people off a tour bus stand in front of them, slightly lower down, and they’re all chanting. They’re attracting some attention from locals, including wallahs, who have been gawking at us all this time. Ah, we’re out of the limelight at least for a few minutes. To say nothing of the dog. That is, the stray dog left our group too. She was curled up near me for some time, but slightly out of reach. This was a pretty dark brown one with a white underside, unlike the usual blonde or white stray dogs.

In the United States, I complain about the stray cats and dogs and how ridiculous it is that people don’t spay and neuter them as much as they should. How can you live in America at this point in time without being conscientious about spaying and neutering cats and dogs? In the long run, it’s more expensive to take care of many cats or dogs than to take the first one in for an operation. True, I have a similar attitude toward zero population growth for humans: it strikes me as ridiculous the effort and expense people go through to have kids even if they aren’t very fertile, to give birth to babies, when plenty are available for adoption and we need to keep down the population; the fewer people using up natural resources the better.

But in India I’m practically nonchalant about the stray dogs and amused that dogs always join us under trees or in this case on a stupa. Maybe it’s because the scale of extreme poverty is overwhelming and such a bigger problem in India—a far bigger problem than the dog population. And I believe the human population and lack of birth control are closely tied to poverty. There’s also the little detail that I assume people are less aware of spaying and neutering and that it’s not as available in India as it is in America.

The Thai group left, and the dog has climbed back up to be with us, after going all the way to their tour bus. Dogs are good at mingling.

The group that included the Theravada monks also included at least one woman with hair as short as a nun’s, and someone commented on this. Val explained that some women cut their hair extremely short before traveling, in order to have less chance of being harassed. This is hardly surprising, given Natalie’s and Jennifer’s encounters with boys who wanted to take their pictures. A shorn head also makes it impossible for an attacker to grab a woman by the hair.

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The hotel room for our evening meeting, concerning the remainder of our pilgrimage, conveniently was straight across the hallway from my room, and I was one of the first to show up. An assortment of chairs had been arranged in a large circle, and I headed straight across the room to a pair of elaborately carved wooden chairs with red velvet seats and carved wooden arms. I sat up straight in one of these two “thrones” and rested my arms on the chair arms. Rikki said, “Susan, you look like a queen!” I was wearing black pants with a sparkly magenta Bohemian kurta and one of my new shawls, the beaded paisley cashmere, so that was as queenly as I could have looked. Shantum showed up, spotted me and grinned. He said, “I’m sitting next to Susan!” And he did so, in the throne that was identical to mine.

By the time most of our sangha had arrived and found a seat, Natalie walked up to Shantum and handed him a folded piece of paper, which I learned was her Mindfulness Training aspirations. I asked what that was about, and Shantum said, “It’s some words--it could be one sentence even—about why you wish to take the Mindfulness Training.” He explained that I have to turn it in to him tomorrow, before the Mindfulness Training Ceremony.

During the meeting, Shantum said, “Worrying is a—“
“Waste of energy,” Valerie finished. He has us trained.
Shantum explained that those of us who will be on the sleeper train need to pack tonight for the train ride: he said that luggage goes under the seat, so if you want access to toiletries make sure they’re ... accessible. He said, referring to those of us who will go to Agra, “We’ll just carry on with the same Magical Mystery Tour.”

Alone in my room in the evening, I wrote out my little essay to turn in to Shantum:

My Reasons for Doing the Five Mindfulness Trainings
I look at the Mindfulness Trainings as a combination of lifestyle guidelines and detox, and as a reminder to behave…mindfully. I’ll be less inclined to respond toward vicious behavior and verbal abuse by expressing anger and instead work more at nonviolent communication skills. Also, I made a New Year’s resolution to quit buying cake, candy, and cookies, and this will help me to also not eat sweets even when others buy them. As a consumer, I hope to buy less and cut back on plastic bags. Lastly, whether I join a sangha or continue practicing alone, the Mindfulness Trainings will connect me with the world’s sanghas.

Monkeying Around In the Jetta Grove

Shantum said, “The Buddha spent eighteen years in the Jetta Grove, where he gave most of his teachings.” Temple 2, the second one after we pass a fenced-in bodhi tree, is the original spot of a temple called Gandhakuti, built for the Buddha’s use. It is a red brick ruin like the others in the Jetta Grove and similar to ruins we have seen elsewhere. But it has the distinction of displaying, on top of a brick wall at the front of the temple, a simple little stupa or shrine, about a foot tall, and covered with gold leaf. It looks like a gold layered wedding cake, but I don’t recommend trying to cut a slice.

I must mention the fenced-in and quite huge bodhi tree, specifically the Anandabodhi, or the Ananda Bodhi Tree. It was a sapling from the Bodhi Tree in Sri Lanka, which in turn was a sapling from the original Bodhi Tree in Bodh Gaya, so the Anandabodhi is a direct descendant of the one under which the Buddha gained enlightenment. It is also a tribute not only to the Buddha himself, but also to his closest disciple, Ananda, who planted this tree, or at least he planted the first bodhi tree in this exact spot. It has huge pale roots sprouting out through the brick path and steps, and the tree looks quite dramatic with these determined roots growing and growing regardless of the pavement. Nothing will stop it from growing as much as it pleases.

I was one of the first to arrive at the Anandabodhi, and I spotted some cute little monkeys, pulled out my camera, and headed toward them. “Don’t get too close!” Jennifer said, and I remembered how close I got to the first monkey I saw before it went into its ninja attack mode, and I thought I would be fine as long as I didn’t get that close. Therefore I boldly walked toward a monkey seated near a small tree; I must be incorrigible. I stood several yards away, when this monkey suddenly opened its mouth and went down on all four, staring at me with its teeth showing. We had plenty of space between us! I backed away and was soon jogging back to the group on the walkway, and I nearly hid behind Rikki before I realized that was not exactly a brave thing to do. So much for cultivating fearlessness. On the other hand, I was grinning the entire time I did this, inwardly laughing at myself.

“You’re not afraid of an elephant but of a little monkey?” Dean said.
“Monkeys can be vicious,” Jennifer said. “I told you not to get close to it.”
I shrugged and said, “I wasn’t that close to it.” I guess I’m comfortable enough with the sangha now that I no longer worry about looking like the class clown.
Valerie said to me, after most of the sangha had begun to move on, “They can run up to you and grab you by the neck and strangle you!”
“Really!” I said, taken aback.
“I don’t know for sure, but it seems likely,” she said.
“They can at least beat you with sticks,” I said, remembering such a scene in a short story called “The Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri.

Rikki carried a bag full of marigolds to offer to the Anandabodhi, and we each helped ourselves. I was close to the end of the line, probably thanks to my photography exploits; I wanted not only a normal picture of the tree, but I also took a picture of the big roots on the pavement.

Bearing two handfuls of marigolds as offerings, I slowly and mindfully stepped up to the tree while gazing in fascination at the huge pale roots and then looking up at the heart-shaped leaves. The sun shone on the light green leaves, making them glisten as they shook slightly. Below the leaves were many twists of ropelike trunk, and just below the crotch were some shallow apertures.

I stepped up close and mindfully placed some of the marigolds into a crevice in the gnarly old tree, but a glance slightly upward brought my attention to water cascading down the tree trunk in my direction. I stopped arranging flowers and stepped back so I wouldn’t get wet.
I looked up to see the tail end of a monkey. Ick. Walking up to the Ananda Bodhi Tree and nearly getting pissed on by a monkey isn’t the most spiritually inspiring moment. I finished placing flowers in front of the tree, glanced back up at the monkey, and backed away. As so often happens, although I was one of the first people to arrive, I was almost the last one to leave the tree.

At the Jetta Grove, we wandered through the ruins and sat on our mats under an enormous shady bodhi tree, where I periodically picked up a leaf or two off the lawn and tucked them into my journal. Shantum told us Buddha stories and pilgrim stories while we relaxed and watched swinging monkeys. The tree wasn’t the Anandabodhi, but was off the path and on a stretch of lawn. Nonetheless, I feared another monkey might try to piss on me. Life is so uncertain. On the other hand, I sat in the center of the sangha rather than directly under the tree trunk. If anyone was likely to get pissed on, it was Shantum.

A stray dog joined us, of course, and I took a couple pictures of it. Erika suggested that I show the dog the second picture, the way she shows children their pictures, and I did so, giggling. It was a close-up on the dog’s face. As I did during all of Shantum’s talks, I took notes, while he told us about the Buddha, his monastic community in the Jetta Grove, and the tradition of Buddhist pilgrimages.

Prince Jetta, Shantum explained, donated much of the park. He said, “The Buddha said he would like it to be donated to the Sangha and to the four directions. So the land was given to the Sangha. It’s our land, but the government is squatting on it and calling it theirs.” Shantum then told us about many people who joined the Buddha’s sangha here, and then about various pilgrims over the centuries. I picked up a large bodhi leaf from the grass and twirled it around in my hand, before I tucked it into my journal.

Shantum’s tales of the Buddha strongly suggested that Siddhartha was extremely charismatic and persuasive. I have sometimes wished I were charismatic, but I’ve noticed that despite his charisma, the Buddha had many enemies. The Brahmins who had a vendetta against him must have perceived the Buddha as a threat to their authority, kind of like how the Catholic Pope, at least the one who recently croaked, condemned Goddess spirituality and feminism while conveniently not mentioning that they are threats to his Power-Tripping White Male Authority, the most obvious reason why he was against Goddess spirituality and feminism. The Brahmins weren’t the Buddha’s only enemies, but his cousin was another. Devadatta wanted to be as well liked as the Buddha but didn’t know how to go about it.

Though I have never been charismatic, I know what it’s like to have many enemies and for people to be extremely hostile toward me. The Buddha grew up in an environment where he was highly respected, but I grew up in an environment where I was a social outcast and ridiculed by the majority. The Buddha didn’t encounter much hostility till after he became enlightened and popular, and he had a great many supporters. Yet I see a similarity in the hostility that people had toward the Buddha and the hostility that people have toward me or any other free thinker: we are threats to closed-minded people’s understanding of “reality” and to a power-tripping status quo. True, the Buddha had the advantage of being well-known, respected, and influential.

This pilgrimage has made me more connected to the Buddha, in that I know more about him and see him as more human than I did before I came to India. I wonder if I knew him in a previous life. I suppose I could have been a flea he stepped on when he sneaked out of the palace to seek enlightenment. Or maybe I was a monkey that peed on the Buddha while he sat meditating under a tree.

In 1988, Thich Nhat Hanh brought Shantum here, and that was the beginning of this series of pilgrimages, “In the Footsteps of the Buddha.” It was Thich Nhat Hanh’s idea, and who better to lead these tours than Shantum? He said, “Buddhism has come to the West and is thriving: a new form of Buddhism is developing, and it’s interesting to see how it evolves.”

Later I overheard Liz say to Yvette, “Shantum uses everyday language when teaching and telling us stories, so anyone can understand it, even though he knows Sanskrit.”

One of the pilgrims Shantum told us about was Hsuan Tsang, a Chinese monk who about fifteen hundred years ago traveled to India on pilgrimage, had various adventures, and took back many manuscripts from Nalanda University. A couple years ago, a friend in St. Louis, Cara, introduced me to a Japanese anime series called Saiyuki, which is based on the novel The Journey to the West. Fortunately, she also told me about the five hundred year old Chinese epic fantasy novel itself, and so at about the same time that I started renting the anime series, I began reading the unabridged book.

The novel is a humorous fantasy version of Hsuan Tsang’s journey in which he goes by the spiritual name of Tripitaka and journeys with the trickster Monkey King, Sun Wu-Kung, who is very central to the story and frequently gets into trouble but means well; a boar spirit named Pa-Chie who’s stupid and lustful and gluttonous but with whom the monk is more tolerant than with the mischievous Monkey; and a water spirit named Sha-Monk who helps out with the martial arts. A water dragon eats the monk Tripitaka’s horse and so Quan Yin turns the dragon into a white horse for Tripitaka to ride. It is a riotous and fun work of fantasy that involves many demons, deities, and spirits lurking around every mountain path.

But the real-live monk Hsuan Tsang escaped blood-thirsty Kali-worshippers without help from the monkey Sun Wu Kung or the boar spirit Pa-Chie, although that adventure does sound similar to escapades with demons in the novel.

2
Visible from the Jetta Grove is a very dramatic and enormous gold Buddha statue, put there by a Thai nun, and now a long white Thai monastery with sharply pointed roofs stands behind it. While we sat under the bodhi tree for Shantum’s talk, we could see the statue beyond the trees, and Shantum explained it to us. It was meant to be visible from the grove, and it certainly is.

After story time under the bodhi tree, we had one half hour or so to wander around and take pictures or otherwise hang out in the grove. I wanted to take a picture of the giant gold Buddha as close to it as I could get while remaining in the Jetta Groove but without a monkey attack. I started heading up a path and saw, down below a slope of grassy land, the foundation for another ancient brick monastery, where a couple of monkeys sat grubbing around. Shantum had just explained that the pink-bottomed monkeys are the fierce ones, such as the one I started walking toward by the sacred tree, but the cream-colored monkeys are safe. The ones congregating in this corner of the Jetta Grove were langurs, the safe ones. They were playful, swinging from branch to branch, and three babies hopped around and stared at me.

I made my way around the ruins to the other side, on a path sloping up toward the giant gold Buddha. I hesitated on the path because a large monkey sat in the tall grass right at the edge of the narrow path, and although it was a cream-colored monkey, the kind Shantum said is harmless, I wasn’t so sure it would let me get by, after the way previous monkeys had behaved.

Gail came along and walked right past the big monkey on the path, casually saying to it, “Hi, big guy.” The creature munched on plants and sat with its tail across the path. Seeing her confidently walk by without disturbing the monkey, I did the same except with a pinch of hesitation as I stepped over its tail. I walked to the end of the narrow path and got a better look at the giant gold Buddha. It was a breathtaking view, with the flame on top of the Buddha’s head pointing up into the bright blue sky. I took a couple pictures and stood gazing, hypnotized.

I passed the big munching monkey again with no problem. Minutes later I stood several yards away from the monkey and pulled out my camera and started pushing the zoom button so I could take a picture of some monkeys in the ruins. Suddenly the big one started shrieking and running at me. Therefore I lowered my camera and didn’t get that picture. I thought that was quite bizarre, but perhaps I took a picture of this monkey using the flash, which is automatically on when I switch on the camera. I walked away from the monastery ruins to watch monkeys in the trees.

While I gazed at the giant gold Buddha, Erika had been taking pictures of monkeys under a couple trees, and she even took a picture of monkeys having sex. I missed the event, except for seeing the high quality picture on her camera. I did walk back over, to the other side of the ruins, since Erika and Jennifer and a multitude of monkeys were there, and Erika pointed out the two monkeys that had been having sex. When it was time to leave, they looked like they might do it again, but I didn’t want to be far behind the sangha.

As I traversed back to the front gates, I picked up a terra cotta chai cup or candle holder from under a tree; it was similar to the one I had picked up at Deer Park. Shantum announced on the bus that we’d be departing again at three forty-five, to see stupas at sunset. I really like these gatherings in special places at sunrise and sunset, when the view is particularly dramatic.

Christine and I walked together from the Jetta Grove to the hotel and meanwhile discussed my situation in Kansas and my choices for dealing with it, which she listed: to do nothing, to seek council without moving, to move away and seek counseling, or to move away without counseling. I said, “When I was in college I was in a much healthier environment, being encouraged to express my artistic creativity 24/7, and now I’m on the trip accompanied by people with whom I’m comfortable and with whom I can communicate, in contrast with my usual environment.” She pointed out that when you’re so distressed, it’s hard to make important decisions such as whether to move away or not.

Christine said, “Nobody has to be anywhere.” Indeed, if you don’t like where you live, you can pack up and move. She said that things come up, and I can watch for signs. That’s how I ended up in Kansas: the signs pointed toward it, particularly when obnoxious neighbors moved into my apartment building and were not only loud but even smoked and left ashes and butts on the landing. So, yes, I can wait and watch for something to come up. For instance, Christine said, “A proofing job could become available on the west coast.” She also said, “It’s best to not just have a vague idea but to read up and do research on the area to which you’re thinking of moving. You should be able to really imagine yourself living there and be practical about preparing for it.”

The Lotuses of Kapilavastu

Our first stop today was the Kapilavastu archeology site that is probably the real Kapilavastu, unlike the one that’s in Nepal. Shantum said, “The beggars are particularly aggressive in this area,” shortly before we got off the bus.

The ruins we walked amid were the site of palatial buildings and the township of ancient Kapilavastu, capital of the Shakyas, the Buddha’s family. This is the kingdom where Siddhartha Gautama grew up. To my immediate right, after getting off the bus, stood the ruins of small rooms around a capacious central room or courtyard. Small rooms remind me of a dorm or monastery; perhaps that’s not the palace but rather a monastery. I recall that monasteries were built in Kapilavastu after the Buddha reached enlightenment: that explains the dorm-like set-up. These structures that we see now would not have been around during the Buddha’s youth, when the art of brick making was temporarily forgotten. But no doubt the people who built these brick buildings knew about the Buddha and admired him. They would not have built the brick monastic structures if this hadn’t been the Buddha’s home kingdom, and so these structures are connected to him.

I walked further to a tall red brick structure that other members of the sangha were climbing on, and I also climbed on it but with much caution. Beggar children hovered in the background in a pack, but I ignored them.

I rather suspect that India invented bricks. I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it, since they were using bricks a long time ago, before the Buddha’s time, and still make them from hand. Bricks are everywhere, in great numbers. I first noticed them in New Delhi, where we saw the piles of bricks, ruins of recent squatter’s homes. In ancient ruins, even bricks often have beautiful designs sculpted into them.

Our second stop was at some of the same kingdom of Kapilavastu, with more brick ruins. A huge stupa stands in the center. According to the archeological survey sign, we looked at the ruins of monasteries, stupas, shrines, votive stupas and a public hall. Sealings with the legend of Kapilavastu are in a monastery here, which perked up my curiosity; I wanted to see what these sealings looked like. “This complex represents the Buddhist establishment of ancient Kapilavastu,” according to a sign out front.

After I took a path and passed most of the ruins, I approached an excessively blue and sparkling pond sprinkled with bright pink blooming lotuses. My mouth formed a big O. This was the first time I saw lotuses in their natural environment, unless we saw some in the bamboo grove. In Bodh Gaya I had noticed some picked lotuses that wallahs walking on the street sold as offerings.

Most of the sangha had reached the pond before I did, and I wasn’t the only one who was struck by the beauty of the scenery and the great sense of peace. We were indeed close to the Buddha, and it isn’t difficult to picture him walking slowly around the pond and looking down at the flowers. People were already settled comfortably on the bank of the pond, seated or standing or wandering, even lying on mats, by the time I came within sight of the pond. Shantum said we’d sit in the Mango Grove, gesturing up a slight hill to a grouping of trees. Shantum preferred the grove because it’s shady, so I thought that was a good idea.

I followed the winding path up to the Mango Grove, took a picture of another ancient brick building’s foundations, and set foot into the mango grove. Indeed the grove was much shadier than the pond and consequently cooler. Although the lotus pond was certainly beautiful, the grove was also pleasing to the eye. It was a small forest, and I saw no mangoes whether or not they still grow in it, and the tall shady trees darkened it considerably.

The Mango Groove houses the most obnoxious, noisy, and greedy crows I’ve yet encountered. They fly around, squawk and caw away like they think they’re entitled to all the attention, and even walk fairly close to us. Natalie and I imitated their cawing. I’m better at turkey noises, and peacock sound effects are easy, since they sound so much like cats.

We all sat down on our straw mats, and Shantum began a talk in the Mango Groove at Kapilavastu. He told us about Nepal’s tourism relying on the other “Kapilavastu” there, and he spoke mostly about the archeology in the region before getting back to Buddha lore.

Under a tree to our right, a crow settled on our food and poked at the white plastic bags with its beak. The crow must be smarter than me, because I didn’t even know our food was there. The white plastic bags disguised it.

“Trying to beg is hard to do,” Shantum said at another point in the talk. He tried it in England at Victoria Station and was very uncomfortable with asking from strangers. Also he has begged with Thai monks: their method includes wearing robes and holding bowls, not saying anything. I think that would be much easier to do, and when I visited San Francisco as a tourist, I thought about what it would be like to be a panhandler on Powell Street. Who knows, I might resort to that someday, although I dread talking to strangers despite all my customer service experience.

Shantum told us about the Buddha’s return visit to his family in Kapilavastu. Ultimately he convinced many people here to become monastics, including his son Rahula. “He started out as a crow-chasing novice, in a place like this,” Shantum said.
“Caw, caw!” crows said in response.
“I think Mukesh is recruited as crow-chasing novice,” John said. Twice Mukesh chased crows off our lunch, before he and Jagdish resorted to taking the lunch packages away from the tree and keeping it next to them while they sat talking at the edge of the grove.

“The Buddha’s family enlarged from a small family to the universal family,” Shantum said. Mine too. That’s an aspect of interconnectedness: I feel more bound to the human family, the world family, than to alienating and contemptuous relatives. Although the Buddha got along much better with his relatives than I do with mine, and although he grew up in a loving and supportive community rather than a prejudiced and unsupportive community, I can see that he was bullied and threatened on occasion, such as by his bratty cousin who eventually tried to kill him. The Brahmins who were jealous of him could be seen as a bunch of bullies. I wonder if the Buddha ever felt depressed by this hostility, even though he obviously had a great deal of mental discipline. Encounters with vicious people are a very significant part of the path, and they test us. Unlike the Buddha, I keep failing the test.

Shantum told us how the Buddha’s mother and other women insisted on becoming the first nuns. “In Plum Village, nuns are fully ordained,” Shantum said, referring to a meditation center that is Thich Nhat Hanh’s main residence and where he does most of his teaching. “Nuns are fully ordained in the West but not accepted in Thailand or Burma currently,” thanks to power-tripping misogynists in charge. It’s one of those situations in which old men in power don’t want to let go of their power.

Ann asked, “Who has the authority to change the precepts for nuns?”
Shantum said, “According to the Buddha you should change things, such as the precepts, to fit modern times. Unfortunately, there are traditionalists in the way.” Gail pressed him, asking if there was some central authority like the Pope, but there isn’t. She mentioned the Dalai Lama, and Shantum pointed out, “The Dalai Lama approves of nuns being fully ordained.”

Crazy crows are hovering around at lunch. Someone tossed a little food and a bunch of them swooped down disconcertingly close to my head. I ducked and could feel the wind from the wings and was unfortunately reminded of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I walked a few feet away before tossing food for the obnoxious black birds, and numerous crows swooped down in that part of the woods. All that for one little piece of bread.

Shantum had warned us that the child beggars are “more aggressive” around here. I had no problem at the first Kapilavastu stop and wondered what he could possibly mean, and until we returned to the bus I had no problem here. As I stepped up to the bus and ignored the kids, one of them tapped me on the arm, and after I got to my seat, I looked out the window and noticed down below one of the kids giving me a nasty look. I’m thinking that must be what Shantum meant by “more aggressive.” I had been inclined to believe he was referring to the crows, not the children.

2
After we rode the bus several hours, the sun was a giant crimson polka dot in the pale grey-blue sky. It was dark out shortly before seven in the evening, and now the long bus ride is complete. We have arrived at the Lotus Nikko Hotel in the village of Sravasti. Hurray! The lobby includes, in the center, a spiral staircase made of marble. Or maybe it’s not so much spiral as curving a little out of kilter. While we waited in the lobby, and just before staff members served us little glasses of a carbonated beverage rather than my much preferred choice of mango juice, Valerie and Dean sung Beatles songs, and by now I’m accustomed to members of our sangha acting a bit giddy when we arrive at our next hotel after a long drive. I’m invariably one of the giddy ones.

This is the third Lotus Nikko Hotel for us. The first was the early one with the totally tubular temple containing a big black Buddha, and the second was our home right before the Maharaja’s lodge. The Lotus Nikko Hotels are nice rather than obnoxiously posh like the Radisson. The most scenic thing about my current nondescript room is that the window is in the front façade of the hotel and therefore looks out on the roses and the road that passes through the village.

After we acquired our room keys, we had approximately half an hour in our rooms before the 7:30 dinner, located in an enormous dining room on the second floor, just down the hall from my room. After dinner Shantum talked about the rest of the pilgrimage. The sangha will be splitting up in about three days. The topic of the trip coming to an end is not a pleasant one for me, and I somewhat melodramatically said, “Oh no! I don’t want the pilgrimage to end! I want it to go on forever and ever!”

3
This morning, Sunday the fourth, as I descended the staircase to meet up for meditation, I saw six yellow-swathed Thai monks seated on the carved wood, velvet-upholstered sofas. Boxes and bags of supplies were piled next to the entrance doors, and one of the boxes contained strange nuts or seeds in it: they were like gigantic peanuts, two in the shell, three inches long; but they had a smooth medium brown shell instead of a bumpy dark yellow shell.

Members of our sangha started showing up in the lobby, and I went upstairs to get my shawl and tissues, since I had forgotten them. Not of course that I’m absent-minded. By the time I returned to the lobby downstairs, the Thai monks were no longer hanging out and instead members of our sangha were seated on the sofas. When I heard chanting coming from the downstairs restaurant, I crossed the lobby and stood by the glass door and the glass windows that flank it. Sure enough the Thai monks were chanting and filled a long table at one end of the restaurant, and Thai laypeople sat at another table.

I returned to the sofa at which the monks had sat recently, and an unusual conversation was in progress, one in which monks would probably not have participated. Someone explained to Mairgret that “booty” is an American slang word for “butt.”
“It’s too early in the morning to talk about booties,” Gail said.
“Boobies?” Mairgret said.
“’Booby’ means ‘breast,’” Gail said. “It’s way too early in the morning to talk about boobies.”
“How about bodhis?” Val said. “As in the Bodhi Tree.”
“This is when you should be writing in your journal,” Dean said to me. I laughed and pulled out my journal.

I’m currently waiting amid rose bushes and trees on the hotel grounds. Today we’re supposed to meet up again at about ten thirty in the morning and head for the Jetta Grove, which is within walking distance. I don’t remember reading about the Jetta Grove before, but I guess that’s not as dramatic as the Buddha’s footprints leaving lotuses behind him or as his encounter with Mara trying to distract him with demons and all. Besides, my poor memory for names extends to place names, not only people’s names.

On this road, it’s not unusual to see oxen pulling carts piled high with hay. At this very moment, in fact, a cart is going by, full of hay, topped by two guys in turbans, and led by oxen. This is a rather common sight in India, especially here. Yesterday we passed what I thought of as an Indian rodeo: a flat area at the side of the road, occupied by many oxen-drawn carts full of hay. Numerous men were there, perhaps in the process of loading the carts. And here comes another cart.

It has weirded me out how typical it is in India to see many men, at work or on the streets, and very few women. Members of our sangha have of course commented on this, and Liz said the women are behind the scenes, in the homes. They are hidden. We on the other hand are visible, gallivanting around on the other side of the world, boldly going where I suspect no Kansan or Hoosier has wandered before. Escaping Kansas and the mundane existence of everyday life gives me a sense of freedom, even if freedom is a rarity for women who live in the country to which I have escaped.

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).

Mayadevi and Lumbini Grove

I awoke before our wake-up call and wandered toward the narrow back room, where I looked out the immense window and immediately spotted a peacock on the lawn. I grabbed my camera and went out barefoot and still wearing the t-shirt and pants in which I had slept. The peacock walked along the stone path on the lawn behind our room, and I tip-toed very slowly and steadily behind it.

The bird was obviously a male, with a blue and green iridescent tail, several feet long, trailing behind. It walked with its head bobbing as if to music that it heard on invisible headphones. I followed it till it left the path and turned around a corner of the building, and I saw a low brick wall next to the structure. The peacock flew up and landed on the wall, and in a matter of minutes it flew upward again and landed on the slanted roof of the hotel room. I took photos, meanwhile, including two of the peacock in flight. Soon the bird disappeared as it strutted away on the roof.

Walking on bare feet damp with dew, I returned to the hotel room. “I stalked the peacock,” I told Erika. She later quoted me and said I “looked like an egret creeping up on a trout.” I gargled three lids of mouthwash, due to my congestion, and coughed up some phlegm before heading out for the meditation practice. Despite my search for Sherry’s room the evening before, I hadn’t spotted the temple, and I expected the sangha to meet up in the lobby, but nobody was there. I asked at the front desk, and a woman in Nepalese dress led me to the bridge-like walkway that crosses the courtyard, and straight in front of us, on the other side of the walkway, was a little brick-walled temple where the sangha had gathered. I thanked the employee profusely, feeling silly for not noticing the temple’s location before, and sneaked in a few minutes late. I put down my mat and cushion and sat near the entrance.

The brick walls curved into a circle, and the floor was also brick. To the right was a simple shrine, a square niche in the brick wall with a black Buddha statue centered in it. Shantum had already started guiding the meditation. Between my lateness and my cough, I didn’t have the most wonderful concentration on my breath, and I had to start meditating over and over again. I self-consciously tried to suppress my cough so that it wouldn’t disturb the other meditators. When we got up, we mindfully walked from the temple, across the courtyard, and to the dining room for breakfast.

2

The sangha came to a gate leading to a long, long path; we seem to do that fairly frequently. Jagdish took care of our entrance fees at a small square building on our right, and we walked up the long path. We were out in the country and saw countless trees and bushes on either side of the path. We encountered a minimum of begging children, who as Feroza pointed out, could play in the lovely weather and in the beautiful rural setting. In addition to the trees and bushes, we espied a lake on our right, and toward the end of the trail we came to many merchants’ tents on our left and a red and white Tibetan temple on our right, partially hidden by the trees. Finally we reached a sign for the garden where Mayadevi gave birth to the Buddha on the way to her parent’s house. The sign said:

MAYADEVI TEMPLE BIRTH-PLACE OF LORD BUDDHA.

An extensive grassy lawn with scattered trees lay ahead of us. We moved across the lawn to an asok tree, where Shantum posed as Mayadevi grasping a tree branch like an ancient Indian tree goddess, as legend claims she did when she gave birth to the Buddha. The asok tree has dark, long and skinny leaves with curling edges; the sakya tree has a leaf of basically the same shape but smooth, without crinkling edges. After Shantum showed us each tree and identified them, I picked up a leaf from the ground under each.

We walked from the trees to a plain brick block, I mean building, which is rather nondescript and made of red brick with a cupola-like white square centered on top; on the white surface are painted Nepali-style Buddha eyes looking out on the world. That was the only pretty thing about the facade. On a far side of this building we came to another Ashoka pillar.

As we stood looking at the Rummendei Pillar, placed in the garden by Emperor Ashoka, Shantum explained that the message carved into the pillar says that Ashoka exempted the people of Lumbini from eight percent tax, because the Buddha was born there. The pillar dates from about 200 BCE. It is broken in half and a small black metal fence surrounds the pillar, not improving its photogenic quality, although I took several pictures anyway. Behind it is a long narrow metallic stand holding burning candles as offerings.

It took me a while to notice a rough stone lying by the pillar; it was the capital that has fallen off and has also been weather-beaten over the centuries, so that I couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. It was curved and sort of shaped like a loaf of sandwich bread. Perhaps it originally had been a lion.

Next time I’m in London, I’ll go to Trafalgar Square, look up at Nelson’s column, and say, “I didn’t know Emperor Ashoka traveled all the way to London! Does this column mark the Tube station where the Buddha delivered a powerful speech that inspired hundreds of Britons to shave their heads and don yellow robes? Or is this where the Buddha climbed onto a double-decker bus?”

The temple now looks like an archeological site. We went inside the protective red brick building and saw the ruins of the Mayadevi Temple, around which we walked on a wooden bridge or catwalk along the edges of the room and bridging out through the middle of the room. The remains consist primarily of crumbly, beige brick and some square ditches that must indicate small rooms. I had to resist walking faster and kept glancing toward the bridge in the center of the building, because lots of people stopped there to admire something important.

When I reached that focal point, I saw that a tall brick wall stands in the center of the building, and looking up at a high point of this wall, I saw a much worn red stone image of Mayadevi giving birth to the Buddha from her side. She stands in a graceful and slightly leaning pose, just as earlier tree goddess figures stood, such as the large yakshi statue we saw at the Patna Museum. Below the plaque, little squares of gold plate liberally gilded the tall brick wall.

Looking down from the walkway, I saw a stone about a foot long behind a glass plate, in the floor. While we still hovered around the pillar, Shantum had explained that this stone, found at the site, is believed to mark the location of the Buddha’s birth.

We perambulated in hushed silence indoors, and after we went back out and slipped on our shoes with an absence of hushed silence, we followed Shantum past ancient brick ruins that included some tubular shapes, no doubt the remains of small stupas. Overhead was strung a riotous burst of color in the form of countless Tibetan prayer flags; they were apparently tied at each end to trees that were very far apart, so either they were particularly long strings, or someone tied normal strings of flags together to make longer strings. We walked around a big tank of green water where Mayadevi is said to have bathed before giving birth, and where I stopped to look at turtles. The Buddha’s mother was probably somewhat anxious to get to her mom’s house and not so interested in watching amphibians.

On the far side of the tank stood a huge and impressive old bodhi tree with Tibetan prayer flags tangled in its wide-spreading branches. I let a silly smile take over my face when I looked at this enormous, gnarly tree. In an ample niche of the tree trunk was a shrine, which included some sort of square carved structure painted bright red, a great deal of red powder paint, and some marigolds and burning candles. The old tree was seemingly made of ropes of whitish-brown bark that formed dramatic nooks, like upside-down triangles, in the trunk. In another nook of the tree, Natalie sat meditating between huge roots, the way I imagine the Buddha sat under the bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya. A mass of red, yellow, blue, white, orange and turquoise prayer flags hung so near that some of them must have brushed the top of her head.

I walked past Natalie and the tree and headed in the same direction as the rest of the sangha, toward two sizable trees each surrounded by a circular wooden bench. We sat at these benches and admired the many colorful Tibetan prayer flags overhead. This is such a soothing, peaceful, and happy place. Two stray dogs, craving companionship like most of those we’ve encountered previously, hung out with us. Shantum told us stories about the Buddha, his mother Mayadevi, and Lumbini.

Shantum explained that the ruins we just explored inside the Nepalese red brick building, the construction of which, I would like to point out, was not a stellar moment in the history of architecture, are ruins of the original temple, dating back to the third to seventh century CE. The bridge crosses the center, and Shantum now reviewed the part about the stone supposedly marking where the Buddha was born: it’s down below the walkway and inside a glass cabinet, and below the worn plaque of Mayadevi giving birth.

Shantum told us about Siddhartha’s birth, which is typically described in supernatural terms, but it certainly did take place here in Lumbini Grove, where Mayadevi was traveling on her way to her parent’s house; in India it is traditional to give birth at the maternal home. However, I’m reluctant to believe that the Buddha was born out of Maya’s side or that he walked shortly after birth and lotus flowers appeared in his footsteps.

Both Shantum and Jennifer were vocal about not liking attempts to deify the Buddha, and I certainly agree. The Buddha taught that he was a human being and stressed that anyone can achieve enlightenment. Shantum said, “Supernatural birth devalues birth, and women, in general.” And I might add it comes up a lot in male hero tales, such as Cuchulain and Jesus. No doubt this is one of those things that didn’t appear in mythology until patriarchy came along about five thousand years ago.

Shantum proceeded to tell us stories about the Buddha’s childhood and early years, up to the time that he left his wife Yasodhara and his newborn son, Rahula. Meanwhile, I hear whimsical birdcalls. The trees under which we sit are full of Tibetan prayer flags and talkative birds, and the two dogs lie on the dry yellow grass.

While we still sat under the trees, a couple of Nepalese men, one of whom was extremely old, came along and spoke with Mukesh and Shantum, who smilingly gestured and said to us, “The Buddha’s grandfather.” Shantum explained to the visitors where we are from and translated that the old man, who is almost ninety years old, said, “He’s very fortunate to come into our presence.” He was an old Nepalese man in an off-white dhoti and kurta, light green scarf, and sunglasses.

Buddha’s grandfather said this was the site of a goddess shrine, where people used to sacrifice animals, according to legend. The locals believed it was a goddess here and only later found out it was the Buddha. Shantum said, “A goddess is right because it is a temple to his mother, Mayadevi.” It’s a mother goddess power place; no wonder it feels so good here!

“It is very nice that people like to come here, we bring it good karma,” the old man said, and Shantum translated again.
“The local monastery supplies employment, and the price of land goes up,” Shantum said. “The old man is from here, and the guy with him is from India, a friend, and a father of his son-in-law. He is wearing his best clothes.”