The old Zen Masters say, “If we pay attention, everything enlightens.” It is this sense of “Everything is the Buddha” that I experienced recently on a visit to the local temple in India.
An Indian temple shatters all conventional notions of the sacred. Perhaps, in its innermost sanctum, one is transported by an ancient silence into a reverent appreciation of all that is holy; but in the courtyard of the temple, the noisy business of life is vibrantly unfolding. Children play, adults gossip, hawkers haggle, beggars plead, traders negotiate and the priests chant. Nothing seems to be outside of Life’s definition of holy.
But I like the temple at night, when its towering walls and flickering lamps resemble our meditation hall. So it was with eagerness that I accompanied my father on our annual temple visit. Ten minutes to closing, bells to mark my peaceful meditation, the faint smell of incense…perfection.
I cross the threshold, settle down against my favorite pillar and close my eyes. A peal of laughter shatters the silence. A dancing little sprite of a girl, dressed in an outrageous pink ballerina costume, erupts into the courtyard. She is joyfully singing and whirling with her stuffed teddy bear! Horrors!
“There goes your meditation! No chance for peace. Only 10 minutes to closing and this mom shows no sign of leaving. God, why can’t parents take better responsibility for their kids these days? Why is it that my desire for peace has to passively tolerate a more active need to express?”
The temple bells chime.
Their tinkling laughing suggests that this dancing child is a manifestation of all that is, in the form of innocence, joy, laughter and play. How could I be in a temple and not worship that? Delight bubbles forth as the little Buddha stops in front of me, smiles bewitchingly, and, still singing loudly, dances away.
With a smile on my lips, I follow my father in our temple circuit. Our next stop, “God as the teacher.” As the priest lights the lamp and I close my eyes to meditate, my father starts to explain the mythology, the history, the context, the story of this particular “god.” A familiar rush of irritation wells up. “I may have left India 25 years ago, but do you think I have forgotten all this? Why do you have to always take every opportunity to instruct? Do you think I don’t know?”
The temple bells chime.
The irony of standing in front of the divine as the teacher and being in the process of “knowing” drops in. The deep vibration of the temple gong seems to gently point out that the appropriate meditation here might be humility, receiving and curiosity, beginner rather than expert. Bowing, I turn attention to the teacher, my heart swelling with love for the divine in the form of my father, earnestly explaining something to me, not from a place of authority but simply from a desire to share his love of this temple.
The temple doors close, the lamps are extinguished, everyone leaves, a blessed silence descends, and a warm and a friendly darkness envelops me as I stand in front of the last station, “The Goddess in the form of Unconditional Love.” This is the moment I have been waiting for. She is attired in bright red with a garland of crimson roses. And as I close my eyes and start counting my breath, I am aware of being assaulted by a swarm of mosquitoes. In 30 seconds, there is no inch uncovered on my body that is not swelling and itchy.
The temple bells chime as I burst out in laughter. Dear me, unconditional love even for mosquitoes?
I leave the temple, a smile on my face and my heart bursting with gratitude and appreciation for the most compassionate and humorous class on “non-separation.”
The Monastery of the heart excludes nothing, including “my” preference for a peaceful meditation. But it reserves the right to laughingly tweak my assumptions that “my” meditation will ever result in peace.
Gassho,
Ashwini