Sangha

There’s a stall with some magazines and books on it. There’s a shrine. Some of the order members are preparing it. There’s an image of the Buddha. It’s about 3ft tall and gold in colour. One of the order members made it. He’s a sculptor. Art is one way in which to live the spiritual life. There’s quite a lot here tonight. Outside you can hear the wheels of cars moving across wet tarmac. It’s a comforting sound. It reminds Richard of his childhood. Lying asleep listening to traffic. No pattern to it, but somehow a rhythm. Silence. The approaching swish reaches a climax. The whisper of departure. Gap. Wait. Repeat. Around the rupa are candles, some basins of water, incense sticks upright in bowls of sand, flowers. The shrines is beautiful, helping us to be attracted to the Dharma. That’s the message of the Mahayana; we engage the emotions, we visualise, we use every resource available to move closer to our goal. Even magic. Padmasambhava subduing the demons of Tibet. Converting the Bon deities to the Dharma.
Richard sees several people here who are good friends. One approaches. A manly hug. What can one say? They didn’t know her, but they do care. They are good friends. What was it that the Buddha said to Ananda? Friendship is the whole of the spiritual life. Richard always thought that was quite witty. If your best friend is the Buddha, then friendship is the whole of the spiritual life. But what about the rest of us? His Ananda, the man he used to know as Tom, his spiritual friend would help him through this.

In one of the corners of this odd-shaped attic room, there’s a cupboard. It’s where an angle of the roof space is accessible from within the conversion in which they will practise. Two young meditators stand there, a few feet apart. One is dressed in a tight red t-shirt and jeans. The other is in combats and a black hoody which proclaims him to be an expert in Lau Gar Kung Fu. They are clearly that slightly narcissistic type of young man who are often attracted to Buddhism. Richard mentally labels them as “muscular Buddhists”. For them, the Dharma, is another way of being buff. The muscles, the right choice of clothes, an undeniably cool belief system. But, he felt guilty immediately. Who was he to judge them. Wasn’t he just as much of a dilettante as them?
Lau Gar looks at red shirt. Need a pretext, a reason to speak. No. Actually you don’t need anything. It’s okay to just smile. Just smile. No, come on say something. How I’ll feel all week depends on whether he smiles, what he says. Okay. What am I going to say? Topics: news; music; film; books; weather; the order. Yes. It’s a start. Not too transparent.
“Have you ever met him, the founder?”
“No, have you?”
“No. Do you believe these allegations?”
“I haven’t really hears any of the details. What, is he supposed to have abused someone or something?”
“Yeah. No-one’s talking. Something like that. Or he just kind of abused his position – y’know his status with an impressionable younger guy.”
“It’s worrying…”
“That something like that could happen.”
“In a group that’s all about.”
“Yeah, awareness and … I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s about trying to free yourself from attachments, being a better person. Not power and that.”
“I suppose any organisation.”
“Anyone’s only human.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t undermine what we are doing, just ‘cause the founder slipped up. Still, it is about trying to move beyond all that crap, I mean it’ll put people off joining us, if it’s widely known about.”
“No-one wants to talk about it.”
“Not in the movement, no. I know. It freaks me out.”
“Someone told me it was all just sour grapes. Nothing in it, just some guy pissed off that he wasn’t enlightened. You know, he didn’t feel happy all the time.”
“Still we’re doing something wrong if our own people get that pissed off. God. I don’t know. You try to find something perfect. Just a couple of people with the right fucking motives, values. You know principles.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean there’s all this pressure to be a veggie, and the guy’s taking advantage of the recruits.”
“I know what you mean. But there isn’t really pressure to become a vegetarian.”
“Well, they don’t say it that way. But there is pressure.”
A few people were starting to get cushions and blocks sorted. A circle was forming with the shrine occupying a point on its circumference. Richard watched the other members of the group go through their rituals for getting settled. Some stretched lightly before laying down a blanket and going into a yogic seated position. Most took a moment to settle and then propped up a knee with a block or cushion. One of the older members was prostrating himself before the image of Gautama. He did a group of about ten prostrations before assuming the popular straddling kneeling pose. What is that about? Prostration, Richard thought, was strange. We are not worshipping the Buddha. We see him as an inspirational embodiment of our potential. Well, I suppose if the devotional stuff helps, great. Richard got his stack of cushions ready and knelt down. His bottom on the cushions, his lower legs on the floor, he felt stable. He moved his lower back a bit, stretching until a little click told him his spine was kind of aligned. He shut his eyes and brought his attention to the breath, When everything started, then he’d look around again. It seemed that as soon as he shut his eyes he became more aware of the incense. That was the point, of course, to help you to connect with the breathing. The pleasure of breathing. He allowed himself to let go of some of his thoughts. What did controversy matter? What did his neighbour’s practice matter? What did it matter how the others acted towards him. On the cushion there was just the breathing. The simplest of ancient practices.
Ananda settled on his blocks to the left of the shrine. He arranged a couple of things beside him: a brass meditation bell; a tea-spoon sized wooden striker; a book of practices and mantra that they would use later; his watch, the tail of the strap tucked into the loop so that it would sit up where he could see its face.
“Let’s begin with ten minutes of just sitting. Let’s give ourselves a chance to arrive.” He rang the bell firmly three times. On the third strike of the bell, everyone in the circle was still. The reverberations from the bell settled in the room, sinking into the walls and carpet. As they died down, the nervous energy of the meditators dissipated. Richard allowed the routine and his conditioned responses get him started. His posture was good. He felt alert and focused. He took a slightly deeper breath. He experienced the increase supply of oxygen as a tingle in his fingers. There was a subtle ache in his lower ribs. He visualised a blue sky. He experienced the incense as increased sensation inside his nostrils. His field of vision was full of swirling red. This he dismissed. The blue sky. He allowed his mind to empty of thoughts. His hands felt swollen on his knees, heavy. He let this thought go like a wispy cloud travelling across a summer sky, destined to evaporate to nothingness in the heat. Nearby someone breathed out with a sigh. Alone together. Richard let this thought sail out into the blue. As it departed it left him with a positive feeling. He was in a charged circle of people all aspiring towards something. It was something different for each of them. The Buddha’s smile. Manjushri’s flaming sword. Amoghisiddi’s fearlessness. The lotus. The emotion of compassion. Art. A moon-mat. What was it for him? Emptiness? Avalokiteshvara – broken into pieces because he hadn’t been able to help all the people in Tibet. Magically transformed into a thousand-armed Bodhisattva, a thousand arms to aid all who suffered. He allowed the image of Avalokiteshvara to rest on a moon-mat in the midst of the infinite blue sky and then dissolved it into emptiness. The breathing was still there. He kept letting go. At some point perhaps thought did drop away.
Time passed. The circle breathed and sat. Their energies all directed towards stillness. The community. The young man in a red t-shirt opened his eyes, struggling with “Just Sitting”. What are you supposed to do? He glanced over at Ananda, who opened his eyes to check his watch. How does that happen? Ananda’s eyes smiled serenely. There was no judgement, but perhaps something patronising about the way he closed his eyes again and shifted his focus back to the practice. Lloyd closed his own eyes. It must be almost over, if Ananda was checking his watch.
Lloyd was struggling, already. He wobbled a bit. He felt sleepy. How did they do it? So serene. He took a few deeper breaths. He pinched his ear-lobes. That has supposed to be a way to wake yourself up. He felt the bones in his bottom pressing down into foam blocks. Not really comfortable. Must adjust my posture at the end of this. He opened his eyes up again. This time Ananda did not meet his gaze. His mouth was slightly open and you could see the tip of his tongue resting on his lower row of teeth. The room was very still. Only he could not find peace. He re-closed his eyes. He became aware of the hotness of a girl opposite. She had very large breasts. Around her neck hung a small golden vajra. The symbol drew attention to the depth of her cleavage and Lloyd pictured himself entering her, her sex presented perfectly by the incline of her meditation blocks. With some effort and a shake of the head that no-one witnessed (no more than they could have been aware of the form of his distraction) Lloyd dismissed the thought. Sexual thoughts were a common hindrance.
And the bell rang out.
“Please open your eyes as soon as you feel ready,” Ananda wondered if his welcome of the group back into the open-eyed sweep of the circle was, well, welcoming enough. If it struck the right balance between honouring the individual experience and emphasising the communal nature of the session. He’d had moments of concentration but, as leader, he’d felt his attention moving out, around the circle. Wondering about their experience. Assessing the feel of the room. Sally looked absolutely blissful and it took her several seconds to open her eyes. Lloyd was there immediately. He was not doing well, he looked too tired for a start. Too much exercise, and not enough sleep maybe. What sort of a sit had Richard had? How was he doing, poor chap?
“Okay. Let’s just take a minute or two,” Ananda lifted his legs round off his blocks and shook them gently, working out a little of the tension, “and then we’ll do a Metta Bhavana.” Some of the group massaged their legs, stretched, spoke a word or two to their neighbour. Sally closed her eyes again, holding on to the state she’d just found, wanting to take it with her into the next session. Lloyd got up, his knees cracking as he unbent, and headed for the toilet – to splash his face with cold water. Metta Bhavana – a real killer.
Bob is stretching (lightly). He feels a pair of eyes watching him, perhaps judging him. Some guy in a Kung Fu top, showing off his flexibility. He stops. Gets back into his posture. Closes his eyes. Directs his focus inwards. Metta. Better get ready for that. Love. Or if you are not comfortable with that, “loving kindness”. Is it true that you have to love yourself before you can love others? What if you have a numb feeling about yourself. Surprised by your own inadequacies, your pride, your foolishness. And doesn’t that make some other people even more worthy of admiration and love. Because they somehow manage not to be that way. Because they like you anyway. His love is fleshed out with gratitude and adoration.
Ananda announces the sit and rings his bell. Bob knows how futile it is to forcibly attempt to not think about something. Instead, he checks in with his body. He’s a bit achy from exercise. But it’s a good feeling. He’s a bit hungry. He enjoys that sensation too. It’s about control. Positive feelings. deserve to be happy. I try. And he visualises himself running, the paths where he first began running, through the park near his Dad’s house. It’s the same feeling, almost. Coming down past the large ornamental pond, seeing the light brown of the drive. Tired, but confident that you’ll run home without stopping at this speed or faster. Just like this hunger. Aware of a desire for food but quite ready to wait until the next meal. And in his visualisation he is watching himself run from a camera on the back of a motorbike that is keeping pace with him, several metres in front, like on the marathon. His legs are mud-spattered, his vest and shorts are his school kit – he’s proud to wear them even when training on his own. His form is good. His head is closely shaved in this picture. Swear beads up below the hairline. His head does not move up and down too much (he can hear his father’s voice commenting on the elite athletes: “Look at their heads. That’s efficient running form!”). His forearms are parallel to the ground, moving in reaction to the rhythm of his strides, helping to propel him forward. His strides are long. Long legs, he tells himself. Keeping the pace up by keeping them long. His hands are relaxed and flop forward at the wrist. He’s relaxed. The motion is efficient. I’m loping, he says to himself. There’s no one else here, this is my place. I’m like a wolf. He feels his belly working with the effort of breathing fast and deep. He feels the scoop of his belly, back from the barrel of his ribs. I’m barrelling along. I am lupine, vulpine. Rangy. Bob comes up a little from this picture. He feels the positive energy, the warmth in his chest. That worked well. I like myself, I am happy, running.
Ananda strikes his bell and the note cuts through the solid silence that the meditators have created. Ananda has planned the session carefully. Richard is his good friend. He resists the temptation to engage his imagination too much. Richard’s situation is complex. Not that I will use this session to rehearse conversations with him.
Richard places Ananda next to him on the green picnic blanket he uses in this practice. They are sitting in sunshine on the lawn of the house he lived in when he first went away to university. There’s a pot of tea, mugs, milk, biscuits. The green rug is an island of friendliness. Ananda is welcome there.
Ananda explores the quality of his love for Richard. Compassion – the loss of Philippa not something he can easily comprehend. Concern – the claims of the boy almost certainly too much for Richard to handle at this time. Desire to support – Richard needs a good friend. He visualises his support for Richard as a safety net. Richard is walking a tight-rope, balancing love, loss, desire to do the right thing, guilt, many emotions. Now Ananda sees himself as net and one of those weighted poles, Richard can use him to counterbalance any wobbles the hard walk causes. And if he falls, Ananda is there. No, not a net, an air-filled crash cushion, able to absorb any force.
Richard remembers the last conversation he had with Ananda, warning him to take things slowly. Not to put the killer in his Metta Bhavana, for instance. And he starts to find it more difficult to keep Ananda on the rug, he’s falling away. The rug is a raft. I need Ananda’s help. But maybe he’s holding me back. Yes, for my own good. To protect me. But I don’t want to be protected. I want to be stretched. I want to make progress. Develop. Gain insights. Live the Bodhisattva Ideal. The bell rings. Richard has drifted badly, lost momentum. How, he wonders, will he be able to develop love for a neutral person, when things have gone so wrong with Ananda?
The bell rings. It’s a subtle sound which reverberates. The sound hangs in the air for so long it seems to set your belly echoing. Sally hears Ananda remind the group to move on to the neutral person. She begins to work on Lloyd – the last person she looked at before starting the sit. She has garnered a heavy, warm mass of metta within her heart. Like a blob of marmalade, just boiled up ready to put into jars, large drops falling from the spoon. A large ball, larger than would be physically possible. Warm, orange, sweet and malleable. Or a ball of molten glass being blown. She feels each of her breaths swell the sphere. In the previous stage she’d visualised her friend within the glowing bulb. It now seems the easiest thing to draw Lloyd into her warm, orange world. He seems very nice. His presence here predisposes her to like him. He’d seemed to be struggling a little in the last sit – it was possible to hear some slight shuffling. And the way he dashed off to the loo. No, don’t pity him. That isn’t metta. Struggling with distractions is work. That’s the work of meditation. When it’s all going well, then perhaps you’re not really making progress. You’re on a plateau. On a plain. Better to be struggling up the mountain, up the spiral path. Stumbling, picking yourself up, trying again. He deserves to be happy. I hope his practice is going well. Sally allows this thought to fade away. She holds Lloyd within her warm sphere of love, prepares to grow it further.
The bell chimes. Ananda reminds them: move on to the difficult person. Richard corrects him: “The Enemy”. Don’t water it down. If it won’t work on a real enemy, what use is it? Richard begins to invite the killer onto his green blanket. Putting aside what he has done, may he be happy, may he be well. But this is too much of a strain on the image. The blanket is a flying carpet holding Richard, Ananda, his neutral person (a lady on the ICT helpdesk, very helpful) and the killer. The blanket can’t cope. They are all depending on the fabric holding together. If it breaks, the magic is broken, they’ll fall from the flying carpet down into chaos. It’s a storm down there, a tornado of anger, and hatred. Only on the carpet of Richard’s metta can they escape. Richard can hear the fibres pulling apart, the bobbly old comfortable thing tearing apart beneath him. A moment ago it felt solid, now they’re flying on disintegrating rags. Emergency. Richard slows everything down. I am in charge here, this is my metta. Mark was drawn to the dharma by the moon-mat. The moon-mat is a more stable foundation. Clear everything away, right down to the bare blue emptiness. Now a huge moon-mat appears. It is purity, it is what grounds us, where we can sit with confidence. On the moon-mat, Richard places himself, Ananda, Helpdesk Gillian and Mark. The mat is the size of a helipad. Each of those on it have plenty of space. Richard is at the centre, Ananda, Gillian and Mark near the edge of the mat, spread out so that if you drew lines from them to Richard you would have a giant CND symbol. My metta is the rotor blades of that helicopter. The motor is on. There’s a roar of power and the thing’s running. This is strong enough to carry us all. The blades start to create lift and now Richard’s love is taking the mat and all his people up into the blue sky. He tests out how it feels to be including the three in this metaphor. It holds. It will be okay. This crisis is actually my opportunity. I can transform this into something good. If I fight shy of this, my practice is worthless. This is not something to put aside to deal with later. I have this moment, this situation, these people. I just need confidence in my potential to transform. And Richard feels the surge of his love working against gravity. The difficulties with Ananda, his ignorance of who Gillian really is, Mark’s actions. But none of it can stop the rise of his scything propeller blades. He takes them all up, welcomes them aboard his dharma chopper. There’s a fierce energy rushing through him. How many meditators have tried to emulate the Buddha’s determination: sitting and vowing not to move until enlightened?
The bell rings.
“We are in the final stage. Now try to let your love flow out to all beings in the universe.”
Lloyd is running with all beings, swimming with all beings, flying with all beings. It’s play, it’s a dance. Ananda invites all beings into his circus. All are changing, learning, defying their limitations. Sally’s globe of hot glass is now vastly enveloping beings in all the cosmic directions: moving outward, wobbling, including, embracing all. Richard is taking all beings out of Samsara on his metta-copter. Ananda glances up at his good friend and sees that he has shed a few tears.
The bell rings. Ananda invites everyone to come back to this room in their own time. Slowly the sangha open eyes, shake out legs, massage ankles and yet keep a certain stillness. Gradually, one or two speak to their neighbours. How was it for you?
Richard has to leave. He gets up fast, his neighbours are surprised.
“Are you okay?”
“I have to go …” Richard takes up his meditation blocks and deposits them near the cupboard. He doesn’t make eye-contact with anyone – just leaves the attic-room with that conviction burning inside him. You’ve got to be fearless. Another Buddhist saint story. This war-lord is jealous of the fame of a sage in his lands. He bursts into the man’s cave and draws his sword. The man holds up his hand in a universal gesture: stop right there. The war-lord yells: “Don’t you know that I am the kind of man who would cut your hand off without batting an eye-lid?” To which the man replies: “Don’t you know that I am the kind of man who can have his hand cut off without batting an eye-lid.” Ours is not a religion of pain and sacrifice, our founder lived long and died of food poisoning. But he taught fearlessness. This is my opportunity, test, curse, blessing. They can’t help me. Ananda lets him go. Because what else can you do?