The schedule at Karme-Choling was tight, and mostly the same each day. Discipline and precision were the watchwords. And lots of practice.
By Greg Guma
original version published in the Vermont Vanguard Press, 1979
“Buddhism doesn’t teach religion, it teaches spirituality, or rather, a way of life. It doesn’t promise anything. It teaches us to be what we are, to become what we are, constantly, and to relate to our living situations in that way.”
— Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche
Vermont isn’t exactly the Himalayas, but there is something ancient and sacred about the Green Mountains, even with Interstate ribbons of highway cutting through the view. And that’s not the only similarity between Tibet and northeastern Vermont, I thought, as we drove toward Karme-Choling, the Buddhist meditation center started eight years before to help bring Buddha’s example to America.
Both places were also home for Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche (an honorific meaning “precious one”), founder of this and other contemplative communities.
The photographer making the trip with me had never been to a Buddhist community before. He expected “monk-types” in saffron robes, chanting in Hare Krishna style, he admitted. Since I’d been visiting to study and meditate for years — from the start, when it was known as Tale of the Tiger — I knew his expectations would be shattered once we were on the 540-acre farm outside the Village of Barnet.
There were no blissed-out Hindu disciples, no Silva Mind Control or Moonies (although some had done a bit of “spiritual shopping” in the past). These American Buddhists basically looked and acted like the rest of us. They drank coffee, smoked between meditation sessions, and enjoyed a good joke.
Still, there was a profound difference between life at this contemplative center and the usual samsara (confusion) surrounding us every day. The people here actively tried to follow the Buddha’s example, teachings, and vision of community. They also sat in silent meditation at least four hours a day. It was called “practice,” and these Buddhists considered it the core of their lives of “basic sanity.” They were on the path of enlightenment — a state of complete awakeness.
I hadn’t been back for several years, spurred on by talking with Buddhists who had launched Burlington Darmadhadu, a teaching, meditation and study house nearby. About six adults and their kids had been sharing a home on Margaret Street, offering classes and, on weekends, opening their first-floor shrine room for public “practice.” According to Cindy, a member of the small community, the plan was to become more public and move into a larger building downtown.
“We’re hanging out our shingle,” she said.
During an evening at their home, I’d watched a tea ceremony, full of compelling simplicity and precision, yet at the same time ordinary. Now I was revisiting their larger community, attempting again to understand how surrender to the ordinary — to the boredom of silent practice — can lead to the end of suffering.
The farm was in full bloom; a thriving garden faced white buildings across a dirt path. Most of the structures didn’t exist the last time I was here. The community’s focus then was farming and possible expansion. But that phase was over. Karme-Choling had turned back to its main purpose: intensive training for visitors from New York, Boston, and Burlington, following the Buddha’s example of passionlessness and non-aggression.
Guatama Buddha was not a god, but rather a prince five centuries before Christ’s birth, and expected to become a ruler of the Sakya tribe. At age 29, married with a newborn child, he renounced his worldly life and became a homeless religious seeker. Despite his comfortable place in the world, he wasn’t at peace; his mind turned often to the inevitability of suffering beneath the bright surface of the world, to impermanence and the universal facts of sickness, old age and death.
During six years of wandering Buddha found neither enlightenment nor peace, and finally abandoned his ascetic quest while continuing his spiritual practice. One day, while meditating under a Bodhi tree, he finally experienced the illumination he sought, and spent his remaining years as a teacher, sharing his path of salvation and peace. The same way of non-attachment that Rinpoche brought to the US and, specifically, to Vermont. It had worked for me.
The Dharma
“No one can embark upon the path without the preparation of the Hinayana, without developing the evolutionary tendencies, the readiness for the path. In this sense the teachings could be said to be secret, for if a person is not ready for the teachings he won’t be able to hear them.”
— Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche
At the time Chogyam Trungpa was the most charismatic Buddhist leader in the West, said to be a tulku or emanation of compassion, the 11th reincarnation of a high lama. As the story went, his education was guided by Tibetan monks from early childhood, and he eventually became Abbot of the Surmang Monasteries. But Communist pressure eventually forced him to flee, first to India, then to England, and later to the US.
In March 1970, several of his students started Tale of the Tiger in Barnet. It was the beginning of a new international Buddhist movement. Despite personal flaws revealed later — among them, heavy drinking, smoking and promiscuity — Trungpa was a major force in bringing Buddhism to the US.
For several years I had visited frequently for meditation and training, studying with Rinpoche, sharing free time with William Burroughs, and long afterward continuing what was called insight meditation. “All the teacher can do is to create the situation,” Trungpa once explained. “And because of the situation and environment the pupil’s mind will also be in the right state, because he is already there.”
Beyond all the theory, meditating was crucial, a rewarding practice that expanded my horizons in many subtle ways. Thoughts still arose and demanded attention, but when meditation worked I could observe them, without rejecting or becoming involved. The idea was to accept rather than discriminate or become engaged in mental struggle. Just be here now.
The Tibetan Buddhist tradition focuses on three approaches, or vehicles: the Hinayana, or narrow path of fundamental truths and basic practice; Mahayana, the open path of compassion for others; and Vajrayana, the ultimate enlightened power over the phenomenal world. All three paths were explored at Karme-Choling and other meditation centers, but most of life revolved around Hinayana practice.
“In the past we had a communal flavor,” said Gaylan, who had become director in 1977 after studies at Buddhist centers in Boulder and Aspen, Colorado, and teaching at the Naropa Institute. “We’re moving from being a community to an institution. People come here for the intensive programs, and the whole environment is filled with Buddhist teachings,” he explained. In 1979 visitors could stay at Karme-Choling for just $12 a day, participating in programs ranging from weekend retreats to month-long Dathuns. In 2024, a one-week meditation retreat was priced at about $1,000. Smoking is no longer permitted anywhere on the property.
This center and others were part of an umbrella organization, Vajradhatu, an incorporated association of Buddhist churches under Rinpoche. And thus, it was at his instruction that the focus at Karme-Choling shifted on completion of an initial $600,000 construction project that included dorm space for 100 visitors and an exquisite meditation hall.
The move from community to institution altered both life at the center and relations with the nearby village. Gardening, once a major summer project, was cut back to change the balance between work and practice. Production of meditation cushions and other accessories was scaled back.
”Local people are no longer joking about us,” Gaylen said. He pointed out a favorite article in Country Journal, which covered rural New England life. “They feel we’re stable and responsible, and a few local people come to the programs.”
He echoed Rinpoche, who had already produced a dozen books, advising not to submit to “blind faith,” but rather “to trust in a good doctor. Having a teacher is part of the path, showing us competence in dealing with the world.”
As Rinpoche himself explained it, ”All the teacher can do is to create the situation. He will create the right situation and because of the situation and environment the pupil’s mind will also be in the right state, because he is already there.”
The Sangha
It was 1:30, lunchtime at the center. Staff and residents gathered in the airy cafetera for salad, rice and tea. Some people weren’t speaking. They were on Dathun, 30 days of full time meditation. These short-term residents practiced four hours daily, from 7 to 8 a.m., from 9 to 11, and from 6 to 7 p.m. The rest of the day was split between work, in which other visitors took part, and evening study groups.
The sangha, or community of Buddhists, had become smaller and more focussed since I last attended Mahayana training in 1975. I talked with Stephanie about the changes. She had lived through most of them.
“There is less farming,” she said, “but it is done well. Originally, most people came to live here to do practice, but realized it must be a center for others. The big change came with all the building. We became work-oriented.”
We fondly recalled days of bringing in corn and potatoes for freezing, assembly lines of residents and visitors. “But now practice is more important again,” she said. “We realize we’re not creating our own little world. People who stay here are in training, to work here or in other centers.”
Not everything had become institutionalized. Tasks were still shared, especially child care, dishes, and clean up. There was also some gardening and production of samadhi cushions. Like most long-term residents, Stephanie also took a turn at meditation instruction and “creating an environment” for practice.
”Have you been in the meditation hall yet?” She asked. Since I hadn’t, she suggested I do some sitting in the afternoon. Forty-five people in the seventh day of their dathun would be back in the hall at 4 p.m., after their work time. If I wanted to write about meditation, joining the sangha felt like the right idea.
“Meditation is very much a matter of exercise. It is a working practice. It is not a question of going into some inward depth, but of widening and expanding outwards.”
— Rinpoche
Practice and the Four Noble Truths
The meditation hall was decorated in red, orange and blue, with white walls and beams adorned with gilded castings. At the front was an altar, flanked by huge windows looking out on the farm and hill beyond. Rinpoche’s mahogany chair was on one side, facing wall-size photos of His Holiness and a sculpture of Buddha on the opposite wall.
At 4 p.m. someone blew a conch outside and another resident repeatedly struck the living room gong. People walked silently toward the building, removing their shoes before entering. I joined them and sat cross-legged on two cushions facing the altar.
My eyes were open but looking at nothing in particular. I concentrated on my breathing. At first, at such times, some effort was needed to bind the mind to this most simple process. Thoughts arose, and I tried to observe them without becoming involved or rejecting them. The idea was to accept everything rather than to discriminate or engage in mental struggle. It still wasn’t easy.
There was much to distract, not only in the hall but in my mind. The Four Noble Truths, for example. Buddha’s basic teachings. First, that pain is part of all experiences in life — the pain of birth, illness and death, but also the dissatisfaction that haunts us. Second, that the origin of pain is desire, craving, or attachment to our actions. Third, that the goal is to do away with attachments, expectations, desires. And fourth, that the way to that goal is an eightfold path of ethical action and meditation.
My thoughts moved from the teachings to myself: Am I clearing my mind? I’ve almost got it. How can I write about so vast a subject? Why are all these people here? Oh, I’m daydreaming again. Back to my breathing.
This is boring. But Buddhists often joke about that, about how ordinary it is to just sit here. Being on the path is the goal itself. How did Rinpoche put it?
”We will see that one can in fact be at the end result at the same time that one is traveling along the path. This can only happen when there is no I to start with, when there is no expectation.”
The time did pass, broken only by 10 minutes of quiet walking to stretch our legs. After 90 minutes the meditation leader rang a large gong. We rose, not excited, just finished for the moment. It was time for tea, cantaloup and watermelon, and a half-hour break until the sangha returned to the hall for evening practice.
The schedule was tight, and mostly the same each day. Discipline and precision were the watchwords. And lots of practice.
I recalled an epigram used during a training session to describe the Buddhist view. It incorporated irony, clarity and a humanistic, atheistic perspective that marked Trungpa’s approach.
”We must accept that it is all hopeless,” he said. “But it is also workable.”
No comments:
Post a Comment