A Long Road

‘A lot of people gone, a lot of people I knew

I’ve made up my mind to give myself to you’

(Bob Dylan, I’ve Made Up My Mind To Give Myself To You)

I’ve been thinking about disillusionment recently.

This past week happened to mark the passage of ten years since my husband, son and I made our bold move across the Atlantic from London to New York. Looking back, it is difficult not to be amused by the confident naivety of those characters who were so excited about the future and yet so unaware of the consequences of a such a decision. Not for the faint hearted is the cold embrace of a foreign shore, no matter how voluntary one’s exile is, in the beginning. 

I have, however, in recent months lost interest in looking outwards with a dissatisfied mind. These days of global disturbance have hammered home the inexorable truth that the fire in every room of samsara’s house is raging out of control. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by foolishly believing that happiness can be touched externally. Only by looking within can we avoid becoming travellers on a long road of despair. 

Of course as ruthless self examination is a necessary part of Buddhist practice, it seems important to register the cultural differences of places. A clear cognisance of the terrain within which one lives will in turn allow one to perceive how it effects one’s demeanour. I tried to avoid this for a while. The results were predictable.

‘If we don’t examine ourselves for errors then,

while there is the form of dharma, we may

not be practising the dharma at all.

Therefore by continually examining our

errors, abandon them. A Conqueror’s child

practises like this.’ (Gyaltse Thogme Zangpo, The 37 Practices of a Conqueror’s Child)

I never feel closer to these words than when I reflect upon our American life. Sometimes I wish for the impossible; that we could have been prepared for the power and stealth of the enemy with which we were about to engage. But then I remember that warriors can never be truly ready for their opponents; they have to enter the fray with all of their strength and pray to the Preceptors that it will, somehow, be enough. 

I was certainly laughably unprepared for the weaponised deracination that I was about to meet in an endless series of sustained guerilla attacks. Now when I look back, Bob’s words from My Own Version of You ring in my ears and I wish, oh how I wish, that I could have acted in such a manner: 

‘I’ll pick a number between a one and two

And I ask myself, “What would Julius Caesar do?”

With every day that adds to the tally of our life here my respectful awe for the handful of deeply quiet and aware people I have met grows. For myself, our life in the New World has offered an illumination that is, of late, constant and uncomfortable in its  brightness. What I have come to understand, with shameful slowness, is the extent of the gulf between one’s idea of the speed with which one is moving and the true pace of one’s development. It goes without saying that this applies only to the garnering of positive and wholesome qualities. The inward slide downwards into decay and corruption can happen here at a pace so lightening fast that one is caught unawares until the fetid stench of one’s disturbing emotions becomes too strong to be overpowered by lighting a candle scented with the sickening odour of modern spirituality. 

With all this, the reader could be forgiven for thinking that I believe our time here to have been harmful. In fact, from my perspective, it is quite the opposite. Certainly we have been changed by our experiences, that nobody could deny, however I also think that there is something else happening. Alongside disillusionment there’s a host of characters walking through my thoughts right now. One of them is that great hero of tragedy, Mr Oedipus Rex. Now, I have no interest in Freud’s manipulation of this king’s sorry tale; anyone who’s been listening to Rough and Rowdy Ways knows where Bob’s poetic vision has placed that particular fellow. What has always fascinated me about Sophocles’ rendering of this myth is the bare elegance of the way in which, in the very act of trying to avoid his terrible foretold destiny, the hero runs right into its claustrophobic clutches.

In Oedipus’ own words, he travels to Delphi and hears a prophecy which he then thinks he can escape by leaving his home town of Corinth,

‘You are fated to couple with your mother, you will bring

a breed of children into the light no man can bear to see-

you will kill your father, the one who gave you life!’

I heard all that and ran. I abandoned Corinth,

from that day on I gauged its landfall only

by the stars, running, always running 

toward some place where I would never see

the shame of all those oracles come true.

And as I fled I reached the very spot

where the great king, you say, met his death.’ (Oed.Rex, trans. Fagles, lines 873-881)

As I muse on this I realise that we can never outrun the reach of our own defilements. In fact, a sojourn in an alien land, devoid of the stabilising norms of the place of one’s birth can be the perfect place for them to rear their Chimera like heads. Suddenly, one finds oneself on the battlefield praying on one’s knees for the strength of Bellerophon and his winged steed Pegasus. This is mortal combat and only the victor will survive. What better place to be?

Of course the true strength for such an internal battle comes from the Refuges and our own disillusionment with the seductive visions which this culture, more than any other, is adept at creating without missing a beat. Keep it simple and let it go are profound words indeed, when one is surrounded by relentless distraction. I always return to the vows and pledges we make as practitioners and to the need to remain faithful and true to our promises to others. These words of my Lama bring me back to the sense that all is right with the world as long as we keep striving forwards towards the light of liberation for all:

‘ Obviously, such commitments should not be undertaken recklessly, but, once made, we should strive to stay right with them, when the magic seems to fade and difficulties turn up, as they always do. Only those who can trust themselves to be true when this happens are worthy of the trust of others. So, it seems to me that the old heroes were the right ones after all- strong people true to their word, whom you could rely on in any situation - the Pale Rider riding off into the distance, all duty done, and the man sitting quietly under the tree in Bodhgaya, dissolving the demon of self.’

(Lama Jampa Thaye, Wisdom in Exile Ch. 6, Disillusionment)

Photograph courtesy of edheckerman.com : the hands of Erich Heimbach (1956-2017) making prayer flags at Laugeral (Urgyen Samye Choling), France, 1991