In The Beginning

I’ve been practicing Buddhism for about 10 years now. I discovered it at a time when "suicide" was no longer just the first word of a really cool Ozzy song but an increasingly viable option. Much longer and I would've buried myself beneath rock bottom. Instead, I connected to the Buddha’s teachings in a way that was sublime. It wasn't like I was learning something new; it was like I had plugged in to something I already had. Nothing had ever felt so honest and precise and innate. Rather than deciding to accept something, I discovered what I was.

After reading a couple of general books on Buddhism I became attracted to the Tibetan variant, usually called Vajrayana. “Vajra” meaning diamond and “yana” meaning “vehicle.” This follows from Mahayana, the “great vehicle” of Vietnam, Korea, China and Japan (to name a few), and Hinayana, which is a derisive term that means “lesser, disgusting, paltry, vulgar vehicle”. It was generally used to belittle early schools of Buddhism, as the Mahayanists believed their emerging interpretation of the teachings to be vastly superior. The so-called “Hinayana” eventually became extinct. The only surviving lineage of early Buddhism is what’s called Theravada, which thrives mainly in Thailand, Cambodia and Sri Lanka. It's simple and straightforward and has a paucity of brocade robes, inscrutable practices, and staggeringly ornate hats. I dismissed it instantly in favor of the more elaborate layout of Tibetan Buddhism.

The Tibetans believe their version of the Buddha’s teachings to be the pinnacle of the Dharma. They see both the original ideas as well as the later Mahayana (which occurred after the Buddha’s death) to be building blocks. To them, this final iteration of the philosophy, their impervious “diamond vehicle” is the great culmination of everything the Buddha taught.

And I was all about it for quite some time. Buddhism may have resounded in me in a way that way truly sublime but the Vajrayana filled a callow spiritual hole. The gap in me that I’d previously flooded with drugs and alcohol was soon brimming with arcane mysticism. My first contact with the Dharma left me with the (correct) impression that it was practical and down to earth. That somehow slipped my mind after I encountered Tibetan Buddhism.

The Vajrayana is acrawl with gods, goddesses, ghosts, demons and all manner of unseen beings. It veritably crackles with all forms of magic and ancient superstition. Its leaders and lamas are dressed in Victorian outfits for mysterious rituals so abstruse that I doubt they make sense even to Tibetans. The actual Dharma teachings are riddled with secret practices and rites that must be revealed slowly to followers so they aren’t driven insane by the potency. It’s like a twisted labyrinth aimed at enlightenment with shortcuts, power-ups and enchanted weapons all along the way.

Tibetan practitioners make up about six percent of the world’s Buddhist population yet it’s probably the most visible branch in America. This has much more to do with its marketing value than anything else. It’s extremely exotic, and that’s what Americans want in an Eastern philosophy. Zen is a close second because Japanese culture is also very mysterious and romantic. The list of products that rely on ad campaigns influenced by Tibetan or Zen Buddhism is stupefying. Americans are generally comfortable not knowing the specifics. We’re pretty content, even willful, in our ignorance. Tibetan Buddhism is from OVER THERE, and it serves to flavor our existence, not alter it.

I, however, wanted my existence turned inside out. Tibetan Buddhism was so the opposite of my mundane Baptist upbringing that I took to it out of sheer rebellion. It was exactly what I had always vaguely imagined the spiritual teachings of a country I'd never heard of to be.

For years I was the type of practitioner that I now disdain. A goofy-chanting, reincarnation-spouting, Free Tibet-sticker-having, hanging-on-every-word-the-Dalai-Lama-spoke, freakin mystic VAJRA CHILD, man. I had forgotten everything the Buddha had originally taught me, especially the command to always question, always investigate, and never simply believe. I had completely fallen into the world of Vajrayana, which is sometimes called the “devotional vehicle.” I had bought the whole enchilada. Or it's strange, Tibetan equivalent.

Soon I realized I wasn't a very “devoted” kind of guy. I kept coming up with questions that the higher-ups had no answers for. I was concerned with what I increasingly saw as utterly superstitious clutter around the Buddha’s perfectly reasonable ideas. I was annoyed that, rather than straight answers, I was told to rely on my teacher. That he was an enlightened being and of course I wasn’t going to understand everything right now. I just had to relax and put my faith in him.

This sounded a bit too much like Christianity to me, which I’d already rejected. I thought Buddhism was a spiritual revolution and here I was spinning my wheels in the same dogmatic muck I thought I’d already escaped. It didn’t take long before I realized I’d surrendered the Buddha’s do-it-yourself ethic for some trance-eyed Himalayan theosophy.

There’s a lot of good in the Vajrayana. Most of it has to do with people just being good. The Tibetans are the undisputed masters of compassion. They have so many practices to cultivate loving-kindness it’s almost an integral part of their nature. The Dalai Lama may be a goofy bastard but he’s kind. He’s soft and warm and welcoming and forgiving. These are all qualities that any Buddhist should aspire to possess. Most of what I’ve learned about compassion I’ve learned from the Tibetans. I still wear a Tibetan prayer wheel around my neck so I don’t forget it. Hell, I tattooed their most-used prayer around my wrist.

Regardless, I had to get out. I withdrew from the small community of Vajra practitioners in Lexington. I meditated alone and I tried to decide how to pursue my Buddhist studies. I skimmed the few Theravada texts in my library, and, for the second time in my life, brushed it off as too simple and prosaic. I decided Zen was what I was looking for. It was artful and elegant and it tolerated no bullshit. It was direct and to the point, whereas Vajrayana was circuitous and vague. After the lavish world of Tibetan Buddhism, rife with blazing colors and complex practices, the austerity of Zen felt like freedom. This was it. Zen was what I needed.


To Be Continued in "Not So Long Ago"