So I officially should resign my blog-ship because I am the worst blogger ever. BUT I'm officially back in Bodh Gaya and ready to go. There are three moderately huge things to cover that would each typically deserve their own post, so I'll break them up one by one to avoid the massive blob of all things India that have happened over the past couple weeks.
Ordination:
Every year, Antioch allows its students on the program the option to ordain as Burmese monks in the Theravadan tradition for a week. Two weeks ago, I did it.
Out of the 36 kids on the program, 10 guys and 7 girls ordained, which involved a shaving ceremony and a robing ceremony, and the next day, we went out to the river to dump our hair. In addition to the 5 precept we were already following (no lying, killing, sexual misconduct, stealing, or intoxicants), we weren't allowed to handle money, eat after 12:00, wear perfumes or ornamentation (watch included), sleep on high or luxurious beds, and sing, dance, or entertain excessively. Every time we sat down, we had to layout a seat cover, which we always carried for us. We were never allowed to be out of our robes, and we were supposed to sleep and shower in our one pair of under-robes. I kind of broke the shower rule: no bucket shower can be that strategic. We went first in line at all of the meals and sat closest to the teacher in class. We never sat next to the nuns, and in a perfect world, a male layperson would sit next to the monks so that a woman never would.
In the evenings after meditation, we had honey lemon water with U Hla Myint, our Theravadan teacher who was ordained for twenty years before he got married and disrobed. Oh my GOD, the honey lemon water was fantastic. After the ten of us downed a bottle of honey the first night, the women in the kitchen started mixing it in so that we didn't have the chance to destroy their tea table with massive amounts of sticky deliciousness. That was easily my favorite part of ordination.
Since it's been a while, here are a few entries from my journal:
September 17, 2012
"So it's my first full day of being an ordained monk, and I thought it would be best to write down my reasons why I decided to ordain so that, at the end of my time, I can see if the reasons were reflected in my experience and how they had changed or adapted.
Going into it, I couldn't really think of a reason not to. This was an incredible experience that probably won't come around again any time soon, and what did I have to lose? A few dinners? The little hair I had? A week of my life? It seemed like I would be trading virtually nothing for the strong possibility of a something.
The problem is that I don't know what that something is. Originally, the idea was that by giving up food, music, and money, I would disassociate myself from the everyday things we hide behind. I am not my clothes, my hair, or anything else. By having nothing, I would have only myself and my thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, I'd find out what I am.
It's a great idea, and I appreciate the novelty, but I didn't associate with any of that any way. I still feel like me, just a robbed and balder version. It makes me wonder what I do associate with, what sacrifices I could make to really challenge my concept of identity. I guess there's always the option of giving up more. But I don't think that's necessary. What I have left is my fan, Western toilet, breakfast, lunch, and cold showers. I've already left home and left college, including the family and friends that are still there, waiting. The people and things in my life are representations of who I am, but I realize that the person I am is something distinct from that. I may have new clothes, customs, and a new name, but in the end, nothing has changed."
**Fun fact: my monk name in Pali is "Dewennda," which is translated as "celestial king." Things worked out well.**
Thoughts from others:
"I feel like I'm ignoring some parts of myself (singing, dancing, expression) in favor of others. I just don't know what those are yet" (Evelyn)
"Up till this point, we've always been looking at the system (caste, gender, etc.), and we've been outside of it. I might not like something, but it doesn't really matter because I'm Western and it's not really my life. It's hard because now, we're a part of it, and we haven't done anything for our position in it" (Claire)
"The idea of ordination was for us to enter into and understand a social framework other than our own, but even though we're technically in it, we're still not operating in it. The system runs on ideas of karma and reincarnation, and if we believed, you guys (the sangha) would be holy people. But to us, you're just our friends. All we see is this new, unfair hierarchy" (Michelle)
"I know that a bunch of laypeople are kind of upset because we didn't choose to be part of this, but we still have to be. We didn't ordain, we didn't want to be different. So why are we being treated differently?" (Chris)
September 18
Maybe there is no difference, and maybe that in itself is different enough.
The entire idea of Buddhism is non-attachment , the shedding of conventional identities and distinctions to recognize that there is no "Joe," no "man," let alone no "monk." I wear these robes to signify the sacrifices I've made in search of enlightenment, but they are not me. This undeserved stratum in society is not mine.
At their barest qualities, Joe and Dewennda are no different, and both are still bound to this world of suffering and mortality. Change my name, change my clothes, but none of that changes the truth. None of that changes me.
Theravadan Buddhism:
This is for all those Ahmuricans out there who know as little about Buddhism as I did coming here. Keep in mind, this is a super Meditation 101 outline, and there's a lot of theory, philosophy, and practice that people have written books about. This is just for a blog, and thus, you have me.
For the past month, we've been working on the Theravadan tradition of Buddhism, often considered the most classic and stringent school...and rightly so.
The first meditation style we learned was Samadhi, concentration or tranquility meditation. We sat for about half an hour early in the morning and later in the evening with our legs crossed, and on ambitious days, in a half-lotus position. The meditator focuses solely on the nostril, the gateway of the breath. In. Out. In. Out.
If his mind drifts, he brings it back into the breath. If he is in pain, hot, or both, he brings it into the breath. And when the mind is filled only with the awareness of breath, it is too full, too focused to allow any defilement.
Metta is tranlated as "loving kindness." At the end of each evening meditation, we are to foster a sense of well-being and let it emanate outwards from ourselves into the world. Each phrase below is repeated twice, but we are supposed to also keep it personal and not get caught up in the labels.
1. There are beings frightened or not frightened. May they be well and happy.
2. There are beings visible or invisible. May they be well and happy.
3. There are beings living near or far. May they be well and happy.
4. There are beings having more rebirths or no more rebirths. May they be well and happy.
5. There are beings tall, short, or medium. May they be well and happy.
6. There are beings big, small, or medium. May they be well and happy.
7. There are beings gross, subtle, or medium. May they be well and happy.
(I'm really hoping I'm not gross or subtle....and I'm still not sure why they're opposites).
Vipassana means "wise seer." Back in the day, one spent years on Samadhi meditation and mastered all of the jhanas before he began Vipassana, but there has been a recent movement in the tradition that made Vipassana much more accessible to the common person. Hence, we're allowed to practice, capable or not.
Basically, the meditator is supposed to watch his body. Sensations, thoughts, and desires arise in the mind, but he is not to make any kind of judgment. Just watch as they come, and eventually, as they go. When the power goes out and the fan dies, he notes "hot, hot." When his nose itches, he notes "itching, itching." And when it passes without a response, he returns his focus to the rising and falling of the abdomen.
For the first half an hour, we walk. We find a straight line about twelve feet long, and we focus on the lifting, moving, and placing of each foot. We walk very slowly, paying attention to the pressure of each footfall, the movement of energy carried in each step. And it's about five times easier to stay awake...not that falling asleep isn't possible. Trust me.
By realizing that all things come, last, and go, we are to realize that nothing is permanent and that everything is in a constant state of change. We cling to things in this world that are bound to fade and leave us reaching after something that wasn't ever there to begin with. This is why people find Buddhism pessimistic, but it's also why people find it liberating. I would write more about it, and I probably will in the future, but after four weeks of meditation, philosophy classes, and complete immersion in this religion, I'd much rather step back right now and take a nap.
Varanasi:
Varanasi is "the city of lights," the oldest surviving city in the world after 4,000 years, and the site of the Buddha's first sermon after enlightenment. And it was a hella good time.
The train ride began like any other, with some good conversations and games of Go Fish, Spit, and Egyptian Rat Screw. Then things got strange in all the good ways possible.
Ben YH was passing a bench with a woman playing a flute. He told her that her playing was beautiful, and she invited him to sit down with her and her posse. Turns out, they were a band heading to a concert in Calcutta, and ten minutes later, the entire car was full of music. They busted out their instruments, we busted out ours, and it was a solid two-hour jam session. For so long, we have been inundated with cautionary tales of travelers. Every one waiting outside the gates of the vihar had a hidden intention. I was white and I had money; they were Indian and they were trying to get it. The line was drawn.
But in that car, we erased it.
The next day, we woke up at about 5:45, rented out a boat, and watched the sunrise over the Ganges. There were no brilliant bursts of light, no choir of hallelujahs arising forth from the river. It was much more subtle. Slowly, light blues and pinks crept into the horizon, mixing with the heavy dust to blur the colors into each other like chalk on a sidewalk canvas. The sun was a round and distinct red, but it was deep and dull, seemingly incapable of lighting up the world, but somehow doing it any way.
After a terrible breakfast of tasteless cheese and maple-sausage coffee, we went shopping for silk in the Muslim Quarter. The silk shop owner was incredibly kind, giving us chai masala and talking for about half an hour about how authentic his shop was. An hour later, we found ourselves at Gateway Hotel, only the snazziest hotel in town, for lunch. Apparently, the chief minister was coming in the next day, so security was pretty tight. But one of the guards gave each of us a caramel candy, so all was right in the world. An average meal was around 500-600 Rps, which is roughly $10-12. I spent 225 Rps ($4) on a mango lassi that I will never regret. Later that night, there was a beautiful concert with two musicians at a nearby hotel, but after a long day, I have no shame in saying that I totally fell asleep. Oops.
That Saturday, I slept in for the first time since I can remember, waking up at a whopping 7:30. After a plate of chocolate pancakes and a pot of tea, we were on our way to the cremation ghats. Pictures not allowed--and not wanted--so we left our cameras in our pockets as the priest of the ghat explained the process of dying in Varanasi. When someone dies, they bring the body to the ghat and wash the body in the river. After it dries, it's ready for the pyre. The closest relative (oldest son, husband, dad, etc.) shaves his head and bathes in the Ganges also, dressing in white for the burning. Women aren't allowed into the ghat in fear that, lost in grief, they will toss themselves onto the fire. Hey, when in Rome.
It was really strange being there. I knew that under those six piles of wood, there was a body being slow roasted for hours on end. I knew that the strange object sticking out from the logs was a leg, singed and deformed in the heat. But it didn't seem real. There was no smell (thanks to the type of wood), no crying, and no body. It was surreal, and I left soon after, unable to feel anything and not wanting to.
Round 2 consisted of lunch at Brown Bread cafe, and three fantastic cheeses and breads later, we were on the road again. We picked up some candies at a supposedly renowned sweets shop and a chocobanana muffin at Open Hand cafe. Then, we were just in time for a Bollywood movie. Bollywood. Everything you imagine it being.
That night, we ate at Ashish (because we obviously hadn't eaten enough). It was a local but fantastic Indian place where we sat cross-legged on a mat with a small tea table for the food. I got the special thali, and unlike the vihar, they spared no spices.
My time at Varnasi was mainly spent eating, shopping, and driving, like any good tourist. But it wasn't about what I was doing as much as it was about who I was doing it with. In the hotel, we met a guy on a Ford fellowship doing research on the Tibetan people in exile/education system in Dharmsala named Patrick. Then, at the same hotel, we ran into Grant, who was an alum of the program two years ago, and his friend Lilly. With a spattering of other guest appearances by girls enrolled in a four-year international college majoring in Human Trafficking and Prostitution, and another who was designing a filtration system for the runoff water in a ghat that can be used for agriculture, we had a fantastic time. After meeting these people and hearing their stories, I can't imagine not coming back here. Once upon a time, three months seemed liked forever, but this is an entirely new world. I'm only scratching the surface.
Ordination:
Every year, Antioch allows its students on the program the option to ordain as Burmese monks in the Theravadan tradition for a week. Two weeks ago, I did it.
Out of the 36 kids on the program, 10 guys and 7 girls ordained, which involved a shaving ceremony and a robing ceremony, and the next day, we went out to the river to dump our hair. In addition to the 5 precept we were already following (no lying, killing, sexual misconduct, stealing, or intoxicants), we weren't allowed to handle money, eat after 12:00, wear perfumes or ornamentation (watch included), sleep on high or luxurious beds, and sing, dance, or entertain excessively. Every time we sat down, we had to layout a seat cover, which we always carried for us. We were never allowed to be out of our robes, and we were supposed to sleep and shower in our one pair of under-robes. I kind of broke the shower rule: no bucket shower can be that strategic. We went first in line at all of the meals and sat closest to the teacher in class. We never sat next to the nuns, and in a perfect world, a male layperson would sit next to the monks so that a woman never would.
In the evenings after meditation, we had honey lemon water with U Hla Myint, our Theravadan teacher who was ordained for twenty years before he got married and disrobed. Oh my GOD, the honey lemon water was fantastic. After the ten of us downed a bottle of honey the first night, the women in the kitchen started mixing it in so that we didn't have the chance to destroy their tea table with massive amounts of sticky deliciousness. That was easily my favorite part of ordination.
Since it's been a while, here are a few entries from my journal:
September 17, 2012
"So it's my first full day of being an ordained monk, and I thought it would be best to write down my reasons why I decided to ordain so that, at the end of my time, I can see if the reasons were reflected in my experience and how they had changed or adapted.
Going into it, I couldn't really think of a reason not to. This was an incredible experience that probably won't come around again any time soon, and what did I have to lose? A few dinners? The little hair I had? A week of my life? It seemed like I would be trading virtually nothing for the strong possibility of a something.
The problem is that I don't know what that something is. Originally, the idea was that by giving up food, music, and money, I would disassociate myself from the everyday things we hide behind. I am not my clothes, my hair, or anything else. By having nothing, I would have only myself and my thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, I'd find out what I am.
It's a great idea, and I appreciate the novelty, but I didn't associate with any of that any way. I still feel like me, just a robbed and balder version. It makes me wonder what I do associate with, what sacrifices I could make to really challenge my concept of identity. I guess there's always the option of giving up more. But I don't think that's necessary. What I have left is my fan, Western toilet, breakfast, lunch, and cold showers. I've already left home and left college, including the family and friends that are still there, waiting. The people and things in my life are representations of who I am, but I realize that the person I am is something distinct from that. I may have new clothes, customs, and a new name, but in the end, nothing has changed."
**Fun fact: my monk name in Pali is "Dewennda," which is translated as "celestial king." Things worked out well.**
Thoughts from others:
"I feel like I'm ignoring some parts of myself (singing, dancing, expression) in favor of others. I just don't know what those are yet" (Evelyn)
"Up till this point, we've always been looking at the system (caste, gender, etc.), and we've been outside of it. I might not like something, but it doesn't really matter because I'm Western and it's not really my life. It's hard because now, we're a part of it, and we haven't done anything for our position in it" (Claire)
"The idea of ordination was for us to enter into and understand a social framework other than our own, but even though we're technically in it, we're still not operating in it. The system runs on ideas of karma and reincarnation, and if we believed, you guys (the sangha) would be holy people. But to us, you're just our friends. All we see is this new, unfair hierarchy" (Michelle)
"I know that a bunch of laypeople are kind of upset because we didn't choose to be part of this, but we still have to be. We didn't ordain, we didn't want to be different. So why are we being treated differently?" (Chris)
September 18
Maybe there is no difference, and maybe that in itself is different enough.
The entire idea of Buddhism is non-attachment , the shedding of conventional identities and distinctions to recognize that there is no "Joe," no "man," let alone no "monk." I wear these robes to signify the sacrifices I've made in search of enlightenment, but they are not me. This undeserved stratum in society is not mine.
At their barest qualities, Joe and Dewennda are no different, and both are still bound to this world of suffering and mortality. Change my name, change my clothes, but none of that changes the truth. None of that changes me.
Theravadan Buddhism:
This is for all those Ahmuricans out there who know as little about Buddhism as I did coming here. Keep in mind, this is a super Meditation 101 outline, and there's a lot of theory, philosophy, and practice that people have written books about. This is just for a blog, and thus, you have me.
For the past month, we've been working on the Theravadan tradition of Buddhism, often considered the most classic and stringent school...and rightly so.
The first meditation style we learned was Samadhi, concentration or tranquility meditation. We sat for about half an hour early in the morning and later in the evening with our legs crossed, and on ambitious days, in a half-lotus position. The meditator focuses solely on the nostril, the gateway of the breath. In. Out. In. Out.
If his mind drifts, he brings it back into the breath. If he is in pain, hot, or both, he brings it into the breath. And when the mind is filled only with the awareness of breath, it is too full, too focused to allow any defilement.
Metta is tranlated as "loving kindness." At the end of each evening meditation, we are to foster a sense of well-being and let it emanate outwards from ourselves into the world. Each phrase below is repeated twice, but we are supposed to also keep it personal and not get caught up in the labels.
1. There are beings frightened or not frightened. May they be well and happy.
2. There are beings visible or invisible. May they be well and happy.
3. There are beings living near or far. May they be well and happy.
4. There are beings having more rebirths or no more rebirths. May they be well and happy.
5. There are beings tall, short, or medium. May they be well and happy.
6. There are beings big, small, or medium. May they be well and happy.
7. There are beings gross, subtle, or medium. May they be well and happy.
(I'm really hoping I'm not gross or subtle....and I'm still not sure why they're opposites).
Vipassana means "wise seer." Back in the day, one spent years on Samadhi meditation and mastered all of the jhanas before he began Vipassana, but there has been a recent movement in the tradition that made Vipassana much more accessible to the common person. Hence, we're allowed to practice, capable or not.
Basically, the meditator is supposed to watch his body. Sensations, thoughts, and desires arise in the mind, but he is not to make any kind of judgment. Just watch as they come, and eventually, as they go. When the power goes out and the fan dies, he notes "hot, hot." When his nose itches, he notes "itching, itching." And when it passes without a response, he returns his focus to the rising and falling of the abdomen.
For the first half an hour, we walk. We find a straight line about twelve feet long, and we focus on the lifting, moving, and placing of each foot. We walk very slowly, paying attention to the pressure of each footfall, the movement of energy carried in each step. And it's about five times easier to stay awake...not that falling asleep isn't possible. Trust me.
By realizing that all things come, last, and go, we are to realize that nothing is permanent and that everything is in a constant state of change. We cling to things in this world that are bound to fade and leave us reaching after something that wasn't ever there to begin with. This is why people find Buddhism pessimistic, but it's also why people find it liberating. I would write more about it, and I probably will in the future, but after four weeks of meditation, philosophy classes, and complete immersion in this religion, I'd much rather step back right now and take a nap.
Varanasi:
Varanasi is "the city of lights," the oldest surviving city in the world after 4,000 years, and the site of the Buddha's first sermon after enlightenment. And it was a hella good time.
The train ride began like any other, with some good conversations and games of Go Fish, Spit, and Egyptian Rat Screw. Then things got strange in all the good ways possible.
Ben YH was passing a bench with a woman playing a flute. He told her that her playing was beautiful, and she invited him to sit down with her and her posse. Turns out, they were a band heading to a concert in Calcutta, and ten minutes later, the entire car was full of music. They busted out their instruments, we busted out ours, and it was a solid two-hour jam session. For so long, we have been inundated with cautionary tales of travelers. Every one waiting outside the gates of the vihar had a hidden intention. I was white and I had money; they were Indian and they were trying to get it. The line was drawn.
But in that car, we erased it.
The next day, we woke up at about 5:45, rented out a boat, and watched the sunrise over the Ganges. There were no brilliant bursts of light, no choir of hallelujahs arising forth from the river. It was much more subtle. Slowly, light blues and pinks crept into the horizon, mixing with the heavy dust to blur the colors into each other like chalk on a sidewalk canvas. The sun was a round and distinct red, but it was deep and dull, seemingly incapable of lighting up the world, but somehow doing it any way.
After a terrible breakfast of tasteless cheese and maple-sausage coffee, we went shopping for silk in the Muslim Quarter. The silk shop owner was incredibly kind, giving us chai masala and talking for about half an hour about how authentic his shop was. An hour later, we found ourselves at Gateway Hotel, only the snazziest hotel in town, for lunch. Apparently, the chief minister was coming in the next day, so security was pretty tight. But one of the guards gave each of us a caramel candy, so all was right in the world. An average meal was around 500-600 Rps, which is roughly $10-12. I spent 225 Rps ($4) on a mango lassi that I will never regret. Later that night, there was a beautiful concert with two musicians at a nearby hotel, but after a long day, I have no shame in saying that I totally fell asleep. Oops.
That Saturday, I slept in for the first time since I can remember, waking up at a whopping 7:30. After a plate of chocolate pancakes and a pot of tea, we were on our way to the cremation ghats. Pictures not allowed--and not wanted--so we left our cameras in our pockets as the priest of the ghat explained the process of dying in Varanasi. When someone dies, they bring the body to the ghat and wash the body in the river. After it dries, it's ready for the pyre. The closest relative (oldest son, husband, dad, etc.) shaves his head and bathes in the Ganges also, dressing in white for the burning. Women aren't allowed into the ghat in fear that, lost in grief, they will toss themselves onto the fire. Hey, when in Rome.
It was really strange being there. I knew that under those six piles of wood, there was a body being slow roasted for hours on end. I knew that the strange object sticking out from the logs was a leg, singed and deformed in the heat. But it didn't seem real. There was no smell (thanks to the type of wood), no crying, and no body. It was surreal, and I left soon after, unable to feel anything and not wanting to.
Round 2 consisted of lunch at Brown Bread cafe, and three fantastic cheeses and breads later, we were on the road again. We picked up some candies at a supposedly renowned sweets shop and a chocobanana muffin at Open Hand cafe. Then, we were just in time for a Bollywood movie. Bollywood. Everything you imagine it being.
That night, we ate at Ashish (because we obviously hadn't eaten enough). It was a local but fantastic Indian place where we sat cross-legged on a mat with a small tea table for the food. I got the special thali, and unlike the vihar, they spared no spices.
My time at Varnasi was mainly spent eating, shopping, and driving, like any good tourist. But it wasn't about what I was doing as much as it was about who I was doing it with. In the hotel, we met a guy on a Ford fellowship doing research on the Tibetan people in exile/education system in Dharmsala named Patrick. Then, at the same hotel, we ran into Grant, who was an alum of the program two years ago, and his friend Lilly. With a spattering of other guest appearances by girls enrolled in a four-year international college majoring in Human Trafficking and Prostitution, and another who was designing a filtration system for the runoff water in a ghat that can be used for agriculture, we had a fantastic time. After meeting these people and hearing their stories, I can't imagine not coming back here. Once upon a time, three months seemed liked forever, but this is an entirely new world. I'm only scratching the surface.
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