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Journals: HENG CH’AU: June 3, 1977 - During the last part of morning recitation this A.M. during the visualization of the Patriarchs, I had my eyes closed. It was very dark inside and out. In coming up from a bow I “saw” a Buddha head rise like from behind a hill or mound or something. But since it was so close it felt like from behind and within, out of some place in me, as if my heart were a shaded mound. From below and behind came this glowing, bright head with a reddish golden hue around it. A Morning False thinking: Bowing along feeling tingling on top of my head like a scurrying hub in a circle. The difference between inside and outside is not a difference. It is false. The thinking self creates barriers, separations, here and there, inside and outside. Where is the Buddha? Where are the demons and Bodhisattvas? The gods and ghosts? Wherever “you” are. Nothing very spectacular really. Your share, your light is the key to turning from the dream to the source. “Being one substance with everything is called compassion.” It is also real. Does each cell of the body maintain its autonomy and “ego”? Do air molecules discriminate a “me”? In a very real, tangible, ultimate way, all is thus, the Buddha, unbounded and one. The Avatamsaka Sutra is within like the light, light the Buddha, and totally without. There is no difference. Only the false thoughts create the illusion of difference. Literally in every way imaginable and inconceivable all is just one and the differences are masses and chains of false thoughts bobbing and splashing the pond. The nature, the pond, needs to be moved and splashed to create waves. The mind moves; the waves follow. Stop splashing and the pond returns to stillness. It takes work, effort to crate waves. Like those paper weights with liquid and snowflakes inside. You have to shake them to snow. As soon there’s no movement there’s no more snow--stillness. The physical sensation that accompanied this state: everything was the same texture, consistency--sidewalk, air, me--all the same; light and soft, round. Not pleasant or unpleasant just easier to concentrate because of lack of contacts. Every day the sequence repeats. We see and feel the waves disturb the pond about 5:30 A.M. or so--a couple of cars start, the birds crescendo into peak chatter, dogs start barking, a backfire, sirens, rush hour. Rush hour in Los Angeles is anywhere from 7 A.M. to 9 P.M. “Coming into being” and “dwelling.” The karma flows and shifts. Old and new. Lots of room. By 5 or 6 P.M. “decay” sets in and by 9 or 10 P.M. “stillness.” All from the mind, from a single thought it turns and we, in turn, are turned. Stop shaking and it all settles eventually, clear and unmoving. “Thus, thus, eternally bright.” “One thought produced, the entire substance manifests.” My fake thoughts are interrupted by two women and two kids (one in arm) who have quietly fallen behind us bowing along. I glance around. They are sincere and absorbed. No words or even glances--just bowing. A few minutes later I look again. Nothing. The streets empty for blocks. Who were those people? Were they? A pickup truck passes. I hear a whizzing behind my head and see something land in the grass of the empty lot we are bowing next to. Just missed. I hear a snicker and see a head crane out to see if he hit the target as the truck speeds away. An upasaka drives up with some juice and bread for lunch. We were low on food but wanted it that way to starve the diarrhea and do a little purging. A whole bunch of women and children come up. The kids are bearing arms and handful of fruit and carrots. Everyone is bowing. The two women and two kids who bowed along this A.M. are with them. The men in the Jaguar-Triumph Sports Car showroom, whose main window this scene is taking place in front of are staring in stunned silence--can’t even find their smug grins at present. The group says they are for “the unity of all paths.” They live somewhere in the mountains nearby in a Sufi community. They read the release. One says “My husband saw two monks about 3 or years ago doing this. I remembered. We are from Seattle.” After they finish reading one says, “I hope your message touches many hearts.” The little one named Juniper Serra grins and says goodbye. More food, goodness! As we are resting and waiting for lunch I hear this knocking on the window and “Amito fwo, amito fwo.” It is a upasika who lives in the area with a box full of food and an offer to be available for anything while we are in her area. Wants to do our laundry. “No thanks, we wash our own.” An Afternoon in Santa Monica A yellow VW bug pulls up, “Hey brother, what order?” Us: “Buddhist monks.” Man: “Far out!” varoom. Not far enough. If we were a little farther out of our “selves” then it would really be far out. An older lady with cane and dark glasses slowly strolls by, stops, quickly rushes up. She tightly g.asp.htmls my folded hands, puts her face inches from mine and says “Faith in me,” squeezes an extra to make the point and leave. She walks about 20 yards, stops, turns, and watches us intently. Returning she zeroes in again and says in a heavy European accent, “I’m a devout Catholic, but your prayer is beautiful. My priest was in Asia and the taxi driver he was with asked if my priest minded if he stopped and bowed. My priest was very impressed. How many people think to humble themselves to pray every day.” She was starting to crack a little in voice and control. “I need your prayers. Please help me. Pray for me.” (start to cry) “And especially for my grandson, please.” Me: “Everything is ok. Don’t worry.” Bowing near the curb where there’s a Mercedes parked ahead with the door open to the sidewalk. An older woman has her legs stretched out to the walk smoking a cigarette. She watches us surgically. She looks like Gabby Hayes only with lipstick and no beard. Her voice matches. Tough and gravely. Woman: “What order?” Monk: “Buddhist monk.” Woman: “You’re going to need a bath when you’re finished with this.” (terse, jabbing, testing, cool.) Monk: “This is our bath.” Woman: pauses--a little softer, “Cleansing the soul.” Monk: “Right.” Smiles all around. A busy man, across between Karl and Groucho Marx dives between us near a row of newspaper stands. He violently jerks the door of each and then stabs his fingers into the coin return. He’s carrying a briefcase and talking to himself. As he walks away, he slaps three 13 cents stamps in my hand and says, “There, 50 cents…” Two people are bowing behind us. They are young with beads around their necks and grinning an unfathomable smile. I give them a release and say, “I’m going back to bow. There’s too much hate in the world. If you have any questions, just ask.” The woman opens her arms in a gesture of “We’re yours.” Oh, no you’re not. I went back and started bowing. A few minutes later I glanced around. They were gone. “Nobody saves you but yourselves…” Right after, a careful of rowdy, loud boys pulled up and piled out. They ran over and began mock bowing and ridiculing behind us. We kept bowing. They left. We are getting near the ocean (8 blocks). It’s windy and everything is slightly more raw, in flux, unpredictable. The land ends and if you’re looking outside for answers all you see is the sea…and yourself. The road becomes a mirror. A woman with a cane stops us outside Fish & Chips. Woman: “What faith are you?” Us: “Buddhist monks..” Woman; “Oh, Buddhists. Where do you meet, on 7th Street?” Us: “Everywhere. Right now are meeting here.” Woman: “What does Buddhism teach?” Us: “Be compassionate. We are all one substance, one family. Be more peaceful and stop knocking each other around.” Woman: “Who is the Buddha?” Us: “All things have the Buddhanature. The ground we are standing on, the ants, you, me--all are the Buddha. All we need to do is wake up.” Woman: “Well now me, I’m of Jewish faith.” Us: “If you wake up then you’re a Buddha. If we wake up then we’re Buddhas. It doesn’t matter what faith.” Woman: “Well now my husband, you see he’s a rabbi…” Us: “ If he wakes up then he’s a Buddha.” Woman: laughing, “Ah, wonderful! I’ve always wondered, wanted to know what he really was. Have a good pilgrimage.” Us: “You, too.” Young woman: “Beautiful!” Passing care: “Are you weirdoes still bowing? God!” Older woman: “Pray for my wrists. Both my wrists are sprained. I know they’ll get better if you pray for them.” From across the street, “Hey, they’re disappearing.” Don’t we wish “we” were disappearing. That’s it in a sentence. “Hello, God.” from a passing car. That’s not it in a sentence. The Last of the 9th In cultivation, unlike baseball games, there are no innings. You are always at bat, always fielding. Try to turn your cultivation into a game and it quickly falls apart. Rained out. It was the end of the day, Friday on Wilshire Boulevard. Santa Monica. Because of diarrhea stops we had “lost time” bowing. (1st mistake--cultivation is qualitative, a constant state of mind, even with diarrhea. Cultivation isn’t just bowing, it’s sleeping, eating, and resting--no loose ends. No dugouts. I was physically exhausted. Fighting cramping and more diarrhea. My whole body was aching and I had a sunburned bald head. Moreover an unusually large number of people had engaged us today and some were pretty needy, draining. So when Heng Sure suggested we do some extra time I agreed. (2nd mistake--don’t force cultivation. Can’t make corn grow faster by pulling it up from the tops. Force it and it breaks.) There are really no goals in cultivation. Seeking a goal is just seeking obstacles to “true letting go.” It is an attachment. Accord with conditions but don’t change (i.e. be mindful at all times, without false thought); do not change but accord with conditions (i.e. don’t force your way, yielding properly timed is an advance). At Gold Mountain it’s said “Don’t go too fast or too slow and you’ll get there right on time.” So when a lady got out of her Cadillac at a gas station and came striding over I was pushing and forcing, false thinking, “This is the last of the 9th. If I can make it through, put out one more burst, then I can relax. The game will be over.” She was hostile, antagonistic, and articulate. I ducked, smiled, and let the bad pitch pass. Then I swung at a wild pitch. Woman: “Well I don’t see why you have to show off like this, making a public display of yourselves on Wilshire Boulevard. Buddhism is getting off to a bad start in America as far as I’m concerned.” Me: “Well what you see is what you get. If that’s all you want to look at…” (3rd mistake--gas tossed on the flames.) She fumed and got indignant and launched into a lecture about the humble monks she saw in India. When she cooled a little I slipped away. Realizing I had made an error--shouldn’t make people angry; don’t fight and contend--I felt vulnerable and ashamed. I thought if I could have another chance to correct, compensate then I could end the day on a good note. (4th mistake--think ahead, looking behind, one can’t see now.) So when a Mercedes pulls up and asks the same questions, “Why don’t you do it in your back yard? Why do you have to make a spectacle of yourselves? Do it in your church.” I answered, “Well, we don’t want to make a show. We just took the most direct route to our destination. Besides this is our church, our home. It’s all we have.” Being so eager to compensate for the last strike with the woman, I overlooked the fact that this man was drunk or drugged, smoking, and wouldn’t even get out of his car to talk. In short I should have ignored him. (Strike two: 5th mistake.) The conversation went nowhere. The day’s bowing ended, we transferred the merit but all I could think about was what a mess I had made (strike three: 6th mistake--indulging in “self”.) Game over. No runs, no hits, 6 errors, some karma left to face. Oh well, there’s always…now.
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