But Charlie and I soon found other common interests, two of which were camping (he is an experienced backpacker; I'm mostly a car camper) and Buddhism. Charlie practices transcendental meditation, and I have been reading about Buddhism and trying to see its connections with my beliefs since this past Spring, when I took a course on Buddhist Meditation at Stanford. Before long, we decided we should try going camping sometime this summer. I looked forward to that. Charlie and Jim left the Barely Social event shortly after our conversation, but I made sure Charlie had my telephone number and e-mail address.
Just a few days later, I got e-mail from him, asking if I would like to visit the newly completed Odiyan temple on the Sonoma coast. There was an intriguing article on the temple in the San Jose Mercury news the day he sent me mail. I read it and quickly agreed it was something I wanted to see. So there was a flurry of e-mail and fax exchanges as we made the arrangements, and on the appointed Sunday, we met in Palo Alto and drove my Caravan up Highway 1.
Just north of Fort Ross, we came across the signs indicating the staging area was ahead. We parked and followed the small crowd to a roadside area where school busses would pick us up to take us up the steep hills of the coastal range to the temple. I was quite impressed with how well things were organized. I had no idea that there was a sizable Tibetan Buddhist community in northern California, yet the number of volunteers, the professionalism of the bus drivers, and the smoothness with which the operation was run indicated a large, well-established and well-funded community.
The bus ride up the hillside was impressive in its own way. I had no idea an 80-passenger bus could make hairpin turns like that.
When we arrived at the temple grounds, we were met with more well-thought-out and well-run organization. They had us wait in the cool of some shady oaks, where they supplied watermelon, trail mix, lemonade, and water. Soon enough, someone with a bull horn came around, grouped us together ("You're with group 7. Remember that.") and led us onto the grounds.
I was astonished. There were two enormous structures immediately visible: an eight-sided pagoda that dominated the top of a ridge and had a spectacular view of the Pacific several miles away over rolling hills, and a "mandela," a four-sided structure surrounded by a moat, containing a monastery within its four walls, a small temple at each of its four entrances, and a large temple in the center. Both the pagoda and the mandela were topped with polished hammered copper that shone in the sunlight. We were among the fortunate ones to see it in that newly-minted condition. Most of the copper will be allowed to oxidize to a Statue-of-Liberty verdigris. Only the dome of the main temple in the mandela will be kept polished.
But that was only two of the temple grounds three largest buildings. There were also gardens, small pagodas, gazebos, flags flying prayers, prayer wheels, ponds, and orchards. And there was one other large building: a stuppa crownded in gold leaf, and containing a ten-ton prayer wheel, thought to be the largest in North America.
It was all visually stunning.
However, I was somewhat taken aback when they actually let us into the Vajrayana temple, the huge eight-sided pagoda with the fine view of the hills and the sea. Inside, it was packed top to bottom with 108,000 tiny statues representing the Buddhist saint who brought Buddhism to Tibet. Now, I fully appreciate the importance of this person and his impact on Tibetan society and spirituality. And I understand that the purpose of such a temple is, in fact, to fill it with representations of a spiritual force which can then emminate out in all directions for the betterment of the world and all living creatures. But all I could think of as I looked up in ethnocentric dismay was, "Kupie dolls! They've filled the temple with Kupie dolls!"
I was also significantly unimpressed with the prayer wheels outside the temple. Not with the prayer wheels themselves, which were harmoniously designed to fit in with the architecture and surroundings, nor with their symbolism, which is that every turn of the wheel recites the prayers inscribed within it, thereby passing along blessings, compassion, and sympathetic joy. What spooked my goat was the fact that the wheels were turned automatically and continuously by electric-driven motors. Okay, so maybe I'm being too culture-bound here. After all, a prayer wheel is an automation of an intentional process in the first place, and while most prayer wheels in Tibet are turned by the hands of passersby, others are turned by the wind or by water wheels. So what difference is there between that and being turned by PG&E? Not to mention the fact that PG&E could probably use a little spiritual merit generated by is dynamos.
Nevertheless, I just couldn't swallow it. A prayer prayed by the wind, or whispered by a stream, or generated by the action of a human being who must--even if only fleetingly or merely habitually--perform an intentional act strikes me as an entirely more genuine class of merit than something whose operation is as automatic, impersonal, and sincere as a computer-generated voice saying, "Thank you for being."
Charlie and I did not speak much during our visit, and we split up more often than not as we explored the grounds (as freely as we could within the well-organized and well-defined confines of our tour). I mentioned my reaction to the prayer wheels and the Kupie dolls, but I don't recall his reaction. It was neither agreement nor disagreement. Perhaps he was absorbing the moment rather than reflecting on it.
Near the end of the tour, we met Tarthan Tulka, the spiritual leader of the community, who shook hands and distributed a copy of one of his many books. He has written a whole series on mind, reality, and science which I would like to read, but not until I've finished my own readings and organized my impressions. (This is a task I hope to complete before my 46th birthday. The completed project will be called "Vital Dust, Savory Earth," and I hope to make it interactive and available on the Web.) I also noticed, as we were about to leave, that I had left my jacket somewhere. I gave the good people staffing the help station my name and address, but did not expect to see my jacket again. Too bad. It was a nice one.
The drive back was uneventful and somewhat uncommunicative. As he had on the way up, Charlie retreated for an hour into his meditation exercises. On the way up, I had been disappointed in this, since I had hoped to get to know him better through conversation. On the way back, however, I realized I was getting to know him better simply through his non-conversation. He is a person who is just there, and I had to recognize that much of what I wanted from this trip was a kind of grasping instead of a kind of being. I resolved to accept what exists between us as whatever it might be, and to avoid trying to make it more of what I might want it to be. The Buddha has said that desire is the root of all unhappiness. In my life, I have found that the pursuit of what I think will make me happy is usually what blocks me from seeing the happiness--the generousity, love, and beauty--that is already around me. With some patience, perhaps I can learn to trust life and see heaven.
And if it's full of Kupie dolls, well, I guess I'll just have to learn to stop looking at them and look out on the world they bless. And be blessed.