The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (46 page)

The Powo Valley is a charnel ground
,

I, Chögyam, will leap and dance toward the east
.

The red-headed vulture on the graveyard tree
,

The crocodile who sleeps in the graveyard waters—

How brave they are, devouring human corpses
,

Not knowing another preys on their own dead flesh
.

In this dark age, when nephew slaughters uncle
,

And neighbors all are barbarous enemies
,

And everywhere the poison fog seeps irresistibly;

I call time and again upon my Guru Father,

And his face of kindness, real beyond alteration
,

Unborn, undying, rises from my heart
.

Out of all time, he utters the highest teaching
,

And I go forth to freedom, his only son
.

1
. The Powo Valley is the name given to the whole surrounding district; Padma Tri-me is the personal name of my guru.

P
LANTING THE
D
HARMA IN THE
W
EST

S
EVENTEEN YEARS AFTER
my departure from Tibet, I am writing this in Land O’Lakes, Wisconsin, where I am conducting the 1976 Vajradhatu Seminary for 130 advanced students, instructing them in meditation and the journey of the three yanas. Looking back, my thoughts are filled with appreciation for my teachers and tutors and the powerful world of Tibet. There is some sense of desolation, of aloneness, but I would not call it nostalgia. I have never felt nostalgic about anything. What I feel now is a sense of maturity.

My stay in India from 1959 to 1963 was filled with fascination and inquisitiveness. By contrast to the medieval world of Tibet, India was a very modern place. Here for the first time I had contact with Westerners, and I realized that it was absolutely necessary for me to study their language in order to spread the dharma. During this period I served as spiritual advisor to the Young Lamas Home School, a role to which I was appointed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Forced from their homeland, many of my people seemed to have scattered their spirit and dignity; without the presence and activity of His Holiness’s Tibetan government-in-exile, things would have been much worse.

While in India, I had the opportunity to meet with Prime Minister Nehru as well as President Radhakrishnan. Both were impressive men, philosopher-statesmen who combined, with no incongruity, spiritual quality and political ability. Outstanding among the many Westerners I met was Freda Bedi, now Sister Karma Kechog Palmo, who worked with the Central Social Welfare Board of the Indian government overseeing the Tibetan refugees. She extended herself to me as a sort of destined mother and savior. In Kalimpong I met John Driver, a man who impressed me both by his insight and brilliance as well as by his remarkable devotion to Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche. He tutored me in English and definitely inspired me to go eventually to Europe to teach. At the same time, I realized there was much more to learn about Western culture. Through John Driver, Freda Bedi, and the Tibet Society of the United Kingdom, I received a Spalding sponsorship in 1963 to attend Oxford University, with Akong to accompany me. We sailed from Bombay to Tilbury aboard the P & O Line, an exciting journey made even more so by being completely surrounded by Westerners.

My first impression of England was that it was very clean and orderly and, on the whole, very strange—unlike anything I had ever seen before. Arriving at Oxford was a moving experience. Coming from Tibet and India, one’s preconception of the West was of a stark modern realm, but it turned out to have its own dignified culture, which I began to appreciate while living and studying at Oxford. My stay there was quite good, apart from the air pollution, and I learned a great deal. Among other subjects, I studied comparative religion and philosophy; with John Driver’s help, the reading of Plato and other Western philosophers became fascinating, in spite of my difficulty in following some of the lectures. The fine arts in particular intrigued me. The manner in which recent Western art cut through all hesitations to freely express whatever strange things came out of one’s head was certainly different from the oriental tradition in art. Occasionally, I visited London and the museums.

But there was also a sense of dissatisfaction. My ambition was to teach and spread the dharma. I was strongly encouraged by visits to Prinknash Monastery and Stanbrook Abbey, which demonstrated that the contemplative life could be carried out in the West. With the great help and inspiration of Esmé Cramer Roberts, the first edition of
Born in Tibet
was published in 1966. Nevertheless, there was as yet no situation in which I could begin to make a full and proper presentation of the teachings of Buddhism. This now began to change. Ananda Bodhi, senior incumbent of the English Sangha Vihara and founder of a Buddhist contemplative center in Scotland called Johnstone House, proposed turning the direction of the House over to myself and Akong. The Johnstone House trustees invited us up to conduct a retreat. At once the fresh air and beautiful rolling hills of Dumfriesshire invigorated me and filled me with joyous expectation. After a series of further visits, Johnstone House was finally turned over to us and we moved in, giving it the name of Samye Ling Meditation Centre. This was a forward step. Nevertheless, it was not entirely satisfying, for the scale of activity was small, and the people who did come to participate seemed to be slightly missing the point.

In 1968 I was invited by the royal family of Bhutan to pay a visit—I had been providing tutoring in Buddhism to the young crown prince, Jigme Wangchuk, now the king of Bhutan, who was then studying at Ascot. Before reaching Bhutan, I stayed for a few days at the Central Hotel in Calcutta where I had the good fortune to meet Father Thomas Merton. He was in Calcutta attending some kind of collective religious conference, and he was appalled at the cheapness of the spiritual values that various of the conference participants were advocating. Father Merton himself was an open, unguarded, and deep person. During these few days, we spent much time together and grew to like one another immensely. He proposed that we should collaborate on a book bringing together sacred writings of the Catholic and Vajrayana Buddhist traditions. Father Merton’s sudden death shortly thereafter was a tremendous loss, to me personally and to the world of genuine spirituality.

Traveling on to Bhutan, I was warmly greeted by Her Majesty the Queen. Throughout my visit Her Majesty, who is now the Queen Mother, accorded me overwhelmingly kind hospitality. Also, the royal family had selected as their spiritual advisor Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, whom I now met again with a very full heart.

Of tremendous significance to my future activity were the ten days of this visit which I spent in retreat at Tagtsang. Tagtsang is the place in Bhutan where, over a thousand years ago, Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava) first manifested himself in the wrathful form of Dorje Trolö and subjugated evil forces before entering Tibet. Since I had never been to Central Tibet or seen the great holy places of Guru Rinpoche or of the Kagyü forefathers, this visit to Tagtsang was very moving for me. The place is spacious and awe-inspiring, and one can still feel the presence of Guru Rinpoche. During my retreat there I was able to reflect on my life and particularly on how to propagate the dharma in the West. I invoked Guru Rinpoche and the Kagyü forefathers to provide vision for the future. For a few days nothing happened. Then there came a jolting experience of the need to develop more openness and greater energy. At the same time there arose a feeling of deep devotion to Karma Pakshi, the second Karmapa, and to Guru Rinpoche. I realized that in fact these two were one in the unified tradition of mahamudra and ati. Filled with the vivid recognition of them and their oneness, I composed in two days the
Sadhana of Mahamudra
, of twenty-four pages. Its purpose was to bring together the two great traditions of the Vajrayana, as well as to exorcise the materialism which seemed to pervade spiritual disciplines in the modern world. The message that I had received from my supplication was that one must try to expose spiritual materialism and all its trappings, otherwise true spirituality could not develop. I began to realize that I would have to take daring steps in my life.

Returning from Bhutan through India, I was delighted to meet again with His Holiness Karmapa and also His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I also made the acquaintance at this time of Mr. James George, the Canadian High Commissioner to India, and his wonderful family. Mr. George is a wise and benevolent man, an ideal statesman, who holds great respect and faith for the teachings of Buddhism.

I returned to Samye Ling, reflecting on the experience of Tagtsang. One positive message which awaited me was the approval of my application for British citizenship. This I felt very good about, as a confirmation of my appreciation for English culture and, on my side, as a gesture toward working with the occidental world and its own valid traditions. I was proud to become a British subject and resident of Scotland, and I was in fact the first Tibetan ever to become Her Majesty’s British subject.

Nevertheless, there remained some hesitation as to how to throw myself completely into proclaiming the dharma to the Western world, uprooting spiritual materialism and developing further compassion and affection. I went through several months of ambivalence, of feeling pushed forward and pulled back simultaneously, unable to respond clearly in spite of a series of small warnings. Then driving one day in Northumberland, I blacked out at the wheel of my car, ran off the road, and smashed through the front of a joke shop. I was brought to Newcastle General Hospital. In spite of the pain, my mind was very clear; there was a strong sense of communication—finally the real message had got through—and I felt a sense of relief and even humor. Twenty-four hours later, awakening suddenly, I found that my left side was paralyzed.

When plunging completely and genuinely into the teachings, one is not allowed to bring along one’s deceptions. I realized that I could no longer attempt to preserve any privacy for myself, any special identity or legitimacy. I should not hide behind the robes of a monk, creating an impression of inscrutability which, for me, turned out to be only an obstacle. With a sense of further involving myself with the sangha, I determined to give up my monastic vows. More than ever I felt myself given over to serving the cause of Buddhism.

I decided at this time to marry a young lady of the Pybus family, a very devoted Buddhist who inspired me in my work. She, with her problems of departing from her culture to become a full-fledged Buddhist practitioner, and I, also desiring to transcend cultural boundaries, both felt it a good idea to be married and provide a united front in devoting ourselves to the cause of buddhadharma. Her name was Diana Judith, innocent and cheerful. We were married at the registrar’s office in Edinburgh, to the consternation of her mother and other family members. Her father had died a few years earlier, but apparently he had been an open-minded man who was intrigued with Buddhism and had given Diana a few hints about the existence of Buddhist wisdom before his death. (Recently Mrs. Pybus, Diana’s mother, moved to the United States and, meeting her for the first time, apart from a brief encounter before the marriage, I found that she is a magnificent woman of tremendous energy and insight. We now enjoy a close relationship, and her dignity and breadth of vision have enhanced my world.) After our marriage, Diana took my family name of Mukpo, which is the name of one of the six major tribes of Tibet. My family is descended from the famous Lord Mukpo, Gesar of Ling.

The marriage stirred up a great deal of conflict among students at Samye Ling, who were unable to understand the significance of it. The conflict became intense. One individual, by the name of Christopher Woodman, showed particular delight at this conflict. Mr. Woodman was so inspired by the prospect of jealous warfare against myself and Diana that he attempted to convince the London Buddhist Society and other Buddhist organizations in Britain that my sense of dedication should be regarded as that of a neurotic criminal.

Matters having reached such a point, I invoked again and again the inspiration of Dorje Trolö Karma Pakshi. I even consulted the
I Ching
, which indicated that one should cross the great water. I did not want to waste further time in waging war, but rather felt determined to proceed in my work of propagating the dharma. In view of this, and the meager potential for genuine Buddhism in Britain at this time, I decided to journey to the American continent.

America was fresh and unknown territory for me, although there were some people there to whom I was known.
Born in Tibet
had been published in the United States in 1968. In 1969
Meditation in Action
, drawn from a series of talks at Samye Ling, was published by the English firm of Stuart and Watkins. A young American bookseller by the name of Samuel Bercholz saw it during a visit with the publisher and was immediately inspired to bring it out in America.
Meditation in Action
appeared in the United States as the first book published by Shambhala Publications, in the autumn of 1969, just a few months before my arrival. The response to it was very positive. One indication of this was an invitation from a group at the University of Colorado to come to Boulder and teach. Also, a number of American students who had been at Samye Ling had left for the United States before me as a vanguard to prepare for my arrival. They had purchased a 434-acre farm in northern Vermont, to which they gave the name Tail of the Tiger.