Beijing, China – April 2016
Om Ah Hum Vajra Guru Padma Siddhi Hum. I remember the words, but I’ve forgotten what they mean. They are still the first words that arise when my anxiety goes haywire. I would have needed them if I had chosen to visit the Forbidden City or any of the other so-called must-sees of Beijing. Instead, I strolled down the hutongs that surround my hotel. Narrow alleys crammed full of tiny shops and restaurants. Fish tanks and crates full of dead frogs. The thick aroma of raw meat and decomposing vegetables. Barely another foreigner in sight.
I emerged onto a busy street. The smell of incense took over. Shiny gold Buddhas and vibrant prayer flags appeared in the shop windows. I arrived here, at the Yonghe Lamasery, a few minutes after it had opened. At the first smoking urn, I lit three sticks of incense – the recommended offering – and stuck them amid the others. The locals raised their sticks to their foreheads and bowed. And the words came back to me.
There once was a time when I was captivated by Tibet and Lamaism, the Tibetan form of Buddhism. I was drawn to the distance, the aloofness. It was a faith of high places. I went to see the monks when they passed through Grand Rapids, Michigan. The guttural chants and clashing cymbals were more jarring than soothing. The deep, gusty horns stirred the stillness, and I heard the voice of the vast Himalayan wind. I read and reread Sogyal Rinpoche’s classic, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, until it fell apart. Then I bought a new copy. I’ve forgotten what happens during the bardos, the stages of dissolution that the soul goes through after death and before reincarnation. The different Buddhas and what they stand for have faded away. And yet, the concept of impermanence is so deeply rooted in my consciousness that it influences everything in my life.
I feel a sudden urge to clasp the incense in my folded hands, raise them to my forehead, and bow. Instead, I close my eyes and breathe in the thick smoke. It is not my culture. I wander into the various halls. The Buddhas gleam in the smoky darkness. At each one, I pause and reflect.
In June 1998, I took a road trip from Grand Rapids to Washington D.C. with my littlest sister and a work colleague who had invited herself along. The Tibetan Freedom Concert was a two-day festival to benefit the Free Tibet movement. The first day, we crammed ourselves in amongst 60,000 others. We had managed to wriggle our way almost to the front by the time Sonic Youth took the stage. The sun blazed down, burning my sister’s round face to a crisp. The MTV cameras soared overhead for crowd shots. We were briefly sucked into a mosh pit during Radiohead. A few minutes of adrenaline ensued and then we were spit back out.
Towards the end of the afternoon, the air began to crackle. The crowd had thinned and we had moved all the way up to the metal fence in front of the stage. Herbie Hancock had just taken the stage. I turned to look behind me, at the sky above the stadium. A dark cloud crept into view. It was the color of a fading bruise. Purple-black with a fluorescent yellow-green tinge. I felt an atavistic dread.
I turned to my companions. “Uh, guys. I don’t think we should be holding on to anything metal right now.”
They turned to look. The cloud covered half of the stadium. We stepped back into the crowd just as a huge clap of thunder shattered the air.
My colleague’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, it struck inside.”
Herbie Hancock and his band fled backstage. The concert floor cleared as people took refuge from the storm in the inner halls of the stadium. The rest of the concert was canceled. One person had been struck by lightning and several others injured.
The next day we went back for more: Beastie Boys, Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, R.E.M., Pulp, Dave Matthews. Those are the ones that I remember. The saffron and orange-robed monks lined up across the stage. Dignified and stoic. A drunken meathead next to us bellowed, “Get off the stage! Guns n’ Roses! Woohooo!” That was when we decided to move up to the seats.
The tour busses have arrived. I drift away from the main halls, into the dark, quiet corners where the faithful pray to more obscure entities. A monk sits in a chair next to a window, the pages of his book illuminated by a ray of sunlight.
Before we returned to Grand Rapids, we went to the Free Tibet rally at the Capitol building. I was not just someone who came for the music. I was the real deal. And yet, if you had asked me for specifics, I could have only parroted the vague facts that I had memorized.
We listened as various politicians and activists spoke to the large crowd. You can make a difference! Together we can change the world! And the chants: What do you want? Free Tibet! When do you want it? Now! David Crosby, Perry Farrell, and R.E.M did acoustic performances. My colleague swooned when Richard Gere showed up. The final prayer was delivered by Sogyal Rinpoche.
I look back at my naïve younger self with embarrassment and affection. I wanted so much to seen as a Good Person. A Good Citizen of the World. Did I really trust those who shield themselves behind podiums and platitudes? At least there was no preaching at family gatherings. My activism consisted of a Free Tibet sticker on my truck and the pilgrimage to the concert. My innate aversion to collectives kept me from joining any activist groups.
It’s been eighteen years. I have lowered my gaze back to the Earth and drawn the perimeter of my concern near. I now focus on that which I can experience for myself. Tibet fell off my travel radar. The concerts fizzled out. Beastie Boy Adam Yauch, the main organizer, passed away in 2012. The news saddened me, because I got the feeling that he was a gentle, sincere person. My second copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying disappeared. I think I might have given it away. Numerous allegations of sexual abuse have been brought against Sogyal Rinpoche. The Dalai Lama has yet to criticize him. Years ago, I would have been crestfallen, but now such revelations only provoke a snort and an eye-roll. My instinctive wariness of gurus is, once again, validated.
At a hall near the entrance, a woman turns a prayer wheel, dispelling negative karma. When she moves on, I step forward. The grooves pirouette under my fingers. Holy braille. A smile comes to my face. Some may call me cynical, but I’m much more content now that I’ve released myself from the obligation of trying to change the world, of being a Good Person. I watch the ponderous rotation for a few seconds before turning away. Let the world go on spinning without me.