| |
"… all dharmas are emptiness. There
are no characteristics, there is no birth and no
cessation. There is no impurity and no purity."
[1]
At first I hardly noticed the pinkish rose. It
was a warm L.A. December, and I was rushing around
doing what I thought to be important activities
(music, yoga, playing with my son), and I noticed
a tightly wound rosebud on a neglected backyard
bush. An industrious stem had grown a simple, single
bloom which perched four feet behind the black,
lava stone Buddha that my mom schlepped back from
Bali. Still on the run, I rushed off for the holidays
and didn't notice it for another month.
The rose bush grew despite the lack of water and
fertilizer. I'd known it was ailing, but because
of a chronic obstruction due to nasal polyps, I
couldn’t smell. And so I chose to ignore the
flower, since it reminded me of my disability.
Often when I thought about the rose, I became a
bit depressed. At those times, I turned to the Buddhist
practice that was also part of my life, and worked
on arousing mindfulness and awareness, doing my
best to cut this habit at its root. Since the rose
mirrored the state of my perceptions, by changing
them, I could change how the rose affected me. At
the time, I happened to be studying the Heart Sutra
which helpfully reminded me: …no feeling,
no perception, no formation, no consciousness; no
eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind;
no appearance, no sound, no smell, no taste, no
touch, no dharmas… [2]
Eventually I was able to let go, using my humble
amount of Wisdom mind, gathered from meditation
and from the purification practice, the Ngondro.
In fact, it was in front of the lava stone Buddha
sculpture that I had practiced for three years,
either in the morning quiet, or when the sunset
seemed to create light Mandalas through the trees,
and the flying gnats that gathered in bunches looked
like dancing, sparkling atoms.
A month later in January, I noticed the rose had
fully bloomed. This time I felt joyous, because
due to its new weight, the bending stem positioned
the flower exactly an arrows length above the Buddha.
Perfectly centered over the fontanel, almost by
design. I smiled and admired it as yet another piece
of glorious beauty and synchronicity that life brings.
I also reminded myself not to exaggerate the significance
of these events, rather, to simply receive their
blessing and move on.
And yet the rose stayed, orbiting like a grapefruit-sized
planet around the "solar axis" of the
Buddha’s smile.
At some point I began noticing unusual things about
it. For one, it was growing away from the sun. The
winter sun was south, and the rose and leaves supporting
it were facing north, as if the Buddha sculpture
was radiating light of its own. Also, the leaves
near the rose had become healthy; the rose bush
was mustering all its strength to support the bloom.
In fact, from the lowest branch, a six-foot stem
shaped a nearly perfect 180-degree arch precisely
to the Buddha.
Since there is no obscuration of mind, there
is no fear.
Another unusual characteristic was the strength
and vitality of the rose. For a few days, Los Angeles
had 30 to 40 per hour winds blowing constantly.
The rose, clinging to its stem, was blown hither
and yon, back and forth, four or five feet from
its position -- just hammered. Thorns tangled fiercely
with other branches. The wind tested the flower’s
strength to the limit by banging it repeatedly on
the Buddha’s head. Then when the wind would
subside, each time the rose nonchalantly came back
centered, an arrow’s length distance above
the head. Maybe it wanted to. Perhaps it liked its
spot.
A month later, rain finally arrived. After six
months of completely dry weather, sunny southern
California got a record deluge. Pummeled for three
days, the heavy, water logged rose sank all the
way to the bench that held the statue. “Could
this be the end?” I thought. Not a chance.
After one day, it perked up a bit and rested on
top of the Buddha’s head. The rose's hearty
lids slowly dried and as they did, the branch raised
in elevation, resting the cherry-pink bloom on the
Buddha’s head like a hat. A day later it found
it’s final height, seven inches above the
fontanel.
This is when I knew it was special. The Pink Wonder.
I jokingly considered, "Was this the Buddhist
equivalent of an appearance of the Virgin Mary in
stone?" I decided to eliminate all concepts
and explanations, and just felt the extraordinary
joy in my heart, inspired by the beauty and perfection
of this indestructible, regal blossom.
As I practiced in its presence, my Boddhicitta
and devotion grew. Like the rose, I could hardly
contain my joy.
Form is none other than emptiness; emptiness
is none other than form. [3]
My mind naturally contemplated on the rose in Buddhist
metaphors:
- A colorful dash of compassion in a world gone
mad.
- A "visual bell" clanged by the Dharmakaya
to wake up beings. - An incarnate paradox of existence:
How can inexhaustible beauty be time-limited?
From a Tibetan mythological perspective, perhaps
this flower was a form of the goddess Tara, my personal
Yidam. Traditional Eastern artists almost always
paint her surrounded by flowers. In a similar manner
to the rose, Tara appears and disappears like the
moonlight, pacifies fear, desire, envy, and aggression.
The falling petals could be seen as tears of Tara's
unobstructed compassion, who herself was formed
by a tear from Avalokiteshvara. Tara can also appear
as a perfect Mandala, pulsing in and out of the
sky-like Nature of Mind. Her compassion unites with
the Wisdom of all the Buddhas, a union seemingly
represented by the rose/sculpture.
I found the most graphic Buddhist metaphor in the
Ngondro practice, where I visualize Vajrasattva
an arrow’s length above my head. From his
energy flows a stream of benevolent nectar purifying
all my negative karma. It tickled me pink to see
my visualization practice mirrored by the rose’s
appearance.
I pray to you, the Noble Goddess Tara,
May you protect us from
all fears and misfortune.[4]
Om Tare Tuttare Ture Svaha
Finally, by the end of February, the rose began
to die. The first bright pink petal fell on the
Buddha, and then off to the side. This was followed
by of various pinkish-whites nesting on the head
and landing in perfect serendipity around the sculpture.
It appeared that the Buddha held a center of gravity
that pulled the petals around it.
Each day, I became more and more eager to blissfully
meditate as the rose expressed its glorious Impermanence,
petal by petal. I wanted to wait until all the layers
disappeared one by one, and ultimately the rose’s
core would show itself, perhaps with some further
inspiration. But how could I preserve this?. Could
this be filmed? No, that wouldn't work, and besides--I
was becoming too “spiritually materialistic,”
attached to a concrete example of my practice’s
progress. I finally decided to simply take some
photos with a disposable camera that happened to
be around.
It was going to rain again, and I knew today could
be too much for the weakening petals, now turning
yellowish-pink. I hurried home to see the impermanence
of nature in “rose-like” action.
But this was not to be. The weekly gardener had
cut off the rose, the dying part of the landscape
he was hired to maintain.
For a few seconds I was shocked. But then I saw
that indirectly, with a snip of his shears, he had
pointed me toward a greater understanding of things.
I stared at the spot where the rose had hovered
and I saw nothing but space. Having watched it grow
for three months, there was now no more time for
the rose to measure. My mind flipped through hundreds
of thoughts and associations, and for a moment I
actually wondered, “Had it actually existed?”
Now when I see the Emptiness in the voided spot
where it clung, I also see the Bliss in simply practicing
without grasping. And although I thought I could
somehow prolong existence, I can honestly reflect
that death truly comes without warning. As long
as I can keep practicing, the lesson of the rose
will never end.
Gone, gone, gone beyond, completely exposed,
awake, so be it. [5]
Sources:
[1] The Sutra of The Heart of Transcendent Knowledge
[2] ibid.
[3] ibid.
[4] Prayer and Mantra of Tara by Atisha
[5] The Sutra of The Heart of Transcendent Knowledge
|
|
