Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery
Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery Rugged Interdependency - Amaravati Buddhist Monastery
Golden Highways Revisited: 1998July 7 thDawn came, still and pure – a low mist filling the valley bottom in the distance, thesky above us Prussian blue velvet, set with the morning star.The early sitting (6:15) is in silence and is followed by a communal chatteringof the teachers at breakfast – just as the sun breaks over the hill crest to the east.Morning meditation instructions come from Julie, Guy and Jack and the hoursunwind until midday – including another impromptu planning meeting in thecouncil house. I receive my meal at the head of the line and make my way out to thesweat-lodge area, beside the almost dried-up creek. Taking a seat under the shadeof a large bay tree, I spread my mat and sit down to eat alone. Dappling shade, fragranceof bay and the accumulated silence of 100 souls weaves a spell around theglade of serenity and pure life.As I needed to leave that afternoon they gave me the early Dhamma talk slotat 3:30 – I gave the familiar outlines of Right Attitude and the essential nature ofmettā. It seemed to go down well – even though the hall full of (mostly) ol’ timeVipassanā warriors must have heard it all before. It is a strange crowd: probablyonly a couple under 35 in the whole room – the ageing faithful of People’s Parkand the Woodstock Nation, the well-heeled seekers of happiness beyond comfortin Marin County.Young Aaron comes to collect and we take some tea before departure. It’s 6:30by the time we eventually leave – dropping into the ever-more-popular CouncilHouse to say a cheerio to the teachers gathered there. Broad smiles and applaudsfor chanting, mingle with añjalis and waves of goodwill – and so to the road andthe north, and the dear confines of Redwood Valley once again.We arrive at Abhayagiri at 8:30, having come through the rolling, boulderstrewncountry lanes of West Marin via Nicasio and the Hicks Valley CheeseFactory. By the time all the hello’s have been said and a cursory glance has beengiven to the mail heap, it is 10:30 and feeling late.Tired legs carry me gladly up the dusty hill into the gathering dark. The moonlightis already bright as we approach the 15 th day of the lunar fortnight; silver blueshimmers call in mottled tones from the leaves of the madrones and manzanitaswhich line the walk.The log cabin is at the end of the path; the lamp is charged, the water jug filled,the floor swept and the bedding laid out. In appreciation and a glow of glad returnto the mountain, eventually I lie down to sleep.July 8 th – Āsālhā PūjāThe last day in the great cycleFollowing the return there is always the shaving, bathing, pile of laundry and the(almost) equally huge collection of mail – cyber and snail – that has accumulatedalong the way.After giving all these a fair amount of attention in the morning, and now thatwe have Tan Sudanto amongst us, the four resident bhikkhus gathered to do the110
Golden Highways Revisited: 1998Pātimokkha. This was not the first time it had been recited here – in the days ofPaññasāra and Ñānasobhano we did it several times, and most recently, on VisākhāPūjā, after the ordination of Tan Karunadhammo – but it felt somehow very specialin that it was, at last, four resident bhikkhus of our own lineage, gathered togetherin harmony.Ajahn Pasanno did the recitation – bless his heart – I had diligently takenmy Pātimokkha book along with me on my travels but, surprise surprise, foundno occasion on which I felt inspired/energized/mindful enough to do more thanadmire its cover and the values it stands for – “How vain is the hope of man.”After the meal I returned to the mail heap and continued digging until NormanFischer, abbot of Green Gulch Zen Center, showed up at 3:30. Although we areclose friends and I have made numerous trips to teach and visit him at his place, upuntil now he had never made it to Abhayagiri. Now that we had the excuse of hisformer student – Michael Dietzel – going forth as a sāmanera and having pressedhim on the subject in public at Ayya Khema’s memorial, he had had no chance ofescape and, at last, here he was.However, it always catches me by surprise when I meet Zen priests in mufti– something is always half-expecting the flowing kimono and the butterflysleeves, the kesa-robe arranged neatly over the shoulder – a fedora at a rakish tilton the shaven head and Banana Republic jeans don’t quite have the same effect.Nevertheless, after a couple of blinks it all falls into place – “The abbot in jeans –OK” – and we continue on our merry way.The weather hasn’t heated up too much yet so we go for a bit of a walk aroundand visit some of the kutīs: along with Norman has come a young priest who ishis assistant, but none of Michael’s old buddies – Meg, Jeremy and the Charlieswere all unable to make it. We ambled along and made an easy tour of it – chattingabout the prospects of their new land in Lake County along the way. When wefinally made it back to the main buildings there was a prodigious burble emergingfrom the assembled folks in the Dhamma Hall – the hordes were already gatheringfor the evening.By the time that the ceremonies began quite a collection of friends and thefaithful had assembled: Michael’s parents, brother and ex-girlfriend had all comedown from Washington State, Anita Wenninck’s mother and stepfather were therealso, Greg Scharf had appeared out of the woodwork after another stint at IMS, andCraig Randolph (a dancer with the English National Ballet, and whose family livein the Bay Area) breezed in on another trip from England. All the Sanghapala regularswere there plus a host of coastal and other stray local characters. These timesare such a heartwarming charge: seeing all these dear friends gathering in goodspirit, joining to wish well to Michael and Don Sperry (on his way to taking theEight Precepts this evening) in their endeavors to realize the Truth. When humansgather to rejoice in the good, with calm and wisdom in their hearts, this displaystheir nature at its finest.In fitting fatherly fashion Michael’s dad filmed the whole ceremony and wasable to record the bestowal of his new name: Pāsādiko – admirable, lovely, beauti-111
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Golden Highways Revisited: 1998July 7 thDawn came, still and pure – a low mist filling the valley bottom in the distance, thesky above us Prussian blue velvet, set with the morning star.The early sitting (6:15) is in silence and is followed by a communal chatteringof the teachers at breakfast – just as the sun breaks over the hill crest to the east.Morning meditation instructions come from Julie, Guy and Jack and the hoursunwind until midday – including another impromptu planning meeting in thecouncil house. I receive my meal at the head of the line and make my way out to thesweat-lodge area, beside the almost dried-up creek. Taking a seat under the shadeof a large bay tree, I spread my mat and sit down to eat alone. Dappling shade, fragranceof bay and the accumulated silence of 100 souls weaves a spell around theglade of serenity and pure life.As I needed to leave that afternoon they gave me the early Dhamma talk slotat 3:30 – I gave the familiar outlines of Right Attitude and the essential nature ofmettā. It seemed to go down well – even though the hall full of (mostly) ol’ timeVipassanā warriors must have heard it all before. It is a strange crowd: probablyonly a couple under 35 in the whole room – the ageing faithful of People’s Parkand the Woodstock Nation, the well-heeled seekers of happiness beyond comfortin Marin County.Young Aaron comes to collect and we take some tea before departure. It’s 6:30by the time we eventually leave – dropping into the ever-more-popular CouncilHouse to say a cheerio to the teachers gathered there. Broad smiles and applaudsfor chanting, mingle with añjalis and waves of goodwill – and so to the road andthe north, and the dear confines of Redwood Valley once again.We arrive at Abhayagiri at 8:30, having come through the rolling, boulderstrewncountry lanes of West Marin via Nicasio and the Hicks Valley CheeseFactory. By the time all the hello’s have been said and a cursory glance has beengiven to the mail heap, it is 10:30 and feeling late.Tired legs carry me gladly up the dusty hill into the gathering dark. The moonlightis already bright as we approach the 15 th day of the lunar fortnight; silver blueshimmers call in mottled tones from the leaves of the madrones and manzanitaswhich line the walk.The log cabin is at the end of the path; the lamp is charged, the water jug filled,the floor swept and the bedding laid out. In appreciation and a glow of glad returnto the mountain, eventually I lie down to sleep.July 8 th – Āsālhā PūjāThe last day in the great cycleFollowing the return there is always the shaving, bathing, pile of laundry and the(almost) equally huge collection of mail – cyber and snail – that has accumulatedalong the way.After giving all these a fair amount of attention in the morning, and now thatwe have Tan Sudanto amongst us, the four resident bhikkhus gathered to do the110