ARTICLES

Blue Jean Buddha
Shalav Rana

I've just finished reading a book called 'Blue Jean Buddha'. The book contains true life stories of young American Buddhists, or Buddhist practitioners as they like to call themselves. Some of these practitioners write about their efforts to bring what they practice in meditation to their daily lives. Some reveal how Buddhism has changed them, and some write justifying their involvement in recent phenomena like 'socially engaged Buddhism'. About twenty-five contributors have all different stories to tell, and it's their cumulative effort that makes this book such a fascinating read.

 

One of the contributors writes about his problem of moving to New York City, the place he'd gladly left in his childhood. Unable to let go of the idyllic surrounding he'd left behind to move back to a chaotic city, he lives for the time when he can once again escape the behemoth. In doing so, he encounters contradictions. Every morning, he meditates in his small flat, so that he can develop clarity, live moment to moment. But when he gets up from his practice, the cacophony of New York releases his inner demons. He just can't enjoy the moment, or live like how he'd practiced. It's a fascinating experience he writes about.

 

Another contributor writes about the time she spends in Nepal, helping cure the desperately poor and sick. She's a Zen practitioner and practiced meditation every day while in Nepal, but she never ventured to explore Nepali Buddhism.

 

Another contributor is a political activist, and she reveals a fascinating story of how human rights campaign on Tibetan led her to meet His Holiness Dalai Lama. Inspired by His Holiness' speech, she delved completely into Buddhism.

 

As I read all these stories, I completely connected with most of the contributors. It felt like their stories were mine also. Their struggles, questions, they were all relevant to me. Through this, I felt more motivated to follow my own Buddhist journey. I also learned how being modern and outgoing isn't anti Buddhist. How you can reach out to other people, through social work, and even better with more compassion, as you practice to rid your defilements.

 

I would recommend the book to everyone.

 

 

Result of Insight

Shalav Rana 

 

I started my spiritual journey like so many others have – with a ten day Vipassyana retreat in Buddhanilkanta. The retreat centre is a hotbed for spiritual seekers, wanting a glimpse of that ancient life and practice that people have discarded. I struggled for first couple of days during the retreat. I could never get used to the routine of getting up at half five and straight away starting the practice. Before I did anything in the wee hours, I was used to a cup of coffee, a breakfast, a walk around the compound of my house, breathing in fresh, morning air. At the meditation hall, I always fell asleep during the early morning sessions.

 

But as the days dwindled by and as I got into the routine, my meditation gained momentum. During the practice, we were told to watch all the sensation in our bodies and think of them as impermanent. We were told not to cling to these sensations, discard them, and move on. Everything in your mind, body, and in this world is in constant flux, we were reminded. You have to be in this flux, realise it. Clinging to them will perpetuate suffering. I practiced with enthusiasm, inspired by hundred others around, who were practising like real Buddhas. There many foreigners there also, Europeans, Australians, Americans, and some of seemed as unwavering as Nepalis in their practice. Towards the end of my retreat, during an hour long session, I even managed to sit without moving any body parts, as had been demanded by the teacher. 

 

When the retreat finished and the time for the departure came, somehow I just couldn’t leave the place. I wanted to meditate more, I felt attached to the place. Despite meditating on developing discarding habit, I had come to unconsciously clinging to the retreat centre. Something about the place, maybe the serenity, with its lush, quiet surrounding, or the hassle free life in the retreat, got stuck deep down in my heart. But I had to leave.

 

During the journey back to Kathmandu, every scene jarred my senses. My heart, soothed during the retreat, resented the frequent blasting of the horns, the traffic chaos, the miasma of people’s suffering.  When I reached my home, I didn’t go inside. I sat on the concrete stairs in front of the main door and contemplated what going inside meant. I would have to meet my parents, talk to them, explain what I did. I had to shower, clean my room, prepare for work next day, and call few of my friends. I didn’t want to do them. I had developed an aversion to these chores.

 

Then, I thought of becoming a monk. Why not? I’d enjoyed what I’d just did, sit and meditate. The life of a monk wasn’t any different. Plus, there wouldn’t be all this worldly hassle. I remained glued to where I was, thinking of all these things.

 

My grandmother saw me and came out. She asked me what I was doing outside. I told her I didn’t want to come in, that I was thinking of going away, forever. She didn’t shout or object. Instead, she sat next to me and rubbed my arm. She told me my parents were inside, waiting to see me. They were dying to hear my story. They love you, she said. Slowly, as she coaxed me, my heart melted. That strong resistant, of not wanting to venture in, of facing the real world, that barrier, slowly subsided. I went in.

 

I often remember that scene, which happened a decade back. Before the retreat, I loved my life. I was an outgoing person, always relishing the chance to socialise, always working hard to earn my livelihood. I had taken the retreat as a break, to experience something new. After the retreat, I just didn’t see the reason for going back to all that again. But the practice I’d performed for ten days should have helped me make this segue without any problem. After all, I’d meditated on not clinging to anything. I should have discarded whatever I’d done in the retreat centre. But that wasn’t the case. Somehow, my mind had developed a habit of clinging to deeper things, unconsciously. 

 

It’s funny how our mind loves to cling. First, in the retreat centre, I fought a valiant battle to discard thoughts of worldly life I enjoyed, when it pervaded my mind while I meditated. Then, when my mind had successfully fended of such thoughts, it had grasped what I was enjoying, the mind without worldly thoughts. No wonder the path to Buddhahood is such a tricky path.