The Real Dharma

Jumping from my meditation retreat with John Travis to my weeklong stay at Spirit Rock Meditation Center should have been a simple matter of getting from Nevada City to Marin County...via Sacramento. I had only scheduled one day of transition time back home, because I knew in a day, I was headed back into a calm, meditative environment – the opposite of how re-entry is usually experienced. Usually we drop ourselves back into the craziness of our lives at home, and stay there, to watch as the unfolding days and weeks quickly wash away any mindfulness we developed while on retreat. After my first-ever silent retreat (1 week long ) I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, and was back at work on Monday morning , gripping the desk with white knuckles, bulging eyes and smoking ears. I’ll never do that again. Coming out of retreat is a delicate process, ideally with one gradually ramping the stimulation back up. Simple objectives like piloting one’s car onto the freeway or checking all of the accumulated emails and voicemails pack a high-intensity jolt to the senses…senses which have been reopened and recalibrated with what we might call “sensory deprivation” but is really just the experience of more deeply sensing less.

I had decided to use my transition day to repack, run some errands and take my car in for some minor repairs. Yes, minor repairs. 3 days and several hundred dollars later, I was finally departing for Spirit Rock, to begin my weeklong “trial” stay as a residential caretaker…or caretaker candidate, as it were. The residential caretaker position is basically part handyman work, and part logistics - A perfect fit for me. My initial interview was filled with all of the positive energy and words that essentially indicated my trial week would be simply a formality. It’s always fun going into an experience that one has been lead to believe is “simply a formality.” It’s a lot more fun than say, taking a college entrance exam, or auditioning for a part in Hamlet.

Driving out over the Yolo Bypass, I finally got to taste the sense of departure that had me salivating while on retreat, and was so elusive for the last few days in limbo. It was easy to connect with my sense of purpose and focus, and to release the chaos of late. Breathing in unison with the rhythmic highway noises, I set my cruise control and reflected on the awkward feeling of entering into this deeper relationship with Spirit Rock after having to stall for time while my car repairs spun out of control. The truth is that they were compassionate in the extreme, and I never really felt compromised by my situation.

On the other hand, it’s always interesting with Spirit Rock. I had experienced in earlier times, a pervasive sense that "the Dharma" was out of my price range. I carry a few too many old stories of worthiness, and my lack thereof. It was clearly a shadow theme for me, and one difficult to fully flush from my system, even after sitting 4 retreats there - two of them covered by scholarships based solely and generously upon my ethnicity. There is something to this history of ambivalent feelings - it has always infused my connection to this place in the land of milk and honey. Spirit Rock, in my more cynical moments, seems more like a resort than a Buddhist retreat center. Indeed, it has been hard to avoid scoffing at the pricey-ness of the Dharma at Spirit Rock, the clichéd exclusivity of Marin culture that looms over, and more recently, the unfolding, behind-the-scenes dialog between two generations of Dharma teachers there.

Over time, I have been granted some access to that dialog, which revolves around the viability of continuing the 2500 year-old tradition of Dana (the Pail word for generosity, referring to the principle that there is no price placed on the Dharma) as the sustaining support for the teachings and teachers. Undeniably, there is a solid sincerity of practice that remains the norm there, and it has been easy enough to keep returning for that alone. But as my intimacy with Spirit Rock deepened, I could feel a foreboding sense that I might confront with some intensity, my more subtle feelings about this place - This coupled with the fact that I had already been gently warned about the staff discord afflicting the Spirit Rock community over the past couple of years. Arriving and pondering my commitment to service, I bid to hunker down and follow the advice of my teacher John Travis. He had provided a key personal reference for me, and at the retreat, had warned me to fly above all the rankor, and treat my time as personal and work retreat, for my precious time in this state of repose would be short.

Good advice. Truth is, this opportunity is exactly what I was looking for at the moment. First-off, I needed to buy some time while I completed my application process with the Peace Corps. I had already made up my mind to dedicate my life to service for the next few years, and this opportunity landed in my lap just when my life was morphing into this wild, creative commando mission to transcend mere survival. The evening of the day I lost my job at the church, I got an email from a long-time Buddhist friend, who, without knowledge of the day’s events, had forwarded me the caretaker posting for Spirit Rock. It synched perfectly with my kamikaze brainstorm of selling my belongings and going weightless – eventually traveling abroad. I clicked into action toot-sweet, to update my resume and hammer out a cover letter. I sent the application items off in a midnight email, and to my delight, had a call back from Spirit Rock management by 9:30 am the next morning. Based on my skill-set and history with meditation practice, I was not entirely surprised. But yea, I was surprised.

And so here I was, ready to give ‘er a whirl. The trial work period was necessary because this was a residential situation, featuring full room and board - a bedroom in the community house among the caretakers and other residential staff. The free access to three vegetarian meals a day, nightly Dharma talks, and full medical and dental benefits, along with the small cash stipend, was shaping this up to be a pretty sweet arrangement or someone in my shoes, and I was very motivated to make it work well for me – for everyone involved.

I was finally arriving. For weeks I had been preparing, imagining the joy of being back in Marin, and committing to extended personal retreat. As I piled my week’s provisions on the bedroom floor, I peeked out the window to dig the view and the little family of deer grazing just inches from the wall. Later, down in the shop, I bonded instantly with the other caretakers, all of whom were coming from very similar backgrounds to mine – having run various contractor businesses, and having been battered by a comotose economy. It was clear that the collective level of skill, coupled with the obvious depth of Dharma practice, would constitute a nice tight team. That was comforting. I was received warmly everywhere I went, and my heart was expanding to meet the bigness of it all.

But from the very beginning, there were also symbols of warning. The first day, at lunch, I sat at the table with the venerable Jack Kornfield and listened as he defended the Dana tradition to a younger teacher. He pulled his medicare card from his wallet and waved it around with a big noble smile – “this is how you make it work.” The young teacher scoffed, insisting that his various associations around Marin are always surprised when he told them how little he makes leading retreats at Spirit Rock. Another of the younger Dharma teachers chimed in that “so many people that come here think Dana is a tip…Dana is not a tip.” I resolved to be fascinated and compassionate, rather than put off by an early peek behind the curtain. At almost every mealtime, I was privy to the controversy – the calm but obvious discord about how lucrative and how pure the Dharma should be. After my 4th day, I sat next to one pretty well-known teacher, who declared upon hearing of someone’s being hired as retreat registrar, that “she’ll probably make more money than I do here.” He continued on to explain with some sarcasm, that since he is responsible for generating a significant amount of revenue for Spirit Rock, it would be nice to see more of that money coming his way. I thought of the Audi’s and BMW’s parked in the parking lot. This was a tough thing to hear, and I reflected back to my time early in my practice, when I was still very star-struck by these Dharma teachers – bedazzled by their books, and the Marin vibe permeating the practice. As someone coming here to Spirit Rock to work for less than minimum wage, and live a life of renunciation to help support the practice of others, I was slightly saddened by what I was hearing.

In Thailand, everyone grows up with the experience of the forest monks coming through the village on Alms rounds, taking only what is offered as sustenance, and with deep humility. The monks are a symbol of the practice, and the villagers give gladly – hold them in reverence and a kind of symbiotic gratitude. The Buddha himself made the teachings available free of charge, to everyone who desired to end suffering in his life. It was really that simple, and those teachings have been passed forward for 2500 years in this very way. It is challenging in our Western culture to carry on the tradition of Dana. We have the forces of capitalism to reconcile, and no monks coming to call each morning to remind us and humble us. Considering the other religious orders in the US, and the sordid relationship that many churches have had with capitalism, the idea of Dana is comparatively a nice respite – it seems like a return to the wellspring…A debunking of the myth. It is kind of a shame to see this 2nd generation of American teachers attempting to turn the Dharma into a product.

By my 2nd day at Spirit Rock, I was coming down with some kind of stomach flu, and had to use one of my scheduled days off to recover. I began to speculate that I had accidentally eaten some expired leftovers from the community fridge. Who knows. I had a few days to stew with my latent ambition of cycling the fire-roads and winding hills of Marin again, and in fact spending the lion’s share of my off-time hours doing this. I had logged so many hours daydreaming of this on retreat, that in my ill, bedridden state, I could run the movies in my head and almost feel the pedals under my feet. Certainly, this was not shaping up the way I had daydreamed – the two days of illness, the teachers and their money woes. I was really enjoying everyone in the “double-wide” as they call the modular house for residential staff – loving the daily group meditation at 8am. My determination to stay above the judgments and see the highest truth was still strong. After recovering a few days later, several of us staff met up at a Dharma talk down in Fairfax, presented by the Tibetan monk, Anam Thubten Rinpoche, visiting from his Dharma center in Pt. Richmond. He has been a monk since the age of 5, and owned no possessions. He was speaking from his most current book called No Self, No Problem, and as always, was extremely soothing and funny to listen to. He was talking about “the real Dharma.” The real Dharma, he said in his English through Tibetan accent, “does not come from a book, or from a fancy temple, or even from some smart, funny guru. The real Dharma comes from the heart," said Rinpoche. Makes sense to me.

It’s not that I want those Dharma teachers at Spirit Rock to be impoverished – they are hard-working people. Maybe some of them are having difficulty with the demands of their chosen profession. Maybe Marin is too expensive a place for them to reside. Maybe they have consumer-conditioning to grapple with like the rest of us. Surely they are not expected to go without healthcare, as I currently do. Maybe the royalties from a few more books would help make the payments on the brand new Beamer a bit less heavy. I don’t mean to be sarcastic…I don’t want to go there, really. I just couldn’t help but think that I came here to work, meditate, connect with great folks, and ride my bike. I shared with someone in the house that I really did not want all this moaning by the teachers to ruin my attitude. She looked at me kind of funny - kind of concerned.

The day before the end of my trial stay, I had finally gotten out on a fire road with my cross-bike. After obsessing for days about feeling the gravel under my tires, I hit the White Hill Fire Road with gusto. About 30 minutes down the trail, I came upon a dropoff that I didn’t remember where the trail shrinks to single-track. I took a wrong line down the overly steep section of trail and plunged myself through a near-death experience, losing control of my bike. To bring the rolling chaos to a halt, I drove the bike into a tree stump protruding from the side of a hill. I spiraled over the bars and landed on my back in soft brush. I did a quick body-scan…not a bruise, ache or even a scratch. My bike was totaled, but I was overcome with gratitude, for the completely unharmed state of my body. The universe seemed to be letting me know that I would not be staying in Marin this time – I caught that loud and clear.

Back home in Sacramento, I got the call the evening of my return. I had been voted off the island. The facilities manager, who would have been my supervisor, was beside himself with disappointment. He had no control over the final decision, which really seemed odd to me. There were two pieces to this equation – the work piece and the residential house piece. I was baffled myself, having not collided with anyone, nor had anything less than positive, joyful interactions. It was turning out to be a dicey experience having my work tied to my residence in this way, and I could only speculate on the cause of my rejection. The residents needed full consensus for my selection to be final, and it did not happen. Maybe there were reservations about what I had expressed regarding the teachers. Maybe I should have been even more friendly – talked more about my love of cleaning. My mind was filled with speculation, but I would probably never know any more than I knew in that moment.