The word wisdom is a bit intimidating. It sounds like some far-off, lofty goal. Or something that only belongs to sages, the “fool on the hill.” It’s the oldster, sitting on the rocking chair, looking out across the distant horizon, and uttering (after a long silence) some profound truth, that the real hero of the story must heed. This is the image that is in our head, that is repeated endlessly in literature, song and movies. But fortunately it is also usually there at the end of the story, where the hero or heroine actually learns something about their own humanity, some truth about us all that gains them a small piece of wisdom. Then we can leave the theater, happily crunching our popcorn, glad that the day is saved and all is well with the world.

Developmental Issues

And why this persistent image of the old sage or the elder wise woman as the holder of true wisdom? Simply because we don’t expect wisdom from a child—or a young man or woman for that matter. In fact if a younger person does show some insight, we often say that they are “wise beyond their years.” And so we understand that wisdom happens over time and with experience. Not just any experience, but deep and often difficult passages of life. We become “seasoned,” or possibly a better phrase would be “cooked” by life’s challenges and opportunities. We are forged in the crucible of confronting our pain, hardship, our own limitations and faults. Note that it is the confronting of these obstacles that builds our Wisdom, not just suffering through them. So wisdom, if present, is a function of age, of time and of courageous encounters. And therein lies a key to understanding its lack. If we don’t grow up, we certainly cannot have wisdom. If we remain immature, wisdom is beyond any possibility. So what does it mean to not grow up, to remain immature? Or conversely, to accept adulthood, manhood, or womanhood as a mantle we are ready to wear.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child..”

You don’t have to look far for the answers to this human dilemma—what could be considered the human dilemma. We find it right in front of us, as “pearls out of the mouth of babes.” You see, my little four year old grandson is an amazing being. Smart, resourceful, inquisitive, basically good-hearted, with a great sense of humor. But what is the defining difference between him and me or you? He acts in a “childish” way. He will behave completely selfishly at times, following all his wild whims and crazy notions. At those times, knows no limits, and can fight boundaries as if it were a life and death situation. He has to be monitored like a crazed criminal. For any child from age 0-2, that supervision is literally 24 hours a day. Walking with him at 18 months, it was clear that he could kill himself about once a minute, climbing on a ledge here, waltzing out in traffic there, eating some bizarre object off the ground, etc and etc! By age four, zealous and self-referential, the observing is not only for their own safety, but the safety of everyone around them! Yet, he learns. And as his wise mother guides him, he begins to understand the needs and hurts of others, apart from how it relates to himself. He starts to look through the eyes of another.

Developmental Arrest

Now think about the corruption, greed, and self-interest that fills this world. Think how stupidly humans act, without any care about consequences, seeking only self-interest. This is none other than a failure to negotiate away from childish self-regard and the entry into adulthood. It is a failure of maturity. We are a nation, a world, of immature people. An extraordinary percentage of humans have simply decided to forgo the growing up process. It is too challenging, too painful, too filled with demands and responsibilities. And besides (and this is paramount), you don’t always get what you want! So in the end, the one key monitor of human development or maturity is simply this: How well are you able to respond to the needs, the sufferings, the desires and hopes of others? To the extent that others are just to be manipulated, their weaknesses and failings exploited, is the extent of the immaturity of the person carrying such value systems. And it is the extent to which Wisdom evades such an individual, be they 40 or 80, poor or fabulously wealthy, famous or unheard of. It is an equation that is irrefutable.

Majority Rule

Maybe wisdom is not easily won, but once it is gained, it is a permanent feature of our character; indeed it is a core feature in the landscape of that indefinable something called character. Yet the words wisdom and character have both fallen totally out of use: Where do we hear of a “person of character” anymore, when it used to be the most important measure of man or woman? What went wrong?
Maybe it is just a matter of playing the numbers. As the percentage of people who no longer valued character and wisdom became greater, the balance of power went to the immature, the childish and the fulfillment of the grandiose and megalomaniacal.  The world of commerce, advertising, politics, entertainment, became largely trivialized, but moreover infantalized, and our culture became directed towards superficial and selfish goals. In the grand scheme of things, it is impossible to trace all the threads—social, psychological, karmic, spiritual—that have lead to the eclipse of wisdom as a valued goal and guiding light in our culture, and our world.

The Return

But if it is true that wisdom is “missing in action,” it is also true that it is not dead. The world is changing in fundamental ways, more profoundly and radically than most realize. As tough as it sounds, in the coming months and years, as the world turns totally on its ears, those who have opted to remain invested in developmental arrest will suffer the consequences. Immaturity has its price, and it is a steep and painful price in a world of grown-ups. And that world of grown-ups is coming. Call it a New Utopia, call it the Dying of Dinosaurs, but whatever you call it, you can take heart. The wisdom that you have so carefully cultivated and nurtured in the silence and struggles of your innermost core will soon have its day.  And slowly, gradually or suddenly, it will be back where it belongs—at the very center of the complex mandala of our lives. And that will be a maturing of humanity that is long overdue.

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Signs 3

As we headed into the deep of night, it seemed that Lama Pema and I were in a contest to see who had to stop the car and pee more often Climbing up towards 10,000 feet I felt uneasy and dizzy, with odd sensations and shifts as my cells tried to accommodate to the rarefied air. I had a sense of some obstacle, namely my worst fear: Being stranded on some high pass, unable to descend, and dying by the side of the road in some snowy patch of Bhutan earth. We all had a tickling cough due to fluid entering our lungs and my bladder pressure was intense, only 45 minutes after our last break. I turned my MacBook Pro on, and started playing the long Dudjom Lingpa Troma sadhana, Sun of Wisdom. I wanted to invoke the power of Chöd and of MaChik Troma. I needed distraction and some comfort from my growing anxiety. The music cheered us, as the lamas sang along and I hummed the familiar melodies.

Suddenly in the mental glint of our headlights, my fear was made manifest. An old truck from India (and they were all from India), overloaded with giant logs of pine and juniper, had toppled over into a ditch on the right side of the road. On the left was a precipitous drop of 1000 feet or more, descending into unknown darkness. There is no such thing in this part of the world as a tow truck or even a power winch. Long sticks, ropes and manual labor would be the only way this truck would be freed—over the next several days.

Rinpoche’s son Palden and I jumped out to assess the situation. About six nepali drivers were standing around stunned and looking both helpless and sheepish. Between the truck and the edge were some three feet high mounds of rock and boulders, a half finished road works project that had probably forced the truck driver to mistakenly edge into the ditch in the first place. There was a narrow lane between the truck and the rocks, only enough to walk through. I shouted to Pema that we might be able to get by if we cleared the damn rock piles away. I had barely finished speaking when Lama Pema began heaving huge rocks— boulders really—off the roadway and into the abyss below. This language of action seemed to speak to the dazed Nepali group, galvanizing them into action. Soon we had a melee of rock lifting and throwing. Within ten minutes we had cleared enough of a track to try and fit the truck through the narrow gauntlet we had created. Palden drove, edging ahead, but he entered too far to the left, and the tires became blocked by a mass of sharp boulders. We scrambled to remove the stone impediments, while I expected the tires to be shredded at any moment. With the Nepalis pushing from behind, several people shouting orders, and Rinpoche thoroughly enjoying himself in the back seat, everyone heaved-hoed to push us over the rut we had already made in the muddy ground. Several roars and revs of the engine and we were through!

As we headed up the slope, several cars and a van arrived. Meanwhile, behind us, another car had already shown up. Collecting our thoughts after this exhilarating high altitude caper, I realized that not only had we overcome this potentially serious obstacle, but, being the first on the scene, we had made it possible for all the others to go up and down the mountain! We would pass a few dozens more vehicles cover the next hour of ascent. Both those coming down and those ascending from behind us, would could benefit from our impromptu high altitude calisthenics.

We continued up towards the high pass through what became a white out blizzard. I continued to play Troma puja and recite her mantra. In a blur of white, we finally arrived at the 10,500 foot Mt. Pelle pass. With a brief “Lha Gyalo” we didn’t tarry there, but proceeded downhill. Just around the first curve was a small minivan, perched precariously on the edge of a forest cliff. The group of about six men and women had blocked the wheels with rocks to prevent any further slide towards the edge, and were ready to spend a cold night in the van, piled with blankets. No help would possibly arrive till sometime tomorrow—this is the wilderness! After chatting and commiserating with them in rapid  Dzongka, it was clear that we couldn’t be of any real assistance. Appreciating this cautionary tale, we heading downhill very slowly, with our four wheel drive on. A long two hours later, we arrived at our destination for the night, a marvellous little rock and wood hotel right beside the Stupa of Drupa Kunley, the crazy yogi who is so beloved by Tibetans and Bhutanese for his wild antics, sexual exploits and irreverent spirituality.

All the while, Troma had been wailing on my computer. Just as we arrived, we were at the place in the Troma sadhana where all the music and loud baritone voices stop. This is the Dakini offering, sung by fifty or so heavenly female voices, all the nuns and female practitioners of the Dudjom gompa in Bouddah, Nepal. Here we were, at the Drupa Kunley stupa, the great Bhutanese saint famous for his bawdy sexual behavior as a guise for his limitless Buddha activity and benefit of all sentient beings. We walked down the flagstone steps in the chill air of this dark moonless night, waking the sleeping attendants who scurried to put on a fire and begin preparing a meal. We were served hot tea and a hearty Bhutanese meal by five young and vibrant female attendants. We slept soundly in our pine panelled room, have survived the terror on the mountain. The next morning, our “Dakinis” were dressed all in green (Green is the color of the Karma family—Action Dakinis). Indeed we remarked that the heavy set, earthy cook was definitely a Ratna Dakini. The pretty, shy one was a Pema Dakini. The Karma Dakini minded the store and took care of our bill, keeping herself busy. Another, who spoke good English and wanted to see America, was a clear-minded Vajra Dakini. They were all there.

In the morning we went to Drukpa Kunley’s stupa and offered butter lamps of aspiration in the nearby Lhakang or shrine room. The stupa is one of great power, and connected to Vajrayogini. Blessing was palpable. I also purchased a wooden flaming penis, which would prove to be of great significance later!

Signs 1

Signs 2
Climbing over our first low pass, we entered the rich alluvial valley of Wangdi Potang. At the confluence of the MoChu and PoChu—the Father River and Mother River—this is one of the massive fortresses cum monasteries that define this land, uniting secular, military and spiritual power under a common roof. As we stepped out of the truck, a light rain began to fall out of a sky of bright clouds. We took this as a positive sign, a rain of blessings and welcome. Once inside the great courtyard, we explored many wondrous inner chambers and temples, thanks to Rinpoche’s seeming endless supply of old friends everywhere we went. Climbing through a labyrinth of steps and halls, we looked down from our second floor rampart to a vast chamber of monks, bright red cloaks seated in rows. The sounds of chanting, sonorous drums and cymbals echoed, as they performed the practice of great Protectress, Palden Lhamo. We felt fortunate indeed to chance upon this homage to the most important Female Protector of dharma and of Tibet.

Just as we returned back to our vehicle across the ancient wooden bridge, the sun broke through, a golden light playing on the wet ground, sky and earth again in dialogue with our actions and experience. Then, just as we began to ascend towards the next high pass, the weather put on a fierce display. Rain fell—but not down. The wind drove it horizontal, and ice began to pelt our windscreen. Yet the sun continued to shine, as we drove through simultaneous wind, hail and rain. The river appeared below us on the left as we climbed over the ridge, and there the maelstrom subsided. Their proud show of immense power at an end, the Five Elements showed themselves nakedly. The rainbow stretched in a full arc, touching the sparkling river at each end and arching over gold and green fields, where valley gave way to forests, broken by the gray skeletal bones of the mountain and dotted with gleaming white houses where someone lived and breathed and thought.

The small airport was quite distinct, done in traditional Bhutanese architectural style. However, the long immigration line was the same familiar wait. Finally reaching the counter, it turned out that, because I had an invitation, I got to go to ANOTHER, different line. This was now starting to feel comfortably like Asia. But, when I at last reached this desk, I was in for a further surprise. Being ushered into an official-looking room with a view is not a good sign. My Tibetan is pretty fair, but Dzongka is different enough that I really couldn’t make out what they were yammering about. Fortunately they speak English. Unfortunately, they weren’t speaking it to me. The gist of it was this: my visa did not match my plane ticket. I was to arrive here on March 17th, according to my visa, but here it was, the 16th, and well—I was a day early. This was a communication error, I explained, as telephone and email to and from Bhutan is a dodgy affair . Outside of Thimpu, internet is almost non-existent, and cell phones work sometimes. Electricity is also there, in some places. Yet the Bhutanese seem to have more government per capita than any other country in the world. They love tradition, order and convention. But that can easily translate into bureaucracy—when the letter of the law is far more important than the spirit. When the Earth Element is so over done, conformity becomes a straightjacket rather than a helpful framework. When structure becomes a straight-jacket. Some people, and some cultures (India for example) absolutely love bureaucracy, mainly because it gives a sense of power and rulership (earth element) to those who are really in less power (government employees) over those in more power (rich tourists who have the freedom to go where they want at certain times of the year!).

Suddenly Rinpoche appeared. My anticipation of a warm greeting and exchange of the traditional white scarf evaporated. It was replaced by a quick nod, followed by long conversations in Dzongka with the officials, in which Rinpoche was contrite, convincing, explanatory, requesting and appealing to various ideas of fairness and forgiveness, by turns! The female boss lady, who I was convinced was an avenging demon, bureaucratic fascist and man-hater, also by turns, remained firm. It was a case of “Illegal Entry” and either I would be shipped back to some foreign country, or Rinpoche would have to go into Thimpu and back, a two hour journey, and get new forms filled out, and signatures signed, a journey of unknown duration. Rinpoche was on the phone to various officials and contacts, looking up numbers and negotiating with the Demoness and her crew. Both he and I remained utterly calm, never losing our cool, smiling, joking almost as if we were enjoying the ordeal that lasted another hour. Just when it appeared all was lost and I would be in limbo for a day or more, feeling I had become a burden, I was suddenly spoken to. Did I have $200? I pulled out two crisp new bills and laid them out. Magically, all the problems suddenly melted away in a warm glow of understanding. I would pay the fine for my crime and all would be well! But this was not some under the table bribe or baksheesh as in many Third World countries. That would have been too easy, though much preferable. Instead there was another half hour of paperwork, receipts, forms and stamps. 

Finally released, we walked back into the terminal which was now empty. We found our way to the luggage carousel—which was also now empty. Where was my one lonely bag? Rallying the few employees still left in the cavernous room, including our tormentors who were leaving for the day (the last plane had arrived after all), there was further scurrying, looking, talking and gesticulating. It can to light that my luggage had gone over to the import warehouse, a short walk away. Why? This will remain one of the great hidden mysteries of the inscrutable East for some time. Waiting out in the Bhutanese sunshine, I felt light and joyous. Pema and some official walked off into a field, and came back 20 minutes or so later with my bag. We threw it into the back of his green Toyota pickup and were off.

We laughed long and hard at the entire comedy of errors. “A very tiny problem” Rinpoche commented, and we all agreed that this “barché” or obstacle was most auspicious. I had paid off whatever karmic debt was owed, and our way was now clear. Two hundred was in an incredibly small price to pay for whatever misdeeds, negative actions or problems I had created in relationship to this place. My tormentor had been my benefactor, a wrathful manifestation of ruthless compassion. If you embark on the spiritual path, it is payback time. Nuisances, blockages, hassles, become recognized as our own ripened karmic seeds. Becoming indignant, hostile or demanding or furthers our descent into the quicksand of our own delusions. Whatever happens, good or bad, is taken on the path, becomes the path. And that path is wherever you find yourself. It seems like a big responsibility to own one’s life and al that takes place within it. But then at least that life is yours. Everything arises as it should and how one meets it is everything. The victim disappears. That blessed Demoness goddess cleared by way and empowered me to the adventures that lay ahead. Our first breathless stop was the golden cremation stupa of Dilgo Khyentse, one of the greatest and most revered Tibetan teachers of the modern era. I had spent many happy days at his monastery, more than 25 years ago, as he poured forth endless initiations, transmissions and teachings: A bottomless, ever flowing fount of spiritual power. It was wonderful to meet him again here. The rich gift of dharma continued, as I walked next to Tsewong Rinpoche whose generosity and kindness is more precious than a million worlds of human gold, status and influence.

Here, they mean someone devoted to mantric practice, to Mahayana compassion, to Vajrayana transformation. They devoted, simple and straight-forward beings, who approached me with smiles and sacred intention, reminded me of my own practice, of what I could do if my mantric strength ever reached its potential—or even came close. I looked at each of them as they offered their malas, and spoke the mantras appropriate to each: White Tara, Vajrayogini, Amithaba, Chenrezig, Hayagriva. Their inner joy and focus is the precious stuff of dharma, the real practice of Cutting Through self-clinging and devoting one’s being, surrendering one’s egocentricity, to the unborn, unelaborated purity which is our real “identity.”

http://picasaweb.google.com/lamajinpa9/BhutanPIlgrimageMarch09#

Arriving at the airport at 7 a.m, I got in line with over 100 people waiting to get IN to the building, as a SINGLE individual checked each passport and plane ticket….slowly! Then, once inside and further lines, I proceeded to the immigration. But before getting there, I noticed that my boarding pass was for a different passenger! I rushed back downstairs to the check-in counter, just to be told that “it’s OK, I gave your boarding pass to the other person.” Huh? OK, back up to immigration, but how to get through the process when my passport doesnt match my boarding pass? After another slooow examination of the documents, it turns out that, apparently the immigration folks can’t read. So I was stamped and approved. Forty dollars to get into the country, thirty to leave, but I know for a fact that those millions are not being used to fix the pot-holed, gutted and stone-littered obstacle courses that are called roads in Bouddha. After a 2.5 hour delay on the ground, we were off to Bhutan!

More lines, but here we are in the land of fresh air, pristine cleanliness and apparent sanity. Until I was ushered into a small room, presided over by a very officious beaurocrat, the Iron Lady of Bhutan. My visa, a special letter that allowed me to be a guest instead of a paying customer in Bhutan, was made out for a day later than I arrived: I had made an “illegal entry.” Two hours later, with Tsewong Rinpoche entering into lenghty discussions, phone calls and entreaty, it appeared he would have to drive an hour and a half each way to go to the capital of Thimpu to fix the visa error. But wait! With the payment of a $200 cash fine, the problem will all go away! I pulled out the dollars, got all the official receipts and everyone was happy with fulfilling the true purpose of beaurocracy—for the powerless to have power over those who they perceive as more powerful. So, lets get the baggage. What baggage? Since there is only one flight a day in and out of Paro, the airport is closing for the day (its 1 pm) and no bag. After much searching and discussion, its turns out it is not lost, but has gone to the cargo shed for…some unknown reason. Finally, with bags, visa and all, Tsewong Rinpoche, Pema, Rinpoche’s son and I had a good laugh as we heading out in the four-seater pick up truck. None of us had been flustered, irritated or hassled by the whole experience. “Very very small obstacle,” Rinpoche said in Tibetan as we chuckled down the road. Yes Rinpoche, I cleared out my Bhutan karma simply by anteing up $200 in cash. Not bad to clear and eradicate energetic obstacles created by me in former lives. Luckily I did not create more, but took in the experience in full awareness and open mind.

The next hours were to be some of the most rewarding and profound of my life, as I entered this pure land, a place where the vibrations of degeneration and degredation that haunt most of this planet have not taken root. It is a land free from mental cancer. Lots of problems and issues, to be sure, but not the core pathological rot that pervades both the civilized and primitive world today..

http://picasaweb.google.com/lamajinpa9/BhutanPIlgrimageMarch09

…to be continued

The 17-hour flight to Bangkok was unremarkable. I had an empty seat beside me and sleep at least 8 fitful hours during the trip.

It was routine: arrival formalities, baggage pick-up, change money, get my Thai cell phone SIM card charged up, and head out to the taxi stand kiosk. There was no line up, so I was soon paired up with a driver. He was a sullen, stoop-shouldered and middle-aged Thai man, with a dark and brooding demaner. As I followed him, wheeling my cart ful of heavy luggage, I was hoping for the shiny new (like most Bnagkok cars) green and yellow cab. Instead, we entered the one beside it, a fairly borken down bright red mitsubishi.

My trudging driver was wearing a huge Buddha medallion, the kind that Thais love to spend money on, and there were three other large ones dangling from his rearview mirror, while his ceiling was plastered with pictures of the king and queen, some meditating sages..the full paraphenalia.

As we pulled out, he said “cost 500 Bhatt.” As a veteran Asian traveller, I know that, at the worse of times, it is 300 Bhatt from the Sivanabhumi airport to the Sukhumvitt area. Not fond of being literally “taken for a ride,” I called him on it, telling him I pay by the meter and am a very good tipper, as long as the driver is not trying to rip me off. What followed was in unpleasant exchange; I told him to stop and let me off right there. He didn’t, though I should have insisted. What followed was a 40 minutes nightmare along the Thai expressway, at speeds approaching 100 mph, weaving in and out of traffic, the old cab carrening wildly and its enging whining at top speed. His eyes, seen in the rear view mirror, were yellow and blearing, slanted and filled with such rage and despair, furtively scanning back and forth across the lanes. The skin of the back of his ear seemed leathery, shiny and repulsive. No amounts of threats of reporting him, the police or any other strategy was able to slow him down. I eventually decided to just sit back and chill. He was on a deathrace. I thought that this would be an odd way to end my life, but continued to do Vajrakilaya mantras and fill the cab with the blue light of that great Protector.

Miraculously arrivng at my hotel unscatched, the fare was 239. I generously gave him 300, too exhausted from the plane flight and cab ordeal for more emotional tirades. Sure, I may contact cab company, police, maybe even the embassy! But what are the lessons learned here, where death and demons arose to challenge me in my first bright and humid Thai morning?

For me, the human mind comes in four modes and five flavors. The four modes are Power, Excess, Loss and Shadow. What I saw, more clearly than ever, is that it is a very dangerous game to call Shadow out—especially in these times of planetary shake-out. What Shadow fears most is exposure, for Shadow is always based on Loss, on a sense of deficiency and disconnect from one’s real clarity, wisdom and power. The shame and self-hatred of Shadow is such that it will do anything—lie, steal, even kill—to cover up the dark secret of their impoverished being and dark compensations.

Funny, both movies I saw on the plane were about corrupt police officers who were tryig to hide their crimes, their after-hours drug-dealing, illegal murders, executions and so on. My dealings with the Demon Driver of  Bangkok were not skillful on my part. I was arrogant in trying to “school” him, to take the moral high road and call him on his thievery, on his hypocrisy. It was like prodding a rabid dog with a stick. Not effective and not compassionate.

Secondly, uprisings and demonic energy can—and does—manifest anywhere. This man covered himself with the exterior of a devout Buddhist, but demonstrated a psychopathic personality and soul of torment. Vigilence, always.

Staying in the quiet, Wisdom Mind, not reacting so quickly Aires, things can be seen as they are, and skillful means is possible. I hope his pain can be transformed and the horrific fear state that possesses him, somehow ameliorated. As told by so many great Tibetan sages, the Demon is our greatest ally, our greatest teacher. I know I will not have long to wait for another opportune meeting, not just in meditation, but in the waking dream we call life.