This series of posts forthcoming is where I am going to slam Buddhism, so please be prepared to be knocked from your meditation cushion with what I must say to you in 2023.
I have been a “Buddhist” for almost a ½ century now, so I feel I am qualified to speak on the wackness and chaos of it all when the Western mind turns to the East for spirituality.
This article is an introduction without much history, stats, or references to foundational Dharma texts (literacies) or famous Guru’s books. Not yet, not now. I will also try to keep the strange Sanskrit words to a bare minimum, as I want those not steeped in this samsaric1 stew to be able to read my text. This is a simple introduction to my planned expose and the start of a new stack within a stack here on the Substack.2
An Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism by a White Man
This is an introduction to a particular sect of Buddhism as written and remembered by a white man. In the most disparaging of senses, I mean “white man,” since I am going to write about things now that perhaps best be said by a Tibetan woman or man, but as they (including his High Holiness himself) refuse to speak out, well, as they say here in Nepal with a shrug and a hand-gesture, Ke garne (what to do, knowing you can do little). I didn’t think I could make an impact here or elsewhere. But I just read this3 today, and now I must come out strong and hard.
Yet all I can do for you is recall my (long) story here from a memory that’s seen far more time on earth than it has left to function, so be prepared for a bit of rambling, hyperbole, and misguided thoughts (perhaps stop me when I go off the rails).
How I Found the Dharma
I said I would avoid Sanskrit words to avoid confusing the uninitiated, so let’s start with a clear definition of this fundamental word, Dharma. Suffice it to say, when you see that word, see the word “Truth.” Let that sink in before you continue.
So, it was 1979 on a sunny fall day in Boulder, Colorado, USA, a beautiful wind-swept landscape of privileged homes, lazy cul-de-sacs, and a thriving business community. It was the perfect “Dave’s World” afternoon. But not for me, a white man walking the streets, clinically depressed for sure, back from the war and stuck in a cubicle @ IBM Corporation, which was a big factory just outside of town.
I hated my life and just wanted to put a shotgun between my feet and…pull! So I was walking, walking, stumbling, and I looked up and saw what I later learned to be strings of Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags waving, colorful and noisy in the wind. That was my first real “experience” of meeting the Dharma. Tattered flags drew me in.
And I went, ushered by two men in slightly tattered suits, like the flags in the wind outside. I remember one had a badly stained tie. But the hall was immaculate, almost sterile but for some strange iconography on the wall, a huge old chair on a platform on one end, a table beside filled with an arrangement of orchids and other flowers I’d never seen before, all twisted in angles outward from the vase like a tree gone mad.
One of the ushers told me in hushed tones, wait, an important person was just about to speak, and he thought I should hear what this VIP had to say. He surely was excited about the prospect, that I could tell.
In front of the empty chair was a 6 x 9 arrangement of red mats, each topped with a gold-topped matching cushion. In the back of the hall, closest to me, was a row of red folding chairs. The two polite bouncers pointed to the row of chairs, indicating where I was to go. I sat. And I waited. About what felt like two days went by (I kept looking out the windows for the sun to rise and fall), but it was only 20 minutes. Then the hall started to fill steadily, and I resisted my primal urge to leave the room, the building, and never look back.
I had to hand it to the assembly; they all were dressed sharply for Boulder in the 70s, and here I was with fatigues and an old Army sweater (flag and my name tag removed). I looked like shit; they looked like… Republicans.
I sat staring ahead at heads. Talking heads. The conversation was loud and boisterous. I heard every word. I understood none of it. They spoke in tongues, as far as I could comprehend. I was to learn (very well) that it was not tongues but the language of Chögyam Trungpa.
The crowd piling in was “interesting.” Who are these people? I’ve lived here for years and never seen one of them, I thought. They speak strangely, look good, and smell nice but are uniform all across the board. I felt at home, oddly enough, as in the ranks of an army.
Another 30 minutes went by. Maybe it was three hours; it was hard to tell by this time. Time had stopped. The crowd grew hushed momentarily as an attendant placed a glass of water on the table beside the large, rather shabby chair. It was a pantomime, performed by a suited mime as far as I could tell; this was my first thought.4
The crowd resumed their musings after the water-glass-table performance until out of nowhere, and almost on cue, as in “Please all rise for the Honorable So And So,” everyone stood and rose from the block cushions they were seated upon, rather rigidly, to what looked to me was an “at attention” or “Ah ten hut soldiers” posture.
A smartly dressed but wobbly-looking man made his way to the chair. Some were bowing like the person approaching the chair was the Japanese emperor. Others placed their hands on their hips and became bobbying birds into a colored water bowl - the toy I had as a child, you know, they looked like that.
He got into the chair, and I can’t say nimbly, as he had an attendant by his side the entire entrance, just in case of a fall or tipped water glass. He scanned the crowd with a huge grin and squinty eyes. His face was as round as the sun. He had a dimple or pimple dead center of his chin, and I focused there (after all, I had severe ADD in addition to PTSD, both undiagnosed at the time). The pimple remained constant, even if his head moved. It was a dot on a blank canvas.
I finally looked up after focusing on the face instead of the blemish. He was looking dead at me, the only one in a long row of red folding chairs in the far back of the room. I felt like WTF! But that acronym had yet to be invented.
What happened next will shock you!
But my word count just reached 1300, and I must stop here; I must save the rest of my feeble carpal tunnel-ed fingertips to write the next 1300 words for you. So I promise I will return within 48 hours. Sorry that you will have to wait for what happens next.
In addition to my other projects besides this one, I’m involved in a cause providing pizza to underprivileged children in Kathmandu, Nepal. If you wish to support them, please contribute through my [Buy Me a Coffee](https://www.buymeacoffee.com/nepalihipph) page; there is an excellent video on my simple project. Each donation brings joy to these children that you would not believe (but I will send you pics). Your generosity, big or small, makes a difference. Thank you for any support you can offer.
Ha! I hit you with a Sanskrit word already! Samsaric or Samsara loosely translates to a state of sadness, despair, unhappiness, and depression, all together engaged in an inescapable cycle. More on that to come!
Because of the way we are stacked and because I have no idea how to create a separate publication, readers of techBros Must Die! have to bear with me; as this stack (tentatively called Shrine of the Times, progresses, I may figure out how to untangle readers of one publication from another. Let’s see.
Sorry, this is paywalled, I know. But a reliable source posted this (on Reddit) and did not send a “gift article” link. I’ve scolded my source for this behavior, likening what the source had done to nothing, but added more frustration into the world.
'“First thought,” is a Trungpa teaching that means your first thought, is your best thought, put simply. Think about that. What’s your first though on that? Mine now is, BS.