Wisdom Magic
This is the memoir of a slipshod yogini. May it make you smile and book a flight to Nepal.
What the Buddha taught 2,500 years ago is “live” in Nepal, a crazy-quilted land of prayer, terraced rice fields, lazy hazy afternoons and cows that know they are sacred and sit in the middle of the road directing traffic. The country’s northern border shares Mt. Everest with Tibet and offers a sojourner jaw-dropping opportunity to experience just how dreamlike life is. Time not only stops in Nepal, it has no beginning. For Westerners wishing to slow down and wise up, the mountain village of Pharping is the go-to buddhafield for retreat and to meet masters of Dzogchen who are embodiments of chill. There, in the winter of 1996, as I stood on the veranda of HH Chatral Rinpoche’s monastery and inhaled the vast sky, I looked across and down through towering slender evergreens to the storybook, translucent pool waters below and felt akin to a bird that had purposefully returned to its nesting ground.
View from HH Chatral Rinpoche’s monastery Rigdzin Drubpe Ghatsal of the sacred pools of Yangleshöd, Nepal 1997 (Photo by N. L. Drolma)
When I first met Tibetan Buddhist lamas, the year was 1991 and I was living at neurotic breakneck speed in New York City. The Tibetans’ compassionate humor disarmed me, and a promise of something immeasurable was in the air. Their teachings explained how death is happening all the time, not only when we take our last breath, and to reflect on impermanence unveils all that anyone needs to know. Teachings on the nature of mind were especially potent. But my eagerness to embrace the buddha-dharma was tempered by skepticism of religious groups in general and the concept of reincarnation in particular, and so I proceeded like a child playing the game Red Light, Green Light —- periodically rushing forward to a freezing halt. What then finally cut through all hesitation? Hunger for sanity in the aftermath of a life-threatening illness. That, and my distaste as an artist for the politics of the New York art world. It was high time to come clean, cultivate wisdom and relax.
Eighteen years later and ocean miles away from Nepal but in heart no distance, I composed this book’s initial draft. The Venerable (and beloved trickster) Bhakha Tulku Rinpoche railroaded me into it. I didn’t own a laptop at the time (fall of 2009), my tech IQ was lower than my ankles, and my grammar hit or miss. So, I took refuge daily in front of the computer screen at Latsé, my neighborhood’s unique Tibetan cultural library, distilling tales of travel, retreat, and wisdom magic. The sweet librarian showed me how to cut and paste—yes, I was that tech illiterate—and my work routine at Latsé quickly became fun. Tall mugs of PG Tips tea, courtesy of Latsé, and lunch outdoors on its quaint balcony kept me revved from morning until closing hours.
This autobiographical sortie was also fueled by playfulness in light of the Buddhist view that life is a mirage, an illusion—that yesterday’s “you” is not today’s “you,” and today’s “you” will be gone tomorrow just like last night’s dream. Tibet’s most celebrated, saintly yogi Milarepa had to build, tear down, and reconstruct stone by stone just how many towers at his teacher’s request? I got off easy, only having to write, edit, and “suffer” numerous iterations of a manuscript.
In May 2010, I received an upbeat email and phone call from the editor in chief of Snow Lion Publications; they were keen to publish the memoir. Was I on cloud nine? You bet! I engaged a literary agent for help with the terms of the contract. This backfired, and Snow Lion rescinded its offer. It was as if I had been feted with long-stemmed bouquets only to be roundly booed off stage. “Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be, the future’s not ours to see…” A decade of sporadic revisions has whizzed by since then, so I’ll concede 2020 is none too soon for a final edit.
It feels strangely timely to be revisiting the manuscript during the Covid-19 pandemic. The majority of us in America are ‘in retreat” from society and business to quell the viral spread. Meanwhile, the ravages of corporate greed, systemic racism and government corruption are on egregious display.
N. L. Drolma after first Covid shot, relaxing on Pier 45, Hudson River Park, NYC April 2021 (Photo by J. Viljanen)
Willy-nilly, we are tasked with reshaping our lives that have morphed beyond credulity. Five hundred thousand Americans have lost their lives and ten million+ have lost their livelihood. The shuttering of schools, offices, restaurants, sports, travel and entertainment has naturally triggered a mental health crisis worldwide. Most people—unlike Buddhist monks and nuns—are not trained to cope with the upending of worldly activities. In this dystopian year of physical isolation from colleagues and loved ones, spiritual muscle is vital.
This memoir languished for some years in the archives of my laptop, and no particular goal or direction beckoned me. Finally, one late September afternoon in 2014, at her Lotus Garden residence in Virginia, I confessed to H. E. Minling Jetsun Khandro Rinpoche an apparent lack of compassion; I was no longer fired up to give the gift of dharma. In past years, I quite enjoyed teaching and it seemed that the blessings just flowed. But all words felt inadequate now and I was not inspired to do much of anything.
Jetsun Khandro Rinpoche burst out laughing and said, “Of course not. You’re a chatralwa.”
“Me?”
“How could you not know that?” Rinpoche’s plainspoken remark released within me unutterable peace. (It is said—and as this moment illustrated— the simplest gesture, a look, or just a few words by a master can evoke clarity on the spot.)
“Chatralwa” is a Tibetan Buddhist term that has no equivalent in English, and I had never heard it applied to a Westerner. In fact, I only ever heard it spoken as the exalted title of my teacher HH Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche. “Chatralwa means someone who has got rid of his or her emotional attachments to worldly materials or to life itself. It does not mean being poor and hankering for them, as many do.”(T. Thondup, Masters of Meditation and Miracles) To be branded as such by Jetsun Khandro Rinpoche was reassuring — it legitimized some of my quirks as well as my aimlessness. When it comes to a “to-do” list or schedule of activities, I must admit, I’m lazybones.
Tibetan woman filling up a stash of plastic bottles with the blessed water of Yangleshö, Nepal 1997 (Photo by N. L. Drolma)
My minimal efforts to attune to worldliness have led to humorous encounters. On a balmly eve in 2007, following upon my return to Manhattan after living for a year in rural Nepal, an unusual and amusing encounter exposed my renunciant ways:
The lobby of my West Village condo was abuzz with unusual energy. Strangers were milling about but the doorman wouldn’t tell me why. There were tall, suited gentlemen pacing back and forth with great intensity. At my request to be clued in on the drama, they turned away. On entering the elevator some minutes later, I found myself right up against some of these 6 ft 5-inch guys. A tiny insignia pinned on their jackets caught my eye.
“What is the meaning of the star on your lapels?” I asked. They stood there, mute as wax dummies.
“Come on, gentlemen, what’s up?”
“They are Secret Service,” the guy behind them said.
“Really?!”
“Yes,” the stranger said, smiling good-naturedly.
“Gee, the neighborhood is becoming way too fancy.” I wished them all long life and good health as I stepped off the elevator. A woman who didn’t live on my floor stepped off with me. “You don’t know who you were talking to, do you?” she asked.
“No. Who was I talking to?”
“That was Barack Obama.”
“So? Who’s Obama?” On hearing his name, I thought he might be a rock superstar.
“Senator Obama just happens to be running for the presidency of the United States.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“We have a black guy running for President?” I was incredulous. This was awesome news, signifying a pivotal moment in our nation’s history.
“Do you mind my asking what you do for a living?” I brushed off my neighbor’s query with one of my own. “Was it obvious to Obama that I didn’t know who he was?”
“Oh, yes. It was quite obvious.” The young woman persisted with her inquiry and was curious as to why she always sees me dressed in maroon. I explained that my daily wear is a Tibetan chuba and its color signals commitment to upholding the Buddha’s teachings. I also admitted to having returned from living in the mountains of Nepal and India for a year, without telephone or television and with pigs and goats for neighbors. This sufficed to excuse my ignorance about Obama. On parting, my neighbor confessed she had wondered what job or restaurant I worked at that required such a lovely uniform for its employees.
My three huge piggy neighbors on the street where I lived in Pharping, Nepal 1997 (Photo by N. L. Drolma)
Back inside my apartment, I rolled up a six-foot long ceremonial white silk Tibetan khata as a gift for the senator. The scarf carried the blessings of HH Chatral Rinpoche. Obama surely could use all kinds of help. I was privy now to the secret fundraising soirée for him in the penthouse, and a member of the senator’s staff encourage me to go on up to the party. Not keen to join a political black-tie crowd, I waited for Obama in the lobby. He was expected to spend no more than ten or fifteen minutes at the gathering.
Like a flash of lightning, Obama ducked past me into the limo parked at the canopied entrance to my building. I walked out front and approached the Secret Service agent who said he would be happy to accept my gift for the senator if the gift was valued under or no more than fifty dollars according to law.
I smiled, acknowledging the rules of the game. “This scarf is blessed by a great Dzogchen master, HH Chatral Rinpoche. It’s priceless and costs less than fifty dollars. Do, please, give it to the senator, with all best wishes.” As Obama’s car pulled out from the curb and sped into the night, I mused to myself, what are the odds of an American statesman making a connection with a revered, reclusive Tibetan master in this auspicious way? — This guy is going to win the presidency.
Tell me life isn’t a crazy movie, all stars and stripes of it!
Peppered throughout these pages are anecdotes that go beyond worldly politics altogether and highlight the guru-disciple relationship in Tibetan Buddhism. The precious, nuanced rapport between teacher and student—a hallmark of esoteric Vajrayana practice—powerfully expands the mind and heart and illumines our potential to actualize the wisdom within us that is rarely tapped. It’s a synergistic bond based on openness and trust, and it is entered into by a student who’s willing to go beyond his or her comfort zone to see reality with its own eyes. That a teacher would ever exploit a devotee’s trust is thus heartbreaking. The news reports (in 2017) of Tibetan lamas’ misconduct were not the animating force of this memoir or its focus, but protracted social media discussion of the topic compelled me to tweak the text.
May newcomers to Tibetan Buddhism find within these pages inspiration to sustain an open mind and joyful commitment to their spiritual journey, no matter the obstacle. In this era of addiction to screens, “selfie” identities sell us short and much public discourse is in the gutter. So, if you aspire to discover what Milarepa discovered—your profound nature as-it-is—the “you-less” you, beyond name, age, gender, schooling, job, family, bank account, and cell phone, beyond your likes, dislikes and other people’s opinions of you…Bravo! For the veteran yogi or yogini alone on a rocky road, may my pratfalls serve as useful comic relief. Perhaps the vignettes of my solitary wanderings can tickle and reboot a few stragglers too.
Namaste!