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The
Dust of the Buddha March 8, 2001 By Lea Goode-Harris
©
An incident last night prompted me once again
take the time to write a story that's been waiting to be told. I was
preparing for bed and saying my prayers. While lighting my candle, the
tiny match flew out of my hand and landed on my altar tray, right on
the small plastic bag that contains the pieces of the sandstone Buddha
that Elaine brought back to us from her trip to Thailand. Some of us
received black sandstone, others white sandstone. Some were whole, some
broken, and some pulverized from the journey they undertook to reach
us. Elaine had listened inwardly as to which packet was to go to which
person in the group. The match had burned a perfect hole in my little
plastic bag, just the size for the broken bits and dust particles to
begin to escape. I went and got a small bowl to hold these pieces until
I was clear as to what I was to do with them. I then remembered my first
prompting to write this story.
That prompting came last Friday after my
woman's group. My husband pointed out to me a newspaper article in the
morning paper. It read, Taliban moves to destroy statues: Afghanistan
government ignores international outcry. The article went on to say
that the Afghanistan government had ruled that all pre-Islamic statues
and images were to be destroyed as they are contrary to the tenets of
Islam which forbids images, such as paintings and pictures. The demolition
of all statues included an estimated 6,000 pieces of Buddhist art in
the Kabul Museum. Two of the many targeted statues are of the Buddha
carved into a mountainside and are the largest in the world, dating
from the 3rd and 5th century.
As a lover of ancient things I was astounded
that this could happen in our modern era. I was outraged, sad, and felt
powerless to stop this senseless destruction. The world of the Buddha
was all the closer to me, because of my friendship and labyrinth work
with therapist Alyssa Hall, M.F.T. Alyssa has invited me numerous times
to join herself and Robert Hall, M.D. in assisting them with day long
retreats at the Spirit Rock Zen Meditation Center in Woodacre, California.
This Vipassana sitting retreat incorporates intervals of walking labyrinths
in silent contemplation. The most recent retreat had occurred the Sunday
before.
I arrived early on that blustery and rainy
February morning to find the labyrinths already set up by Alyssa and
Katherine from the night before. There was something different this
time. The room was full of more than just labyrinths. Buddha statues,
female and male graced the tables, the window ledges, and the speaking
stand. At the top of each of the four labyrinths Alyssa and Katherine
had created altars with four different statues of the Great Feminine.
I don't even know all of their names, just that I knew I was in the
presence of many precious beings from India, Tibet, Thailand, as well
as other corners of the Buddhist and Christian world. I had brought
a bucket of Camellias from my neighbor's yard. These fiery pink and
red blossoms with yellow centers found themselves tucked around statues
at the bases, in the crooks of arms and knees, and at the entrance to
each labyrinth.
The room was beautiful. This beauty opened
eagerly to the people who were coming to spend the day in inward contemplation.
With the participants sitting, walking, gazing, and reflecting inwardly
the room deepened and became even more beautiful. I watched a particular
Buddha on a window ledge, lean forward to look into a potted plant with
curiosity and earnest contemplation. Just what did he see in there?
I bent down to join him in his gaze and found a miniature world, waiting
to be explored. Outside, behind the Buddha, the weather ranged from
torrential downpours to gentle sunlight catching water diamond droplets
that draped lush green foliage nestled in dark wood. The room was warm
and quiet, with the swish, swish of feet across the labyrinth canvases,
and simultaneously full of unheard sound and conversation. I breathed
in the beauty and felt the stirrings of tears. I opened my heart to
these feelings, the intensity in the room, and felt the hot, salty tears
move through me to be soaked up by the numinosity of the day.
East and West, old and new, met in contemplation
of movement and stillness that day. I will not forget the Buddhas, Ganeshas,
the Lakshmis and Green Taras, and other statues with many arms and hands,
poised in tiny mudras. I see the turtles and the dragons, the closed
and open lotuses, and A Thousand Joys and A Thousand Sorrows spilling
across purple silk in plain metal and others with gilt of gold and silver.
I see dancing tankas with Medicine Buddhas and Wrathful Deities. I will
not forget the wonder in people's eyes, the tears, the joy, and their
personal stories interweaving with all present that day.
Today, I see military personnel gearing up
their missiles for target practice on the ancient Buddha statues of
Afghanistan. Missiles scream and the target is hit sending billowing
particles of sandstone out into the atmosphere. Statue and mountain
side crumble and the earth shakes. I see these particles tumbling through
the air, dusting the soldiers, their equipment, their jeeps and tanks.
Some particles find their way into airways breathing deeply of the hot
and arid desert air, making their way into the nooks and crannies of
heart and brain. I see an angry mob build a giant bonfire. With cries
to Allah, ancient Buddhist tankas writhe in the flames, their ashes
dancing on parched air, dusting all present and eventually finding and
connecting in a spiral dance with the particles from the mountains.
Some of these dust and bits find their way into my little altar bowl. I am stunned to see them here, so far from their home. I look into the dark folds of my heart for my own rigid, righteous, and destructive ways. Instead of soldiers and an angry mob, I see the Buddha laughing. He bends down and places a Camellia blossom at my feet. Perhaps more than Afghanistan will breathe the dust of the Buddha. |
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