Making Sacred
Candles flicker in a light breeze, reflecting themselves in glass offering bowls. Wisps of incense drift towards the open window. My knees grimace as I push them into half lotus. I take the drum and bell out of their brocade cases, and open the text I am about to chant. I would like to be in a cave or a remote cabin, locked away—no neighbors; no internet or tractors rumbling by—but that is not possible, right now—so, I make do. I would like to pilgrimage to Nepal, India or Tibet; would like to see the sacred lakes, rivers and temples where the masters of my lineages stayed in retreat or taught; I would like to see the bodhi tree under which Gautama found liberation, or the mountain peak on which he expounded the Prajnaparamita Sutra—but, being unable to do so, I create sacred space where I am. I have learned over the last twenty-four years to turn my attention inward in the many loud cities, crowded houses and supremely mundane situations in which I find myself. I learned, first by taking the time to dedicate myself to meditation and spiritual study—then by taking weekends, and—over the course of the years—a week or more to engage in personal retreat at home—candles waving, incense blowing out the window to mingle with the traffic and the noises emanating from a neighbor's television or radio or crying baby—or their endlessly barking dogs.
Too often we lose time waiting for the perfect conditions before we attempt something we dream of doing—whether that be engaging our spiritual selves, taking up exercise, a new instrument or language or a creative pursuit. We're waiting for retirement or an imagined perfect time to do the things that call to our hearts while watching the days slip away, toiling for the reward of perhaps some skimpy 401k and the mortgage to a dreamy white picket fence. There will never be a more perfect time than now to heed a calling—a direct message from your inner self—your inner guide.
Many times in life I have been so busy that there wasn't time or energy left to engage in an hour or more of daily devotion and contemplation. There was the time, perhaps—but I found that after chanting the opening prayers I would be waking up some time later, the hour gone—and now it was time to brush my teeth and drag myself to bed in preparation of another grueling, gritty day. I learned to snatch the minutes rather than grasp at the hours. I learned to take the three minutes I had free before walking out the door to find the stillness my spiritual teachers had shown me in meditation retreats. I learned to take the first ten or fifteen minutes of my lunch break to find that stillness again, and on returning home—before changing clothes and heading to my second job—to utilize the two to four minutes I had between changing clothes and heading out again. I learned to use the time I spent walking between work and home, home and work, home and the laundromat as a place for walking meditation or holding the mantras I had received. If we desire to benefit from working out, learning a new language or instrument or taking up spiritual practice, we must be consistent. There may not always be time for an hour at the gym—but do you have time to do some pushups, jumping jacks or squats? You may not have an hour to study Spanish, but do you have ten minutes to listen to a podcast or review your Spanish notes? You may not have a weekend for an at-home retreat, but do you have five minutes to clear your mind and pray for the peace of all beings?
Anywhere that we consistently engage our deepest, spiritual selves changes—becomes holy. The force of our aspiration and application—the radiance of our commitment—expands outward; is absorbed by the walls, the floorboards and trees and linoleum; burrows into the earth, the grass and rocks. All beings are naturally divine, and as we uncover our divinity we bless the world around us. I do not need to circumambulate the Great Stupa of Boudhanath; do not need to sequester myself in the caves of Labchi in order to progress in my practice and spiritual development. My practice will be no more blessed by hiking the steep valleys of Bhutan, following the footsteps of Machig Labdrön. The only way to progress—to attain blessings or to offer them—is to sit down, open the text, take up my drum and bell—and do the practices I have been taught. I do not require a one-hundred-eight day retreat in charnel grounds to fight my afflictions and reveal my compassion—I have received initiation and instruction—nothing more is necessary. If I squander time in waiting for the chance to pilgrimage—to do it the way the wild yogis of Tibet or Mongolia have done and continue to do it—I am denying myself the chance to kindle my soul's fire now. The hour of my death is unknown, many of our texts begin—you cannot count on the halcyon days of some supposed future retirement as you may not live to see it.
These lives of ours are precious. They are fleeting. There is no time to waste in dreaming of what we would do if. Some years ago I lived in San Francisco and was engaged in the Ngöndro practices (Ngöndro, in Tibetan, means "what goes before". All serious practitioners complete these practices before moving forward in the tantric tradition—this series prepares the adept for the rigors and challenges of the dedicated spiritual life) and was very much involved in worldly life—being obliged to earn my daily bread, as it were. I commuted one hour each way between home and work, and used this time to continue certain parts of the Ngöndro, in which the practitioner must accumulate many hundreds of thousands of prostrations, mantras and offerings. In my case, I used my time on the 24 Divisadero to accumulate mantras. Near the half-way point in my commute, a man—somewhere between 55 and 60—would board the bus near Haight Street. Sometimes we would be sitting across from each other—each of us counting the beads of our malas. Each of us making use of our commute—taking the time now, refusing to wait for the perfect and impossible if to finally happen. Neither of us was waiting for the chance to spend six months in Drikung Thil—we had the 24 Divisadero, twice a day, five days a week. We had our malas. We had the teachings and the devotion and the discipline. We were—while commuting to our no doubt tedious jobs, engaged in the mundane activity of providing for ourselves—on a sacred journey. It may not have been as exciting as a pilgrimage to Boudhanath, but it is—in my memory—a time in my own spiritual life that glows brightly—that helped set the stage for all that has happened since. Take care of the minutes, as they say, and the hours will take care of themselves.