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Miss Buddha

Page 43

by Ulf Wolf


  It was the fourth of January, a Friday, and this was the enigmatic Ruth Marten’s first lecture since accepting her teaching position at USC.

  At Ruth’s insistence, first row seats had been reserved for both Melissa and Ananda, and they were now settling in. Ananda, somehow both looking, and not at all looking his age, leaned back and closed his eyes. He could hear Melissa take her seat next to him and then turn and draw breath to say something, then changing her mind, perhaps because his eyes were closed. They were closed quite often these days, signaling to the surrounding world his wish for privacy, something the world seemed to both respect and grant, age bordering on antiquity commanding this.

  The anticipation of the room was palpable. The sometimes chatter sometimes murmur sometimes almost roar rose and faded like long, sometimes loudly sometimes softly crashing waves. Ananda took several slow breaths, wishing the Buddha well in her endeavor. Ruth did not reply directly, but nonetheless acknowledged him with an immaterial smile, which made Ananda smile in turn. He opened his eyes. Melissa must have noticed.

  “I’m sure she’ll do fine,” she said. But it was a question.

  “She will say or do nothing unwise,” said Ananda.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. Then, after brief reflection, “Actually, that is probably what I meant.”

  “She has promised to tread watchfully. All she wants to do is gain trust, earn the world’s ear.”

  “That’s how she put it to me as well.”

  Then, as Ruth now appeared, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, the susurrus of the hall dimmed, then faded altogether. Melissa’s daughter, the Tathagata, stepped up to the podium, and tapped the two little microphones to test the sound. The taps filled the room, and she seemed satisfied that all was in order. On some cue or other that Ananda did not catch, the light in the hall dimmed as well, and a faint spotlight highlighted Ruth’s intensely black hair, as she grasped the edges of the podium with her hands and surveyed the audience.

  Ananda closed his eyes the better to hear.

  Ruth did not speak for some time, and then did not speak again, and then she said:

  “Stillness.”

  Hearing that one word, Ananda expected Ruth to now fill the room with her own stillness—something he had already advised against, just in case there were those in the audience receptive to it, and who might then, from either surprise or overwhelm, cause a distraction—but she didn’t.

  Instead she waited until every ear in the hall sat silent, waiting for the second drop of rain to fall.

  Then it fell, along with others.

  “There is a place—obscured by rush and tumble most of the time, for most of us—where whispers can be heard.

  “There is a place where the stillness speaks, if only we are brave enough, and persistent enough, and strong, and awake enough to listen.

  “The odd thing, or perhaps not so odd, perhaps it is a wonderful thing that this place is not tied to any one religion; that this place bows to no man-made view.

  “As each of you know, every religion, every philosophy even, has seen its share of mystics. Every religion has seen its many travelers of the path less trodden, its many seekers not content with dogma—thinkers who instinctively knew that personal experience is the only foundation from which to judge, to know truth.”

  She paused. Ananda opened his eyes. Ruth was surveying her audience, looking out across the hall, taking everyone in. Considering them. Seemingly satisfied that she was reaching them, she continued.

  “And what is a mystic? If you pull the etymological string all the way you find that in early Greece a ‘mystes’ was one who had been initiated, ‘mystes’ in turn grew from ‘myein’ which meant to shut one’s eyes in the odd sense that those who were not initiated had to shut their eyes as they could not witness secret rites.

  “Up through history, however, the word ‘mystic’ has come to signify a person who seeks direct experience of the absolute or ultimate, and who also, incidentally, believes that full comprehension of the deepest truths lies beyond the intellect.

  “Plotinus, the Neoplatonic Roman philosopher of the third century, qualifies nicely.

  “He saw us belonging to two worlds, both to that of the senses and to that of pure intuitive discernment, a world beyond the senses.

  “He considered the material universe the cause of all ills and held that the true object of life should be to escape the material world of the senses by abandoning all earthly interests for those of meditation, and so, by mental purification and by the exercise of thought, gradually arrive at complete and ecstatic union with the One—that is, in his words, God—a divine ecstasy he reported to have experienced on several occasions.

  “So convincing was Plotinus in his talks that many of his listeners gave their fortunes to the poor, set their slaves free, and devoted themselves to lives of study and ascetic piety.

  “What he said certainly resonated.”

  Ruth paused again, and again surveyed the room. Again, Ananda opened his eyes and looked around as well. The only sound to be heard was the soft hum of either a fan or a distant air conditioner, Ananda couldn’t tell which. The audience was all still—rapt, gripped by her words, waiting for the next. He smiled to himself, and also in Ruth’s direction: she was doing just fine. She agreed. Then continued.

  “Plotinus suggested that you withdraw into yourself and look, and if you don’t like what you see, then—and I’m paraphrasing—just like a sculptor of a beautiful statue-to-be will cut away here and smooth the stone there, just like this sculptor will make this line a little lighter, this other a little purer, until he has unearthed a lovely face, so should you cut away all that is excessive, straighten all that is crooked, bring light to all that is overcast, labor to make all of you one glow of beauty and never cease chiseling your statue until there shall shine out from it the godlike splendor of virtue, until you see the perfect goodness surely established in the stainless shrine.

  “Nicely put, I think.”

  Again, she paused.

  Then she said, “This kind of seeing, this kind of sculpting has one major requirement. That requirement is stillness.”

  She let that sink in before continuing, “Plotinus also held that we are all beautiful when we are true to our own being, when we know ourselves. In self-ignorance, he added, we are ugly.

  “Plotinus, as you know, was a Roman Philosopher and only one of a small army of mystics to rise through the ages from many a tradition and discipline including Hinduism, Zen, Sufism, Rosicrucianism, Islam, and Catholicism, to name a few.

  “And all these mystics, if you really listen to what they say, sought and reached that internal stillness that fosters a clear and deep look at what is truly happening here.

  “Another good example was Saint John of the Cross. As you may well know, he was a Spanish mystic and poet born in 1542 who became a Carmelite monk in 1563 and then ordained as a priest in 1567.

  “In 1568 he opened the first monastery of the Discalced Carmelites, which order emphasized a life of contemplation and austerity. This approach, however, did not sit too well with the powers in Rome and led to his imprisonment during 1576 and 1577—though, as fate would have it, it was in prison he was to compose his finest work.

  “The theme of much of his poetry explores the reconciliation of human beings with God through a series of mystical steps that begin with self-communion and renunciation of the distractions of the world.

  “The wonderful poetical achievement of St. John of the Cross lies in his combining the non-rational—as in beyond the intellect—the non-rational longings of mysticism with the theological and philosophical precepts established by St. Thomas Aquinas.

  “‘The soul,’ he said, ‘that is attached to anything however much good there may be in it, will not arrive at the liberty of divine union. For whether it be a strong wire rope or a slender and delicate thread that holds the bird, it matters not, if it really holds it fast; for, until the cord be br
oken the bird cannot fly.’

  “Another quote from this small man with so vast a heart, ‘If you purify your soul of attachment to and desire for things, you will understand them spiritually. If you deny your appetite for them, you will enjoy their truth, understanding what is certain in them.’ And, ‘It is great wisdom to know how to be silent.’

  “If you were none the wiser you could easily close your eyes and open your ears and not know whether I was quoting the Buddha, or Plotinus, or even Rumi, who once said, ‘Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.’

  “Rumi also said, ‘Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.’

  “And he said, ‘I am a bird of the heavenly garden, I belong not to the earthly sphere. They have made for two or three days a cage of my body.’

  “Again, as many of you may already know, Rumi, or Jalal al-Din Rum, was born in 1207 in what is now Afghanistan and, again as you probably know, is best known as a Sufi-inspired poet. In his youth he traveled here and there with his family eventually to settle in Konya, in what is now Turkey.

  “In 1244 he accepted the friendship and religious guidance of Shams al-Din, a dervish—which is what we sometimes call the devotees Sufism—from Tabriz, Iran. To say that Rumi fell in spiritual love with his master would be to put it mildly, for Rumi set out to devote his life to creating poetry expressing his feelings for Shams al-Din.

  In 1247, however, Shams al-Din disappears, without a trace. Over the next many years Rumi composed nearly 30,000 verses expressing his feelings at this loss.

  “Later spiritual friendships again inspired his poetry, notably the mid-13th Century epic poem Masnavi-ye Manavi, which has had an enormous influence on both Islamic literature and thought.

  “The real point I make here is that someone who can say ‘What you seek is seeking you,’ or ‘Sit, be still, and listen,’ knows and appreciates the same stillness as all true mystics do, although, I must confess, Rumi does this slightly more ecstatically than others, and can’t seem to stop dancing.”

  Ruth paused again, and helped herself to a swallow of water, then to another one. She softly replaced the glass. Looking back out over the stillness that was her audience, she continued:

  “Mystics will, and do, rise from any discipline, whether religious, philosophical, poetic, or even music.

  “Take Bach. I’d venture to say that the stillness he found to create the Air on a G String held much of what truly matters.

  “Or take the Second Movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Piano Sonata, or many of his String Quartets for that matter, I think ‘unearthly’ goes a fair way to describe the sheer beauty of his music. Whoever said Beethoven was a wild man did not really know him. Nor the stillness he knew.

  “In this stillness all things are simple. Things only grow complex when we try to capture this stillness in words which then as often as not collide with not only our own conceit and opinions but conflicting conceit and opinions as well and then with the wars fought about these opinions and all of a sudden you find yourself immersed in the most complex edifice you could ever wish for, blinded and hurt, and, of course, none the wiser.

  “Many of those who experience this stillness consider it futile to try to convey it, and so say nothing. Lao Tzu is reported to have tried to leave the city for a private wilderness without saying a word, and had it not been for the guard at the gate recognizing the philosopher and entreating him to write down this stillness as best he could, we would not have the Tao Te Ching today.

  “Even the Buddha, upon awakening, seriously considered saying nothing—feeling, we hear, as do many of those who swim these waters, the experience too deep to convey, too unfathomable to explain.

  “Legend has it that we owe his teachings and the Pali Canon to Brahma Sahampati, the deva who descended and then twisted Gotama Siddhattha’s arm into sharing his insight, which he then spent the remainder of his life doing.

  Here she paused again for another sip of water. And a second one. Then she said, quite emphatically:

  “This stillness is not imaginary.”

  Another long stillness. It was as even the fan had stopped to listen. Ananda could hear no sound. The room, and all beings and things in it, holding its breath.

  “This stillness is the most real thing there is. There is no thing realer. It is also the most easily buried and lost thing there is.”

  Then she said no more.

  Until she said, “Any questions?”

  It took those in the hall a few moments to realize that she had finished, and another few moments to collect themselves sufficiently to consider questions to ask. Meanwhile, this was the cue to raise the lights again.

  Ananda turned to his right to see a young girl negotiate her way through those who sat in the aisle and then step up to the microphone now in place for this very purpose. The question should have come as no surprise, not really.

  And that question was: “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Are you the Buddha?”

  If Ruth was surprised at the question, she did not show it. Instead she smiled and said, “Ah, the folly of youth.”

  “What?” said the young girl, slightly offended.

  “Oh. No, not you,” said Ruth. “No, I’m referring to me. The folly of my youth.”

  The girl relaxed noticeably. “So, you’re not?”

  “Does it matter?” said Ruth.

  “Of course it does,” said the girl.

  “I beg to differ,” said Ruth. “Your stillness, my stillness. Both nameless.”

  That answer hit some sort of mark, for Ananda noticed the young girl swallow—once unsuccessfully, once successfully, then smile, before she cleared her throat and said, “I see. Yes.”

  A small line of students had now formed behind the girl, each with a question or two for Ruth. The girl thanked Ruth and stepped aside, letting the next person, a young man, perhaps twenty-five and with very long hair, up to the microphone.

  “You’ve got quite a reputation, of course,” he said. When Ruth didn’t answer, he continued. “Why is it that you—since you are a famous particle physicist—went on to doctor in Theology and Philosophy here at USC instead of continuing your research at Cal Tech or at some other such research facility. Like the CERN facility in Geneva.”

  “Have you read my dissertation?” asked Ruth.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he replied, making sure this fact was clearly heard by one and all.

  “Then you already know the answer,” said Ruth.

  “This stillness you talk about, there’s no such stillness in particle physics, is there?”

  “There isn’t?” said Ruth, feigning surprise, but not so hard as to offend the young man, which Ananda saw as a nice touch.

  “There is?” he said.

  “There is,” said Ruth.

  The young man struck Ananda as someone who had more to ask but who now had lost his train of thought, and instead—after some uncertain movement and a look around the hall—thanked Ruth and gave way to the next student in line.

  “How do we find this stillness?” she asked.

  “Ah,” said Ruth. “That’s for another lecture.”

  “Seriously?” said the student.

  “Seriously.”

  Then, looking around the hall, the girl seemed to gather the strength to then say, “What if we can’t wait?” Which brought some laughs and many smiles.

  “Patience,” said Ruth, “is so important that lacking it, you will never find the stillness.”

  “Ah,” said the student, and stepped aside without thanking Ruth.

  “One more,” said Ruth.

  An older lady stepped up to the microphone and adjusted it a little—she was very tall. “Is it meditation that will lead us there? To the stillness, I mean?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Ruth. “That and
other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Again, that is for another lecture,” said Ruth.

  “I see,” said the lady. “Thank you.”

  :

  This much anticipated opening lecture was filmed not only by the college but by some students as well (who had secured permission both from the school and from Ruth—who in fact insisted on allowing her students to make any records they’d choose of her lectures), and soon the lecture was posted in full on the Internet and also made available through Mortimers worldwide.

  Ananda could not have been more pleased. Ruth had selected wisely from the many choices he had helped her select from sea of choices available.

  She had made light of the Buddha question, and—partially by her presence, and partially by the content—raised a fair amount of healthy interest in the stillness she wants to share.

  Over the next few days the several video recordings of the lecture went what Ananda soon learned was called “viral”—meaning that first thousands, then millions of people on the Internet saw the lecture, and as they told others about it, the number kept exploding in size.

  Ruth seemed happy enough about it, and she had reason to be. Ananda could not help feeling a little uneasy, though. Was it going “viral” for the right reasons? Was this much attention good or bad for her mission?

  “The more the merrier,” Ruth suggested.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Melissa.

  “Oh, you two,” said Ruth.

  :: 107 :: (USC)

  While Melissa did not attend all of her daughter’s lectures, Ananda made it a firm rule to be on hand every time, if for no other reason (he told her within Ruth’s hearing) than to keep her honest, and from doing something unwise.

  After a brief cycle of lectures about the various world religions that was well received by both students and faculty (who increasingly had taken to attending Ruth Marten’s lectures as well, absent scheduling conflicts), later that spring Ruth returned to the subject of stillness.

 

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