The Buddha in the Tarot

by Paul Greer

  The Hermit (9)

  General Overview

  The RWS rendition of The Hermit shows a solitary old man in a cowled habit, looking down from his isolated and bleak vantage point on a mountain peak. His right hand holds a lantern with a light inside, and his left grasps a staff for support. The card is associated with a number of related themes, including retreat, isolation, introspection, and self-reliance; but also the quest for direction and guidance.

  The card is usually linked with a withdrawal from the everyday world to search for wisdom within ourselves; of creating a space where we can, as Lorelei says, seek out answers to the dilemma of “life’s purpose.”1 The withdrawal itself may be a psychological rather than a literal one; a figurative departure from the values and beliefs of the “mass mind” in the pleasant vale beneath the mountain.2 The way of the vale, to use the words of Gardner’s channeled Hermit, is the “way of safety” and leads to nothing but “age and death.” 3 Whether a real of symbolic withdrawal, the Hermit according to Saunders represents an attitude of self-reliance; of turning towards our “own inner light.”4 It denotes the call and guidance of the deeper aspects of ourselves, which if heeded, promise as Waite says that “[w]here I am you also may be.”5 Yet the journey to the interior may not be as revealing as we first hoped; the world within holds as much darkness, danger and peril as it does illumination. This is a point clearly suggested in the Thoth deck’s rendition of the card, which shows The Hermit bowed down with Cerberus – the guardian dog of the Underworld – at his heels.

  According to Pollack and Wen, The Hermit may not only indicate a turn to the world within, but a desire for guidance from a teacher or some other external source.6 Banzhaf disagrees, and argues that the wisdom of The Hermit never arrives from a mentor, even when we think that to be the case. It would be futile, he insists, to actually try to find some “wise old man” to experience that to which The Hermit points.7 Nichols concurs, and also highlights the problem of projecting such power onto others. Such projection leaves one vulnerable to abandoning our personal journey to find peace at the feet of some “ready-made guru.”8 Given the possible catastrophic results of such a venture, it is perhaps wisest as the Buddha himself advised to “be ye lamps unto yourselves.”

  In the Story of the Buddha: The Great Retirement

  With the young prince on Kanthaka’s “mighty back,” and with Channa holding on by the tail, the three arrive at the city’s great gate, only to find it shut fast. King Suddhodana, in order to prevent his son from leaving, had “caused each of the two leaves of the gate to be made so heavy as to need a thousand men to move it.” The prince, full of resolve, declares to himself that should the gate remain shut he will “leap up and carry them both with me over the wall, although its height be eighteen cubits.”9 There was however no need, as the spirit within the gate opened it for him, allowing safe passage out of the city. His horse “went forth, planting his hurrying steps at full speed,” his very hooves borne up by heavenly Yakshas: “O best of steeds, by thy speed and energy, strive for thine own good and the good of the world.”10 At that point the demon Mara, the enemy of spiritual striving, appears to the prince and urges him to turn back, promising that soon he “shall rule over the four great continents.” The prince however casts this promise aside with indifference, “spewing it out as if it were but phlegm,” and “turned Kanthaka in the direction in which he meant to go.”11 “Till I have seen the further shore of birth and death,” he shouts, “I will never again enter the city called after Kapila.”12

  The three eventually arrive at the Anoma or “Illustrious”; a broad river which seemed impossible to cross. Once again Kanthaka comes to the rescue, and “sprang over the river … and landed on the opposite bank.” Then dismounting, and standing on the sandy beach “that stretched away like a sheet of silver,” Siddhattha gives his jewelry to Channa and exchanges his fine clothing for monk’s robes, which had been provided for him by the Brahma-god Ghatikara. Grabbing his own hair, “he seized the top-knot with his left hand,” and with his scimitar, he “cut it off.”13

  The prince bids Channa farewell and asks him to take his jewelry and horse back home, and tell his family that he is well. On the journey back, Kanthaka dies of a broken heart, and is reborn in “the Heaven of the thirty-three.” Channa, now oppressed even further, “came weeping and wailing to the city.”14 The prince, unaware of these events, heads for a tranquil forest and the “hermitage of the son of Bhrigu.” Then, “he who by whom all objects are accomplished,” entered the hermitage.15

  An obvious feature of this narrative is the central role played by the horse Kanthaka in the Buddha’s renunciation. Of significance in this respect is Kanthaka’s association with the number eighteen - his length in cubits, and also the height of the city wall that he passes through, or in some versions, leaps over. Eighteen is an auspicious number within Indian thought because it can be reduced to nine (1 + 8 = 9) – symbolic of Brahman (ultimate reality), and also, coincidently, the number of The Hermit. It is a number especially apparent in the Mahabharata, which is divided into eighteen books, of which the most important, the Bhagavad-Gita, is divided into eighteen chapters. The main battle of the Mahabharata is itself between eighteen armies and lasts for eighteen days. Of more interest is the number’s association with the concept of renunciation. The ancient Ayyappan temple complex at Sabarimala, which remains an important pilgrimage site to this day, contains eighteen steps (Pathinettam Padi) which pilgrims must ascend in order to reach the sanctum sanctorum of Lord Ayyapan. Although sacred to Hindus, in all likelihood Sabarimala was once an ancient Buddhist temple complex, and that “Lord Ayyappa was once a Buddhist deity” – the Bodhisattva of Compassion, Avalokitesvara.16 The eighteen steps are steep and narrow, and represent eighteen impediments to spiritual liberation which are renounced by devotees as they ascend. The first five represent the senses which imprison us in worldly pursuits. The next eight represent unwholesome qualities of the mind, including sensual delight, anger, greed, and delusion. The next three represent the three gunas; the seventeenth worldly knowledge, and the final step - ignorance.17

  A Buddhist Reflection: Renunciation

  The themes of The Hermit are closely linked to an important practice within Buddhism – “renunciation.” Prince distinguishes between three stages of Buddhist “retirement” from the world.18 The first stage is that of “Outward Renunciation,” where someone, moved by the Dharma may decide to leave behind the household life and become a monk or a nun. This is perhaps the most “visible” aspect of Buddhist renunciation, clearly seen in the resolve of many thousands who, every year, shave their heads, exchange their possessions for simple robes and a bowl, and take upon themselves the life of a Buddhist novice. Of course, such outward displays of renunciation are not only limited to Buddhism. A decisive disengagement from society is almost taken as given within Indian spirituality as a whole, given that retreating to a forest (vanaprastha) and ascetic renunciation (samyasa) are considered the third and fourth stages of life for a committed Hindu. Such outward renunciation within Hinduism is a practice that extends back to the wandering seekers (shramanas) of the Buddha’s time, and manifests itself today in the four to five million sadhus and sadhvis who attach themselves to the various shrines, temples, holy cities and ashrams that can be found across India.

  The second stage of Buddhist disengagement according to Prince is “True Renunciation,” which is really a matter of heart and mind rather than an outward withdrawal from the world. It means living an ethical life, and renouncing “desires”; of freeing the inner world from unwholesome emotions and attachments. The third and final stage is that of “Ultimate Renunciation,” which is the renunciation of the “self.” This involves the eradication of the “five hindrances” (sensory desire, hatred, sloth, restlessness and doubt) through mindfulness meditation. This in turn leads to the attainment of single-pointed concentration through meditative absorptions (the jhanas) – the starting place for “
insight” and thus the realization of Nirvana.

  Is it possible to attain such spiritual development without the “outward renunciation” of novice life? Although the monastic community provides the freedom and support to pursue the spiritual life away from worldly distractions, there are many examples within the Buddhist texts of lay followers attaining extraordinary spiritual achievements. Yet, the danger of a non-monastic approach is a general toning-down in the meaning and implications of true renunciation. This is already happening in countries like Thailand, where a growing middle-class are abandoning their traditional links with the monasteries, preferring Buddhist “retreats” over the customary Thai practice of temporary novicehood.

  In the West, similarly, traditional renunciation has been compromised through spiritual practice accommodating itself to what many clearly perceive to be their self-evident and unalienable “freedoms.” This has been particularly the case with the emergence of what David Chapman terms “Consensus Buddhism,” which rejects the traditional Buddhist mechanism of “revulsion and renunciation,” making the whole idea more palatable to Westerners by pretending that it means “something other” than turning our backs on worldly pleasures and attachments. The true meaning of renunciation he argues has thus become “obscured” in many Westernized forms of Buddhism.19

  An interesting angle on this whole issue is given by Yeshe. His views are certainly more “palatable” than the option of traditional monasticism, and more positive than Chapman’s conclusions. But, whether such renunciation is possible within the context of Western society is a matter which remains to be seen. Yeshe begins by explaining first what renunciation is not. It is not giving up on or avoiding difficult situations. Neither is it running away from the demands and expectations of society. Significantly, he argues, neither is it taking-up Buddhist rituals or spiritual practices such as meditation. Fundamentally, he says, it means that we no longer seek or expect lasting happiness from fleeting sensual pleasures. Renunciation, continues Yeshe, can also be considered in the more positive terms of “definite emergence”; as a concerted effort to break free from our recurring sense of dissatisfaction we experience in everyday life, and begin looking for “other ways” to make our lives fulfilling and significant. Such satisfaction, he concludes, can only be found in the relinquishing of “false refuges” for “inner simplicity.”20

  The Wheel of Fortune (10)

  General Overview

  The Wheel of Fortune is one of the most symbol-rich cards in the RWS deck. Its central image is that of a wheel, surmounted by a sphinx holding a sword over its left shoulder. The wheel’s outer rim contains the letters T-A-R-O interspaced with the four Hebrew letters of the Tetragrammaton – God’s holy name. Upon this rim we find a demonic Typhon in the form of a snake descending, and Hermanubis as a jackal-headed man ascending. The wheel’s inner section contains eight “spokes,” upon four of which are written the alchemical symbols for mercury, sulfur, salt and water. At the four corners of the card sit an angel/man, eagle, ox, and a lion, all with open books which they appear to be reading.

  Despite such rich symbolism, the card is often interpreted quite simplistically, particularly within a divinatory context. Here, it is usually linked with changes in fortune, luck, or the ending/beginning of a cycle. A less-common interpretation is that it represents deepening knowledge and insight into the nature of the world, life and the self. In short, it is about “revelation” and “learning.” This interpretation is conveyed in the four open books. It is also upheld in the card’s connection with the Hebrew letter Kaph and its associated symbol of the “grasping hand,” which as Jayanti says reaches out “understand” and “comprehend.”1 This seems a natural progression from the processes of withdrawal and contemplation initiated in The Hermit.

  Although it might not look it at first, the Wheel of Fortune is actually a vehicle – a chariot in fact - making it the second chariot in our journey through the Tarot thus far. But this chariot is very different from the first, which took us out into the realm of worldly experience under the direction of will. This second chariot takes us to the realm within; to reveal hidden truth about the nature of the world and the self. This chariot is in fact the Merkabah – the Chariot of God or chariot of “descent.”

  In the Jewish Tanakh, the prophet Ezekiel experienced a revelatory vision in which he caught a glimpse of the divine presence above the firmament and its operations below. “As I looked,” he says, “a strong wind came out of the north and a great cloud, with brightness round about it, and fire flashing forth continually.” From its midst came four creatures with the “form of men,” but each with four wings and four faces. Each had “the face of a man in front, a lion on the right side, an ox on the left, and an eagle at the back.” As he continued looking, the prophet saw “a wheel upon the earth beside the living creatures, one for each of the four of them.” Each wheel was constructed as “a wheel within a wheel.” Each had spokes and a rim, which were “full of eyes round about.” Wherever the creatures went, “the wheels went beside them,” for “the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.” Above the four Cherubim and their “whirling wheels” Ezekiel saw the “likeness of a firmament,” and above this was a throne, upon which was seated “a likeness as it were of a human form” – the “appearance of the likeness of the glory of the LORD” (From Ezek. 1: 4-28).

  In this biblical passage, Ezekiel is offered a glimpse into both the divine presence above the firmament and its operations below, revealed in the whirling elemental forces that turn the world and direct its motion. The prophet’s revelatory vision became the basis for a school of early Jewish thought known as Merkabah mysticism, focused on the experience of the soul’s journey or “descent” into God by way of his holy chariot. Such visionary experiences would be embraced and enhanced by the Kabbalistic schools of the middle ages, which, according to Kauffman Kohler, provided “new life and vigor” to existing Merkabah teachings.2

  Yet we should recognize that most of Ezekiel’s vision was concerned with God’s operation within nature itself; that is, “below” the firmament. Insight into the operations of the phenomenal world seems particularly relevant to The Wheel of Fortune’s meaning, implied in Waite’s inclusion of the four letter word T-A-R-O. Waite’s use of this term is undoubtedly based upon Eliphas Levi’s anagramatical speculations, which, by his own time, had resulted in the mysterious ROTA TARO ORAT TORA ATOR. This is often translated as: “The wheel of Tarot speaks the law of Hathor [Ator].” Hathor was an ancient Egyptian earth goddess, symbolizing the phenomenal world in both its beneficent and destructive capacities; as, on the one hand, the Celestial Nurse, and on the other, as the devouring lion, Sekhmet.

  While addressing the topic of deepening insight into the world’s operations, the Wheel of Fortune does at the same time deal with the question of self-knowledge. First seen in The Chariot, the sphinx makes its appearance once more, this time atop of the wheel, to again ask its riddle: “What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon and three in the evening?" In The Chariot card, as Waite says, the individual can “offer no answer” to the sphinx’s riddle, because it is “concerned with a mystery of Nature,” while the heroic charioteer is really only concerned with conquests which are “manifest or external and not within himself.” Neither, continues Waite, could he “open the scroll call Tora,” nor if questioned by the High Priestess, “could he answer.”3 The answer to the sphinx’s riddle is not simply “humanity,” but the deeper revelation that “humanity” is essentially a process of constant change, and is neither fixed nor static in nature. The physical changes brought about through birth, youth, old age and death are an obvious aspect of this. Yet, the revelation of the card is that despite their physical limitations, humans have the potential for positive inner development and transformation. This revelation is glimpsed in the four alchemical glyphs at the wheel’s center, which as Jayanti argues, suggest the ambitious objective of “esoteric alche
my” – the transformation of “ordinary people” or “ordinary elements” into “enlightened beings.”4 Humans may harbor destructive typhonic tendencies which can move them away from their potential. Yet, they also hold within themselves the ability to move towards something more positive, symbolized by Hermanubis, the rising psychopomp. This positive transformation requires patience, reflection, energy and insight, symbolized by the four creatures and their open books – the four elements in transition. These books will remain open until the creatures appear without them, their transformation complete, in The World.

  In the Story of the Buddha: Arada and Udraka

  King Suddhodana, according to Asvaghosa, learns of his son’s departure, and quickly sends his own minister and family priest to the hermitage; but to no avail. The prince crosses the Ganges and “went to Ragagriha with its beautiful palaces.” Like his father, the monarch there attempts to dissuade Siddhattha from his path, and instead pursue the “three objects of life” – “religious merit, wealth and pleasure” - in “reverse order.” For, says the king, “pleasures belong to the young man, wealth to the middle-aged, and religion to the old.”5

  The prince is again unmoved, and turns towards “the hermitage of the sage Arada,” “kinsman of Kalama.” (Alara Kalama in the Jataka text.) Upon their meeting, the sage remarks that the prince looks as one “longing to see who finds a light, – like one wishing to journey, a guide, -or like one wishing to cross, a boat.” The prince, eager to learn, implores the sage to “tell me that secret … whereby thy servant may be delivered from old age, death and disease.” The shramana agrees to be his teacher, and to announce “the tenets of his doctrine.”6