THE DALAI LAMA SAID FUCK
I went to see the Dalai Lama on Saturday. Nothing happened. I didn’t leave there with any kind of spiritual enlightenment, or answer to eternal questions, or knowing my reason for being here. Nothing. There was no awareness that I didn’t have before. I just walked out of there, reminded. Reminded to be kind. Reminded to be compassionate. Reminded to be patient and enjoy each second.
I sat in the third row. When I bought the tickets they had front row seats available but I thought that would be too much. I’ve been to too many rock concerts and the experiences have left their scar. I was afraid I would appear to be some kind of Dalai Lama Groupie if I sat too close. I’d look like I wanted to be noticed, wanted to be touched, wanted my life to change in some spectacular way that I keep hoping it will. So I got a ticket third row center. I could handle that.
The seats were stiff wooden folding chairs that I imagine were designed by some embittered ex-Nazi who was kicked out of the SS for being too cruel. I shifted in my seat to try to find a comfortable position. There was none. Ten Buddhist monks, heads shaved and all mummied up in orange and red wraps took the stage and began chanting in a low gutteral drone. I thought about how the monks deny themselves creature comforts. They sit on hard wooden benches, sleep on mats on the floor and fast for days. I sat up straight in my chair and accepted its discomfort. It was teaching me to endure suffering, teaching me to be compassionate to other’s suffering. I welcomed the lessons of the wise wooden chair.
The audience was mostly women. It seems that all spiritual events I’ve been to are attended mostly by women. That used to bother me when I was single. It was like some cruel trick God was playing on me. I was doing whatever I could to get myself together to attract a husband, yet I always ended up being surrounded by women. I stared at the faces of some of the women seated near me, their eyes hopeful, searched for peace or some elimination of pain, their hands clutched pamphlets of Tibetan propaganda. They sat slouched in their chairs as if they could barely sustain their weight. I looked at my hand, at my wedding rings and I felt calm. The Buddhist monks chanted while speaker feedback shrieked through the hall.
A young girl sat on my right. Our shoulders kept bumping and we made jokes about it. I didn’t mind and I liked the fact she laughed at my jokes. I felt like a big sister to her. The woman on my left was probably younger than me, but she was older than me. She was writing everything that happened in a notebook. I asked her if she was a reporter. She said, “No.”. I asked her if it was a journal. She said, “Yes.” I kept digging. I asked her if she went to special events so she could write about them or if she just wrote about anything that she went to. She said, “Both.” I decided to leave her alone.
At times the Dalai Lama’s accent was hard to understand. But I knew it didn’t matter. It’s not the words, it’s the intention and energy behind the words. Besides, his voice has a lilting musical rhythm to it, that carried me and uplifted me. I was riding along on his wave of words. I think everyone was. That is until he said the word, “Fuck.” The Dalai Lama said Fuck. I didn’t catch the context in which he said it, but I heard it loud and clear. The unfriendly girl on my left stopped taking notes and looked at me in shock. Then she laughed. As uncommunicative as she had tried to be, she had to share that “Fuck” with someone.
I sat in my car in the UCLA parking structure for at least twenty minutes after the event. I was patient. I knew this was the price you paid for parking in a lot and leaving at the same time as a thousand others. And I didn’t turn on the radio. I just watched the people walking to their cars. My friend had seen the Dalai Lama in New York and he told me when he walked out of Central Park, people were friendlier, they smiled at each other, they had been affected somehow by what they had heard. The people I watched weren’t friendly. The Dalai Lama didn’t have the effect on them that he had in New York. Maybe it was a bad show. It happens to musicians. They visit a city and things just don’t gel the way they should. Maybe that’s what happened.
People hustled through the lanes, stepping in front of cars with their full blown “I’m a pedestrian” egos. Angry SUV drivers honked their horns back at them with a “I’ll run you over” urgency. The walking people scrambled behind the wheel of their cars and became driving people, honking aggressively at the new walking people. I decided to be compassionate. I signaled for a car to enter the lane ahead of me. Then I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman behind me, her hands flew up in a “What are you doing?!” fury. I tilted the rear view mirror up so I wouldn’t have to look at her face and continued snailing my way out. I hesitated for a second and a man in a Jaguar cut in front of me. He looked straight ahead. He was determined not to even acknowledge my existence.
After listening to the Dalai Lama talk for forty-five minutes, his message hadn’t touched them. Their holiness and sanctity was achieved solely by the fact that they went to see him. That was all they needed to do, just show up. I’m sure they believed when he was talking about all that compassion stuff, he meant someone else. Now they would drop his name at lunch and impress whoever with the fact that they were indeed spiritually hip. After all, seeing the Dalai Lama is “the” happening thing to do in LA today. At least that’s what I heard one guy say out front, just before he stepped into his limo.
I sat in the third row. When I bought the tickets they had front row seats available but I thought that would be too much. I’ve been to too many rock concerts and the experiences have left their scar. I was afraid I would appear to be some kind of Dalai Lama Groupie if I sat too close. I’d look like I wanted to be noticed, wanted to be touched, wanted my life to change in some spectacular way that I keep hoping it will. So I got a ticket third row center. I could handle that.
The seats were stiff wooden folding chairs that I imagine were designed by some embittered ex-Nazi who was kicked out of the SS for being too cruel. I shifted in my seat to try to find a comfortable position. There was none. Ten Buddhist monks, heads shaved and all mummied up in orange and red wraps took the stage and began chanting in a low gutteral drone. I thought about how the monks deny themselves creature comforts. They sit on hard wooden benches, sleep on mats on the floor and fast for days. I sat up straight in my chair and accepted its discomfort. It was teaching me to endure suffering, teaching me to be compassionate to other’s suffering. I welcomed the lessons of the wise wooden chair.
The audience was mostly women. It seems that all spiritual events I’ve been to are attended mostly by women. That used to bother me when I was single. It was like some cruel trick God was playing on me. I was doing whatever I could to get myself together to attract a husband, yet I always ended up being surrounded by women. I stared at the faces of some of the women seated near me, their eyes hopeful, searched for peace or some elimination of pain, their hands clutched pamphlets of Tibetan propaganda. They sat slouched in their chairs as if they could barely sustain their weight. I looked at my hand, at my wedding rings and I felt calm. The Buddhist monks chanted while speaker feedback shrieked through the hall.
A young girl sat on my right. Our shoulders kept bumping and we made jokes about it. I didn’t mind and I liked the fact she laughed at my jokes. I felt like a big sister to her. The woman on my left was probably younger than me, but she was older than me. She was writing everything that happened in a notebook. I asked her if she was a reporter. She said, “No.”. I asked her if it was a journal. She said, “Yes.” I kept digging. I asked her if she went to special events so she could write about them or if she just wrote about anything that she went to. She said, “Both.” I decided to leave her alone.
At times the Dalai Lama’s accent was hard to understand. But I knew it didn’t matter. It’s not the words, it’s the intention and energy behind the words. Besides, his voice has a lilting musical rhythm to it, that carried me and uplifted me. I was riding along on his wave of words. I think everyone was. That is until he said the word, “Fuck.” The Dalai Lama said Fuck. I didn’t catch the context in which he said it, but I heard it loud and clear. The unfriendly girl on my left stopped taking notes and looked at me in shock. Then she laughed. As uncommunicative as she had tried to be, she had to share that “Fuck” with someone.
I sat in my car in the UCLA parking structure for at least twenty minutes after the event. I was patient. I knew this was the price you paid for parking in a lot and leaving at the same time as a thousand others. And I didn’t turn on the radio. I just watched the people walking to their cars. My friend had seen the Dalai Lama in New York and he told me when he walked out of Central Park, people were friendlier, they smiled at each other, they had been affected somehow by what they had heard. The people I watched weren’t friendly. The Dalai Lama didn’t have the effect on them that he had in New York. Maybe it was a bad show. It happens to musicians. They visit a city and things just don’t gel the way they should. Maybe that’s what happened.
People hustled through the lanes, stepping in front of cars with their full blown “I’m a pedestrian” egos. Angry SUV drivers honked their horns back at them with a “I’ll run you over” urgency. The walking people scrambled behind the wheel of their cars and became driving people, honking aggressively at the new walking people. I decided to be compassionate. I signaled for a car to enter the lane ahead of me. Then I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman behind me, her hands flew up in a “What are you doing?!” fury. I tilted the rear view mirror up so I wouldn’t have to look at her face and continued snailing my way out. I hesitated for a second and a man in a Jaguar cut in front of me. He looked straight ahead. He was determined not to even acknowledge my existence.
After listening to the Dalai Lama talk for forty-five minutes, his message hadn’t touched them. Their holiness and sanctity was achieved solely by the fact that they went to see him. That was all they needed to do, just show up. I’m sure they believed when he was talking about all that compassion stuff, he meant someone else. Now they would drop his name at lunch and impress whoever with the fact that they were indeed spiritually hip. After all, seeing the Dalai Lama is “the” happening thing to do in LA today. At least that’s what I heard one guy say out front, just before he stepped into his limo.
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