The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (49 page)

Editor’s note:
Small revisions were made to the 1977 epilogue following the author’s death, according to instructions given in 1985. It is the revised epilogue that appears here.

I
T IS ELEVEN YEARS
since we arrived in India and I’ve since traveled twice as far again to Colorado, U.S.A., where I am writing this from my home. Upon being asked to do an epilogue for this new edition of
Born in Tibet
, I began to think about the nature of these last years. Their most outstanding quality has been the strength of the teachings, which have been a constant source of inspiration during this time in India, Britain, and America.

Adapting to these new ways of life after the colorful and simple quality of Tibet, where people were so in touch with their natural environment, has been truly a great adventure. It has been made possible by the continually active presence of Jamgön Kongtrül of Sechen and Khenpo Gangshar, my teachers. They taught about a basic sanity that has nothing to do with time and place. They taught about the neurotic aspects of the mind and the confusion in political, social, and other structures of life, which are universal. I have seen many fellow Tibetans as well as Westerners drawn into these problems.

Jamgön Kongtrül had incredibly precise insight when he dealt with people’s minds, not only in the technical aspect of teaching meditation and philosophy, but also in the whole feel of his communication in which he acted as a host or mirror. He had that kind of patience which permits other people to grow. His inspiring way of teaching allowed his disciples vast amounts of space and encouraged confidence in their own energy. His skillful means were the embodiment of all those qualities of being truly awake; a miracle. The great wisdom of the lineage was manifested in him. For me the inspiration that he gave is so complete and unique that I have no further desire to hunt for another guru.

He always used an event or situation as part of the understanding of the universality of a guru. When my relationship to him became too ego-gratifying, he would leave and have Khenpo Gangshar work with me. This would shock me through the hesitations and clinging to the guru as the only savior. This situation forced me to rely on independent intelligence. For example, Kongtrül would not help me work out the very complicated administration of my monastery.

I felt that in some ways this spiritual journey was made with Khenpo Gangshar (whose name means “whatever rises is self-liberated”) while we worked together on the philosophical texts of the abhidharma, madhyamaka, prajnaparamita, and many others. There had to be a transition from learning to practice. This was particularly reinforced by seeing the human aspect of the abstract political and religious tensions and by learning about compassion and communication. For instance, the teachings had to be presented in simple and direct language to laypeople. I had to throw hesitation overboard and go directly with the dance of life. Khenpo Gangshar taught that the teachings of yogis like Tilopa and Naropa still applied to twentieth-century man. Again a situation similar to that with Jamgön Kongtrül developed. This occurred when I had to decide whether or not to leave Tibet. So there was a continuing state of aloneness and the simplicity inherent in it.

Living in India and then in the West has been a process of progressively leaving behind those physical things connected with home. In India I still had the security of some familiar things and the warmth of friends. While receiving an introduction to new situations, my life continued the karmic pattern of teaching and learning.

The inspiration of Kongtrül Rinpoche’s teaching on communication and a succession of coincidences, including a Spalding scholarship, brought me to England and into contact with the people and the rich details of life at Oxford. It seemed to be a survey of new ground. It was also the first time I had been the object of that fascination which is noncommunicative and nonrelating, of being seen as an example of a species rather than as an individual: “Let’s go see the lamas at Oxford.”

Born in Tibet
was the first attempt to get through the cultural barriers publicly. The book was received somewhat as a description or travelogue, but the atmosphere of the teachings did not seem to be generally perceived.

One particularly beautiful thing to hear in England was Western Buddhists giving talks on the dharma. It was so refreshing to see that the teachings could be presented in the local language. I was reminded of the last words of Khenpo Gangshar who said that because of the universality of the teachings his attempt to teach Chinese officials through an interpreter were not entirely fruitless.

At the same time it was an uplifting experience to see such interest in the actual practice of meditation, even though the attitude was somewhat solemn and serious, blending perhaps with the natural climate of Britain. The invitation to teach at Johnstone House Contemplative Community in Scotland was very significant. The wildness of the endless rolling hills was somehow reminiscent of Khenpo Gangshar’s freshness, although the involvement with trusteeships and organization had nothing whatever to do with the atmosphere of Jamgön Kongtrül and Khenpo Gangshar. I tended to feel apprehensive of the power structure, but the inspiration of communicating the practice of meditation continued with a feeling of their presence, as was also true of the talks I gave. We were offered the opportunity to take over Johnstone House and did so in April 1967 when we established the Samye Ling Meditation Centre for the purpose of providing a place to retreat, study buddhadharma, and practice meditation.

As the scene developed, the emphasis was on meditation in action. Samye Ling became the training ground for the living of daily life with the simplicity of meditation. But somehow the desire to expand, the romantic idea to make a successful and glorified empire seems to be natural and inevitable in the human mind. Materialism came to play a permanent part in the maintenance of the house. With great disappointment I watched the business inspiration and the center take a direction apart from my original aim.

My return to India in 1969 took the pattern somewhat of a political and social obligation. But apart from that, I had a memorable retreat at Taktsang in Bhutan, where it seemed that I was reunited with Guru Padmasambhava, who had meditated there before bringing Buddhism to Tibet. There I experienced again the powerful and wild yogi quality of Khenpo Gangshar.

Coming back to Britain, there was the question of whether to continue the experience of Taktsang. The hesitation was powerfully expressed in a car crash in May 1969 in which I was paralyzed on the left side. This led to my taking off the robe. The purpose of this was to gain for me personally the strength to continue teaching by unmasking, and also to do away with the “exotic” externals which were too fascinating to students in the West. These had a devastating effect, as the law of karma clearly manifested. You cannot keep up hypocrisy until the very attainment of enlightenment; sooner or later the covering shatters and you have to face direct and honest communication.

It was a question of relating in terms of the image as “monk” or of just ordinary man. The attempt to keep control of such powerful energy in this situation highlighted for me the necessity of a union of wisdom and skill, both for my own sake as teacher as well as for my pupils. Such exposure was overwhelming. It was a direct message, as Jamgön Kongtrül had taught, of seeing the guru in the current event of situations. The accident not only brought me more completely in touch with wisdom again but it also finally cut through the seduction of materialism. Keeping the image of monk in order to handle situations was an imbalance of skillful means.

When a guru makes a great change in his life, it is often an opening for great chaos among the pupils who regard him as an object of security. Very few are able to go along with the change. In this case it was as if removing the mask or destroying the image provoked uncontrolled passions and possessiveness among disciples and friends. Great ignorance and paranoia pervaded, in that each person ignored his own reaction and projected it onto the situation. Nevertheless, the creative energy continued with strong conviction and the direction was still clear.

During this time my marriage to my wife Diana took place in January 1970. This brought an even stronger reaction among the more possessive followers who regarded their guru as “lover.” They began what may be called “hunting the guru.” When this occurs the person is no longer open to teaching. The ego game is so strong that everything nourishes it and the person wants only to manipulate, so that in a sense he kills the guru with his own ignorance.

This situation reminded me of the time when Jamgön Kongtrül’s disciples tried, with the best of intentions, to reinterpret with their scholarly research his, Jamgön Kongtrül’s, own words in order to show him their real meaning. They attempted to help him out with tremendous violence and feelings of superiority. This ignorance of one’s real purpose can be called the basic twist of ego. Such a situation requires a gap or space in communication which allows passion to lose its intensity; then creative communication can continue.

At this time, in much the same pattern as in my coming to Britain from India, there was a succession of coincidences including invitations from spiritual friends to come to North America to teach. I decided to come for a time. I do not believe that there is a divine providence as such, but the situation of karma and the wildness of Khenpo Gangshar and Jamgön Kongtrül directed me to cross the Atlantic with my wife in the spring of 1970.

Because of visa difficulties, we had to stay in Canada for six weeks or so. As happens, this turned out to be a good opportunity to feel the ground and to soften our expectations of the United States. Requests for teaching presented themselves and I gave a number of seminars while waiting to go to Tail of the Tiger, the meditation community in Barnet, Vermont, started by some of my students from Samye Ling. The founding of this center was not premeditated but rather, following the teachings of the lineage, came about quite spontaneously in March 1970.

This center, where there were both my old students and many new people, was the first auspicious circumstance of my stay in North America. The reception there was symbolic of my future relationships and experiences in teaching in the United States. One feels an extraordinary neutral energy rather than the reputedly destructive energy. As I found on subsequent lecture tours, this seems to be generally true all over the country in spite of the pressures everyone experiences.

Responses to the seminars given in Vermont were very vital; serious interest was shown in the teachings and many people decided to go into long retreats, which seems to be the general pattern since then (California, New York, Boston, as well as here in Boulder, Colorado, where a second center is being started).

My plans at the time of writing this epilogue are quite open. There will be seminars here and in Vermont, lecture tours, and whatever else comes up as the karmic pattern continues to reveal itself.

APPENDIX
1

The Administration of the Kagyü Monasteries of East Tibet