The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume One (53 page)

There is also a story about Brahma, who came one day to hear the Buddha preach, and the Buddha asked, “Who are you?” And Brahma for the first time began to look and check into himself (Brahma personifying the ego), and when he first looked into himself he couldn’t bear it. He said, “I’m Brahma, the Great Brahma, the Supreme Brahma.” So Buddha asked, “Why do you come and listen to me?” And Brahma said, “I don’t know.” Buddha then said to him, “Now, look back into your past.” So Brahma, with his wonderful ability to see his many past lives, looked; and he couldn’t bear it. He simply broke down and wept in front of Buddha. Then Buddha said, “Well done, well done, Brahma! That is good.” You see, this was the first time that Brahma had used his wonderful ability to see into his distant past, and so he finally saw things clearly. This does not mean that a person has to break down and feel bad about it, but it is very important to check and go through everything so that nothing is unexplored. Having started from there one gains a complete view of the whole thing—like an aerial view which takes in the whole landscape, all the trees and the road and everything—without there being anything that one pretends not to see.

One must also examine fear and expectation. If there is fear of death, one examines that; if one fears old age, one examines that. If one feels uneasy about a certain ugliness in oneself, or a certain disability or physical weakness of any kind, one examines them as well. And one should also examine one’s mental image of oneself, and anything one may feel bad about. It is very painful in the beginning—as Brahma showed by breaking down—when you first go through it and see it. But this is the only way to do it. Sometimes one touches on a very painful spot where one is almost too shy to look into it, but somehow one still has to go through it. And by going into it one finally achieves a real command of oneself, one gains a thorough knowledge of oneself for the first time. Now, we have explored the negative aspects, and have also probably gained some idea of the positive side. We still have not attained anything, we have just started the basic collection of manure, and now we have to study it and see how to put it to use.

By now one has developed this positive outlook and one has achieved a certain amount of understanding, and that is what is known as real theory. It is still theory, but you do not throw it overboard. In fact you cultivate this kind of theory and you continuously work on and on intellectually; intellectualizing only up to a certain point, of course, but still working on and on—and without having reference to books or talks or discussions. It has to be a kind of contemplation and firsthand study. One’s theory then begins to develop and takes on a shape of its own. And then you begin to discover not only the positive things you have done, but also the element of bodhi which is in you. You begin to realize that you have this great ability to create such a wonderful theory. At this stage, of course, a person often feels that he has reached a state of enlightenment, a state of satori, but this is a mistake. Naturally, at this first discovery, there is great excitement, great joy, bliss, but he still has to go on. So, having gone through these things, and having studied and explored them, one finds that one’s theory does not stop, as ordinary theory does after reading books on philosophy—or scriptures, for that matter. But this theory continues. There is a continual investigation, a continual finding out. Sometimes of course this theory does stop. One reaches a certain point where one becomes too much fascinated by the whole thing; one searches with too much eagerness, and then one comes to a stop and can’t go any further. That doesn’t mean there is a breakdown or a blockage, it means one is trying too much with an idea, one is trying too much with the inquisitive mind. Then one has to channel it differently, without the eagerness and without the fascination, but going step by step—as it says in the scriptures: at an elephant’s pace. You have to walk very slowly, unemotionally. But walk with dignity, step by step, like an elephant walking in the jungle.

So, your continual struggle may be a very slow one, but Milarepa says, “Hasten slowly and you will soon arrive.” By this time theory is no longer theory. Well, it is also a kind of imagination. So many imaginary things come in. And this imagination may even be a kind of hallucination, but again, one does not abandon that. One does not regard it as a wrong track, as though one had to go back to the right one. In fact, one uses imagination. So theory brings imagination, which is the beginning of intuitive knowledge. One then discovers that one has a great imaginative energy, and so one goes on, gradually, step by step. In the next stage one goes beyond just imagination—and this is not hallucination at all. There is something in us which is more real than merely imagination, though it is still colored by imagination. It is somehow ornamented by this sort of imaginary outline, but at the same time there is something in it. It is like reading a children’s book, for example; it is written for children and it is entirely imaginary, but there is something in it as well. Perhaps the writer simplifies his experience, or tries to be childlike, so one finds something in it. And the same is true of any story, for that matter. And that imagination is not just hallucination, but real imagination. If one looks back to theory, or if one traces back to the first steps one took, it may seem a bit tiring or even unnecessary, but it isn’t so. One hasn’t wasted time at all.

You have scattered the manure very evenly over the field and now is the time to sow the seed and wait for the crop to grow. That is the first preparation, and now one is ready to discover. And that discovery has already begun to develop. There are many questions one would like to ask and many things are still not certain. But in fact at that stage one doesn’t really need to ask questions at all, perhaps one simply needs an external person to say that it is so, although the answer is already in one. The question is like the first layer, like the skin of an onion, and when you remove it the answer is there. This is what the great logician and philosopher of Buddhism, Asanga, described as “the intuitive mind.” In the intuitive mind, if one studies true logic, one finds that the answers—and the opponent’s attitude—are in us. So we don’t have to search for the answer, because the question contains the answer in it. It is a matter of going into it in depth; that is the true meaning of logic. At this stage one has reached a kind of feeling; the imagination becomes a kind of feeling. And with that feeling it is as though one has reached the entrance hall.

Transmission

S
O AFTER ALL
your preparation you are finally ready to give birth to bodhi. And the next thing you have to do is to go to a guru, a teacher, and ask him to show you the awakened state—as if he possessed your wealth. It is as though someone else possesses your own belongings and you are asking him to give them back to you. Well, that is what it is in fact, but one has to go through the kind of ritual of it. When you have asked him, the teacher will instruct. That is what is known as transmission. The term
transmission
or
abhisheka
is used particularly in the vajrayana teachings and the teachings of Buddhist yoga. It is used a great deal in the Tibetan tradition and also in the Zen tradition. Transmission does not mean that the teacher is imparting his knowledge or his discovery to you—that would be impossible; even Buddha could not do so. But the whole point is that we stop collecting any more things, and we just manage to empty out whatever we have. And to avoid collecting any more, to avoid charging up the ego, it is necessary to ask some external person to give something, so that you feel that something is given to you. Then you don’t regard it as your wealth which he is giving back to you, but as something very precious of his. So one must also be very grateful to the teacher. And that is a great protection against the ego, since you do not look on it as something discovered within yourself, but as something which someone else has given you. He gives you this gift; although in reality the transmission is not, as we said, something given to you, it is simply discovered within oneself. All the teacher can do is to create the situation. He will create the right situation and because of this situation and environment the pupil’s mind will also be in the right state, because he is already there. It is like going to the theater: Things are already built up for you—the seats and the stage and so on—so even by the very fact of going into it one feels automatically that one is taking part in some particular event. Whenever we go into a place or participate in something we become a part of it because the environment is already created. In the case of transmission the situation may be rather different, but nevertheless, there is still a certain environment. The teacher may not use words at all, or perhaps he goes to great lengths to explain the subject, or he may perform a ceremony of some kind, or else he may do something quite ridiculous.

There is the story of Naropa, the great Indian pandit, the maha pandita, or great pandit, in the University of Nalanda. He was one of the four great pandits at that particular period of Buddhist history; he was known as
the
great pandit in India—in the whole of the world for that matter. He could recite all the sacred scriptures by heart and he knew all the philosophy and everything, but he was not satisfied with himself because he was merely giving out what he had learned, but he never really learned the depths of it. So one day as he was walking on the balcony of the university he heard a group of beggars talking by the main entrance. He heard them saying that there was a great yogi called Tilopa, and when he heard this name he was quite sure that this was the right guru for him, so he decided to go in search of him. He gave gifts of food to these people and asked them where Tilopa lived. They told him where to go. But even so it took him about twelve months of searching. Each time he thought he had found the right place he was told to go somewhere else. And finally he came to a little fishing village and he asked for the great yogi Tilopa. One of the fishermen said, “Well, I don’t know about a ‘great yogi,’ but there is a Tilopa who lives down by the river. He is very lazy and doesn’t even fish, and he just lives on what the fishermen throw away—the heads and the entrails of the fish and all that.” Naropa followed his directions. But when he came to the place all he saw was a beggar, a very mild-looking character, who appeared to be unable even to speak. However, he prostrated and asked him for teaching. For three days Tilopa said nothing, but finally he nodded his head. Naropa took that to mean that he accepted him as his disciple. Then Tilopa said, “Follow me,” so he followed him for twelve long years and underwent many hardships and difficulties during that time. On one particular occasion Tilopa said he was very hungry. (I mention this because it is all part of transmission. You see, he was creating the right environment.) So he asked him to find some food. Now, Naropa was a very refined person—he was born in a Brahmin family—but he had to lead this kind of life, following the example of Tilopa. So he went to a village where they were having a wedding feast, or a special feast of some kind, and first he tried to beg, but it was forbidden to beg on that particular feast day. He crept into the kitchen and stole a bowl of soup and ran away and gave it to his guru. Tilopa seemed very pleased. In fact it was the first time Naropa had ever seen such a wonderful smiling expression on his face. He thought, “Well, this is wonderful. I think I’ll go and fetch a second bowl.” Tilopa expressed his approval and said he would like another bowl. But this time they caught Naropa and beat him and broke all his legs and arms and left him lying on the ground, half dead. A few days later Tilopa came up and said, “Well, what’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you come back?” He seemed rather angry. So Naropa said, “I’m dying.” But his guru said, “Get up! You’re not dying, and you still have to follow me for several years yet.” And he got up and felt all right, and in fact nothing was wrong.

On another occasion they came to a deep canal which was infested with leeches. Tilopa said he wanted to cross over and asked Naropa to lie down across the canal to act as a bridge. So he lay down in the water. And when Tilopa had walked over him, Naropa found that his body was covered with hundreds of leeches, and he was again left lying there for several days. Things like this happened all the time, until finally, in the last month of the twelfth year, Tilopa was sitting with him one day and suddenly took off his sandal and hit him in the face with it. At that very moment the teachings of mahamudra, which means “the great symbol,” came like a flash into Naropa’s mind and he attained realization. After that, there was a great feast, and Tilopa told him, “That is all I can show you. All my teachings have now been transmitted to you. In the future, if anyone wants to follow the path of mahamudra, he must learn and receive instructions from Naropa. Naropa is like a second king after me.” Only after that did Tilopa explain the teachings to him in detail.

So, that is one example of transmission. Of course in those days people were more patient and could afford to spend such a long time and were also prepared to do so. But the idea is not that Naropa received the teaching only at the moment when the shoe hit his head; the process was going on all the time during those twelve long years that he spent with his teacher. All these difficulties and different stages that he went through were part of the transmission. It is a question of building up and creating the atmosphere. In the same way certain ceremonies of transmission, abhisheka ceremonies, are part of a process of creating an environment, which includes the room and the person and the very fact of saying, “In three days’ time I will instruct you, and the transmission will take place then.” In this way the disciple will mentally open himself. And when he has opened himself the teacher will say a few words, which probably do not mean very much. Or perhaps he will not say anything. The important thing is to create the right situation both on the teacher’s part and on the pupil’s part. And when the right situation is created then suddenly the teacher and pupil are not there anymore. The teacher acts as one entrance and the pupil acts as another, and when both doors are open there is a complete emptiness, a complete oneness between the two. This is what is known in Zen terminology as “the meeting of two minds.” When one has finally solved the last koan, both are silent. The Zen master wouldn’t say, “You are right” or “Now you’ve got it.” He stops. And the pupil just stops. And there is a moment of silence. That is transmission—creating the right situation—that is as much as an external guru can do. It is also as much as you can do. Transmission is merely opening up on both sides, opening the whole thing. One opens oneself completely in such a way that, although it may only be for a few seconds, it somehow means a great deal. That doesn’t mean one has reached enlightenment, but one has had a glimpse of what reality is. And this is not particularly exciting or startling, it is not necessarily a very moving experience. Something just opens, there is a kind of flash, and that’s all. Although one sees it described in books as “great bliss” or “mahamudra” or “the awakened state of mind” or “satori”—all sorts of titles and names are given. But somehow the actual moment is very simple, very direct. It is merely a meeting of two minds. Two minds become one.