The events of this past summer -- being essentially housebound for nearly two months due to bunion surgery; the six-week tragedy of the kittens and its emotional aftermath; just a general sense of increased stress and irritation with politics, certain aspects of our culture, things at work -- certainly provided the immediate motivation, but the idea was not by any means a bolt from the blue.
Being born at the tail-end of the Baby Boom, I'm not quite a child of the 60s, but I certainly was a child during the sixties, when Eastern religions entered our popular culture, and a teen and young adult during the 70s, when they became more mainstream, and an adult during the popular resurgence in the 90s as part of the New Age movement.
I dabbled in yoga a bit during the 70s, from books and occasionally along with Lilias, then picked it back up again the late 90s in grad school, using a videocassette, but always for the physical benefits, not the mental. I'd turn the tape off when corpse pose began, having no use for "touchy-feely artsy-fartsy New Age claptrap" (still don't, for that matter). I was in my mid-40s at that point, and frankly too self-conscious to go to any of the courses filled with nubile and flexible undergrads at the university rec center, but I also had no patience with the obvious New Age encroachments.
I read Joseph Campbells' "Hero with a thousand faces" when it hit the best seller lists in the 90s, and later watched the Bill Moyers' series on PBS. I even bought the book and the CDs. Besides providing a new, non-religious way to look at culture and religion, Campbell also presented a different version of Buddhism than I had picked up from pop culture, and one that distinguished between Hinduism and Buddhism -- and the Hare Krishna, transcendentalists, and other, generic gurus and yogis.
My religious and philosophical journey is too long to go into now; what is important is to note that once I began working on my ph.d. at UCLA in 1996, it was more or less put on hold. I had no need for it. School was my religion. It gave meaning and structure and purpose to my life. Those who have earned a ph.d. know that the process becomes your entire life; you socialize almost entirely with your fellow students; you work as a research assistant; you arrive on campus before breakfast and leave when it's bedtime.
You have to make a real effort to carve out some time for something not associated with your program or your school. In my case, it was weekly voice lessons and volunteering for the National Park Service. Even summer vacations became research trips. The upshot being that there is not a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life; that's not to say that such ideas don't cross your mind, but you generally push them aside to be dealt with "later."
Oh, yes, there are various personal and emotional crises, times of discouragement and depression, distractions and obsessions, but none of them is allowed to supplant the primary goal of earning that ph.d. They are just temporary detours that are necessary in order to recharge or to re-evaluate and re-focus. I thought about dropping out probably once a year or so, but I was always aware that I was really just throwing a tantrum -- except after 9/11, but that's a story for another time.
Then there were the two years of searching for a faculty position, while trying to keep body and soul together with a variety of temporary and part-time jobs. And then getting the job, buying a house, meeting Mike and getting engaged, moving to Baton Rouge from LA, adjusting to being a genuine, full-time, tenure-track faculty member, and getting married. I felt like I was on a speeding train that was constantly threatening to fly off the tracks!
I suspect that it was somewhere around my third year here, when my personal and professional life felt more settled and familiar that I started to really pay attention to the nagging existential angst that was always lurking somewhere underneath it all. I took stock and realized that, somewhere along the line, I had stopped believing in any supernatural power of any kind, but that, at the same time, I need some kind of objective, external philosophy to provide ethical touchstones, as it were.
The danger of creating your own, individual, unique philosophy is that you begin to justify and rationalize and even perhaps worship your own selfish needs and desires as ethical principles and as moral values. It's subtle and it's seductive, but it's also inevitable. You become your own god without some other person or community to occasionally kick you in the pants and remind you that you're human and fallible.
So, I looked at the Unitarians, and while their philosophy does include many of the core ethical principles that I feel are necessary, their emphasis on worship, spirituality and theology doesn't feel right for me. The minister has written several letters to the editor, and while I agree in principle, I find his language too overtly religious with its emphasis on a supernatural being and on Western scripture.
I also looked at yoga as a discpline, not just exercise. I read about the practice and checked out the websites of the various yoga studios. To be honest, I was put off by the photos of young, thin, attractive, flexible practitioners in impossible poses. And by the incursion of New Age thinking and practice; I have no desire to "sweat, laugh, chant and dance" or to channel any energies. And, frankly, by the price ($100/month? I think not). I'll stick with my DVDs for the time being. (This week, I discovered another studio, led by a member of Tam Bao; I am favorably impressed, so -- we'll see.)
I'm not sure at what point I started to think seriously about Buddhist meditation. As I say, I've always been aware of it. The Baton Rouge paper has run articles about the local Buddhist temple, so I've known that it is here. The Dalai Lama was in New Orleans earlier this year; the Saturday religion section frequently includes an article on Buddhism. My guess is that it was just a natural progression, as I eliminated other alternatives.
Not exactly the spiritual awakening that others report. And I would not, at this point, describe myself as a "Buddhist." I don't accept the doctrine of rebirth and I'm not convinced that what has been preserved and transmitted about the Buddha and his teachings is factual, other than the most general outline. I don't see that either one matters. If rebirth and karma are real, my not believing in them won't change that, and I do not have to believe in order to live a mindful and compassionate life. I would go so far as to say that living a mindful and compassionate life without the carrot and stick of karma could be considered more enlightened (maybe I need a swift kick?).
The story of the Buddha has power regardless of whether it is factual. The supernatural elements do not add to that power, and in fact, detract from it, as it creates a chasm between the Buddha and the average person. They also increase the danger that the Buddha will become an object of religious worship, rather than respect and veneration.
What matters about dharma is that it has been demonstrated to be useful and effective. The sutras teach abiding principles that have been distilled over the centuries, regardless of who first expounded them. They are part of a coherent system of belief and behavior that leads to individual and social improvement. And studying them also provides intellectual satisfaction.
As for rituals -- well, I enjoy a good ritual and I enjoy good theater. I recognize the power of signs and symbols. As long as I'm not expected to take them at face value and to accept their putative explanations, I can join in. All except prostration, for the time being.
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