Tibetan Library — refuge & healing ground

 

The Library of Tibetan Works & Archives was a doorway for thousands of Westerners into Tibetan Buddhism. Begun in 1970 to house scriptures brought by refugees from Chinese-occupied Tibet, it also became the venue for daily classes on Tibetan Buddhism for non-Tibetans. Its first teacher was Geshe Ngawang Dhargyey, and its first students a motley crew of backpackers, hippies and spiritual seekers who either stumbled into or were drawn to the cool heights of Dharamsala in North-West India.

The following story is from an early draft of Schettini’s memoir, The Novice.

Dharamsala, 1974: Buddhist philosophy was interesting, but the Geshe was my special focus of attention. With a twinkle in his eye, he welcomed – actually relished – questions; this was a far cry from my old Catholic teachers who told me repeatedly how I should be but never hinted at how to get that way.

Stories of spiritual mentoring had enthralled me for years. I’d read about the Zen masters who used crazy ruses to trick disciples into sudden insights, and of Carlos Casteneda’s Don Juan, who used sorcery to catapault his students into new planes of existence. True, Tibetan Buddhism was a deeply institutionalized, ancient tradition, but it was one in which I still hoped to receive the spontaneous instruction of a personal mentor.

England had felt like a trap to me. Middle-class nicieties hid their trivial pretensions under layers of pointless sophistication; I wanted none of it. How to escape, though? My self-directed searching had led me into various dead ends: communism, hippydom, drugs and, all too recently, on-the-road oblivion. Each had been worse then the previous one. Simply rejecting my past wasn’t enough; I needed direction.

Geshe started with a brief prayer, and the interpreter said, “Today, Geshe will talk about the two types of truth – relative and ultimate.”

Wasn’t that exactly what I needed? My breaks with Catholicism, Communism and counter-culture had left me in a relativist haze. I missed the simple security of believing in something, but I couldn’t just decide to believe.

Geshe immediately tapped in to my dilemma, saying that no system of thought was ultimately true, and that the only measure of its worth was to live it and see. This was a philosophy I could embrace without losing self-respect. In fact, Geshe Dhargyey’s presence was in itself a key to regaining it.

“The two truths are conventional” Geshe looked around, “and ultimate. Conventional truth is used to name things, but ultimate truth cannot do that.” He shook his head. “Is that clear?”

There was a knowing chuckle from the front row.

“This is very difficult. Don’t be discouraged if it’s unclear. Ultimate truth cannot be discussed because it is not an idea or an opinion. It is direct insight into the true nature of things, and their nature is empty of inherent existence.”

This seemed clear enough for anyone who’d ever experienced existential angst. However, Geshe spent the next few minutes stressing how we couldn’t possibly understand.

 

 

Geshe Ngawang Dhargyey, 1974
© Fred von Allmen; by kind permission

 

Geshe Ngawang Dhargyey with students in front of
the Library Doors, 1978 (courtesy, Felicity Gendun)

 

“Because we deal with conventional truths most of the time we think they exist in themselves, independent of everything else, but this is a mistake. All things are impermanent; they have causes, and can be broken into different parts. They are not independent. For example, a vase is made by a potter, using clay, and has a bottom, and a neck and a handle. If we look for the vase itself – the essence of the vase – we cannot find it in the bottom, or the neck or the handle. It is not even in the clay. And if we smash the vase, there is no more vase, even though all the pieces are there. This is how we meditate on ultimate truth – by looking for the inherent existence of things.” Geshe grinned again and looked around the room expectantly.

A girl in the front row put up a hand. “But what’s the point of looking for something that’s not there?”

Geshe slapped his thigh. Clearly, this was the question he wanted. “You only think it’s not there because I told you – because Lord Buddha says so. This is conventional truth. It’s only ultimate when you realize it yourself.”

“But I do.”

Geshe roared with laughter. “If you understand it, why are you confused?”

The girl was silent, clearly stymied. To her credit, she didn’t seem embarrassed.

“You see?” Geshe continued seriously, “I said it was difficult! Even if we understand the idea of emptiness, the deluded mind continues to believe in inherent existence. This mind is the root of all suffering. Because of it – especially because we act as if the ‘I’ exists inherently – we develop attachment to things we want and aversion to things we don’t want; our cravings bind us to cyclic existence.”

Some students were scribbling furiously in their notebooks. I thought I’d got it, but once again I checked myself. How could I understand after just one class? Surely I needed to take notes too?

I wished an interpreter wasn’t necessary and drifted off for a while as I wondered what it would be like to talk with Geshe one-on-one.

Geshe spent the remainder of the hour going over the notions of ‘I’ and ‘mine,’ using various analogies. As we bowed and watched him leave the room I knew something had happened. This class hadn’t answered my questions about life – it was even better. If I stuck around here for a while, I’d learn to reformulate them.

I knew my actions had a life of their own and mistrusted my idealism. You don’t change yourself by just picking up new ideas. There’s a lifetime’s difference between knowing something and living it.

I went back to my room, sat on the cot with crossed legs, closed my eyes and tried to concentrate – but on what? I had no idea what I was doing. I recognized the junk in my head and was desperate to do something about it, but what?

I got up and wandered outside again. The young interpreter stood at the door of the library, smilingly answering students’ questions, eyes darting left and right for an escape. He was uttering long polysyllabic phrases in Sanskrit and English. The Tibetan words seemed very small, often just one or two guttural sounds. I noticed how animated the Westerners were, and how casual the interpreter.

A young Englishman who’d been in the classes too stood near me on the long balcony, looking across at them in disgust. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“What?” I asked.

“Talking about it,” he said. “You’re supposed to do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Mindfulness,” he answered. “Meditation’s got nothing to do with thinking – it’s more mental chatter. It’s all got to go.”

That was what I felt. “Mmm,” I said. “I guess so.” And yet, I was deeply attracted to what I’d just heard. Was it really just more ideas? Could this venerable Tibetan teacher be mistaken? It seemed unlikely. I remembered his deep, confident laughter.

“So what exactly do you want?” I turned to my companion, but he’d gone. I was talking to myself.