“We arewhat we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With ourthoughts we make the world. Speak or act with an impure mind and troublewill follow you as the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart.” - fromThe Dhammapada (trans. Thomas Byrom).
My sky has lately beencrowded by angry Buddhist birds, blocking out thesun. Has anyone else noticed them?
I’d like to say that I’ve been “working on” resolving my own anger for years, but it would be more correct to say that my angerhas been working on me. I use it in my line of work (frankly, it’s an indispensible component of lawyering), but I know it diminishes me becausewhen I’m angry I’m one-dimensional, merely a tool, someone's means to an end.
I’m not a Buddhist, although I used to carry a copy of ThomasByrom’s translation of the Dhammapada (Sayings of the Buddha) with me everywhere and I found its words and thoughts inspiringand helpful. Their quiet strength also fit well into and supplemented myQuaker beliefs, which have been my focus (to the extent I have any) for a longtime.
Years ago, before we became members of our Quaker Meeting andwere merely “attenders,” I remember a funny moment during post-Meeting forWorship announcements when one member said that we had received a letter fromanother church group who asked if they might come and observe us one Sundaybecause they were experiencing discord at their church and they knew thatpeaceful Quakers “had it all together.” We weren’t exactlythe most harmonious bunch at that point, but still it was a good group ofmature people with some self-knowledge who basically liked each other and weremostly there for the same reasons. The laughter that greeted that missivebubbled up slowly and was wonderful to share. So was (and still is)the New Yorker-style cartoon posted in the Meeting’s fellowship room that says:“I am aQuaker. In an emergency, Please be silent.”
The most important use I made of the Dhammapada happened a little over ten years ago during a business tripthat, at the time I departed New York for Los Angeles, I strongly suspectedwould result in the company division I worked for being closed down. Based on events that were completely outside of my control, I knew that thiswas inevitable, but I also knew thatthey would find a way to make the ending as unpleasant as possible.
I wasn’t disappointedon that score when the call finally came saying that a meeting had beenscheduled in my boss’s office for 10 am the following morning, with no agendabeing specified. I read from the Dhammapada (and probably alsofrom the Bible; sections of the Sermon on the Mount come to mind) before themeeting and reminded myself not to allow myself tobecome angry no matter what was said, because when you’re angry you’re onlyangry – you can’t really think, react and plan with any craft or precision andyou become totally disabled.
My boss was astunningly beautiful, intelligent and well-spoken Amerasian woman with a nicesmile and excellent fashion sense who was completely out of her depth in her industry and executive position. Fortunately forher (for a while at least), she had been promoted to run an enterprise that was“too big to fail” in its sector, which produced the illusion that her listingship was in better shape than it was.
Her office oncebelonged to a former boss of mine who decorated it in Italian Stallion Moderne, but it was now transformed into a sortof contempo L.A. Buddhist shrine (this lady had nowbecome, as a result of marriage and trendiness, an early vocal exponent of “Judaism-Buddhism” or “Jew-Bu,” as I’ve seen itreferred to on Facebook), complete with bonsai plantings, cream-coloredornamental screens, flowing water sounds and bookshelves filled with art booksand novels. (I really wanted to ask her whether she found much time fornovel-reading at work, but stifled the urge.)
The end came quickly and was as ugly as I thought it wouldbe. As the axe descended, I was reminded of the Monty Python skit about the architect who could only design abattoirs and was alwaysthinking in terms of rotating blades, sluices and drainage. But I didn’t getangry and that was helpful at the time. (Later, I must admit, I becamequite angry at times about the events, which was as disabling as it always is.) Yet as awful as things were for me, when it was over I realizedthat I was wounded but still living,diminished but not finished. Meanwhile back in the bonsai aviary, my angry Buddhist bird was undoubtedly flapping and pecking away, cruelly strippingflesh from the next victim’s carcass.
Now, this was a lone bird. Years passed before the sky darkened, as it has now, withactual flocks of them. These covens seem locked in the collective belief that the path to heaven (clearly they assume one exists) isthat which is paved with goodintentions only, and that all manner of destructive behavior, violent acts andcruel speech can be spiritually remediatedbytacking a Buddhist coda to carnage’s end.
As Homey the Clown used to put it so well, “I don’t Think so.”
NOTE: For anyone who has had the patience and kindness to read thisfar, this excerpt (link) from Thitch Nhat Hahn’s Being Peace might interest you.
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