The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume Three: 3 (60 page)

It seems that the important thing is the level of our own commitment—the extent to which we are willing to be embarrassed and humiliated through acknowledging our chaos, our confusion, our desire and grasping. We cannot work with these fixations if we do not acknowledge them and accept their existence. The more we accept them, the more we are able to let go of them. To that extent the guru is able to relate to us as the spokesman and ambassador of enlightenment.

The vajra master is like a master samurai instructing a novice. He trains us and encourages us to leap and take chances. He teaches us to cut through our hesitations. The appropriate way for us to relate to him is with simple, naked trust, without hope and fear. Our actual experiences of such trust may be momentary, but it is necessary at least to develop the right intellectual attitude toward trusting. Even though we may be unable to open completely, at least through understanding on the intellectual level we have the willingness to open, which is very important.

In fact, intellect plays a very important part in the process of opening. What we are referring to as intellect here is quite different from the ordinary notion of intellect as a faculty of philosophical speculation. Intellect in this case is clear seeing, real precision. Often when that precision arises fleetingly we try to sustain or recapture it, but it just fades away. It is necessary to work with that glimpse of precision, because it is what enables us to see the need for openness, but we must do so without trying to capture it. When such a glimpse of precision arises, we should disown it rather than trying to hang on to it or recreate it. Then at some point we start to develop confidence in ourselves; we develop confidence that such intellect is ours rather than a foreign element that we are introducing into our systems. It was not given to us from the outside, but was awakened within us. It will arise spontaneously, without being manipulated into place. That kind of awakening, that glimpse of intellectual understanding, is of great importance.

In many cases a glimpse of openness and precision brings unexpected fear. There may be a sense of being lost or exposed, a sense of vulnerability. That is simply a sign that ego is losing its grip on its territory; it is not a fundamental threat. The concept of threat only makes sense in relation to ego. If we have something to lose we feel threatened, and what we have to lose is our dear life, our ego. But if we have nothing to lose we cannot be threatened. The feeling of threat is a great stepping-stone, for it is the working basis for development. In fact, the student of tantra should be in a constant state of panic. Only then is his or her situation regarded as worthwhile. Such a state of panic serves two purposes: it overcomes the student’s smugness and complacency, and it sharpens his clarity.

It has been said by the Tibetan master Pema Karpo and other great teachers that studying tantra is like riding on a razor. Finding we are on a razor’s edge, we do not know whether we should try to slide down or try to freeze and stay put. If we only knew how to slide down a razor we might do it as easily as a child slides down a banister. If we knew the nature of the blade we could do so. But if we do not know the nature of the blade and are just trying to prove ourselves, we might find ourselves sliced in half.

As I have said, warnings that alert the student to his actual situation are very important. The more warnings that are made about tantra, the more the student benefits. When the tantric master does not give enough warnings the student becomes a bad tantra student because he is not riding on the edge of a razor.

When students first hear about vajrayana, they may find it very fascinating. There are all kinds of exciting stories and possibilities, which become extremely seductive and appealing. Since the tantric approach is supposedly the quick path, students might think they should stop wasting time; they might feel they should get their money’s worth and become enlightened as quickly as possible. Not only are they impatient but they are also cowardly: they do not want to have any pain or difficulties. Such students are not willing to open and expose themselves. They are not willing to face the successive panics that we are talking about. Actually, the panic is the source of openness, the source of questioning; it is the source of opening one’s heart.

Usually when we panic we take a gasp of air, and that creates enormous freshness. That is what the tantric tradition is supposed to do. So if we are good tantric students we open ourselves each moment: we panic a thousand times a day, a hundred and eight times an hour. We are open constantly; we panic constantly. Thus the tantric approach to the world means refreshing our contact, reopening ourselves constantly so that we are able to perceive our cosmos properly and thoroughly. That sounds great, enormously promising, but there is a catch. Once we are in a position to be fascinated by the world, this naked world without a filter or screen, we too are naked. We are relating to the world without even any skin to protect our bodies. Experience becomes so intimate and so personal that it actually burns us or freezes us directly. We may become extremely sensitive and jumpy. It is possible that as we panic more, we may react more intensely. Experience becomes so direct and magical that it gives a direct shock. It is not like sitting back in a theater seat and being entertained by the fabulous world happening on the screen. It does not work that way. Instead it works mutually: to the extent that the naked world is uncovered, we too must be willing to expose ourselves.

Therefore tantra is very dangerous. It is electric. In addition to the naked electricity of ourselves and our world there is the vajra master, the teacher who introduces the possibilities of the true world to us. The teacher has the same electricity; the teacher is also naked. Traditionally he holds in his hand the symbol of a thunderbolt, which is called a
dorje
, or
vajra
. With this vajra, if we and the cosmos are not connecting, the teacher can reignite the shock.

In this sense, the teacher has a lot of power, but not power
over
us in the manner of an egomaniac. As always, the teacher is a spokesperson of reality; he introduces us to our world. So the vajra master becomes extremely powerful and somewhat dangerous at this point. But he does not use this power simply to play tricks on us whenever he sees a weak point; he conducts his movements in a disciplined manner, according to the tradition. He touches us, he smells us, he looks at us, and he listens to our heartbeat. These processes are known as abhishekas.

Abhisheka
is a Sanskrit word which literally means “anointment.” We are bathed in holy water that is created by the master and the mandala around the master. Abhishekas are popularly known as “initiations,” but that is actually a weak translation. The notion of abhisheka is different from a tribal initiation or rite of passage where we are accepted as a member of the tribe if we pass certain kinds of tests. It is entirely different. Our teacher’s empowering us and our receiving the power depends both on our capability and the teacher’s capability. The term
empowerment
is more appropriate than
initiation
because there is no tribe into which to be initiated. In other words, abhisheka does not mean being accepted into a closed circle; rather we are introduced into the universe. We cannot say the universe is a big tribe or that it is a big ego. It is just open space. The teacher empowers us so that we can enter our enlarged universe.

The teacher is the only embodiment of power in this transmission of energy. Without the teacher we cannot experience this properly, fully. And the only way to relate to such a teacher is through devotion. Devotion proceeds through various stages of unmasking until we reach the point of seeing the world directly and simply, without imposing our fabrications. This is called basic sanity. Devotion is a way of bringing us down to earth and of enabling us to develop this basic sanity through the challenges constantly presented by our relationship to our master.

We have to start out very simply. We have to give; we have to open up and display our ego; we have to present our ego as a gift to our spiritual friend. If we are unable to do that, then the path never begins because there is no working basis; there is nobody to walk on it.

Based on “The True Meaning of Devotion,” Barnet, Vermont, 1973.

Part Two

STAGES ON THE PATH

FIVE

Taking Refuge

“Becoming a refugee is acknowledging that we are groundless, and it is acknowledging that there is really no need for home, or ground. Taking refuge is an expression of freedom, because as refugees we are no longer bounded by the need for security. We are suspended in a no-man’s-land in which the only thing to do is to relate with the teachings and with ourselves.”

B
ECOMING A
R
EFUGEE

I
N THE BUDDHIST TRADITION
, the purpose of taking refuge is to awaken from confusion and associate oneself with wakefulness. Taking refuge is a matter of commitment and acceptance and, at the same time, of openness and freedom. By taking the refuge vow we commit ourselves to freedom.

There is a general tendency to be involved in all kinds of fascinations and delusions, and nothing very much ever takes root in one’s basic being. Everything in one’s life experience, concerning spirituality or anything else, is purely a matter of shopping. Our lives consist of problems of pain, problems of pleasure, problems of points of view—problems about all kinds of alternatives—which make our existence complicated. We have allegiance to “that” and allegiance to “this.” There are hundreds and millions of choices involved in our lives—particularly in regard to our sense of discipline, our ethics, and our spiritual path. People are very confused in this chaotic world about what is really the right thing to do. There are all kinds of rationales, taken from all kinds of traditions and philosophies. We may try to combine all of them together; sometimes they conflict, sometimes they work together harmoniously. But we are constantly shopping, and that is actually the basic problem.

It is not so much that there is something wrong with the traditions that exist around us; the difficulty is more our own personal conflict arising from wanting to have and to be the best. When we take refuge we give up some sense of seeing ourselves as the good citizen or as the hero of a success story. We might have to give up our past; we might have to give up our potential future. By taking this particular vow, we end our shopping in the spiritual supermarket. We decide to stick to a particular brand for the rest of our lives. We choose to stick to a particular staple diet and flourish on it.

When we take refuge we commit ourselves to the Buddhist path. This is not only a simple but also an extremely economical approach. Henceforth we will be on the particular path that was strategized, designed, and well thought out twenty-five hundred years ago by the Buddha and the followers of his teaching. There is already a pattern and a tradition; there is already a discipline. We no longer have to run after that person or this person. We no longer have to compare our lifestyle with anybody else’s. Once we take this step, we have no alternatives; there is no longer the entertainment of indulging in so-called freedom. We take a definite vow to enter a discipline of choicelessness—which saves us a lot of money, a lot of energy, and lots and lots of superfluous thinking.

Perhaps this approach may seem repressive, but it is really based on a sympathetic attitude toward our situation. To work on ourselves is really only possible when there are no sidetracks, no exits. Usually we tend to look for solutions from something new, something outside: a change in society or politics, a new diet, a new theory. Or else we are always finding new things to blame our problems on, such as relationships, society, what have you. Working on oneself, without such exits or sidetracks, is the Buddhist path. We begin with the hinayana approach—the narrow path of simplicity and boredom.

By taking refuge, in some sense we become homeless refugees. Taking refuge does not mean saying that we are helpless and then handing all our problems over to somebody or something else. There will be no refugee rations, nor all kinds of security and dedicated help. The point of becoming a refugee is to give up our attachment to basic security. We have to give up our sense of home ground, which is illusory anyway. We might have a sense of home ground as where we were born and the way we look, but we don’t actually have any home, fundamentally speaking. There is actually no solid basis of security in one’s life. And because we don’t have any home ground, we are lost souls, so to speak. Basically we are completely lost and confused and, in some sense, pathetic.

These are the particular problems that provide the reference point from which we build the sense of becoming a Buddhist. Relating to being lost and confused, we are more open. We begin to see that in seeking security we can’t grasp on to anything; everything continually washes out and becomes shaky, constantly, all the time. And that is what is called life.

So becoming a refugee is acknowledging that we are homeless and groundless, and it is acknowledging that there is really no need for home, or ground. Taking refuge is an expression of freedom, because as refugees we are no longer bounded by the need for security. We are suspended in a no-man’s-land in which the only thing to do is to relate with the teachings and with ourselves.

The refuge ceremony represents a final decision. Acknowledging that the only real working basis is oneself and that there is no way around that, one takes refuge in the Buddha as an example, in the dharma as the path, and in the sangha as companionship. Nevertheless, it is a total commitment to oneself. The ceremony cuts the line that connects the ship to the anchor; it marks the beginning of an odyssey of loneliness. Still, it also includes the inspiration of the preceptor—in this case myself—and his lineage. The participation of the preceptor is a kind of guarantee that you will not be getting back into the question of security as such, that you will continue to acknowledge your aloneness and work on yourself without leaning on anyone. Finally you become a real person, standing on your own feet. At that point, everything starts with you.