The Buddha Visits My Town

"The Buddha visits my town. He is a great disappointment. He doesn't talk about Dukkha, Anicca, or the Four Noble Truths. He doesn't make us sit in the lotus chanting the Heart Sutra. No robes. No glamorous antiquated flower offerings. And his name isn't "Buddha." It's Raymond something. Feldman, I think.

He invites us to a gathering in a dilapidated rancher with moss on the roof. But it has a large living room and the hippie elder who lives there is kind. We sit silently for fifteen minutes and, since nothing happens, we get restless. Then Raymond the Buddha says, "Let's cut the bullshit. None of you are really happy. You try hard, but its all pretend. Right?"

No one replies.

Then he says, "If you want a workshop in Calling Your Guardian Angels, or Egyptian Wisdom Of Your Past Lives, or Using the Law of Attraction for Abundance, then go somewhere else."

Looking at our iWatches, half of us leave.

Fifteen more minutes of quiet sitting. Then he says, "I'm not here to discuss your tribal politics either. If you want to blame the rich for the problems of the poor, or blame one skin color for the problems of another, or blame the military, blame the media, blame the cartels, then go on a peace march, though you won't find much peace there. Because blame only isolates the mind, and the more you blame, the lonelier and more desperate you become."

About half the remaining people snort indignantly and leave. The ruffled atmosphere settles down into a deeper silence. He says, "I'll level with you. None of that stuff interests me, because none of it makes anyone free. I'm only here to discuss one thing: how to be free. Right now."

More silence. Finally someone says, "Sir, are we supposed to be doing something?"

"No," replies Raymond. A few more people walk out. A few remain. The silence gets thick and gold, like honey.

"Who can add one moment to life by worrying about it?" Raymond asks. "So let's just sit in no particular posture and savor this breath."

More quiet time goes by. Or maybe the time doesn't go by; maybe it just stays here like an ever-expanding zero, a pond reflecting the stars. After a few more minutes he says, "Watch this breath entering your nostrils, your throat, your chest. Is it you who makes this breath happen? Did you create your breath?" Silence... "Your breath is a gift," he says. "What did you do to deserve it? Nothing. Notice this, and be thankful." Silence...

"Now perhaps your mind is trying to do something. Just observe how that is. See the humor and absurdity of it. Then come home to your breath. Don't take a breathe, receive it."

Over the next ten minutes, most of the remaining guests leave. A few remain, and they have joy on their faces. Raymond says, "Receive this breath, and when you exhale, offer gratitude. This is worship." Maybe twelve are left, a remnant. None of them are scholars.

Raymond Feldman the Buddha says, "I'm not telling you, believe in the light. I'm not telling you, go and serve the light. I'm telling you, you are the light. But the light only shines when you embrace the darkness, without resisting anything. You are the darkness too, and darkness is the womb of light." No one departs.

"And when you leave here, know that you're not leaving. Wherever you go, work softly at your work. Let your breath touch other hearts in silence. The world is not transformed by your thinking. The world is not transformed by your doing. This world is transformed by your Being."

Raymond stands up. He is dressed in a ragged golf shirt, blue genes, and sneakers. Yet his presence is like a sunlit cloud on a mountain. Flowing like a river, he moves quietly around the room. Ever so gently, he touches each person with two fingers.

Some he touches between the eyebrows. We barely feel it on our skin. But inside, a cool breeze of emptiness. Others he touches on the chest, soft as a feather. Between heartbeats, we sink through an abyss of stillness into the golden void. Some he touches on top of the head. It feels like a drop of dew, melting into the vast sky.

With this touch, you hear the voices of all the flowers on earth as they open in the morning. With this touch, you see ten thousand golden suns silently birthed from a black hole at the center of the galaxy, and the galaxy is whirling in your body, right between your nipples. With this touch, you taste the inebriating nectar of clarity, and fall into the groundless beauty that you Are.