The Dhamma Hall in Woodstock’s Blue Lotus Temple is nearly silent. It calls for silence.
One steps in without their shoes – socks are permitted, bare feet are recommended – and is all at once taken aback by the swell of quietude and peace. A massive white statue of the Buddha sits at the back of the hall. His venerableness is commanding yet serene, intimidating yet inviting.
Stained glass windows of Jesus Christ allow for painted sunlight to dapple the warm meditation mats and the whole place drowns in the aromatic sweetness of incense. Silence, not a single sound. Sure, the managers of the temple whisper in their offices, and the intersection of Dean and South roars with passing cars, but these are but fleeting noises. There is another sound one comes into awareness of upon entering the temple. A strange sound, familiar, yet somehow buried, and grand.
For newcomers, this can all feel very serious.
“How are you today?” I ask the Sangha Patron and Abbot, Bhante Sujatha.
He is adorned in a magenta robe. He is thin, restful, not a single wrinkle can be found on the clear expression of his face. But it is his smile that most arrests those who have the pleasure of making his company. Teeth white, effortless, there is no strain in his forehead or cheeks when he answers.
“I am happy.”
The smile floats by like a cloud, tranquil, complete, pleased in just hanging there for however long. Any trepidations one may have felt at entering such a holy place immediately fly out the stained-glass doors. You are in the presence of a Buddhist monk.
Buddhism began roughly 2500 years ago. It is a spiritual practice and way of life. The originator of this lifestyle, Siddhartha Gautama (more commonly referred to as the Buddha), is one whose life is known mostly through legend.
Born a prince, young Siddhartha never left his palace. Every single need was satisfied. He neither worked nor played. There was nothing required of him. One day, of course, he left the palace, and was astonished (and terrified) at what he discovered. In short, illness, starvation, and death. The naive prince was so shaken by these natural facts of life that he hiked into the mountains and sat underneath a Bodhi tree for forty-nine days. He meditated for this entire time, hardly eating or sleeping, until he attained enlightenment, or nirvana.
“Life is suffering,” says Sujatha. “Only by practicing spirituality, both through meditation and physical labor, and by performing good deeds, can we achieve the happiness that Buddha was trying to teach.”
Ought to be a cinch, right?
Dead wrong.
The monastic lifestyle is no walk in the park. It consists of strict routine, daily chores, and a rigidly imposing moral code. First, they wake up at the crack of dawn, brush their teeth, possibly do a quick wash, then immediately sit for meditation.
“Mornings can be some of the most challenging times,” says Sujatha. “In the night, our minds are busy with dreams. A subconscious can play crazy tricks, and when we wake, we are still busy with distractions.”
Meditation, in theory, and in the written word, is as simple as it gets. You sit there. Done. But what happens when one sits and focuses solely on their breathing? Many report normal things like yesterday’s errands, tomorrow’s errands, every sort of desire, what the person behind you may be thinking, why the person in front of you smells like that, or even what you are like, and what people think of you. I ask Bhante Sujatha what he says when and if people ask him what he thinks of them.
He laughs pleasantly and checks the time. I am cutting into his austere schedule.
“Who wants to know?” he says.
When a monk meditates, thoughts of course arise. Every kind of thought. Monks are not different from you or I, or any layperson for that matter. They eat, drink, poop, sigh, and feel deep remorse for themselves and others. However, they are also well trained in the practice ofmeditation, and when these thoughts happen, they simply breathe in and let them pass as a leaf does on the surface of a river. Words cannot do enough to illuminate the trance-like quality of a cavernous meditative state. Practitioners of Buddhism often speak in abstractions.
Thoughts are waves that crash against us but leave us unmoved, or they are trees in a forest, when one hikes, they do not stand by a tree they like forever, they simply breathe and move on.
When Bhante Sujatha is not meditating, he is either doing chores or performing services for the community. Each act becomes a thread in the practice of meditation. A monk is always at work.
“I cook a lot and wash a lot of dishes,” Sujatha says.
I ask him if he likes doing that. His pristine grin stretches from ear to ear.
“Of course!”
There are many other services that the Blue Lotus Temple provides. Community outreach programs for addiction, grief, and trauma are available, and there are even wicked events like yoga, gong baths, and sound healing.
That’s right, all the weirdos with their henna tattoos and acid flashbacks have a place to offer their unique talents and mighty services.
Sujatha apologizes to me. He has to go. I tell him it’s all good, but one last question.
“What’s that sound?”
He looks at me, laughs, and bows in exit. “Why don’t you sit for a while?”
I thank him for his time, find a spot between the stone Buddha and stained glass Jesus, and have myself a nice long sit. After a while, the noises drift, and I begin to enjoy the silence.
