The Collected Works of Chogyam Trungpa: Volume Three: 3 (73 page)

The word
whiskey
comes from the Gaelic
uisgebeatha
, which means “water of life.” The Danes have their aquavit. The Russian potato produces vodka, the “little water.” The traditional names imply that alcohol is at the least harmless, probably medicinal. Harmless or medicinal, the power of alcohol has affected social and psychological structures in most parts of the world throughout history. In Indian mysticism, both Hindu and Buddhist, alcohol is called amrita, the potion that is antideath. Birwapa, an Indian siddha, won enlightenment when he drank seven gallons of liquor in one afternoon. Mr. Gurdjieff, a spiritual teacher who taught in Europe, spoke of the virtues of “conscious drinking” and insisted that his students do conscious drinking together. Conscious drinking is a real and obvious demonstration of mind over matter. It allows us to relate to the various stages of intoxication: we experience our expectations, the almost devilish delight when the effect begins to be felt, and the final breakdown into frivolity in which habitual boundaries begin to dissolve.

Nevertheless, alcohol can as easily be a death potion as a medicine. The sense of joviality and heartiness can seduce us to relinquish our awareness. But fortunately there is also a subtle depression that goes with drinking. There is a strong tendency to latch on to the heartiness and ignore the depression; this is the ape instinct. It is a great mistake. If we take alcohol merely as a substance that will cheer us up or loosen us up like a sedative, it becomes exceedingly dangerous. It is the same with alcohol as with anything else in life that we relate to only partially.

There is a great difference between alcohol and other inebriants. In contrast with alcohol, such substances as LSD, marijuana, and opium do not bring simultaneous depression. If depression does occur, it is of a purely conceptual nature. But with alcohol, there are always physical symptoms: weight gain, loss of appetite, increased feeling of solidity (which includes hangovers). There is always the sense that one still has a body. Psychologically, intoxication with alcohol is a process of coming down, rather than, as with the other substances, of going up into space.

Whether alcohol is to be a poison or a medicine depends on one’s awareness while drinking. Conscious drinking—remaining aware of one’s state of mind—transmutes the effect of alcohol. Here awareness involves a tightening up of one’s system as an intelligent defense mechanism. Alcohol becomes destructive when one gives in to the joviality: letting loose permits the poisons to enter one’s body. Thus alcohol can be a testing ground. It brings to the surface the latent style of the drinker’s neuroses, the style that he is habitually hiding. If his neuroses are strong and habitually deeply hidden, he later forgets what happened when he was drunk or else is extremely embarrassed to remember what he did.

Alcohol’s creativity begins when there is a sense of dancing with its effect—when one takes the effects of drink with a sense of humor. For the conscious drinker, or for the yogi, the virtue of alcohol is that it brings one down to ordinary reality, so that one does not dissolve into meditation on nonduality. In this case alcohol acts as a longevity potion. Those who are overly involved with the sense that the world is a mirage, an illusion, have to be brought down out of their meditation into a state of nonmeditation to relate with people. In this state, the sights, sounds, and smells of the world become overwhelmingly poignant with their humor. When the yogi drinks, it is his way of accepting the dualistic world of ordinary appearance. The world demands his attention—his relationship and compassion. He is glad and amused to have this invitation to communicate.

For the yogi, alcohol is fuel for relating with his students and with the world in general, as gasoline allows a motorcar to relate with the road. But naturally the ordinary drinker who tries to compete with or imitate this transcendental style of drinking will turn his alcohol into poison. In the hinayana teaching of Buddhism, it is recorded that the Buddha reproved a monk who so much as tasted a blade of grass soaked in alcohol. It is necessary to understand that here the Buddha was not condemning the effects of alcohol; he was condemning the attraction toward it, the involvement with it as a temptation.

The conception of alcohol as a temptation of the devil is a highly questionable one. Questioning this conception brings uncertainty as to whether alcohol is allied with good or evil. This uncertainty can create in the drinker a sense of intelligence and fearlessness. It brings him to relate to the present moment as it is. Fearless willingness to be intelligent about what is happening in the face of the unknown is the very energy of transmutation that has been described in the tantric tradition of Buddhism. In the
Guhyasamaja Tantra,
the Buddha says, “That which intoxicates the dualistic mind is the natural antideath potion indeed.” In the Buddhist tantra, alcohol is used to catalyze the fundamental energy of intoxication; this is the energy that transmutes the duality of the apparent world into advaya—“not two.” In this way, form, smell, and sound can be perceived literally, as they are, within the realm of mahasukha, or great joy. The
Chakrasamvara Tantra
says, “By pure pain without pleasure, one cannot be liberated. Pleasure exists within the calyx of the lotus. This must the yogi nourish.” This puts a lot of emphasis on pleasure. But the realization of pleasure comes about through openly relating with pain. Alcohol brings an elation that seems to go beyond all limitations; at the same time it brings the depression of knowing one still has a body and that one’s neuroses are heavy upon one. Conscious drinkers might have a glimpse of both of these polarities.

In tantric mysticism, the state of intoxication is called the state of nonduality. This should not be understood as an enticement to entertain oneself, but at the same time, a glimpse of the cosmic orgasm of mahasukha is highly possible for the conscious drinker. If one is open enough to surrender the pettiness of attachment to one’s personal liberation by accepting the notion of freedom rather than doubting it, one achieves skillful means and wisdom. This is regarded as the highest intoxication.

Composed during 1972 retreat in Charlemont, Massachusetts.

ELEVEN

Practice and Basic Goodness: A Talk for Children

“As you are growing up it is a good idea to jazz yourselves up—to feel strong and to take pride in yourselves. You don’t have to feel inadequate because you are children trying to reach adulthood. Those struggles are not even necessary. You just have to
be.
In order to do that, you need to develop an attitude of believing in your basic goodness, and you need to practice meditation.”

I
WOULD LIKE
to talk about how we came to be here and why we are Buddhists. It is very simple and straightforward in some sense: you and your parents and I are all following a particular discipline, a particular tradition, called Buddhism. When you go to your school, which is not a Buddhist school, you might find the atmosphere to be somewhat strange. You might want to do things the way others are doing them; and when you come home, you might want to follow your parents’ way. On the other hand, you might feel resistance to your parents.

What Buddhism boils down to is that we try to follow the example of the Buddha, who was an Indian—not an American Indian, but an Indian Indian. The Buddha was a prince who decided to abandon his palace and his kingdom in order to find out what life is all about. He was looking for the meaning of life, the purpose of life. He wanted to know who and what he was. So he went and practiced meditation, and he ate very little. He meditated for six years, twenty-four hours a day. And at the end of those six years he discovered something: he realized that people don’t have to struggle so much. We don’t have to give in so much to our hassles, our pain, our discomfort. The Buddha discovered that there is something in us known as basic goodness. Therefore, we don’t have to condemn ourselves for being bad or naughty. The Buddha taught what he had learned to the rest of mankind. What he taught then—twenty-five hundred years ago—is still being taught and practiced. The important point for us to realize is that we are basically good.

Our only problem is that sometimes we don’t actually acknowledge that goodness. We don’t see it, so we blame somebody else or we blame ourselves. That is a mistake. We don’t have to blame others, and we don’t have to feel nasty or angry. Fundamental goodness is always with us, always in us. That is why our education is not difficult. If we have fundamental goodness in us, then knowledge is already a part of us. Therefore, going to school and meditation are just ways of acknowledging that basic goodness.

As you are growing up it is a good idea to jazz yourselves up—to feel strong and to take pride in yourselves. You don’t have to feel inadequate because you are children trying to reach adulthood. Those struggles are not even necessary. You just have to
be.
In order to do that, you need to develop an attitude of believing in your basic goodness, and you need to practice meditation. Sitting meditation is a living tradition. We know how the Buddha did it, and we know how to do it ourselves. When you sit like the Buddha, you begin to realize something called enlightenment. That is just realizing that there is something very straightforward and very sparkling in you. It is not necessarily “feeling good.” It is much better than feeling good: you have a sense of tremendous buoyancy, up-liftedness. You feel healthy and simple and strong.

If you would like to ask questions, please do so.

Student:
This is a foolish question, but if the Buddha sat for six years, twenty-four hours a day, how did he eat?

Trungpa Rinpoche:
Well, he ate very little. According to history he had one meal in the morning—something like our breakfast. And he slept very little. Mostly he just sat. When his friends came to see him, they didn’t recognize him at first, because he was so thin. On the morning of the day he attained enlightenment, he was visited by a lady who gave him rice and milk, which energized him. Then he returned to his sitting practice, so to speak, but he wasn’t thin from then on. In paintings of the Buddha, like the one you see on the shrine, there are halos around his head. The halo represents the idea of glowing health and glowing greatness.

Student:
Rinpoche, could you recommend how long children should sit?

Trungpa Rinpoche:
A daily sitting practice would be very good. Hopefully you can do that. I started sitting when I was nine; I used to sit for about forty-five minutes. But due to the circumstances, I think probably seven minutes would be fine—every day. That is quite long enough. If you can only do it once a week, you should try to sit for half an hour. Your parents could sit with you, or you could do it alone. And the place where you sit should be elegant and comfortable. Do you sit at home?

S:
Sometimes.

TR:
How often? Once a week?

S:
After school.

TR:
Well, maybe that is a good model. So you could come home and relax that way.

Student:
I get depressed a lot, and I want to know if I should sit more.

Trungpa Rinpoche:
Yes, you should sit more. That is the whole idea. Particularly when you feel depressed or when you are too excited, you should sit more, because then you have something to work with. That is what the Buddha did. Before he went for his six-year retreat, he was very depressed; he was very unhappy with his whole life. Because he was so depressed, he had something to work on.

Student:
When I sit, I usually get restless.

Trungpa Rinpoche:
Well, people do—always. That’s all right, but don’t give in to your restlessness. Just try to hold your posture and come back to your breath. You see, what you are doing is imitating the Buddha. You should hold your head and shoulders upright, like he did. In that way you feel good. When you begin to feel restless, you begin to hunch your head and shoulders. You become restless like an animal. When you sit upright, you are different from an animal. That posture will cut through your restlessness.

Student:
When you led all those people out of Tibet, did you just guess which way to go?

Trungpa Rinpoche:
No, I didn’t quite guess.

S:
But when you got lost, did you guess which way to go?

TR:
Well, you have a sense of direction and you have a feeling that India is that way. When you have lost your way, you stop for five minutes and sit. After that, you have much clearer vision and you know where to go. You only lose your way if you are distracted. So, if your mind is clear, you know where India is. Then there is little problem. There are trails that go in that direction, and you just follow them.

S:
When you were leading people through the snow in the mountains, did you feel calm all the way?

TR:
Well, we had to be calm. Otherwise we would lose our way. And we would lose our strength. We also felt very energized. I never felt any doubt; we just went on. So calmness was very important, as well as some kind of strength. We zeroed in on the idea that we were going to do it, and we did it.

S:
So your confidence helped you to be strong enough to go over the mountains?

TR:
Yes.

Student:
In pictures of the Buddha, you usually see three jewels. I don’t know what they mean.

Trungpa Rinpoche:
The three jewels represent the idea of Buddha’s students opening themselves up and making offerings to him. They represent offering one’s body, speech, and mind to the Buddha. You are giving yourself to him and to his teachings. These jewels will supposedly give you more riches, more wealth. By giving to the Buddha whatever is precious to you, you attain patience and richness.