"Sith" and Six other Spiritual PoemsLama Jigme GyatsoFeb 12, 20205 min readUpdated: Mar 1, 2020Even though he was my junior high school teacherand I was his studentI considered him my friend.When he invited my sister to his wedding but not myselfI was crushed. When I was tasked with picking her upfrom the wedding receptionthe pain, and betrayal, and injusticewere more than I could bearand in my pubescent, eighteen-year-old, high school, half baked brainrage was my only coping mechanism. I am happy I was not a midichlorian-gifted, force userfor that evening could have turned me Sith. Today’s Second poem:“Court”They cared not for homosexualsat his high schooland after members of the football teamfound him making out with his boyfriendthey beat him bloody. From his hospital bedhe learned of his suspension. Over the phone the principal explained this was due to his fighting on school grounds. “I did not fight.”He explained through swollen lips,“Are you suspending me for being assaulted?”“I was not there, I did not see what happened.”countered the principal. With great effort he explained,“I am in this hospitalbecause you failed to create a safe environmentfor the children entrusted to your care.Perhaps the next principal will do a better job;you, I shall see in court!” “Today’s third poem:“Since Evolved”As the two of us ate dinnerat an upscale Mexican restaurantmy heart felt heavyand so I confided in my high school girlfriendhow I hated my stepfather.Quicker than thoughtshe slapped me in the face;the influence of the steady stream of soap operasshe wallowed in, all summer break. She had witnessed step father’s overbearing, and domineering, and demeaning manner towards me;was she too dazzled by his affluence to care?She did not knowhow he had sexually assaulted me;how could she?But she could have given me the benefit of the doubt.She could have,but she did not.That is not who she was back then. I hope the years have been kind to herand that she has since evolved. Today’s fourth poem:“Low Brow”One of the many lies of patriarchyis that it is only the ignoranceof occult metaphysical truthsthat separate us, like a chasm, from enlightenment. But the tyranny of physical impulsesand intellectual storythat exacerbate all our stressescan not be healedby philosophical gymnasticsbut only by the mastery of noticingand letting-gothe twin strategies of Buddha;low brow, but profoundly effective. Let us NOT like sithforever chase after lost holocrons of arcane knowledgebut rather like Qui Gon Jinnlisten to the force’s fresh whispers of wisdombest suited for the needsof the present moment. Today’s fifth poem:“Often Graze”Live Aid aired the summer between my first and second year of college. I owned neither car, nor motorcycleand relied upon bicycle for all transportation. I do NOT remember what urgent needprompted me to leave the sofabut when I returnedI discovered that I had missed Led Zeppelin’sreunion concert. Even today, thirty five years later,the thought of that makes me feel a little sick. That was such a very difficult periodof my lifeand the very great ironywas that I do NOT even like concerts;I very much prefer studio recordings. But something was at work in my life,during that period.Something huge, and massive, and surprisingly subtle. Something was divorcing mefrom the world around meseparating me from the people I lovedand the dreams I cherished. Something that had been in motionfor many years,working secretly, and quietly behind the scenes. But now like a whalebreaching the ocean surfacesomething was at playand seemed to be unzipping mefrom the world around me,against my wishesand against my efforts.It very much wasas if I was being extractedfrom the lifeI had intended for myself,like a reluctant pieceupon an enormous chess board. Looking backI am glad that I did not knowthe decades that lay before meand the great sea of fear, and sorrow, and rage, and bewilderment, and abandonment,and disappointment they had in store for me. Now, as I sit in the pre-dawn hourscurled upon the couchwith my computer in my lapclicking away,the body I have spent a lifetimetraining and feeding only the healthiestand ethical foods I could conceive of,is quite sickly, and disabled, and hobbled, and weak.Supported by disability,as well as the generosity of two relatives,and housed and fed by a kind-hearted tantric partnerI find myself a Dzogchen Lamadressed like one of Tibet’s wild mountain yogi’swith but a handful of gratis students. By most metricsthis life could be considereda bit of a train wreck.But here is the irony:I am happy.My tragic past has been neitherrewritten nor forgottenbut I am no longer driven by survivor’s ragelike a tall shiptossed in a violent storm. I am happy.I have surpassed my teachers,the minions of patriarchy,and have continued upon a much broader pathharkening to the whispers of the eitherslike the mystics: Lao Tzu, and Gautama, and Saraha, and Prahe Vajra, and Chandrakirti, and Chandragomin, and Mila, and Atisha, and Jigme Lingpa, and Karma Chakme and Dudjom Lingpa, and Patrul Rinpoche, and Dudjom Rinpochewho have come before me. And although I am disabled, and poor, and have very few studentsI find myself rich in intellectual realizationsand visceral masteriesof the spiritual path.This is a lifeprofoundly differentthan what I had imaginedin all my creative visualizations,except for one.In high school I awoke one morningrecalling a dreamwhere I was running. I had been wearing tattered tightsand running in the morning, my favorite time of day,is a beautiful and unfamiliar bit of nature. But what struck me most powerfully,was during this runthe familiar pains,of a lifetime of health challenges, were absent.And in the dreammy heart sang with peace, and joy, and contentment. I awoke from the dreamas moved as I was puzzled. Could this have been a metaphorof the spiritual pathupon which I would sprintor merely the fruit of randomly firing neuronsand a belly full of food?For as a teenagerI would often graze before the open refrigeratorlike a greedy sarlacc in the sands of Tatooine. Today’s sixth poem:“Advantages”When preparing to take formal ordinationI was told to get my parent’s permission.Father was dead of brain cancerstepfather was dead of suicideso I had only one parent to contact. Mother responded, “Oh God,do what you want,I don’t care what you do!”Ah, the advantagesof being disowned.Today’s seventh and final poem:“Her Tool”One of the many lies of patriarchyis that authorityassigns identitythat one is not a lamaunless an authority figuresays they are a lama. On the other handone of the truths of matriarchy is that we are defined by what we do. Who, therefore, is a fully qualified lama?One whose teaching and techniques can evolve us in less than a week of twice daily practice. Let us learn from these life examples:Anakin was consumed by rageby his frustrated attemptsto win the approval of the Jedi counsel;whereas Qui Gon Jinn was concerned with neitherthe counsel’s approval nor condemnationand sought only the guidance of the force. May we, like Qui Gon Jinnflow with the forcelike Sa-man-ta-bha-dri in tantric unionwhose nudity reminds usto be vulnerable in our mindfulnesswho, being comprised of light reminds usto let go as if all things were non-graspable,whose beauty reminds usof compassion’s transformative effect, and whose sport in wild abandonwith Sa-man-ta-bha-dra,who functions as her Vaj-ra throne,or, in other words, her tool,reminds us of spontaneity. Let us conclude with a simple call to actionShare this on social media. 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