Theory of causation

The Buddhist leg of my journey was nearing its conclusion and I had yet to step foot on my old college campus of UC Berkeley. I had skirted it these last weeks like some skittish satellite refusing to leave orbit. I knew this part of the story wouldn’t be complete unless I went there.

I started gently: strolling the sidewalk that lines the southern perimeter. I passed the building that houses the library where I worked all four years, the outdoor café I frequented for their frothy lattes, and the art museum that always reminded me of concrete steps sized for a giant; while climbing, the giant dropped bits of neon that shine and blink when it’s dark out.

Since graduating, I have visited campus, but never in the middle of the day when school is in session. I’ve cut across a corner at night or on the weekend, tossing a cursory glance at one of my old haunts. “Wow, looks the same,” I might say, or “Goodness, a new building.” Then I would turn tail and skedaddle out of there.

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon and spring semester is in full swing. I pass a series of tennis courts and a parking garage, both of which are unchanged since my days here. Then I get a few butterflies in my stomach because I’m close enough to see the main entrance, the pedestrian thoroughfare that leads from Telegraph Avenue on to campus. A river of students flows with currents in both directions.

I approached slowly, casually, as if almost two decades hasn’t slipped by since I was one of them. I can almost feel the weight of my book bag being added to my shoulders. Back then, I had an industrial strength backpack that I remember as always packed to the gills, as if I might need every word in every book at any moment. I wonder how much of that weight was symbolic, a cross between the protection and burden I believed I needed and deserved. Today, I let the tide help carry me. Soon, I’m standing in belly of the beast: Sproul Plaza. A stream of students stretches as far as I can see into the center of campus, but smaller tributaries branch off here and there, and everywhere eddies of greeting and conversation pool. The entire area is teaming with life, just as it would have been on a beautiful weekday afternoon when I was student. I find a clearing on the steps of the student union and take a seat.

As Buddhists conceive of events, nothing occurs in isolation. According to “dependent origination” or “Buddha’s theory of causation,” everything is a result of something else and, in turn, has consequences. A particular domino’s collapse may command our attention, but its fall was preceded and followed by countless others.

Through my new Buddhist lens, I can see that what I believed were my private dramas at age 20 were unfolding alongside communal events, their causes and effects crisscrossing and overlapping in mysterious ways. The four years I was an undergrad were a particularly difficult chapter for the university community. I wonder what role that played in what I had always assumed were my own dark forces.

My fortune

Dora is excited for me to have my fortune told. After a lunch of stir fried tofu served soup-kitchen style in a back room, I follow her back to the main sanctuary. The rows of little sitting benches have been put away and Dora drags out a bigger prayer bench. This one has a slanted top allowing for an easier up and down movements required for sequences of prostrations. She positions it in front of the altar.

“Remember I told you how to talk to Buddha?”

I nod. I hadn’t realized she intended me to use those instructions today.

“Good. You do it. At the end, ask an important question.”

She points at the bench and I assume the position. I rest my knees on the platform and bend at the waist so that my forehead rests on the taller edge closest to the altar. I turn my cupped hands palm up as if I were holding the feet of baby Buddha. Just as Dora explained, I formally introduce myself. I provide the year and location of my birth, my current whereabouts, and a few details about my home life. I wrack my brain for a significant question. Finally, I decide on an issue that’s been weighing heavily on me: should I write about these religious experiences I’ve been seeking? So far, I’ve taken a few notes here and there, but I haven’t committed to undergoing the long, arduous effort of arranging it on paper. I feel extreme trepidation. As a None, is this even a topic about which I have a right to write?

When I open my eyes and come up, Dora is standing before me with a jar filled with small bamboo slats, a big grin on her face like she is presenting a bouquet of chopsticks.

“Pick,” she commands.

I pull one out and look at it. Burnt onto the tip is a number.

Dora takes it. “Come,” she says.

I follow her into an adjacent room. Along the wall is a series of little drawers like you might see in a garage to organize nuts and bolts. She opens the one with the same number as my stick and pulls out a slip of paper no bigger than a receipt. She studies it before letting me look. On it, are the Chinese characters for a Buddhist Sutra; even if I could read it, there’s no guarantee I’d understand if or how that ancient poem answered my question.

“Let’s get a nun,” Dora suggests. “She’ll tell us.”

I try to keep up with Dora as she hurries around, scanning for a particular nun. We find her out front, wishing visitors well as they depart. Dora hands her the piece of paper and points to me. I hadn’t been planning to put too much stock in the outcome of this exercise, but now I start to worry. What if Buddha puts the kibosh on this subject? I hadn’t realized how excited I had become about the possibility.

For several minutes, Dora and the nun go back and forth. Dora looks very serious, and the tone of their conversation seems heated. This cannot be a good sign, I think. I suppose if Buddha says ‘no’, I’d still give the endeavor a shot. I mean I can’t just throw up my arms in defeat based on a sutra I got from pulling a random bamboo stick from a jar. That would be bonkers, right?

Finally, Dora turns to me. I brace myself for the news.

“The answer is ‘yes’,” Dora announces.

She continues, “But so much work. So hard. You must be strong for it to be ‘yes’. Otherwise, it’s ‘no’. So much struggle. Barriers to overcome. So hard.”

All the way home, Dora repeats how difficult whatever it is I’ve asked will be, how easily it could tip to “no” if I’m not tough as nails. She seems apologetic, as if she wishes I had received a rosier fortune on her watch. But I’m satisfied. I never expected it would be an easy undertaking. Already it’s been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done—and the most rewarding. I can only imagine how much more challenging it will be to try to tell it in some coherent fashion.

I’m happy with a hard-earned “yes.” Thank Buddha.

Desire is bad

Inside the jewel-box sanctuary, Dora spots two free benches side-by-side and we squeeze our way down a row and take seats. Women in monastic robes mill about, preparing for the service to begin. I am the only non-Asian present. I feel privileged to be a guest. For her part, Dora seems very pleased to have brought someone, especially someone so inexperienced. For each person who turns to look at me, she puffs a bit with pride. She makes a fuss to secure a folder of the phonetic versions of the prayer sutras. She hands it to me with great aplomb, as if to accentuate to all that she has obtained this item on behalf of her clueless guest.

The service kicks off with chanting. Perhaps because the sanctuary is full and the room is not so big, the sound of the voices is particularly powerful. Dora turns my folder to the right page, but it is just a long series of phonic fragments (NA MO HO LA TA NA TO LA YEH YEH, etc.) that every once in a while fall into an arrangement that could mean something in English (CHER LA CHER LA). I’m amazed that everyone here has committed this complicated sequence of syllables, with its intricate intonations, to memory but, then, this is the heart of worship. This exercise improves karma—not just of people in the room; it’s for everyone in the city, the state, the country, and all around the world. I chime in when I can, but even when I have the correct pronunciation, I don’t have the tone just right. Luckily, my mistakes are drowned out by the collective. Certain syllables resound so deeply that the walls seem to vibrate.

On the other side of me is an older gentleman whose full head of dark hair is salted just so. Age has bestowed upon him the rugged good-looks of an Asian Marlboro Man. During the chanting, when he notices I’ve grown silent and Dora’s not looking, he points to my open page—as if my failure to join in were as simple as having lost my place. He continues to make sure I know exactly where we are in the chant. At first he does this surreptitiously so Dora doesn’t notice. Eventually his effort grows more brazen and Dora shoots him a look. He gives her one back, as if to say, “It’s not my fault you’re slacking on the job.”

This little power struggle continues through the dharma talk, for which my Marlboro Man elects himself the superior translator. Perhaps because he better understands the Cantonese in which the talk is given, Dora concedes. It takes me a while to determine that the person giving the talk is female. Her head is shaved and her robe is a variation of the ones worn by the nuns who have hair. Baldness is a great gender neutralizer as are robes, for that matter. I imagine she is the abbot here or some other high-ranking position. She is the spitting image of the founder of this sect, whose picture hangs on the wall, and I notice she is addressed as “Master.”

“She talks about desire,” my Marlboro Man tells me about one minute into her speech. “It’s not good for you.” He goes silent, so I elaborate in my mind. I imagine she’s explaining how that feeling of wanting, craving, grasping—anything other than satisfaction with your immediate situation—removes a person from the present moment. Several minutes go by and I’m tempted to ask what she’s saying now, but I decide not giving in to that impulse is sort of the point of the talk. Finally, he leans over. I can see him struggling to find the right words. “She says desire is bad…” I wait for him to elaborate, to offer some new twist or detail, but he doesn’t. Fifteen minutes go by and the speech winds down. My Marlboro Man shrugs. “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much.”

How to pray to Buddha

“This is how you pray to Buddha,” says Dora, who hails from the Philippines. She is an acquaintance who has offered to take me to a service at her temple. We are in her car, driving to Oakland. As I strapped into the passenger seat, she showed me the laminated picture dangling from her rearview mirror. “Medicine Buddha,” she said.

“You bow. You tell Buddha your name.” Dora seems excited that I’ve agreed to accompany her. She is in her mid-40s, a single mom to a teenage boy. She works as a care-taker to an elderly gentleman, an atheist who gives her Sunday mornings off, but playfully teases her for wanting to use them to attend religious services. “You tell Buddha where you live, the year you were born, if you have kids, remind him. So many people on earth. You jog Buddha’s memory.”

I smile. I like this idea. This is the first I’m hearing of engaging in dialogue with Buddha like a Christian might God.

She glances at me, very serious. “After you introduce, then you talk. But don’t ask Buddha for material things. Don’t say, ‘Buddha, I want money.’ You ask for ‘success,’ you ask for ‘piss.’”

I turn to her. “Piss?”

She nods emphatically. “Yes, you ask Buddha for piss. You say, ‘Please, make me pissful.”

“Oh, peace.”

“Yes, piss.” She gives a look like, boy, does she have her work cut out.

Dora’s temple is part of a Buddhist order that prides itself on practicing a version of the faith that integrates many types of Buddhism. It accommodates monastics, both male and female, and caters to laypeople all over the world with universities and schools. Its temples may hold services on Sundays and engage in many similar practices to the Buddhist church I attended, but here the Pure Land concept gets an official tweak. Instead of worshipping with the hope of being reborn in paradise, the goal is to create a Pure Land here on earth by working to improve oneself and society. This Buddhism is sometimes referred to as “Humanistic” and some scholars say it marks a turning point—a sort of “reformation” in which the faith addresses the needs of a modern world. Using the goodness of the human Buddha as a role model, the leaders in this sect promote social responsibility and religious dialogue.

I marvel that so grounded a vision of Buddhism can be flexible enough to oblige Dora’s way of thinking—which, from my perspective, is somewhat “magical.” Apparently, this is not uncommon among the faithful whose previous belief systems merged with Buddhism. Dora speaks casually of spirit beings visiting her in the dream realm. She explains that burning incense opens a channel, either to an upper-level world or to a lower-level world, depending on the intention with which it is lit and if proper prayers are offered. She warns me to be cautious: people who use incense just because they like the smell may end up on a slippery chute to some place they never intended.

We come to a part of town where the street signs are Chinese characters. As we park, Dora points to a small square structure with a pagoda-style roof. The sanctuary’s doors open directly to the street; they are open and the activity spills on the sidewalk at a busy intersection. We pass through smoke rising from a large metal bowl holding incense sticks and then we are standing inside. The room is packed with people squatting on low benches arranged with a single aisle down the middle.

The altar at the front of the room is occupied by a tall Buddha statue, just as I’ve seen in other locations. Here, the main figure has a buddy on either side, smaller versions or other incarnations.

Around these are fresh additions: impressive pyramids of mangoes and apples. Everywhere, my gaze falls upon a new, stunning object, some item like a flower or a tree cast in metal or carved in stone. Bright, fantastical images adorn the walls. I’ve entered a life-size jewel box, a tiny patch of Pure Land.

The big ME

After the talk, it’s time for a bit of walking meditation. This is a different style of walking meditation than the more militaristic type I experienced at the Zen center. Today, our instructor explains, we should make our way slowly around the garden, each according to our own whim, pausing every few steps. She tells us to look around, and try to gaze upon everything as if we have never seen it before. “Each time,” she tells us, “create a never-heard story for how that vision came to be.” I’m not entirely certain what she means by this, but I get the gist: we should practice moving through the world like she appears to.

My classmates and I set off in all directions like dazed sleepwalkers. I begin my trek toward the coy pond, stopping along the way to take in the golden curves of the stupa and a flag with squiggly script. “What is this amazing new sight?” I ask myself. It’s not so hard, I find these items fascinating. I try objects that are more familiar: an open rose and, then, a stone from the path. “Wow, look at that,” I tell myself.

I try to feel all the wonder of seeing something like the Grand Canyon for the first time. A flower, a chunk of rock—these things truly are remarkable if you look at them like that. It’s good to remember. But what would happen if I tried this with mundane things from my everyday existence like a piece of junk mail or an empty skillet? For a moment, the spell is broken. I think how nuts this group would look to an outsider who saw us meandering the yard like overly-medicated patients of a funny farm. Then even that gets lenses through which nothing has a set explanation, and I slip back into my hallucinatory dream.

When the class reconvenes, it’s time for seated meditation. I get comfortable in a plastic deck chair. I lower my eyelids to half-mast and focus on the sensations playing all around: the breeze against my skin, the gurgle of water, the rustle of leaves. I don’t know if it’s sitting outside or if the teacher’s example has nudged me forward, but today I see more clearly the essential dichotomy of being human. Each of us has a “little me,” what we conceive of as a distinct self, hungry for us to believe that’s all we are. The contours of its identity strengthen when we are caught up in ideas; memories of the past, worries about the future: the highway of thoughts is its domain. When we step away from the thinking and plant our feet in the present moment, we become a part of something immeasurable: the “big me.”

Suddenly what I feel is more expansive than the view to the ocean out front. I see that I can choose to let the “little me” have the power, or I can challenge its authority. I breathe in a beautiful state of bliss. All around is space and I am a part of it. I am nowhere and everywhere. “Here it is!” a voice shouts. I feel like a runner who has been struggling for miles and then, miraculously, hits her stride. I could go and go and go. Has it always been this easy? I want to hold this feeling forever. What if I can’t hold it forever? A thunderbolt of panic rips through me. My chest constricts and my heart beats wildly. I had been falling with no end in sight and now the ground has risen up to smack me. It’s awful to have the bliss slapped out of me and, yet, a part of me is relieved.

Buddhist beauty parlor

The dharma class that I’m joining at the Tibetan Buddhist center is taught by one of the founder’s long-time devotees, who is both a westerner and a woman. It’s a beautiful, sunny day and I’ve been told that we will convene on an outdoor patio. As I make my way to the backyard, I catch a glimpse of a bright red gazebo that appears to contain some sort of merry-go-round. I step into a wonderland: blooms sway, water trickles, birds chirp, sunlight bounces off bright surfaces. A footpath wraps around a coy pond and, upon closer inspection, the gazebo is a carousel—only the riders are more prayer wheels. Against the hillside sits a shiny stupa, a memorial statue to Buddha that is believed to generate good karma; it doesn’t show a figure, but looks like a jaunty crown for some larger-than-life being. Its presence adds to the playful, otherworldly vibe.

On a wood deck, several students have gathered. They are mostly women, all ages, a few Asian. I join them. As we wait for the instructor to arrive, the group alternates between polite chatting and stark silence. Five minutes turns into ten, and ten tick-tocks toward twenty. I begin to doubt that our teacher will show. In college, we had a firm, unspoken rule: if a professor failed to show up in the first ten minutes of class, the students made a celebratory, mass exodus from the room.

Today, no one seems fazed by our leader’s tardiness and because they remain seated and content, I do the same. The enchanting yard and karma from the stupa must be affecting me because I have never in my life been so unbothered by lack of punctuality. After 30 minutes, our instructor comes up the steps. She mentions something about traffic and apologizes. She laughs and says that having to wait is the best beauty treatment: all the anti-aging serums in the world are not as effective as cultivating patience. “So, you’ve all just paid a visit to the Buddhist beauty parlor!”

I think there must be something to what she is saying because she is radiant. Objectively, her looks are ordinary. Perhaps nearing 70, her hair is white and her features are makeup-free and yet, somehow, it adds up to stunning. Her eyes are clear, her smile is wide, and her face is animated with interest. For several minutes, she covers the day’s message about dharma. What is she saying? I hardly notice because I am so focused on how she says it. It’s as if each phrase she speaks is being uttered for the first time—like the words astound even her. Every time her eyes land on something, she seems to take in the sight with fresh curiosity. I’ve heard people explain about “staying in the present” but I’ve never seen it so clearly demonstrated. She is not flogging herself over the past or worrying about the future: she is right there, occupying each new moment. She is the lesson.

The center

The Tibetan Buddhist center occupies a once-majestic fraternity house; steps up the hillside to the front door offer a small taste of trekking the Himalayas. At the top, I pause to catch my breath. Above the gracious porch, squares of cloth in primary colors hang like scarves drying on a laundry line. From up here, I can see for miles toward the San Francisco Bay and Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve been so busy looking inward, hemmed in by the tight confines of my own being, that to look out at such great distance feels like emancipation. I almost don’t want to turn away and go in. But I must. They are letting me sit in on a class that starts soon.

Just beyond the ample foyer sits the base of a grand staircase. The wood floors are beautifully worn. I try to imagine how much beer was consumed in this space during its previous incarnation. The ghosts of keggers past have been cleared in favor of a reception desk and a couple of comfy chairs. Off to the right sits a dining room with long, family-style seating. The wavy glass in the old windows makes the outside world appear to be dissolving.

I hear a repetitive mechanical churning, and am drawn to the long, thin sun porch beyond the dining room from which the noise originates. Inside, a series of over-sized spools spin. These are shiny gold Tibetan prayer wheels with small script along their facades. They look like the drums of a printing press designed to emboss words on a surface—only the paper is missing and the writing goes around endlessly, adhering to nothing. The turning is meant to help disseminate the sentiments contained in the text. The movement is key (before electricity, Tibetans rotated their prayer wheels mechanically and many still do). The same principle applies to the squares of fabric that dangle and the numerous flags hanging from poles around the property; printed on these are important words from Buddha’s teachings. The wind animates the ideas, more effectively sending them out into the atmosphere.

From a newcomer’s perspective, these are the biggest differences you notice: saturated colors everywhere you look, the constant, creaky hum of prayer wheels turning, the dance of fabric. If much of Buddhism as practiced in the United States is conceived as something that subdues with its neutral tones and natural materials, here is a brand of Buddhism that goes the opposite direction. Buddhism like Zen is considered cool and calm, but this kind is fiery. Though the road may be hotter, the destination is the same.


Despite my experience at the Thai temple, most of the Buddhist institutes and monasteries around the U.C. Berkeley campus are set up for the purpose of teaching westerners dharma. Many offer a variety of classes, workshops, and retreats to encourage ordinary people to incorporate Buddhist practice into their lives. While meditation sessions may be free, the classes usually are not and most have various skill levels to ascend. At one, the full series of meditation courses from beginning to advanced would cost about $700—which is why I had to chuckle when I bought a book there and flipped it over to see the word “freedom” in the title had been misprinted as “feedom” on the back flap.

This particular center is perhaps the most prominent of its kind due, in no small part, to the canary-yellow building it occupies very visibly against a green hillside less than a block from campus. Its roots in the area stretch back to the early 1970s, making it part of the earliest formal efforts to expose Americans to Eastern religion in California, if not the country. In particular, it claims to be the first institution in the United States to provide education about Tibetan Buddhism. This branch of Buddhism has its own unique qualities, the most notable of which might be the tradition of locating the reincarnated souls of departed spiritual leaders in children who, after passing a series of tests, are groomed for their special roles. The most famous example is Tenzin Gyatso, who was identified as a child as the 14th incarnate of the Dalai Lama. The center I’m visiting today was founded by another spiritual leader who was similarly chosen, though he represents a different school within Tibetan Buddhism, a distinction that seems more socio-political than theological.

Tibetan Buddhism is also distinguished from other types of Buddhism by its distinctive paths to enlightenment that are based on the last burst of writing about Buddha’s teachings, called “Tantras,” recorded around the seventh century. In tantric thinking, the body is comprised of 72,000 channels through which subtle energies, called “winds,” flow. Some of the primary passages in this network meet up at intersections called “chakras.” One of the main goals of spiritual practice is to loosen the circulation of the body’s currents to create heat and light that helps melt the boundaries we see as separating ourselves from others and the world. Practitioners employ various methods to kick up these winds. They might visualize a seated Buddha with absolute focus and repeat a short series of words called a “mantra.” Unlike prayers chanted in unison, a mantra is usually a phrase spoken privately again and again. These exercises are meant to encourage extraordinary shifts in awareness—though it’s difficult to communicate how with words. For example, a mantra can drive all perceptions into a single point, producing a level of insight so profound that the Buddha suddenly has your face. But these are advanced techniques—and I can see why a student might want the help of a teacher to traverse this mysterious terrain.