Authors: Goldie Hawn

A Lotus Grows in the Mud (37 page)

Shamefaced, he does as he’s told, and behaves much more courteously for the rest of the time they are there. A little discipline goes a long way. He and Paola fly home the next day on much better terms.

Over the next year, I speak regularly on the telephone with Juan, and I can tell his English is improving all the time. I know he is still having problems with his anger. I know that he is testing Paola constantly. The older and the bigger he gets, the more frightening his outbursts become. He is now living with Paola’s mother in Lima, and Paola is attending the London School of Economics, chasing her dream to work full-time with underprivileged children and build a secure life for her and Juan.

When she calls to tell me she’s going to be in Washington, D.C., to work for the World Bank and that Juan is flying up to join her, I drop everything and jump on a plane. Arriving at my hotel, I get all dressed up as if I’m going on a date. Sitting by the telephone, waiting for the two of them to arrive, I have butterflies in my stomach. It’s been a year since I’ve seen Juan, and I wonder what will happen.

When the telephone rings, I jump on the elevator, run to the lobby and there they are. Juan looks so handsome, all dressed up in a little V-neck sweater and a shirt and tie. He is at least two inches taller, much more mature, but not quite as demonstrative as he used to be.

He first takes my hand and then Paola’s, and the three of us walk into the dining room and sit down for dinner. He handles himself so beautifully, winning over all the waitresses with his seductive personality. I also notice that he is much deeper, more contemplative, perhaps because of his therapy and self-reflection. For the first time, we talk about serious things.

Sipping his Coke, he looks up at me and says, “Where does anger come from?”

I explain to him in the best way I know how about fear and what happens to us when we are afraid and how it changes into anger. “Fear is not a good thing,” I tell him. “The fear of having to go back to where you came from, the fear that someone is going to leave you, or not love you anymore. That can make you very angry. And often fear can turn into anger, Juan.”

He looks at me with those big eyes of his with a wisdom way beyond his twelve years. “Do you believe that we have white angels and dark angels in our hearts?” he asks.

“Yes, I do, Juan. We’re only human. It’s how we deal with them that matters.”

“I want to get rid of my dark angels,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

Placing my hand on his, I look into his face. “One day you will, Juan. I truly believe that.” Paola and I look at each other and share a knowing look. “All you have to do, Juan,” I add, “is trust that you are loved.”

He looks up and smiles his new smile at me. It is a good smile. It is a nice smile. It’s a hopeful smile.

I
was taught it is our moral duty to give back something to this world, to say thank you for our gifts. I can still hear my mother say, “For every dollar you make, honey, I want you to give at least ten cents to the needy.” Donating money to charity is one way of giving back, and it is a good way, but sometimes it can feel hollow, and you don’t always really know if it’s going into the proper hands.

Personally, I like to have more of a hands-on experience. It’s not all altruistic. I guess I feel, selfishly, that if I can help one or two children directly, then I’m getting something from it too, a new love experience and—perhaps most important of all—a shot of humility for me and my family.

I involved my children in Operation Smile from the outset, to try to make them appreciate their own great good fortune, which landed on them through absolutely no effort on their part. Being born to wealthy and famous parents can have its own problems unless we make our children see that this is not so for everyone.

I want them to cultivate compassion by going out and standing in somebody else’s shoes. I want them to interface with people who don’t have what they have, or who have been damaged, physically or psychologically. It is a wonderful way of developing a compassionate heart, which is something that is good for everyone. If everyone cultivated more compassion in their lives, the world would be a very different place today.

My involvement with those I have come to care for along the highway of my life has been deeply rewarding, but it has also offered me a salutary lesson. It has taught me to accept that life doesn’t always have a fairy-tale ending—it just isn’t that neat. Sometimes, you’ll find that there really is nothing more you can do for the people you’re trying to help, that you have done all you can, and at least you’ve given them some good memories before you walk away.

The problem is that when you build a personal relationship with a child like Juan, it’s so vitally important to follow through. It isn’t in my nature to walk away from difficult situations. I see Juan more and more. At this time, he lives in my beloved India with his adopted mother, Paola. I like to call her my angel from heaven. Juan just turned thirteen. His English is impeccable now, his sense of humor is flourishing and he has become a great student. There are still many of life’s challenges ahead of him. That’s where we come in. As long as I am able to, I will continue to try to save one life from the agonies of this world.

The doctors may have fixed Juan’s smile, but they can do nothing to fix his heart. Perhaps no one can. But as long as I am able to, I will continue to try.

lotus

How can we count our moments of joy one by one? Isolated from one another? They should accumulate and be worn throughout life like a mantle of wealth in which we can drape ourselves, at any given moment.

postcard

I
am ushered into a lovely room with a low table, at which I sit, cross-legged on the floor, with my son Oliver, and my stepson, Boston. I quiet my mind and inhale the pungent incense and listen to the bells of the monastery gently ringing out all around me.

Looking out the window, I see the snowcapped Himalayas towering over us. We are in Dharamsala, India, nestled into the foothills of these majestic mountains. Our breath makes clouds of steam as we exhale.

A monk in orange and maroon robes appears at the back of the room and steps through a soft Tibetan curtain that covers the doorway. It is the color of saffron. He has a young and gentle face, which lights up the room.

“I am Kutenla,” he tells me.

We all nod shyly and say hello.

I have been told that Kutenla is a man of wisdom and prophecy and incredible kindness. I feel so privileged to meet him. We have walked into his world, another world, the Nechung Monastery, a beautiful Buddhist temple in the most heavenly of settings.

Kutenla is the current Nechung Oracle. Chosen by the Dalai Lama and deemed to be a reincarnate of the original Oracle of 750
A
.
D
., he is the spiritual protector of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. Several times a year, he adorns himself in an elaborate costume weighing more than seventy pounds and a huge hat weighing more than thirty. Despite being almost crushed beneath the weight, he goes into a spirited, trancelike state during which he dances and speaks his wisdom.

Having had a normal childhood in the Tibetan Children’s
Village, a Montessori school that I help support, he had a hidden purpose that none suspected. But as a young monk, he suffered severe headaches from which he could find no relief. Then one day he had what looked like an epileptic seizure. Much to his own surprise, he began to recite ancient Tibetan that no one had ever taught him. The Dalai Lama heard of this and appointed him the new Oracle. Now here we are being granted an audience.

I am living a mother’s dream, on this most special of journeys with my sons. Boston, a practicing Buddhist and a Buddhist scholar in his final year at the university, is very much into his stance, wanting to share his knowledge. Oliver looks more at peace than I have ever seen him.

When Kutenla first walked in, I was shocked. I expected to see an old, wise mystic, not this young, round-faced, joyful man. He sits down and takes tea with us and asks us about our day. We feel aglow, sitting in this place of peace, with the sound of chanting and bells coming from the temple, and monks coming and going noiselessly. We are ripe and alive and in awe, our hearts and minds open to the unknown. I love witnessing my sons’ experience, as much as I am enjoying my own.

“I understand you have something to ask me,” Kutenla says with a warm smile.

“I do,” I say, nodding reverently. “I would like to know what ‘joy’ is to you. How would you describe it? Of all the people I have ever met, the Tibetans are the happiest. They seem to have a secret of some kind.”

Kutenla looks at me and laughs his big, open laugh. “Let me see if I can explain this,” he says, resting his hands on his knees and looking for all the world like a young Buddha. “I believe that we are born with the seed of joy.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Every human being comes into this world wanting happiness and not wishing to suffer.”

His words ring so true to me. I think of my childhood wish to be happy, or further back to my own bubble of happiness that I was born with. I can’t help but think of those who try to attain levels of happiness through an altered state, and how that usually only ends with sadness.

“You see, we believe that through the quieting of the mind we are able to separate what is real and what isn’t, what is ego and what is truth. It is like making butter; you keep churning and churning until the cream begins to separate. You must really work at churning a chaotic mind, learn to separate your thoughts from your true nature, and become a witness rather than a party to your destructive emotions. What you are left with is a natural state of joy.”

I smile. “Is that like nirvana?”

He laughs. “Not exactly nirvana, but to become a bodhisattva…”

“Excuse me, what’s a ‘bodhisattva’?” Oliver asks.

Boston interjects, “A bodhisattva is someone who has taken the vow to act for the benefit of all sentient beings. To take a vow of a bodhisattva is a promise to help others through compassion, wisdom and understanding. You arrive at freedom by understanding your deeper nature, and, when you are free, you can feel joy.”

Kutenla smiles and nods, impressed. Boston glows with happiness.

“This is all fine and well,” I say, “but it seems to me there is so much sorrow in the world, even for those who have deep faith and belief. How do we transcend our deepest pain?”

Kutenla smiles a smile that warms the chilly room. “We have a saying: ‘The lotus grows in the mud.’”

“‘The lotus grows in the mud’? What does that mean?”

“The lotus is the most beautiful flower, whose petals open one by one. But it will only grow in mud. In order to grow and gain wisdom, first you must have the mud—the obstacles of life and its suffering.”

“That’s a beautiful metaphor,” I say wistfully, “and an interesting teaching in itself.”

“The mud speaks of the common ground that we humans share, no matter what our stations in life,” he says. “Whether we have it all or we have nothing, we are all faced with the same obstacles: sadness, loss, illness, dying and death. If we are to strive as human beings to gain more wisdom, more kindness and more compassion, we must have the intention to grow as a lotus and open each petal one by one.”

Kutenla unravels his mala, or tiger’s-eye prayer beads, from around his wrist and opens my hand. Closing my fingers around his mala, he looks me in the eye. “This is my gift to you,” he says. “Don’t lose it.”

Smiling, unable to speak, I nod my gratitude.

“All you need,” Kutenla tells me as he stands to go, his eyes gentle, “is the intention and the wish to be happy, and it will be so.”