The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume 4 (19 page)

We might ask: “What is so magical about all this? We have been working with ego all along, throughout our Buddhist training. What is so special about this magic?” We don’t see anything particularly extraordinary about it. That is true. It is quite ordinary. In fact, the ordinary aspect becomes so powerful that it
is
magic. If something is extraordinary, it is usually a mechanical invention, something sensational but feeble. But because of ordinariness, magic is possible.

As far as tantra is concerned, magic is relating with the world on as ordinary a level as possible: We make flowers grow; we make the sun rise and the moon set. If we stay up long enough we will see the moon set and the sun rise. If we would like to watch the sun rise, we have to stay up so late that it finally becomes early. There is some discipline involved with that. We can’t give up and go to bed to take a rest. If we do, quite possibly we will miss the sunrise.

The question of magic at this point is completely relevant to our life, to our path, to our actual practice. Magic is very real, direct, and personal. It is so personal that it becomes excruciating. It is at the level of excruciation that we have a glimpse of magic. We find ourselves on a threshold, and at that point, we can, in fact, push ourselves one step further. That threshold occurs when we think we have gone too far in extending ourselves to the world. There is some kind of warning, and at the same time a faint invitation takes place. Quite possibly we chicken out at that point because it requires so much effort and energy to go further. We feel we have put in enough effort and energy already, and we don’t want to go beyond that. So-called sensible people wouldn’t take such a risk: “Oh no! We have gone far enough; we mustn’t go too far. Let’s step back.”

According to the
Tibetan Book of the Dead
, when a brilliant light comes to us in the bardo, or after-death state, we shy away from it. When a pleasant, faint, soothing light comes to us, we go toward it. In choosing the dimmer light we come back to square one, which is samsara. The point at which we can either extend ourselves further and go toward an unfamiliar brilliance, or return to a more soothing and familiar dimness is the threshold of magic. It is very personal. We feel pushed, hassled, and exposed through our practice. All kinds of irritations and all kinds of boundaries begin to come up, and we would like to stay within our territory, within those boundaries. We don’t really want to step beyond them. We fear that in stepping beyond those boundaries we might do something beyond the boundaries of the teachings, something beyond the level of basic human sanity. Basically, we fear that we might destroy ourselves if we go beyond the territory of survival.

Such boundaries or thresholds always come up, and we really do not want to push anymore. But some kind of push is necessary. We might say, “Well, we have given our income and our possessions to the church. We have committed ourselves. We have signed our names on the dotted line. We pay our dues. We subscribe to your magazine. We do everything.” But there is still something left behind. We are still missing the point. Those commitments are very easy to make. At this point, it is a question of giving up our arms and our legs. Even that might be easy to do. We can give up our hair, we can give up our beard, we can take off our clothes. But we have no idea, none whatsoever, how to give up our heart and brain.

Once we give up our heart and brain, the magic begins. It actually does. That is the spark. We give up our little heart, our little brain, and then we get greater nothingness. That is where the magic begins. We do not get anything back in return, as such, because we actually have given up; but still something happens. Actual magic begins there. The magic cannot begin unless we are willing to step over the threshold. We have to step on the electric fence that has been keeping us inside the corral, and then we have to step over it. We might get a mild shock or a violent shock in the process, but that is absolutely necessary. Otherwise there is no tantra; there is no magic.

According to the tantric tradition, there are four levels of magic. The first is
one-pointedness
. In this case, we are not talking about one-pointedness as it is often described in hinayana meditation practice. “We are not talking about a highly sharpened, pointed needle that pierces through discursive mind, enabling us to develop our mindfulness. The vajrayana version of mindfulness or one-pointedness is like a dull needle, a dagger made out of stone rather than efficient stainless steel. When we sew fabric with a sharp needle, the needle sews through the texture of the fabric without damaging it. The needle just goes in and out, and consequently our clothes are made very efficiently with almost invisible seams. In vajrayana one-pointedness, we are not only going through the web of the fabric, but we are crushing what is there. When we crush the fabric, there is no obstacle. It is thorough penetration, very, very personal and very real.

So one-pointedness, or the first level of magic, is a particular kind of penetration. Wherever there are obstacles, they are acknowledged, and then they are cut through very bluntly. Therefore there is a hole, a gate, or an entrance point. A sharp needle is sneaky and efficient and keeps apologizing to each strand of fabric, making each one feel better. With such a needle, one piece of fabric can be joined to another quite beautifully, without destroying or damaging the fabric. It is a very polite approach. Tantric one-pointedness, on the other hand, is blunt and not at all polite. Emotions occur and are experienced; they are not suppressed in a neurotic fashion, but instead they are dealt with directly, in their own place.

The second level of magic is called
simplicity
or noncomplication. Literally, it is nonexaggeration. Usually we find ourselves exaggerating. This exaggeration takes the form of spiritual materialism, trying to acquire all kinds of spiritual techniques and disciplines, and it also takes the form of psychological materialism, or trying to acquire all kinds of little metaphysical theories and experiences. The point here is that, having already been penetrated by the vajrayana one-pointedness, the phenomenal world has been related with properly, fully, and thoroughly. It can exist in its own way; therefore simplicity is there already. In this case, simplicity does not mean being a harmless person who lives in a hermitage and is so kind and good that he would not kill a flea. Simplicity is noncomplication rather than romantic simplicity. This means, again, that there is no need for further exaggeration.

Often, when we refer to somebody as simple, we mean that the person is slightly dumb or naive. He is so simple that he does not know how to be sophisticated or complicated. We might find that type of energy very refreshing, but such simplicity is regressing rather than progressing in any way. In this case, simplicity is self-existence. Something is simple because of its own magical qualities. For instance, fire burns by its own simplicity but still has its energy. A rock has its magic because it sits still and never gets bored. A river keeps flowing in a simple way; it never gets bored and never gives up its course. So the qualities of self-existence are directness and simplicity, rather than purely being naive or good or kind.

The next level of magic is known as
one taste
. Because things have a self-existing simplicity, they do not need any reference point. That is one taste: no need for further reference point. It is direct, one flavor. Usually, sugar is sweet because salt is salty, but such reference points do not apply. One taste is a one-shot deal. If you feel extreme pain and frustration, you
feel
it. Often, I find students saying that they feel extremely pained and frustrated, but they cannot understand why. There is some element of truth in that. There may be magic in that, in fact. The students are not being analytical but direct. They feel the nowness of the pain—or of the pleasure—as it is, personally, directly, simply. That magic is very powerful, very important.

The fourth level of magic is known as
nonmeditation
. In this case, meditation is the idea of contemplating some object, such as visualizing a candle, a rose, or a clear pond. We find ourselves associating with what we have visualized: We become a living rose. When we have finished meditating on the rose, we begin to feel like a rose—rosy. But in nonmeditation, we do not meditate
on
anything. It is beyond reference point of subject and object. It is just simple, direct personal experience.

Nonmeditation provides a contrast to our expectations and constant sense of wanting. We always want something. We want to bring something in constantly, all the time. We want it badly, seemingly, but that is questionable. What is this wanting? “I would like a blah blah blah. Could I do blah blah blah blah?” We manifest our wanting in all kinds of ways, but it is all the same thing. “I want to eat. I don’t even want to chew. Once I get food inside my mouth, I just want to swallow.” The magical level of nonmeditation is entirely different from that constant wanting. Nonmeditation is not necessarily
not
wanting as such, or being dispassionate and cool and good. Rather, we are not particularly hungry. We are not particularly full either; nonetheless, we are not particularly hungry. We can accommodate food if something to eat comes up. It is welcome, even fantastic, but let us eat properly, in a nonmeditative way.

That is the greatest magic of all. At the final or fourth level of the magical process, we do not just perform magic because our magic wand works. When an angry soldier fires his machine gun at his enemies, each time the machine gun operates properly and kills his enemies, he licks his lips with enormous satisfaction. Somehow magic doesn’t happen that way. Magic is an expression of total nonaggression and an expression of total energy and power at the same time.

The question at this point might be whether what we have discussed is magical enough. It feels slightly toned-down and too sensible. But at this point we haven’t experienced those four levels of magic personally, so we have no idea how powerful they are. The little glimpse of energy we experience by studying tantra is perhaps one-hundredth of the tantric energy taking place—and even then we might experience it as too much. But there is more to come. There is a great deal more to come, indeed. The great Indian pandit Naropa once said that practicing tantra is like trying to ride a burning razor. Maybe he was right.

THIRTEEN

The Tantric Journey

Y
ANA
IS A
S
ANSKRIT WORD
that literally means “vehicle.” The three major yanas or vehicles of practice are, as we know, hinayana, mahayana, and vajrayana. Then there are further subdivisions, or subtleties. There are six yanas within vajrayana: kriyayogayana, upayogayana, yogayana, mahayogayana, anuyogayana, and maha ati. Before discussing any of the tantric yanas specifically, we need to examine the basic idea of yana or path in connection with the tantric idea of continuity.

From our earlier discussion we know that tantra means continuity or thread. The tantric notion of continuity is quite special. Continuity obviously cannot take place without some means to continue ourselves. So the question is, “Who is continuing? What is continuing?” When we become tantric practitioners, we have discussed and studied the hinayana and mahayana levels of Buddhism already, but we still do not know completely who or what is making the journey. According to the vajrayana, nobody is making the journey; but if there is no traveler, how is it possible to have a path? Of course there is the possibility that there is no path, no yana. But we cannot just
say
that there is no path. We have to acknowledge the phenomenological-experiential level: We have to relate to our own experience rather than simply making metaphysical assumptions such as that path does not exist.

We have to come back to square one: “What is this? Who am I?” The simplest way to approach this question is by realizing that it does not really matter who asks the question, but we need to see whether the question
itself
exists or not. Where does the question come from? It seems to come from curiosity and fascination, wanting to find the original truth. But where does that curiosity come from? How is it possible for there to be a question at all? From the point of view of the questionless state of being, questions are only fabrications; and since the question does not exist, therefore the questioner does not exist either. We have to work backward using this type of logic.

For instance, we say that since there is no sun, it must be nighttime. That is proper logic. We could say that it must be nighttime because it is dark, which in turn means that there is no sun, but that is weak logic. The questioning process has to work back to the first flash of reality. After that first flash of reality is experienced,
then
one begins to question reality and whether reality exists in its own right or not. In fact it doesn’t, because reality depends on the perceiver of reality. Since such a perceiver does not exist, therefore reality itself does not exist either. We have to work with that kind of logic; otherwise our understanding becomes too linear, too theistic.

So the question of a perceiver and the question of being is purely a phantom of our experience, purely a phantom, and it is questionable whether this phantom exists or not. On the one hand, the phantom does exist because of its phantomlike quality; but on the other hand, the phantom does not exist, also because of its phantomlike quality. We are cutting our throat if we discuss it, as if we were swallowing a razor blade.

With that understanding of egolessness or nonexistence, we begin to develop what is known as the knowledge of egoless insight,
lhakthong dagme tokpe sherab
(
lhag mthong bdag med rtogs pa’i shes rab
).
Lhakthong
means “insight,”
dagme
means “egoless,”
tokpe
means “realization,” and
sherab
means “knowledge.” Without that knowledge there is no way of understanding vajrayana or tantric experience at all. Egolessness may seem to you to be just another concept, but it is absolutely necessary.