Chapter 63 — Tricksters and Bandits

In the 1960s, there was a Tibetan monk named Chögyam Trungpa who wanted to bring meditation to the West. He traveled to England, attending Oxford to study the religion, history, and philosophy of these odd and interesting Western people. Standing out in his maroon robes, he was a curiosity himself, and different scholars and rich, educated people would come to discuss philosophical topics and learn meditation. But these were not his people. So, he gave up his robes. He went to bars. He went to parties. He met the rowdiest of them with a smile and a wink. These were his people. There’s a story about the Buddha from his lifetime just before becoming enlightened. He was a monk walking through the forest and came upon a starving tigress and her cubs.

Drawn by compassion, he nursed them, offering blood from his own body until they were strong enough that he could offer his entire body to them. I never liked that story. It seemed gruesome, unnecessary. Are you supposed to go around throwing yourself to the tigers and wolves and bears? But this morning I felt it: the joyful self-offering. Not martyrdom. Placement. Give yourself where you benefit beings most. Sitting by the small window, feeling my body come alive after an easeful morning practice, watching the yellow light filter through the slats, I feel a pure, unadulterated joy. It’s one of those moments when you realize who you are is exactly what is being called for. I look around the dorm and feel the water source seeping into the soil.

Dakina, who is called “crazy,” was profoundly sane when Luciana met her with kindness. Where others felt intense aversion, Luciana showed tenderness. She’d have conversations with her in her clearest moments and wake up in the night to give her candy when others just yelled at her. Seeds of kindness sprouting. These moments are what I live for. And here’s what surprised me: I had no idea how fertile the soil would be. I thought it would be filled with tough women who didn’t give a shit. In fact, these are some of the most pure-hearted women I’ve ever met. It’s painful to see the cruel joke. It’s not that these women are bad and need their power removed lest they hurt someone.

It’s that harm came as a result of their power being so miscast. One woman who comes and sits with Rachel and me for our afternoon meditations is going home soon. On the phone she told her sister she actually wished she could stay in prison; she was nervous to be back outside. I promised we could spend more time together meditating so she’d have tools she could take with her. This is not charity. It is an honor to be with these women. We had meditation class the day before, now a regular part of the weekly rhythm in the dorm. The women came with questions from last week (if they hadn’t already pulled me aside in the days between classes) and took pride in their increasing breath-holds during tummo practice, warming their bodies enough that they’ve started leaving off layers of clothing.

As class started, I tried to explain what I see: They’re Lamborghinis; I’m just offering GPS. Compassion, animal instinct, limbic connection, single-pointed focus—these women have engines powerful enough to get to where meditation is meant to take you. They have the potential to change the world. They need only a mirror and a map. The metaphor resonated in the room. “The labels we put on ourselves—or let other people put on us— that’s the trap.” In here, identity is a contact sport: who is friend and who is foe, whether you’re wearing an inmate’s uniform or a guard’s. I hint at another way, a third option where you neither bow nor assert. You know who you are outside the bounds of cultural ascription, floating above the boundaries they draw on the map below.

I pointed to Royal, who was nodding, for confirmation. She has enough years inside to have seen labels get stuck on and eventually peel off again. “You can be invisible and not need to be seen. Revered and not get inflated. You arise according to the needs of the time. Like tofu, you take on the flavor of whatever you’re steeped in.” That’s the holy grail—not a chalice above us, but a ladder that allows for seamless motion into any realm. “If you really want to bring benefit, you have to be able to say two things: There is nothing you can do that will scare me, and nothing you can do that will make me not love you.” I often call myself a surveyor, exploring wild realms where brand-name companies won’t dare to go, offering what I have.

Most people are different from me. I’m too wild to be “good” and too good to be bad. In, but not of. There’s a one-percent club—spiritual transients who don’t abide anywhere but connect the dots wherever they land. They are my people. Some of the women here are those people. “Just how does meditation work?” Nevaeh asked, looking to tie the pieces together. “It gives you access to a whole other game. It’s fifth-dimensional chess—no other game like it—and only for real ones.” They like a challenge. Years back I took a tour of a Zen convent. There was a painting on the wall, a figure sitting in meditation, blue sky stretching behind him. My Lama said it was Samantabhadra, a buddha whose name translates to “Universal Good.” “Patron of tricksters and bandits, criminals and the wild ones,” my Lama added with a grin. “We like him a lot.” It was love at first sight.

It’s easy to do the kind of spirituality that looks good, benefiting the needy and the poor. But who takes care of the hard cases? Black-diamond spirituality doesn’t leave the prostitutes and junkies at the door and then congratulate itself for giving a cookie. It goes straight to where society piles the bodies it doesn’t know what else to do with and sets up shop. Shouldn’t there be a heaven for the bad boys and girls, the wild ones most people root for in movies and TV but forget to include in their prayers? These women—forgotten and tossed aside by society, the ones most would only try to control and restrict—have the greatest potential I’ve ever known. I made my vow decades ago, and I can see its trickster finesse and how it carried me precisely here.

This is where the road has been misnamed and misunderstood. These women are dying to drive, to let their engines roar, to see what happens when they finally get a clear stretch of runway instead of a cul-de-sac. Sitting in that early morning light, it hit me that this could be my post for a very long time. Bonkers in terms of justice, righteous in terms of service. I think often of the dignity Malcolm X sought to bring to the Black men he was incarcerated with and the potential he saw in them. That’s what I want for women, but through dharma, not dogma: each woman waking up to her unique power so she can carry out her unique calling, her unique flight.

I give myself over to where I am of most benefit. The greatest joy comes from the place of greatest contribution. I don’t pretend to know how it will unfold, but I give myself to it wholly.