Part III: The Eternal Buddha
Throughout my two weeks on the farm, a different storyline emerged - one that took place after dark. I spent my days working and laughing with Barry and Jackie, but my nights I spent alone. I slept in a second floor loft adorned with all kinds of trinkets from around the world (many I presume from Morocco) and a bookshelf with hundreds of different volumes. The part of the house I slept in had it’s own door, and it felt completely shut off from the outside world - in a good way.
I’ll never forget that first night. I was filled with excitement and awe, proud of myself that I had actually done the thing I said I was going to do. I couldn’t wait for what the upcoming weeks had in store for me. I dropped my luggage and jumped into bed, then it hit me…
I didn’t have anything to distract myself.
I got rid of social media before my trip and didn’t have a significant other to talk to, so I had to find other things to do. Plus, the cell service where I was staying was practically non-existent. I actually had to sit with myself, and this would turn out to be more difficult than I had hoped. This little loft in Ireland was dark and quiet - the kind of quiet where I could almost hear my own thoughts. After five years of sobriety and all that self-improvement, I quickly realized that something in me still feared silence. Back home, steeped in a world of endless stimulation, I liked to think of myself as “different” and not controlled by digital dopamine like everyone around me. I was sorely mistaken.
There I was, an American in the Irish countryside reading books about Eastern spirituality.
As subtle feelings of anxiety and dread crept in, I began to peruse the bookshelf to see if I could find a solution. Amidst the vast catalogue before me there were books about traveling, books about cooking, books about Ireland, books about spirituality. I combed through all of them and saw one that piqued my interest - “Siddhartha” by Herman Hesse. Over dinner, Barry had mentioned it was one of his favorite books, so I threw the book on the bed. I kept looking, curious if I would find anything else that intrigued me. At the base of the bookshelf was a small closet, so I opened it and looked around. I noticed a large wooden box on one of the shelves and picked it up; to my surprise, the inscription carved on the box read “I-Ching”.
For those of you that don’t know, the I-Ching is an ancient Chinese book of divination. I won’t go into its history here, but it’s worth noting that I’d previously had significant experience with the book (one of my tattoos is in fact a hexagram from the I-Ching). This was the most impressive version of the book I’d ever seen, so I took it out of its case to continue examining it. On the cover I saw its translators - Richard Wilhelm and Carl Jung. Remember that little maroon book I randomly took on the plane? It was translated by the same two men. I felt a light chill run down my spine at the realization of this strange “coincidence”.
Siddhartha and the I-Ching would become my nightly reading material. There I was, an American in the Irish countryside reading books about Eastern spirituality. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Those fleeting thoughts about suffering and illusion that popped up on my flight began to take more of a concrete form, reinforced heavily by Hesse’s ingenious take on Buddhism. Up until this point in my life, I hadn’t taken an honest look at Buddhism. Sure, I knew what it was about generally, but in comparison to other systems of thought/belief I knew very little. As a westerner who grew up in the Roman Catholic tradition, I was always very weary to make Eastern spiritual lineage a part of my own. It was actually my reading of Carl Jung that birthed this hesitancy - Jung was not in agreement with the Western, bastardized version of Eastern spiritual spirituality, going so far as to call it harmful. I mean, just think about it - from tight spandex yoga instructors to tantric sex practitioners to ecstatic dance festivals, we’ve done what the West does best - turn the seeds of something profound into something overtly sexual. Sitting alone in my room in the middle of nowhere Ireland, I finally felt safe to dive into the teachings of the Buddha and see what they were really about.
Oddly enough, I found nothing sexual or ecstatic. What I did find was a man who had experienced the true definition of freedom - freedom from desire, freedom from illusion, freedom from self. It resonated so much with me because these were all the things that weighed so heavily on me, that kept me in what I perceived as an endless cycle of suffering. Not unlike Christ, he was a man who experienced a beautiful state of existence and taught others both what he did to get there and the knowledge he gained from being there. I didn’t find any of the spiritual bypassing mumbo-jumbo I’ve come to associate with Buddhism in the West. I did find a rather wild text on tantra and Buddhism, but that was after a long rabbit hole and felt far too cult-y to take seriously.
These things that were in my head - these thoughts that floated around making me feel this way or that way - they weren’t real. They weren’t even me. They were merely vestiges of past experiences that lingered to appease my ego.
Perhaps the most interesting concept I came across was the idea of the Eternal Buddha. Not all sects of Buddhism believe in this concept (I don’t think?), but many do. The Eternal Buddha is the idea that each and every one of us has a buddha within, lurking underneath all of our suffering and misconceptions. In this line of thinking, Siddhartha Gautama (the person we all think of when we say “Buddha”) was not a god of any type, but a man who had come into union with his Eternal Buddha. This puts the Buddha as a state of being rather than some unachievable, religious ideal. I really liked the idea of that, as it made the concept of freedom feel attainable. All I had to do now was the thing I was most afraid to do…meditate. By meditate I don’t mean sitting with my knees crossed and chanting “OM”. I mean sitting with myself in complete darkness and complete silence and just letting myself exist there.
To my dismay, I was only able to get myself to do this on one evening. Sure, I meditated a bunch and did breathing exercises every night, but I only allowed myself to go to that particular place once - and I wasn’t able to stay there for long. It was over the course of those two weeks that I realized that I wasn’t as “spiritually advanced” as I thought I was, and I also realized that viewing spirituality as a game with ascending levels wasn’t doing me any favors. At the end of the day, I was okay. I was okay with the information I learned, okay with my limitations, okay with myself where I was at. Ireland seemed to have a way of allowing me to be that way. In the back of my mind I also knew that one day I would return to the farm and to the silence, and I would have more time to face whatever this resistance was.
I don’t know exactly when, but it was the day after one of these deeply contemplative nights when it happened. I was walking from the farmhouse to the garden, yet again caught up in resentful thoughts of the past. Then, in a moment, a realization came upon me. These things that were in my head - these thoughts that floated around making me feel this way or that way - they weren’t real. They weren’t even me. They were merely vestiges of past experiences that lingered to appease my ego. In that moment, the thoughts vanished. My knees nearly buckled as I caught the slightest glimpse of what was underneath…nothing. Absolute silence, absolute darkness, absolute peace. For a split second I could actually “see” the illusion of my own mind. By the next moment everything returned to normal, and I was left in confusion. What did I just experience??
In hindsight, I now call it a moment of enlightenment. I am by no means enlightened, nor did I experience enlightenment as we think of that word. What I did experience was a brief glimpse into what that enlightenment could be, a moment of complete loss of self. To put it in Buddhist terms, in that moment I became one with the Eternal Buddha that exists within me. The experience vanished just as quickly as it came, but it opened my mind to the possibility of how things - my self, my reality - might actually work. Although this brief moment didn’t mark any significant outward change, it shifted something inside me permanently.
I saw in them the peak of goodness and selflessness, and I felt real hope - for myself and everyone else - for the first time in a long time. I wanted what they had, and I felt like it was actually possible.
After this subtle, powerful experience, life continued as it always does, and my two weeks on the farm passed quickly. Before I knew it it was time to say goodbye to Barry and Jackie and the adventure we had together. I was set to meet my cousin P.J. to travel the southern coast of Ireland for my final week. The goodbyes were tough, but I knew without doubt I would see Barry, Jackie, Lizzie and the farm again. This was just the next inevitable phase of the journey. I said my goodbyes and hopped on a four hour bus ride to Galway, and noticed how all of my desires slowly crept back in. Would I have some wild nights? Would I meet new lovers? The same theme replayed, with transcendent experiences followed almost immediately by a return to more basic impulses. I would soon learn that again my selfish expectations would not be met.
My week of traveling in Ireland was magical, but not because of any love stories or passionate nights. Given the experience I just had on the farm, my heart was just not open to flirting or partying or running around. What I was open to was the land and the beautiful landscape that stretched before me each day. I walked in hidden caverns, swam in secret lakes and drove on vast beaches. I stoop atop breathtaking cliffs, climbed ancient ruins and spoke to horses. We spent each night in a different city at different pubs, but after the days’ events I just wasn’t all that up for being social. After two weeks spent in wonderland, it was strange to come back to the “normal” world, and I was not on the same footing as I once was.
I’m not much of a travel blogger, so I’ll let the following pictures describe the rest of my Irish travels:
After a week of travel, I ended up driving to Wexford (on the east coast) to stay with my friends JackTim and Alice and their newborn son Taj. I stayed with them for two days and nights, in what was yet another surprise of the trip. Like Barry and Jackie, JackTim and Alice live what I can only describe as an enchanted life - they’re just a few generations younger. Alice’s parents own an enormous farm and Alice is (quite literally) building their new house, and JackTim runs his own surf school. They spend winters in the Northwest of Ireland and seek the surf. They are two of the kindest, most gentle-hearted people I’ve ever met - so strikingly reminiscent of Barry and Jackie. We had two days of a good ol’ crack, and most of the time we spent entertaining their little bundle of joy.
I’ve always thought I wanted kids, but my two days with JackTim, Alice and Taj solidified it for me. This kid had the most infectious smile I had ever seen. JackTim and Alice surrounded him with laughter, love and music - things everyone deserves to have a child. There was just so much joy in the air, both coming from and given to this little boy. I got to hold him, watch him “play” the piano and have that particular type of peculiar conversation adults have with babies. I got to see how much happiness he brought JackTim and Alice, and how much they genuinely loved taking care of him (despite their many sleepless nights). I saw in them the peak of goodness and selflessness, and I felt real hope - for myself and everyone else - for the first time in a long time. I wanted what they had, and I felt like it was actually possible.
When the time came, I again found myself saying goodbye, unable to give back what I had received. It was the same feeling I felt when saying goodbye to Barry and Jackie. These people had taken me in and showed me parts of myself that I didn’t know existed. They did it all by simply being themselves, moving in the world as they normally do. I’ll never forget how I felt in the two-hour car ride from Wexford to the Dublin Airport. It was three in the morning, pitch-black, not a soul on the road. It was me, myself and the Irish night. I knew that the previous three weeks had changed my life, but not yet able to make any concrete forms of thought. I remember a sweet calm, a feeling of hope and a tremendous sense of gratitude. I put Gaslight Anthem on the radio and burned into the night in what now has crystallized in my memory as an idyllic scene.
I journeyed to Ireland without knowing what to expect, and I got so much more than I ever bargained for. I learned about a new way of life and saw that people can truly be kind. I saw the importance of hard work, laughter, family and community. I met the Buddha within me and saw the folly in my own pride and vanity. After a such a powerful experience, only one question remained:
What the fuck do I do now?
To my dismay, the answer to that question has not come easy. I’ve found it difficult to reintegrate myself into my former way of life. Everything just seems…dull. I understand that there’s a certain level of culture shock when returning from overseas, but this somehow seems different. I’ve now seen first-hand the type of life I’ve always dreamed of. I’ve also seen all the desires within me that prevent me from making that dream become a reality. I’ve found it difficult to write, difficult to move, difficult to just be okay with myself. Everything feels all jumbled up and without any clear answers. I gained all this knowledge and insight about myself and the world without any instructions on what to do with it. At the end of the day, I think I’m just afraid. I’m afraid that Ireland was just a dream. I’m afraid that by being back here I will slowly lose the freedom and joy I felt for those three weeks. I’m afraid that I’ll never conquer these desires which so clearly run my life. I’m afraid I won’t have what it takes and life will just drag me along.
Every flow has an ebb. Every light has a shadow. The internal battle I now struggle with was born from the most beautiful experience of my life, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I can’t help but think it’s all a part of process that’s greater than me - I would never have seen these things otherwise. What I do now - well, that’s up to me. I’m going to spend a few months living alone by the beach this winter. I’m also going to spend some time alone in the woods. I don’t have any answers other than a strong desire to return to the silence and the darkness; perhaps I can find what I’m looking for there. There’s also this faint little voice in the back of my mind telling me to return to where it all began for me - to Christianity, to Christ, to the Bible. I don’t know what that means yet, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
The final realization I’ve had is that I need to write more. A lot more. There is so much creative energy and thought that is trapped inside me - all overflowing from the trip - and I’ve just let despair and lethargy string me along these last few weeks. Starting next week, I’m going back to another hundred days of consistent writing. One hundred days, one hundred published pieces - no matter what they look like. Judging by my experience last winter, I’m sure there is much more to be revealed over the course of the next few months. At the very least, I’m sure I’ll learn a lot more about myself.
Thank you to all of you who took the time to read about my journey to West Cork. I seek neither praise nor pity, neither admiration nor admonition. I simply seek to relay my experience and hope that maybe you can relate to the feelings I’ve felt and to the the thoughts I’ve had. Maybe some of you will be inspired to make journeys of your own or think about your own internal battles with desire, pleasure and suffering. I’ve come to the conclusion that at the end of the day, all I can do is live and write. My words are the only way I can communicate my message, which is ironically still unclear to me.
Join me over the next few months as I return to writing about anything and everything I can think of. There’s bound to some decent stuff that comes out, right?
Until then…
-D