Mind the Gap

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

2:

Mind the Gap

In 1969, Lou Reed of The Velvet Underground (in the song ‘Some kind of love’) sang “Between thought and expression lies a lifetime”, which brings to mind not only the Viennese  psychiatrist Viktor Frankl and his Logotherapy and the ‘space’ between stimulus and response, but is also reminiscent of the Buddhist notion of a ‘gap’ on the ‘Wheel of Life’, or the very practical aspects of the Karmic domino effect of our actions in life, and maybe beyond, depending upon your notion of rebirth..

The class was as fascinating as ever.

I continue to be enthused about the paired down, no nonsense, demystified approach to Buddhism. If you might consider Buddhism to be a stripped down version of the religious collective known as Hinduism, then Western Buddhism is Buddhism Lite, devoid of the mysticism, just as Protestantism is a more pragmatic version of Catholicism within the Christian faith.

This week, before meditation we, the humble travellers not on a ribald Chaucerian pilgrimage but on our own separate journeying into Buddhist practices, were introduced to the ‘Tibetan Wheel of Life’, or the map of Samsara which, at first glance, seems to be an Asian visual rendering of Dante's Nine Circles of Hell.

The bad news is that suffering (Dukkha) exists. The worse news is that we will all suffer. But the good news is that we can do something about it.

Enter, not the dragon but the karmic gap, and back to Viktor Frankl and his ‘space’ between stimulus and response. Frankl, like Herman Hesse and Carl Jung, journeyed to the East and took back to the West notions found there, including borrowings from Hinduism, Buddhism and Taoism, so is it no wonder that there may be similarities between a Logoistic/psychodynamic and Buddhist approach to the action and re-action we all seem to suffer from.

Please mind the gap. This is heard at some of the stations on the British ‘Tube’ (underground rail system). That gap being a physical manifestation of the more metaphysical ‘gap’ in the action and the seemingly autonomous reactive response we suffer in life. The secret is not to mind, but to be mindful of that gap and that infinitesimal ‘augenblik’ (moment) between action and reaction.

Sangha

Sunday Musings on Saturday Buddhist Class

1: Sangha

It’s a Saturday in September, and it’s my first day at the Colchester Buddhist Centre. A little while ago I signed up for a short (6 Saturday) course on Buddhism and Meditation there. I have many reasons to do so, not least to get me out of my rented double room and to interact with real people (as opposed to those wraiths on Youtube or Zoom).

The time has come, or so I reckon, to enquire beyond reading Ram Dass and Alan Watts, and go back to basics, to actively involve myself with Western Buddhist teaching and understand a little more about its practice. Some while ago (in Selangor, Malaysia), I had attended monthly meetings with a circle of Chinese Malaysians seeking to practise Buddhism. It was helpful, but I couldn’t help thinking that the meetings echoed those of Christian practise, replete with singing to guitar or piano accompaniment which seemed very much like hymns, not to mention the bowing before an idol of Buddha which again felt like the genuflection to the crucified Catholic Christ. That wasn’t for me, but today is different.

I’ve just walked a mile to the Centre, and arrived early. Early enough to sit at a bus stop outside the Centre gathering my thoughts. It’s due to be the first time that I’m interacting in a group setting since June this year, when my Cambodian teaching days ended. It's now September, and I confess to a little anxiety about interacting in a group. Although I’ve paid for the course I could, of course, simply not turn up. But then that would defeat one of my objectives, and that is to re-integrate myself back into local society after a 17 year absence. I gird my loins and go, my curiosity finally outweighing my reticence. 

I stand outside that renovated building looking in and letting others in before me. It’s a gentlemanly, yet also tentative, act. Inside, there are lots of welcoming smiles, but not those unsettling “oh my god this is a cult, get me outta here” type smiles, but actually welcoming “I’m so glad that you could make it” smiles instead. The type of smiles which succeed in making you, or at least me, feel welcome.

The building, which had served as a warehouse in Portland Road, had been bought from Colchester Borough Council and renovated to suit its current purpose. The moment that I walk in I’m made to feel at ease, comfortable, and welcomed both by the people (ordained members of the Triratna Buddhist Order and Sangha) and (strangely enough) by the building. There is a very therapeutic feel to the whole environment.

Two classes have gathered in that entry hall. There are rows of chairs and sofas which quickly fill with newbies and old hands as ten thirty approaches. I sit near the back simply because that is where I am and, I guess, to feel less self-conscious. The Centre’s ‘staff’ (experienced Buddhists) generally wear a white ribbon around their necks and a name badge to be recognised although, I learn, some don’t. It’s quite a relaxed atmosphere here.

The usual welcome chit chat explains the Centre, introduces the ‘staff’ and gives a general introduction as to why we are there, and what we will do. After cups of tea, for we are mostly British here, and tea is obligatory, followed by a quick Q & A then the group divides and our class remains as the Saturday meditation group disappears up the blonde wooden staircase. Those of us who remain are the newcomers and attendant ‘Staff’. There is the briefest explanation of Buddhism, as well as a short history of Buddhism in Colchester, then we’re led upstairs to the main altar room, bypassing the kitchen on the way. The more I see of the building the more I like it. The copious amounts of wood aid in the relaxing feel, entirely conducive to the building’s purpose. There is no weight, no heaviness and it’s as if the whole decor was designed with counselling and care in mind. There is no heaviness of religion, although the Buddha is present and represented by small practically unobtrusive (and entirely tasteful) figures and figurines. 

We, the new course attendees (of all shapes, sizes and with varying abilities) are invited to sit before a stately statue (Rupa) of Buddha, in the main altar room. I opt for a chair. Others, who evidently are more agile, sit on cushions on the floor. Sadly my mistreated old body is no longer supple enough for that. After being asked if we have any objection to incense being burnt, we are led through a forty minute session of meditation after a mindful ‘body scan’(relaxation session). Honestly, it’s the longest that I’ve been able to meditate so far.

We decamp, don shoes, chat and leave with promises of our return the following week. I can honestly say that I am looking forward to going back there.

Mr Bradley's Day Out

The early morning (07.07) train carried me leisurely from ‘Colchester Town’ to ‘Colchester Railway station’, once there another, no less friendly, ‘Great Eastern’ locomotive melodically beat sleepers towards a freshly awakened Liverpool Street, and London Town.

It was an unhurried day, full of sky and sunshine, with a dash or two of pre-autumn leaves sashaying to earth. London quietly hummed along and people peopled everywhere to the rhythm of their own heartbeats.

My tummy growled its morning greeting, asking when the promised breakfast might arrive. I answered soon, and took the Hammersmith & City tube to Aldgate East. I had a plan, you see. A plan formulated ages ago, when eating bagels in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I had wished that I could partake of the smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels which I'd remembered from my favourite bagel joint, during my nine years of weekends visiting London’s East End.

I walked.

I walked through from Aldgate East, eventually, to a Brick Lane which was no longer Monica Ali’s. It was Monday, and the party was over. Streets and pavements were graced with the party’s remnants. I sidled into a Bengali store, with curious looks from the locals, and sought out species unattainable in Colchester. I managed to get dried, not fresh, curry leaves and a refill for the ‘Panch Puren’ an erstwhile friend had given, but was running out, and black mustard seeds too.

The morning was bright and I was in a good mood, and so walked on, singing all sorts of Summer’s day songs in my head and, before I knew it, there I was, at ‘Beigel Bake’, and my breakfast awaited.

True to my vision, I ordered a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel which, when it appeared, was plumper than any of those pretend bagels that I had seen in the several years interval between visits. My accompanying paper cup of tea almost raneth over and was pleasant, but I'd expected a stained white ceramic mug. Those days have gone.

I stood, as so many times before, and slowly savoured the Brick Lane bagel experience, simultaneously looking longingly at the vast array of freshly produced pastries, and imagining just how many I could eat before becoming sick. I calculated, probably one. 

I exited Brick Lane with a sigh and a backward glance at salt beef sandwiches, and found myself in Bethnal Green Road. Before me a number 8 double decker bus drifted by. ‘Now that’s a good idea' I thought and walked down the road a little, to the Bus Stop. 

I hadn’t long to wait before another number 8 bus appeared. I proffered my ‘Oyster Card’, went upstairs, and relaxed as the London Transport bus trundled its way, not unpleasantly, to Tottenham Court Road, and London’s West End. I had thoughts of Sandi Toxvig and her not dissimilar journeying in London, while Flanders and Swan's "Big six-wheeler, scarlet-painted, London Transport, diesel-engined, ninety-seven–horse-power omnibus" (from their 'A Transport of Delight',1957 song), entertained my mind.

The road which, when not proffering sexual delights, had been filled with bookshops selling remaindered books, looked empty. I emerged opposite the Palace Theatre and 'Harry Potter', in ginormous letters. Not being much of a fan I didn't linger, but instead walked down towards the National Portrait Gallery and followed a pride of inert and quite colourful lions, to the National Art Gallery at Trafalgar Square where I was greeted by the sculpture of a giant dollop of whipped cream, with a cherry on top. There was a fly and a drone as well.

Crossing the road, I stood for a moment as someone was opening the doors to Tourism Malaysia.The irony did not escape me.

Still fuelled by my bagel and tea, I wandered down to Whitehall and Parliament then along Victoria Embankment, where I sat and mused a little, watching all sorts of river craft float along the Thames. If I'd had company I might have suggested a river tour. It's been ages since I did that. But I didn't fancy it alone.

Ambling along I found the amazing greenery of The Victoria Embankment Gardens, and its imposing statuary. I didn't stop, except to take photographs like the tourist I was, but headed to Charing Cross and scooted up towards Covent Garden. By this time I was looking for lunch and had but one stop in mind, a Singaporean style restaurant I’d heard of.

The said Singaporean eatery wasn’t in Covent Garden, as proclaimed, but in New Row. The chicken curry taste was pretty authentic, but ultimately spoiled by being microwaved, and previously frozen. I could tell this because potatoes really don't fare well after being frozen. The cendol (iced sweet dessert) was okay but, like many places in Malaysia, it was mostly ice and the green noodles were too soft. But overall it was what I was looking for, and I found it. Next time I’d probably seek somewhere else.

The surprise of the day came just a few doors down from that eatery. I sauntered down that ‘row’, and was passing some other eateries when a be-hatted congenial Afro-Caribbean man smiled at me. He sat, strangely enough, right next to a hattery. I saw the hats and, as if beguiled, drifted in. The be-hatted gentleman followed me in. As we were talking hats another, younger, slimmer gentleman appeared. I had to look twice. This new man wore his blonde hair in the old mod style of Rod Stewart and had a very similar look about him (Tank Top), all except for ‘The Illustrated Man’ tattoos. Together they could have been characters from some London dystopian Neil Gaiman novel. They were friendly. I bought a black fedora (hat), and was told that ‘black’ was not the usual colour for hats. I didn’t ask why, but I should have.

Going up to China Town, which is (according to Wikipedia) is Gerrard Street, the bottom half of Wardour Street, Rupert Street and Rupert Court, a section of Shaftesbury Avenue and Lisle Street, Macclesfield Street and Newport Place, Newport Court and Little Newport Street, I was searching for one particular Malaysian curry powder (Baba’s), but couldn’t find it. Instead I bought ‘Char Siew Buns’ (baked buns containing Chinese roast pork in sauce) to take home for dinner.

I wandered up to Tottenham Court Road, and caught a number 8 bus (again) back to Liverpool Street Station, then my (16.17) train to Colchester, and finally Colchester Town station and walked back to my lodgings, about half a mile. It was a great, but tiring, day. I admit, part of me wants to live nearer to London, as I did back in the late 1960s (Westbourne Grove), another loves the countryside. I guess that Colchester is a compromise with London an hour away by train.