By Lynn Newdome
SMSLynn@comcast.net
- June ‘13
Ancient
sculptures of exquisite beauty carved onto the walls of an enormous stone temple
- I was captivated
by Borobudur from the moment I opened the pages of Golden Tales of the
Buddhas[1]. Built between 760 and 830 CE, buried for centuries
by the jungle and rediscovered in 1814, Borobudur remained a mystery to the
modern world. With the profile of a stepped pyramid, its aerial view revealed
the imprint of a giant mandala. Its sacred images evoked the Tibetan Buddhism
I’d studied and practiced for over twenty years, and the essence of this
faraway place resonated in my being.
Fast
forward another twenty years to 2011, when I picked up that book again and instantly
knew I must go to Borobudur. I didn’t know whether, as an American woman in my fifties, it would be safe to venture (alone)
to the foot of an active volcano on an island I couldn’t even find on the globe.
I didn’t like to travel, had little understanding of Indonesia’s Islamic
culture, and couldn’t speak its language. Without hesitation I booked flights halfway
around the world and arranged a month’s at the Manohara Hotel, within the sacred
grounds of the Borobudur complex.
During
the first seven months of 2012 I devoted my every spare minute to studying the Indonesian
language and learning all I could about Borobudur. Scholars had identified the sources
of its images as particular Buddhist sutras, but could only theorize as to Borobudur’s
original meaning and function. My research verified that during the eight and
ninth centuries, Mahayana and Vajrayana traditions of Buddhism were flourishing
in India and spreading along Asian land and sea trade routes. I saw Borobudur’s
thousands of panels of relief sculpture as describing the nine-yana path to
enlightenment. Rather than looking for its historical relevance, I would journey
to Borobudur as a modern pilgrim to experience its wisdom directly.
That
summer I attended teaching retreats of Tibetan master Chögyal Namkai Norbu. Rinpoche
spoke intimately of the Vajrayana and Dzogchen lineages I’d intellectually researched.
In dedicating the newly-constructed Vajra Hall in Buckland, Massachusetts, he said
we weren’t building it for ourselves, but for “people of the future.” Perhaps
Borobudur, as well, hadn’t been intended only for the Buddhists of its era, but
also to manifest in a future time.
By
the end of July I thought I’d prepared for everything, but couldn’t have anticipated
losing my glasses. On my red-eye flight out of Boston, I took two sleep meds,
not realizing they were double strength, so that I’d actually taken a quadruple
dose. The last thing I remembered was looking for my glasses case. The first
thing I realized upon waking was that my glasses were missing. Without them I
was nearly blind.
I
contemplated spending a month at my dream destination without being able to see
it. I was determined to not let it ruin my trip. Through a fog of connections
at London and Singapore airports, I called my hotel with a message. When I finally
landed in Java, my surroundings were a blur, but I’d arranged for a car to drive
me to an “express” eyeglass store. There, although I couldn’t explain why I couldn’t
see the big “E” on the chart, the optician figured out my prescription, and in
about an hour, made my glasses. I’d arrived in a new country and now was
literally seeing Indonesia through new eyes.
Suddenly the world was vivid and wildly in motion. All
around me, the streets of Jogia (Yogyakarta)
were teeming with motorcycles, half of them ridden by women with traditional headscarves.
None observed the road’s center line, and all seemed to have complete disregard
for the danger. Scared, I kept gasping, “Crazy!” as my driver, Eko, laughed in
agreement.
Using my limited bahasa Indonesia, I talked with Eko. He asked how long I was staying
at Borobudur, and I answered, “Satu bulan (one month).” At this, he looked confused and said, “Satu hari
(one day).” I tried to explain that I
really was staying “satu bulan,” but Eko was convinced that I meant one day, because no one stays at Borobudur for one month.
The hour-long drive stayed on city streets and not into
countryside I’d expected, so I was surprised to see Candi[2] Borobudur suddenly come into view. The car turned to enter
Borobudur Park and stopped in front of the elegant Manohara Hotel. My new home
was constructed of richly carved wooden beams and graceful roofs, but without
many exterior walls. There being no boundary between inside and outside, its
“interior” spaces opened directly onto the beautiful surrounding conservation
land.
The
next morning was August 1, and I was ready to begin my exploration. The candi was an easy walk from my room, on a hill bounded by
an iron fence. Borobudur’s four sides faced the cardinal directions, each with
gateways and stairs leading up to the central circular terrace. I entered
through the main East Gate and climbed a steep staircase to reach the base. Most
visitors proceed straight to the top, but on that first day I greeted a pair of
stone lions guarding the entrance and turned left to circle around the outer
wall.
To
my right ascended 432 life-sized Dhyani or “Five Wisdom” Buddhas, and to my
left was open landscape. I stopped in front of each Eastern Buddha in earth-witnessing
mudra (hand gesture), initially disturbed to see that many were without a head
or hands, or missing altogether. Below them, encircling the outer wall, was a row
of elegant male and female bodhisattvas which I couldn’t identify from my
studies of the narrative reliefs. Only eventually did I realize that they were among
Borobudur’s additional 1,212 “decorative” panels.
At the
candi’s Southeast corner, part of
the outer wall had been removed to reveal a segment of Borobudur’s “hidden foot[3]”.
Displayed here were scenes of tormented beings with twisted bodies and
grimacing expressions, illustrating the Karmavibhanga Sutra[4]. Even though only a few of the original 160 panels remain
visible, understanding their principles of suffering and its causes is necessary
to embark on the Buddhist path.
Turning
the corner to the South side, I paused at each Buddha in generosity mudra. Next
I went on to the Western Buddhas in meditation mudra, and lastly, the Northern Buddhas
in fearlessness mudra. Though not visible from my vantage, Central Buddhas in teaching mudra are along all four sides of
the fifth level.
Midmorning
I heard the Islamic prayers broadcast from what seemed to be the four
directions of the mountains. Their low resonance sounded to me like Tibetan
chanting, a call to meditation. My instinct was to turn outward and take the
posture of the buddhas. Gazing at the expansive volcanic range, I felt like I
was at the center of the world.
Wherever
I walked, I was eager to greet people with my new phrases of Indonesian. For
the Central Javanese, meeting someone from the U.S. was unusual. (In fact, during
my entire stay I didn’t encounter another Caucasian American.) Introducing
myself was always received with broad smiles and an enthusiastic “Amerika good!” Many Indonesians asked to take my picture, and
women warmly embraced me. They were a little surprised and curious to learn
that I was Buddhist. But it always came as a complete shock to hear that I was
staying at Borobudur for “satu bulan”.
Soon I became recognized as the “satu bulan” woman.
I
spent late afternoons in my room, studying the reliefs’ symbolism and reading the
sutras on which they were based. Dinner in an open pavilion brought the
unexpected delight of live gamelan[5] music. As a musician, I found the cascade of bell tones
completely captivating. Later, traditional Javanese dancers in full lavish
costume performed the slow, graceful movements of their ancient art. And rising
in the background was Candi
Borobudur, illuminated in the night sky. I was thoroughly and contentedly
satiated.
The following
day I was ready to enter the first of Borobudur’s four Galleries, corridors of
relief sculpture wrapped around the candi’s mandala-shaped outer edge. I planned to view each
panel one-by-one before eventually reaching the top. My logical mind told me
that to cover all 1,460 reliefs arranged in ten series along both sides of the four
levels, I’d need to average about sixty panels a day. This, however, wouldn’t
leave much time for me to be on the Upper Terrace, so I came up with the
alternate plan of making one circumambulation each day.
Again
entering through the East Gate and greeting the lion pair, I climbed to the
First Gallery, counting 124 stairs, some nearly as high as my knees. A small sign
with a left-pointing arrow indicated “Pradaksina,” the traditional practice of circling a stupa
clockwise, and I turned left into the
passageway. To both sides, the inner walls and outer balustrades were covered in
dense sculpture, and blue sky opened above.
Using
my homemade tools - a binder filled with small captioned photographs and a diagram
mapping Borobudur’s numbered panels - I started trying to identify the reliefs.
This was difficult, as centuries had worn at the details of the sculptures. Slowly
I learned to correlate each scene with its description, study its meaning, and then
stand back to appreciate it. These depictions of Buddha’s past lives (Jatakamala) and stories of noble pre-Buddhists (Avadanas) included many worldly scenes with babies and families.
Here were humans and animals, acting with generosity and kindness toward each
other.
But
the corridors turned constantly right, then left, and I continually got lost in
their labyrinth. With blazing sun overhead and little opportunity for shade, sweat
rolled down my back. I pushed on and after two hours, paused to check my
“progress,” only to find that I hadn’t yet made it to the South Gate, one
quarter of the way around. Taking a deep sigh, allowing the fierce heat to relax
me, I continued. It took almost five hours to complete the series, ending at
the East Gate, where I’d begun. Swelteringly hot, utterly exhausted, with sore
knees and aching back, I was filled with gratefulness for this incredible and
precious opportunity.
Each
day I persevered in this way, spending four days on the four series of the
First Gallery. Gradually I became more familiar with the ancient iconography, able
to identify bowls, lamps, flowers, jewels… I was able to recognize symbols of different
classes of beings: the shaved heads of nuns and monks, the ornamented crowns of
royalty, wild headdresses of yaksas, and snake-headed nagas.
For
me, the Northwest balustrade was particularly beautiful, with its sensual
images of bodhisattvas in relaxed postures, joined by women dancing, caressing.
In images of graceful devis bearing offering trays, I saw Gauguin’s inspiration
for his Two Tahitian Women (my
favorite painting). Repeated again and again, I noticed a central Buddha in teaching
mudra, with monks to his right, and lay men and women to his left. This seemed
to convey, even emphasize, that Buddha taught a secular community of practitioners,
as well as the monastics who went on to establish the Buddhism we know today.
On my
fourth day in the First Gallery, while viewing scenes of the Lalitavistara, a sutra of the life of Sakyamuni Buddha, I listened
as Indonesian tour guides, women and men, told these stories. It was wonderful
to hear the dharma spoken in so many languages - English, Indonesian, French,
German, Japanese… I found that these Muslim guides demonstrated more openness
toward Buddhism than many Westerners, and often with a greater understanding
than some Buddhists: “Buddha is the last and greatest Buddha for now, but
there were many buddhas before him, and the next buddha is Maitreya.” “This Buddha
was born as a man, but ‘buddha’ is a title. Everyone can become like Buddha.”
Borobudur’s
second, third and fourth levels all portray the Gandavyuha[6], taught by Buddha but perceived only by beings of a
higher realm, and not by humans on earth. This long and detailed sutra describes
a boy’s quest to attain enlightenment in a single lifetime, taking Sudhana to
meet 53 spiritual guides. Strikingly, about half of these are women, and they
are Buddhist and non-Buddhist, religious and secular, and of all ages, social
classes and vocations. Through them, Sudhana journeys beyond the limited view
of any particular cultural or religion, beyond ordinary perception and into unconditioned
consciousness.
These
Upper Galleries are entered via narrower, steeper staircases and elaborate
gateways crested with gaping-mouthed kalas. On the Second Gallery I sat on stone
benches built into the wall while reading the panels’ corresponding passages from
Entering the Realm of Reality[7]. I followed Sudhana as he first met monks, then a banker,
a lay woman, a prophet, a girl... That first day I was able to cover less than a
quarter of the way around (almost to the South Gate), but felt peaceful as I
viewed, studied and contemplated. The following day I was continuing with this focused
intent, until something caused me to look up. There, above me, I saw the Dhyani
Buddhas, watching over me all along.
I’d
arrived in Java during the month of Ramadan, when Muslims, about 88% of
Indonesia’s population, observe the fast of not eating or drinking between
sunrise and sunset. This was a time of relative quiet for Borobudur, but that day
I learned the tranquility would come to an end on August 19, when the close of Ramadan
would be celebrated with the holiday of Idul Fitri and a week-long school vacation. Hoards of people would
arrive, and not just from Java, but from all over Indonesia’s many islands. Abruptly,
I realized that I’d like to finish viewing the galleries sooner than planned, to
have a few quiet days on the Upper Terrace.
But at
the close of yet another day, I still hadn’t made it even halfway around the
Second Gallery wall. The visions of Sudhana’s teachers became more and more fantastical,
climaxing in the elaborate visions of Night Goddesses. Each woman described
vast attainments over countless lifetimes and limitless worlds, and each concluded
with “…but this is the limit of what I know. To learn of enlightening practice,
go on to see (the next)…”
By
my fourth day on the Second Gallery, my mind was pretty much “blown.” Sudhana
continued meeting guides - women, men, boys and girls - and the panels became
increasingly difficult to decipher. I was, however, aware of an overall
transformation taking place, as elements of Vajrayana emerged - mudras, tantric
implements and multi-armed Buddhas. Finally, late that afternoon, I completed
the Second Gallery, where Sudhana met his 51st teacher, Maitreya.
That
evening I wrote in my journal, “After a day of reading and viewing stories
of wondrous beings, abilities and displays, I feel like I’ve walked into one of
those scenes… The dharma is so close, and the world becoming so transparent, as
if the veil between fixed view, solid reality, and miraculous display is being
lifted, or shed in stages.” I saw
elephants stroll across the lawn at breakfast…met the artist who taught these
elephants to paint…and white bats appeared in the night sky, dancing like
butterflies…
The
next day I went on to the Third Gallery to view its balustrade, where narrative
scenes alternated with decorative reliefs of multiple bodhisattvas. I felt enveloped
in this circle of enlightening beings. On the inner walls, Sudhana was approaching
the closed gates of Maitreya’s palace. Slowly, panel by panel, the doors opened
wide. Inside, Sudhana at once experienced towers within towers, each larger,
grander and more ornate. I gave up trying to follow the words of my book as he
returned to his first teacher, Manjusri, then met his final guide,
Samantabhadra. Merging minds, Sudhana entered the realm of the primordial buddha.
A
Javanese man sweeping on the third level asked about my book. When I showed him
the Gandavyuha, he smiled, and
said, “Buddha good.” I replied, “Mohammed good.” Using just a few words, we communicated
that I was Buddhist, he was Muslim, his friend was Catholic, and in Indonesia
all religions were at peace. We shared thoughts: “Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus...all
teach to make us good… All teach peace, so there is not conflict.”
Having
a mutual understanding of world peace was easier than figuring out the remainder
of the Third Gallery. Sections of it had been closed off for restoration, so I repeatedly
had to go back down to the second level, then climb up again at another gateway.
Reaching the crescendo of my exhaustion, my legs became too tired to lift my heavy
body. Nearly overcome with weakness, I grasped the rail and started pulling myself
up. Suddenly and strangely, I recognized this experience - from my sleep. It
was my recurring dream of dragging myself up stairways in utter fatigue. Now, that
dream was actually happening…
The following day I’d intended to re-view the third level,
but before I knew it, was already in the Fourth Gallery, having been inexplicably
drawn through its open archways of flames and magical creatures. I found myself
kneeling before each panel of innumerable bodhisattvas and buddhas, scenes of the
Bhadracari, Samantabhadra’s vows. Curiously,
I noticed a guard, then several guards always staying within sight. Were they
watching me because I’d peeked into closed Third Gallery areas the day before,
or was this just the quietest place for their break? Either way, we were
friendly, and it felt appropriate to have guardians accompanying me here. That
day, for the first time, I wasn’t tired when I reached the South Gate. At ease
with myself and my surroundings, I simply observed, not particularly trying to
understand.
On that
afternoon, August 14, following two rigorous weeks, I at last finished viewing all
1,460 narrative and 1,212 decorative reliefs, and I wasn’t about to wait for the
next day to get to the top. Pausing at the highest East Gateway, I noticed its
latticed pattern was the same as Maitreya’s palace on the Third Gallery, entry to
the primordial realm.
Beaming
at the guards, I rose to the magnificent Upper Terrace. Before me was the grand
central stupa, surrounded by terraces of smaller latticed stupas. As I turned to
pradaksina, vajra bells marked the
boundary to the outer world, volcanic peaks came into view, and all above was
vast sky. I slowly circled, moving around the border of heaven and earth.
The
next day I spent hours on the Upper Terrace, circumambulating its three raised platforms
of bell-shaped stupas. It was only then, by standing right next to a stupa and peering
directly into it, that I could see its seated buddha within. Not all of the statues
remained whole, but by looking closely through a diamond opening, I could see the
buddha’s hands in dharmacakra, wheel-turning
mudra.
The
evening of August 18 marked the end of Ramadan. It was a clear and beautiful
night, and from all the mountains I heard fireworks and a thousand voices
raised in praise, prayer and joy. For the remainder of my stay, Borobudur would
be alive with the sight and sounds of tens of thousands of visitors. Each day I
joined a continuous parade of Indonesians in colorful clothing, scarves and
umbrellas, climbing to the top. Children peeked into the stupas and reached out
their hands to try to touch the buddhas. Families posed for photos, spreading their arms wide as if to express,
“What a wonderful world!”
Over
the next two weeks, each morning I started at the East Gate and retraced my path
through the Galleries before ascending to the top. At first referring to my
notes and books, I’d eventually
put them away. My pradaksinas
became leisurely strolls as I gazed to the left and right, appreciating the
sculptures anew for their beauty and detail. Approaching the top, the clarity of the upper stupas increased,
the central stupa appearing as the form of perfection.
I
spent afternoons walking among the nearby villages, meeting shopkeepers, artists,
and families. In the evenings I feasted on the music of the gamelan, standing
right next to it, where I could hear, see and feel its sparkling layers of
sound. The elegant Javanese dance, performed this same way for thousands of
years, enchanted me. This truly was a wondrous dream, and I knew that when I left
Indonesia, it, more dramatically than other “dreams,” would disappear.
I grew
to love the Javanese people, warm, generous and eager to share their heritage: my
hosts at Manohara, who greeted me daily and encouraged my fledgling bahasa
Indonesia… the gamelan musicians who,
with patience and humor, tried to teach me not only their instruments, but also
the traditional Javanese language
of their island… Robertus, a Catholic artist, who heard the Islamic prayers as
Gregorian chant… Agus, a guard at the candi, who pointed out and demonstrated the dharmacakra mudra of “Indonesia’s” buddha… Tami, a batik artisan’s
friend, who explained the Javanese “way” to me - that although we can’t control
what happens to us, we can choose to respond with a “smile.”
Indonesians
had always told me, “You can’t meditate at Borobudur,” meaning, I think, that
it wasn’t isolated or quiet. But on my next-to-last day, I finally felt
comfortable enough to practice meditation on the Upper Terrace. I found a
relatively quiet spot among the stupas and sat, slowly taking off my shoes,
crossing my legs and placing my hands in meditation mudra. Next to me were the buddhas,
before me the vajra walls, beyond the mountains, and all about, the colorful
movements of people, their voices like music. With quiet mind, I experienced
this vivid display with contentment and joy.
What
I hadn’t realized was that I’d positioned myself right next to a stairway and in
the middle of the traffic flow. People stopped at the sight of me, a white
woman sitting in the same position as the buddhas. Many took my photograph, others
tried out my meditation posture, and women handed me their sweet babies to hold
on my lap.
On my
last day I visited the candi for a
final pradaksina, ambling along,
not caring what relief went where, or how it related to what. The sculptures were
so exquisite to me that even the stones’ porous texture was beautiful. I reached
the Upper Terrace, where a guard recognized me and cheerfully called out, “Satu
bulan!”
Walking
among the stupas, I felt that these buddhas, whether perfectly formed or eroded
down to a pebble, were manifest in this world as anchors of buddhadharma. I
found a spot to meditate (this time not next to a stairway). Knowing that I’d soon leave, a part of me wanted
to forever imprint this view solidly in my mind. I gently let it go.
Later
that afternoon, I ventured to the western landscape of Borobudur Park, an area
I hadn’t been aware of. There, to my surprise, were large open-air pavilions,
perfect for large group meditation. Farther along, winding pathways lead to smaller,
more isolated structures. I realized that as much as I’d experienced at Borobudur, there was yet more to discover.
On
August 29 I returned home, feeling vital and enriched. Of course the afterglow couldn’t
last indefinitely, and the day I returned to work, my Indonesian glasses fell
off and broke. But in so many ways, Borobudur continues to stay with me. From its
open pavilions, I recognize that walls surrounding me don’t obstruct limitless
space. From the Islamic calls to prayer, I have four meditation sessions to shape
my daily life. And from the leap which began as my unlikely impulse to travel to
an unknown, faraway place, I’ve given wings to my dreams and learned to soar.
Lynn Newdome is a member of the Dzogchen Community at Tsegyalgar East. A professional violinist, Lynn has a Master of Music degree from Boston University and a Bachelor of Music from the University of Colorado. She has played with the Boston Pops, Hartford Symphony, Springfield Symphony, and many other fine orchestras. Lynn teaches violin and chamber music at the Hilltown Cooperative Public Charter School and her private studio in Northampton. www.ViolynnStudio.com. She is on her way back this July for a return visit and further explorations.
Mirror subscribers can read the full three part series in the last three issues.
ARTICLE COPYRIGHT BY LYNN NEWDOME
[1] Borobudur:
Golden Tales of the Buddhas, text by John
Miksic, photographs by Marcello Tranchini, Shambhala Publications, 1990.
[2] Pronounced “chaundy,” the Indonesian term for an ancient Buddhist or Hindu
temple
[3] Borobudur’s
original base, covered over in an early phase of construction to fortify its
foundation
[4] Buddha’s
teachings on karma and the chains of samsara
[5] An
Indonesian ensemble of gongs, metallophones, drums and vocalist/soloist
[6] Sanskrit
sutra which is also the final book of the Avatamsaka Sutra (Flower Ornament
Scripture).
[7] Entering
the Realm of Reality: the Text, a
translation of the Gandavyuha by
Thomas Cleary, Shambhala Publications, 1989.
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