Buddhism or the Movement?
The night of the Ferguson grand jury verdict, as the hour of the announcement approached, I faced an unsavory, familiar choice.Buddhism, or the movement?It was a Monday, and Monday nights are my regular dharma sit, when I cross the bridge from Oakland to San Francisco to enjoy the company of a small sangha and the wisdom of an excellent teacher. Meditation beckoned. With the coming winter holidays, out-of-state travel, and wonky scheduling, it would be my last chance to sit with this group until the new year. Discipline and consistency in this practice are key — especially for someone like me, pulled in a hundred directions, among countless passions, causes, hobbies: cooking and hiking and fighting deportations. In the unrelentingly busy Bay Area, sangha is the guidance of a compass, the steadiness of North. I didn't want to miss this week.Besides, wasn't it an important moment to turn to the Path?As I curled next to my space heater in the chill of early darkness, my limbs leadened. The knowledge seeped into me, the awful certainty of what was coming. My housemate set her laptop on the coffee table and tuned in to NPR to hear the verdict. Ten minutes in, I grabbed my keys and headed out, still not knowing where. I just couldn't sit and listen to a defense of the indefensible.But meditating at a time like this? How? My cell phone jangled with a barrage of texts.
March downtown at 7pm.Hey sis, are you going to the plaza?Anybody need a ride? Headed to the march now.
A different kind of sangha. Sangha in the streets. Sangha without the official mantle of Buddhadharma, perhaps, but with a fervor for justice and reverence for Black life (and all life) that feels like it flows from the same stream.My throat went dry, stomach gnarling into an ill-directed power fist. Guiltily I closed my phone. Can't face the streets quite yet. Can't deal with an injustice system declaring the worthlessness of yet another Black life, in a police murder that could easily (so easily!) have befallen my own Black father at age 18, like Mike Brown.Or age 22, like John Crawford.Or age 43, like Eric Garner.Or age 12, like Tamir Rice.Hands trembling, head pounding, I got in my car, put the key in the ignition, and started to drive a route that could take me one of two ways. Downtown to a demo, or across the bridge to a dharma talk.(To Be Continued...)