I Suppose I'm Weird Too

I have never been religious, not even as a child. This is the first thing I want to make clear.

It may seem strange then how much gratitude I have for you. As a spiritual teacher who has dedicated his life to spreading the teachings of one specific religion, you are surrounded by devout people who follow rituals and recite prayers every day. I am not one of them.

Our first encounter occurred many years ago, at a lecture I attended out of curiosity. A friend of mine was a Buddhist and I wanted to see what he was interested in. The lecture was to take place at the university I graduated from just a few years earlier and I suppose I fancied a nostalgic journey back there too.

You were not the main speaker, just assisting him. But the moment you entered the room, my world stopped. I don’t know how to describe the indescribable. I can remember the vast emptiness of my mind, an unknown force disrupting the evenness of my heartbeat, the joy and longing swelling inside. My failure to understand what was happening. Some people around me stood up and bowed with their hands clasped together and, in my eagerness to do something for you, I stood up too. The only thing I knew was that, if you ever asked anything of me, I would have done it without hesitation, no matter what it might be. So scary to feel like that about a small, foreign looking man I saw for the first time that day.

The night after that lecture, I met you in my dream. We talked like good old friends and you tried to explain something important to me, something about different kinds of awareness, but I forgot the details the moment I woke up.

When I told my Buddhist friend about it, he exclaimed: wow, he’s your root lama!

And I said: what are you talking about?

A few days later, I followed you to a retreat organised not far from my city. I felt energised by the forest and the lake, even if unsure what I was even doing in such a weird place. People were weird too: they dressed unusually, talked about unusual things and chanted prayers in a language I didn’t understand. Not my vibe at all. While there, I entered a bookshop and found a book of yours. The title was ‘Nine types of awareness’ and transported me straight back to your words, the ones from my dream.

The first time you told me that I am not just my thoughts or intellect I didn’t understand. What else could be there? You showed me how to get out of my head and start feeling. You taught me that emotions could be felt in different parts of the body. They could even be named. It wasn’t something I was taught at home.

In the darkest years of my life when future evaporated and everything solid and steady came tumbling down, the community of those weird students of yours propped me up and kept me going. Some became good friends of mine. When I woke up one day with the smouldering ruins of my life all around me, I continued to exist for those weeks spent in the most nourishing place I knew, for that forest and that lake.

It’s been eighteen years and I still come to your retreats each year. Each year, your lectures answer the questions I didn’t even know I had. This is why I sit there silently and never ask about anything.

The retreats stopped during that virus craziness we had not long ago. When I finally saw the forest and the lake after the three years’ break, it felt like getting a piece of myself back. This piece is vital to me.

Last summer, I thought that it might be my last visit. As I said, I’m not religious. Most of your students are. Did I still fit in there, with them? That summer, you said that practitioners are not those who call themselves Buddhists. That rituals and prayers are not the most important thing, what’s important is for people to reflect, be aware and change – themselves, their lives, their relationships – for the better. Those who can see changes over the years are true practitioners.

I’m still not religious. But it felt weirdly relieving to learn that I can call myself a practitioner. I think I’ll be coming next year too.

Thank you, Rinpoche.