Four Weeks at Kopan: Why monks are good plumbers
Arriving at Kopan
It was a rainy Sunday morning. I had landed in Kathmandu at 6 a.m. local time and spent two and a half hours at the airport before taking a taxi to Kopan Monastery. The reception didn’t open until 9, and I had little desire to stand in front of closed gates waiting. An iced cappuccino at the airport café seemed considerably more appealing—perhaps it was already dawning on me that it might be my last one for the next four weeks.
The taxi driver and I chatted within the limits of our respective linguistic abilities. He understood that I had come for a four-week meditation retreat.
“You Buddhist?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he replied approvingly.
For the time being, that answered my question as to whether people in Nepal might take offence at Westerners calling themselves Buddhists.
Twenty minutes later, after a fast-paced and fascinating ride through the chaos of Kathmandu traffic, the taxi driver dropped me off at Kopan Monastery. Five or six large black dogs were lying scattered around the courtyard as I walked through the enormous gate and was brought to the reception.
I knew I had arrived, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
I felt at home.
After checking in, I had to wait for my accommodation to be ready. I only found this slightly odd when I realized that I appeared to be the sole occupant of the building reserved for individual retreatants. I never asked why, though, because it seemed entirely irrelevant. In any case, the wait gave me an opportunity to explore the monastery’s wonderful gardens. Established in 1972 by Lama Yeshe and Lama Zopa Rinpoche, Kopan is home to around 350 monks and nuns, the latter living at the nearby nunnery, some starting from the age of seven.
Only in retrospect do I realize how much patience it had actually taken to finally enter that room. Months, days, hours, a missed connection and an unplanned night at New Delhi airport. My quarters had a kitchenette and bathroom, a small meditation room and a balcony, surrounded by nature and overlooking the city. I thought of our beloved Dharma Centre of Canada and found the space very luxurious in comparison.
My first task was to set up my shrine. I had travelled very light, so I needed to organize an altar cloth, incense, candles, flowers and fruit. I found much of it in the gift shop, which was integrated into the library. The librarian even printed out my picture of Lama Linda for me. Black and white, but things don’t have to be perfect. The flowers and candles were artificial too.
I also bought tea, a small amount of coffee—I involuntarily but quite painlessly became a tea drinker—and toilet paper. I made a hobby out of discovering how sparingly I could use it, since every civilized country in the Eastern Hemisphere seems to use water to clean oneself up after using the toilet, including Nepal.
But that is another story.
The Rhythm of the Retreat
I started my days sometime between 5 and 6:30 a.m. I had coffee, later tea, overlooking the city. I listened to the birds singing and the city waking up.
Kopan was peaceful, but by no means silent.
At night, motorcycles could be heard among the crickets, along with howling stray dogs that seemed to turn into wolves after dark. Occasionally an airplane roared over the monastery. No nighttime flight ban apparently.
Every morning I woke up full of energy and looking forward to the new day. I began with prayers: the Refuge Prayer, Bodhisattva Vow, Seven-Fold Prayer, Guru Yoga Prayer, Long-life Prayer — everything three times.
Then came 50 minutes of Vajrasattva practice, usually with some time simply to sit. After that, around 200 prostrations, followed by a shower because by then I was usually drenched in sweat. If there was still time before breakfast, I began my Vajrayogini practice with a visualization. I imagined becoming Vajrayogini. Food and drink became nectar.
Except during the first and last few days, my meals were silently delivered to my door. Breakfast arrived at 7:30 am. Afterwards I cleaned up and began my Vajrayogini practice: 50 minutes, including sitting in emptiness for the final ten minutes. Particularly during the first few days, however, I began with the sadhana.
Lunch arrived at 11:30, although I usually ate later. Afterwards I cleaned up, rested and did some yoga. It was very hot.
Then another 50 minutes of Vajrayogini.
At first I was extremely tired in the afternoons and needed a break of several hours. During those breaks, I slept or studied about Vajrayogini practice. I tried to go for a walk two or three times a day, usually in the mornings and evenings when it was cooler and before the rain arrived, depending on the weather.
After I had overcome my jetlag, my low point usually arrived later in the afternoon. That was when I read and studied. In the middle of the retreat I worked with Demchog in the afternoons which kept me wide awake.
Dinner arrived at 6:30 pm. Sometimes I meditated again in the evening before going to bed. Often, though, I felt mentally exhausted. I suspected some of that was simply habit, and I tried to overcome it. I made several attempts, with varying degrees of success.
Once I reached a point where I could no longer even say the mantra. It seemed to have a life of its own and simply refused to be said.
That was when it occurred to me that perhaps I needed to respect my own limits.
“So, How Was the Retreat?”
The question “So, how was the retreat?” is not particularly easy to answer, even when speaking to Sangha. With friends and family, it is almost impossible.
From the outside, I imagine it must sound rather boring. And yet I experienced some extraordinary things and had some insights that—as I know now—somewhat changed my life:
Moments of complete stillness and absolute physical and/or mental bliss—almost orgasmic.
The realization that thoughts and emotions are somewhat random and have very little to do with reality.
Magical moments of synchronicity and glimpses of what feels like a second, alternative reality—one that, at least for me, often goes unnoticed in everyday life.
Letting go of nostalgia and regret.
A deeper understanding of what it means to be a Bodhisattva.
The pleasure of getting to know a deity—in this case my yidam—and the love and intimate relationship that develops with that deity. It seems almost like a blueprint for how to relate to other human beings and develop healthy relationships.
The greatest doubt, and at the same time the greatest certainty, that the Dharma is the right path for this being.
Greater intuition and a greater capacity to serve others.
Calm and contentment.
The “Handymonk”
It was also fascinating for me to experience monastic life, even if only from its edges.
In the evenings I could hear the monks chanting (I still miss it!), and sometimes, when I went for walks, I saw them debating loudly in small groups in the courtyard. I found it mesmerizing.
For practical matters, I occasionally had to call on the “handymonk”.
He completely blew my mind.
I had a problem with a dripping tap. The handymonk looked at it and, within three seconds, knew exactly what the problem was and how to fix it.
I could hardly believe it.
Three seconds.
This was single-pointed concentration and heightened awareness in action! So if you are wondering why study Buddhism, getting good at plumbing might be one of the answers.
Alongside my visit to the relic room—which also completely knocked my socks off—this was certainly one of the most illuminating moments of the retreat.
So trivial, and yet so profound.
No Fuss or Fanfare
This seems generally how the Dharma unfolds for this being: subtly, almost trivially, without much fuss or fanfare. Very matter of fact. And it is often only in retrospect that I begin to grasp the depth of my experience.
And you know what? I am eager to start the next retreat!
In the meantime, I am enjoying life as it is.
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