Volume 32
Spring-Summer
2006 |
 |
In June of 2005, I was selected by the New York Folklore Society to serve as a summer graduate intern at the Dutchess County
Arts Council in Poughkeepsie. My first project
was to assist folklorist Eileen Condon and a
crew of fieldworkers in filming and photographing
the Buddhist cultural festivities celebrated
at the Kagyu Thubten Choling (KTC)
monastery in Wappingers Falls, New York. I had been in the United States for one year at
the time. As a Hindu from India, Buddhism
is not altogether foreign to me. As Eileen described
the monastery’s stupa on the bank of
the Hudson River, I pictured Hindu temples
along several rivers I know in India. When she
spoke of documenting their fire puja, I pictured
the havans (fire rituals) that my family
held in our house.
The mandala team uses traditional tools to fill in the sacred design.
Photo: Eileen Condon
|
Located right on the riverbank in Wappingers
Falls, New York, the Kagyu Thubten Choling
monastery seems hidden among trees. The
monastery was founded in 1978 as a one-story
building on seven acres of land. The monastery
is now a retreat center for serious students
of the Kagyu branch of Tibetan Buddhism.
On the day after my arrival in Wappingers Falls,
I accompanied Eileen to the monastery to meet the crew that had volunteered to assist in making
the documentary. The first thing that caught
my eye on arriving at the monastery was the
stupa by the river. It is a white building, with
beautiful golden ornamentation on the roof
and walls. Stupas were the first form of Tibetan
architecture—originally “simple moundshaped”
structures of brick and mud to cover
the ashes and relics of the Buddha—but over
the centuries they have become more elaborate
buildings (Wangu 86). Ani Yeshe Palmo, a nun
at the KTC monastery, explained that a stupa
is also a “representation of the Buddha’s mind
and is one of the things that an authentic monastery
is supposed to have” (Palmo 2005). Ani
Yeshe is a former folklorist. She had met with
Eileen earlier in the year, introducing the monastery’s
cultural activities and engaging the
Dutchess County Arts Council’s interest in capturing
its cultural art. Ani Yeshe told me that
the KTC stupa was built for America. Buddhists
believe that building a stupa helps to
protect the environment and the country and
pacify aggression, terrorism, and negativity (Palmo
2005).
As I got out of the car at the monastery, still
gazing at the stupa, I saw monks and nuns
walking from it to the main monastery building.
They had finished chanting. Many of the
monks were also busy getting tents ready for
the KTC Olympics, which were to be held in
ten days. The KTC Olympics—an annual
event—allow members of different branches
of the monastery to get together for discussion
and training. The 2005 KTC Olympics
would include a Wang, in which a learned practitioner
gives students empowerment or permission
to undertake certain meditation practices.
The sand mandala that we planned to
photograph and film would be part of the
empowerment ceremony. In a tent close by,
several monks were getting tsa tsas ready for the
stupa. Tsa tsa literally means “representation”;
they are little stupas made of clay, each with a
small mantra roll inside with thousands of
mantras written on it. The tsa tsas are put inside
the stupa. According to Ani Yeshe Palmo,
the tsa tsas are so filled with blessings that they
help the stupa to magnetize and radiate energy
(2005). When we headed to the dining hall of
the main building, I saw monks and nuns busy
with dinner preparations. In spite of all the
activity, there was a sense of quietness all around.
Everyone was moving around in a peaceful way
that made me almost self-conscious of my
steps. Friendly smiles greeted us everywhere.
Karen Michel and Brian Farmer, who would
assist us in filming and photographing the festivities,
had already arrived at the main building.
Ani Yeshe arrived after a few minutes. As
we got down to dividing up the work, Eileen
voiced her preference to film the making of the
mandala for the Dutchess County Arts Council’s folklore archive, while Brian and Karen decided
to document the festive activities of Olympics
weekend.
The Significance of the Mandala
The sand mandala’s creation was the most
elaborate Buddhist ritual that that our group
recorded. The mandala’s religious and symbolic
significance is more complex than film can
capture, but its patterns and colors are a folklorist’s
delight. When I first heard of the sand
mandala I couldn’t quite imagine how the finished
object would look. Although similar to
the Indian art of rangoli, Tibetan sand mandalas
have more intricate patterns with secret
meanings. They can also be made from paint
or can be three dimensional buildings—but
they cannot be made up. All mandala designs
come from the deity itself and have to look
exactly as the written teaching says they should
(Palmo 2005). The mandala we witnessed was
made of colorful sand. It was the mandala of
Korlo Demchok, who is an extremely complex
deity, encompassing qualities of wisdom,
compassion, and all things of merit.
Lama Chopal pours sand meditatively on the outer rings of the mandala.
Photo: Eileen Condon
|
The word mandal comes from the Sanskrit
word for circle. Sand mandalas are symbolic of
the circle of life and death. Although they are
made painstakingly, they are destroyed after the
ceremony, reflecting the Buddhist doctrine that
nothing is ever permanent. Most often, the
completed sand mandala is thrown into a river,
where its sand is believed to bless all the
land the water touches. Mandalas are made
when a need is felt to heal the environment
and other living creatures. There are other motivations,
as well:
Making . . . the mandala is also a Tibetan
meditative practice; sound, sight, and motion
are not treated as distraction but as
means to channel physical energies into
currents that carry the spirit forward instead
of derailing it. Mandalas are treated
as the current of sight and with their
colors and holy patterns they treat the
eyes to icons whose holy beauty draws
the beholder in their direction (Smith and
Novak 2003, 108–9)
Making the Mandala
On the day that work on the sand mandala
was scheduled to begin, Eileen and I headed to
the stupa an hour early to set up our cameras.
We figured that a mandala would require major
preparations, but when we reached the stupa,
we were met with only a blank blue board,
five feet square, on an easel at the entrance. The
monks and students who were to make the
mandala were still at breakfast.
The heat of the day had already begun, so
we decided to enter the stupa. It had not yet
been fitted with a lock, but once the door was
bolted, it could only be opened through the
delicate intricacies of a metal rod waiting at the
entrance. At our previous meeting Ani Yeshe
had demonstrated the whole process to us.
One had to insert the rod carefully between the
two doors and give it a slight push. After a few
tries each we finally were able to push it open.
The stupa is extremely small and closed inside,
but peaceful, with the sounds from outside
shut out. A man was meditating on the carpet
in front of the stupa’s huge bronze statue of
the Buddha. The lights were rather dim, adding
to the majesty of the statue. After we
brought in all our equipment and loaded the
cameras with new tapes, we sat down in front
of the Buddha, and I gazed at it. The Buddha
is sitting in the pose of Enlightenment, with
legs folded in the lotus position and hands
loosely on his lap (Wangu 1993, 85–6). The
peaceful smile, erect back, and hands in the lap
looked so relaxed that before I knew it, I held
the same posture. I looked over and saw Eileen
sitting the same way. I have no idea how
long we sat there or when the man who was
meditating left. I opened my eyes with a start
when I heard someone walk into the room.
The crew that was to make the mandala had
finally arrived.
Metal cones traditionally tapped to release sand, alongside Buddhist prayer beads. Photo: Puja Sahney | When I first noticed Lama Chopal, he was
already bending over the blue board and putting
it on a stand. He is a gifted craftsman,
trained in traditional Tibetan art. I quickly glanced
at Eileen to see if we were to begin filming. She
was already getting out the digital camera. Lama
Chopal didn’t bring the board inside the stupa.
He left it at the entrance. He was measuring
the board with his fingers and a piece of paper.
He then took a long string from a roll and
placed it horizontally on the blue board. A student
standing next to him, as though instructed,
then pulled at the thread, and it left a chalk
line across the blue board. |
He repeated the same
process vertically. Someone leaned over and
whispered that the point where the lines cross
is the exact center of the board and that there
cannot be any mistake.
The two lines are called the Brahman lines.
Barry Bryant explains, “The radius of the mandala
is then divided along the Brahman lines
into thirteen equal parts. The divisions are not
done mathematically but by trail and error, folding
a strip of paper until it has thirteen equal
parts totaling the length of the radius” (1992,
183). For about four hours Lama Chopal continued to draw lines in the same fashion across
the board; only once in while would he use a
compass to draw a circle or a ruler to take measurements.
Mostly he used paper, folding or
cutting it to different sizes as he measured.
As he did so there were students or other
monks pulling at the string, and by noon the
entire board was covered by zigzagging lines.
The chalked string is a traditional and ancient
way of laying out the mandala, developed before
rulers and other instruments of measure.
The geometric figure of a mandala is usually a
“circle inside a square and is regarded as the
dwelling place of the gods,” according to
Madhu B. Wangu. While creating the two-dimensional
sand mandala the monks are visualizing
the palace of the deity: a form of
meditation. In the center of the mandala is a
“figure of the Buddha or some other divinity,
while surrounding it are fantastically intricate
symbols and depictions of other gods and religious
scenes” (Wangu 1993, 94).
While Lama Chopal and two students
worked on making the outline of the mandala
at the entrance, Ani Karma Chotso—a nun
visiting from Florida, who was in charge of the
sand mandala project—began to open small
packets of color and set them out in bowls.
These would be the colors used in the mandala,
she said. The color would be laid between
the outlines, which would make the mandala
like a colorful painting of sand. Mandalas are
made from the colors black, white, red, blue,
yellow, and green. There are three shades each
of red, blue, yellow, and green, making a total
of fourteen colors. While in ancient times the
sand of colored stone would be grated, “these
days white stones are ground and dyed with
opaque water colors to produce the bright tones
found in the sand paintings” (Bryant 1992,
177–8). Ani Karma had ordered the best sand
on the Internet. The sight of the small colored
packets drew almost all those around the stupa
inside, making the small space quite stifling for
a moment.
While Lama Chopal was still busy making
the outlines, Ani Karma let the assembled students
begin practicing laying the colors on old
newspapers. Sand mandalas are made on thick
wooden boards with objects called chak-purs. A
chak-pur is a cone-shaped funnel that is perforated
on the narrow end. You scrape a flat, metal
rod against the cone, and the vibration allows
the sand to flow like colored water from the
chak-pur’s end. The rubbing of the two rods is
believed to be symbolic of the union between
compassion and wisdom (Bryant 1992, 195).
While the sand trickling out of the chak-pur is
indeed a beautiful sight, the vibration between
the chak-pur and the rod creates a feeling of
spirituality in itself. It is a sound of manual
labor, but more meditative and soothing. Barry
Bryant explains, “The monks interpret the
sound of the hollow metal chak-purs being
rubbed together as an expression of the Buddhist
concept of emptiness or the interdependence
of the phenomenon” (1992, 195).
From the cover: Lama Chopal finishing the outer ring of a Buddhist sand mandala.
Photo: Puja Sahney
| While the sound of the chak-purs filled the
stupa, Lama Chopal continued to work diligently on completing the outline. He had now
begun the inner patterns of the mandala, using
a black pen to draw the intricate designs. It
took Lama Chopal, assisted by a few students,
a day and half to complete making the entire
outline of the mandala. The following day,
Lama Chopal and the rest of the crew got down
to work laying the color carefully on the mandala.
He would begin on the outline and then
carefully fill the remaining area. Sometimes he
would painstakingly shade the areas using the
different light, medium, and dark tones. |
After two days filming the making of the
mandala, Eileen felt confident to leave me alone
with the camera. Each day as the lunch hour
approached, Lama Chopal asked the crew to
take a break and have some lunch, and each day
he invited me to join them. Many monks and
nuns recognized me and would greet me in
the dining hall or on the campus. By the third
day of work on the sand mandala, I had begun
to feel at home in the monastery. After
lunch the crew would head back to the stupa,
and the post–lunch session would get under
way. Lamas, other monks, and nuns constantly
dropped in to admire the mandala and encourage
the crew making it. Oftentimes a Buddhist
would chant mantras in a corner while
the crew worked, adding to the meditative atmosphere
inside the stupa. The biggest treat
for everyone would be when someone from
the monastery kitchen would bring in a big
steel vessel of Indian chai.
By the fourth day, the mandala was nearing
completion. I had seen all the stages of its
making and had by now become familiar with
the sounds of the chak-purs and the way that
the workers’ hands moved. During the post-lunch
session, Ani Karma came up to me while
I was filming and suggested that I try my hand
at the chak-pur. I was a bit surprised, but also
flattered that she had asked me. Usually only
monks make a sand mandala. The KTC crew
was mostly Buddhist, but most of the workers
were not monks or nuns. The Kagyu
Thubten monastery wants to encourage the
mandala tradition in America and does not see
the benefit of limiting participation. I had been
hesitant to ask Lama Chopal if I could color a
section, but by then I should have known better
than to fear a monk would refuse anything to anyone. So later on, while he was working
alone on the mandala, I asked him if I could
give it a try. I was glad that he was delighted by
my request.
The feeling of holding the chak-purs in my
hands was overwhelming because they held so
much history and tradition. I didn’t dare to
start on an intricate design; I instead chose to
color a broad quadrant. I moved my hands
and the color just fell like magic from the other
end. As I knew from observation, “The flow
of the sand is controlled by the speed and pressure
used in rasping. Slow, soft rasping causes
the sand to trickle out, even just a few grains at
a time, while harder, faster rasping causes it to
pour out in a steady stream” (Bryant 1992, 195).
I bent a bit closer to the board in order not to
spill anything outside the line. By then the rest
of the crew trickled in and smiled to see me at
work. At first my hands moved quickly. But
after twenty minutes of sitting on the ground,
my bent back and crossed legs began to tire. My
hands, too, started to ache. I looked around
and saw the others working diligently and felt
ashamed of feeling tired so soon. It was only
after I had been at it myself that I began to
admire the stamina and dedication of the people
around me. Coloring the mandala was an
exhausting task that required immense concentration,
physical stamina, and a steady hand.
After I got back to filming the process, I would
sympathize with people when they would turn
around, stretch their legs, massage them a bit,
and get back to work.
The nearly complete mandala.
Photo: Eileen Condon
| |
At the end of the fifth day, work on the mandala was finally ending. People from the
monastery came down to watch. Many of the
monks and the nuns began chanting mantras,
while Lama Chopal gave the mandala a few
final touches. It was finished. In the corner of
the stupa, the mandala held within itself the
positive force that all the strength and goodwill
of the crew had given it.
Dismantling the Mandala
After five days of labor on the mandala, its
ultimate fate was to be thrown into the river at
the end of the KTC Olympics. Although I
was inclined to use the word “destroy,” Buddhists
see it as a form of blessing on all the
land where the water flows and also on any aquatic life in the water. For them it is a great
sharing, instead of destruction.
The sand mandala was taken with due reverence
to the water in a blue truck, in which all the
crew who had made the mandala also rode. I
was surprised that everyone sat quite merrily in
the open truck with the mandala. I had assumed
that they would be nostalgic to see their
labor swept away, but once again I was misinterpreting
the Buddhist doctrine of impermanence.
“The dismantling of the sand mandala
may be interpreted as a lesson in nonattachment,
a letting go of the self-mind,” Bryant
notes (1992, 230). Several monks and nuns tilted
the board, allowing the sand to slip into the
river. While most of the sand went into the
water, some of it was saved for future blessings.
I asked Ani Yeshe Palmo what became
of the blue board on which the mandala had
been made. She said that it was carefully placed
in the woodshed until the next time they make
a mandala.
I was surprised how happy I was on the way
home that last day. The Buddhist doctrine that
everything is impermanent had become a reality
for me, too. I was simply glad that I had
been part of the mandala’s journey this once.
Buddhists believe that even looking at a mandala
is a blessing, and after a week at the monastery,
I did feel truly blessed.
|
|
Puja Sahney served as graduate intern at the
Dutchess County Arts Council in Poughkeepsie,
New York, during the summer of
2005, thanks to a grant provided by the
New York State Council on the Arts and the
New York Folklore Society. Sahney is
currently a second-year master’s student
and instructor in the folklore program at
Utah State University in Logan, Utah. This
essay is written in honor of the people she
met and the love she received at the Kagyu
Thubten Choling monastery.
Sand mandalas are symbolic of the circle of life and death. Although they are made painstakingly, they are destroyed after the ceremony, reflecting the Buddhist doctrine that nothing is ever permanent. Most often, the completed sand mandala is thrown into a river, where its sand is believed to bless all the land the water touches...
Works Cited
Bryant, Barry. 1992. The Wheel of Time Sand
Mandala: Visual Scripture of Tibetan Buddhism.
New York: Harper-Collins.
Palmo, Ani Yeshe. July 25, 2005. Interview by
Puja Sahney. Tape recording.
Smith, Huston, and Philip Novak. 2003. Buddhism:
A Concise Introduction. New York:
Harper-Collins.
Wangu, Madhu B. 1993. Buddhism. New York:
Brown Publishing.
This article appeared in Voices Vol. 32, Spring-Summer 2006. Voices is the membership magazine of the New York Folklore Society. To become a subscriber, join the New York Folklore Society today.
TO PURCHASE A BACK ISSUE of Voices, visit our online book store.
TO PURCHASE A SINGLE ARTICLE from Voices, use the form below:
Voices: The Journal of New York Folklore
PURCHASE A SINGLE ARTICLE
To order a single article, please enter volume number, issue (“fall-winter” or “spring-summer”), and title of the article you wish and click on an order button below to purchase through Paypal or with your credit card. We will send you a PDF of the article via e-mail upon receipt of your order.
ITEM #603
Single Article $3.00 | |
|
| Member Price $2.00 | |
|
|
|
