I am not a Buddhist. This fact was confirmed as I weaved through traffic at 7:37p.m. at breakneck speed, muttering profanity and contemplating surrender when parking at the Drolma Meditation Center appeared impossible. I lingered long enough to watch others parking in the strip mall across the street, and scamper in to the 7:30 class before deciding to go through with it.
Quietly, I kicked off my flip flops and joined in the crowded room, nestled between an Elk Lodge and vintage thrift shop as a friendly South African accent beckoned us to be seated.
It smelled like a dentists office.
This is how my very first Buddhist meditation class began. It was not what I expecting. There were no bells and no incense. Nobody chanted and only 1 or 2 in a flock of 80 was seated on the floor. Kadam (teacher) Nick guided us into a quiet 20 minute meditation. Half the room fell asleep, while I did my best to balance cross legged on a folding chair and ignore the very audible sounds bubbling from my undigested faux chicken wrap. I confess, I know little about Buddhism and nothing of the New Kadampa tradition being taught. Still, there was familiarity as I remembered the legend of Mary Magdalene from my sunday school days as Kadam called for our compassion, and practice of dana (generosity). In some ways, it felt much like the the church of my childhood, minus the stained glass windows, mohagony pews and guilt.
The Bodhisattva is an enlightened being who, out of compassion, forgoes nirvana in order to save others. Judaism calls them prophets. Catholics call them saints. I wandered out of class thinking about the Buddha Seed (divine potential) within us all and wondered why we ever settle for a lesser identity.
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