Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  FINDING MY HEART TEACHER

  The year Tsultrim was in retreat had a profound effect on me. Ironically, I felt that I had finally been thrown a lifeline, but the person who’d thrown it to me could not be reached. It motivated me. It inspired me. And it made me desperate to somehow stay on course.

  I took the instructions that Tsultrim had given me over the phone and began, day by day, to create the time and space to “sit.” I was finding a rhythm. Through practicing what she had given me, I realized I was showing my appreciation as well as my devotion. Many Buddhist teachers speak of how precious the teachings of the Buddha are and that to be given a jewel and not do anything with it is a true pity.

  I took my practice on the road, and no matter where I traveled for a job, I awoke early enough to fit it into my day. I made sure that it was a priority. The value of stabilizing one’s mind is terribly underrated. I wouldn’t be where I am today without having taken that discipline seriously.

  Just as Tsultrim promised, in a year’s time I received a call. She was back. I could go and see her.

  “Why not come for the Dzogchen retreat we’re having? You can stay up at our house,” Tsultrim offered. I was beside myself with excitement and booked my tickets to Durango, Colorado.

  The tiny puddle jumper landed in the heart of the Rockies, and as I stepped out onto the tarmac, the single runway seemed dwarfed by the impressive mountains that circled it. It felt more like the Himalayas than the Rockies. I was impressed.

  The drive to Tara Mandala was stunning. The colors along the way seemed exceptionally vivid. I felt alert and awake and happy to be evidencing my change to ­people I respected and cared about so deeply. It had taken me decades to pay my dues and return to this place of spiritual family.

  I reached the small town of Pagosa Springs as the sun was beginning to set. I was careful to follow the directions very closely. This was the wilderness in all its raw glory.

  There were no road signs to guide me, just a red barn at the gate where I was supposed to enter. As I began to panic a bit in the shadows of dusk, I reminded myself of my unyielding connection with Tsultrim. I had come this far. There was no way I wouldn’t get to her, even in the darkness of the nighttime Rockies. Just then, down the road, I saw a twinkle of lights. And farther beyond, a row of enormous prayer flags, the kind you only see in Bhutan or Tibet. I had arrived.

  I parked the car and turned off the engine. Silence. Then, rising above it, the drone of Tibetan chants. I followed the sounds to a large earth-colored stupa, and there, under a brilliant moon, sat Tsultrim. Her son Costanzo, whom I hadn’t seen since he was seven, was there as well, an empty place next to him. Cos smiled at me, reached out, and gave me a hug. “Welcome home, sister.” He winked. Gratefully, I snuggled in next to him, sitting happily on the earthen floor, sharing a prayer book so I could join everyone. I had come in at the conclusion of Tara Mandala’s regular feast offering. I waited quietly as everyone wrapped up, knowing that Tsultrim hadn’t seen me yet.

  And then our eyes met. Everything seemed to grow quiet. I knew she could see through it all. She could see me.

  “Carré!” She grinned. And we held each other tight, then rested our foreheads together in silence.

  I traveled many times to Tara Mandala in the years to come. Practicing, taking teachings, following Tsultrim’s advice and instructions. Then one afternoon in the fall of 2003, she called.

  “You must come. An amazing teacher is visiting from Tibet, and I just feel you will have a strong connection with him.” I took her advice to heart and made a plan to go. The retreat would actually end on Christmas Day, and I couldn’t think of anything better to do than be with my dharma family. I wasn’t yet as fully reconnected with my own biological one. We had made inroads in our relationship, but were nowhere near spending holidays together.

  “Bring warm clothes, Carré. The teachings will most likely be held in a tent outside. There is already snow on the ground, so it will be cold.”

  I had no idea what I was in for. No idea, really, about this person I was about to meet. At that point I had met a great many teachers who had brought elements of profound illumination into my life, but I wasn’t certain if one actually needed to or could ever find a heart teacher. I knew that many students never found one. At this point I was just grateful that I’d been able to receive teachings from so many inspiring masters.

  I had arrived in Pagosa yet again, this time staying at the small Spa Hotel. I would be driving out to Tara Mandala every day for the retreat. That first morning I was shocked to see the thermostat in my rental car read just nine degrees. I had never been in nine-degree weather. That was cold.

  I carefully drove along the icy road out to the center and made my way to the tent that had been erected for this particular retreat. Outside, there was a large fire. Juniper was being burned to dispel spiritual obstacles. There were approximately forty students all lined up, waiting for this teacher to arrive. They were waving white khatas (offering scarves) in the air and singing the guru’s mantra. I found my place with the others and waited. The air was bitter cold, and I tried to move closer to the fire. Just then the smoke seemed to part and an unusually tall lama began walking toward us. He had dark hair, glasses, large feet, and long earlobes. I was immediately drawn to him. And I, like many others present, was moved to cry. He walked slowly, taking big, careful steps, holding one hand to his brow, nodding and smiling, giving his blessings as he made his way past our line and into the tent. (Because he still lives in Chinese-occupied Tibet, I’m choosing not to reveal his real name for his protection.)

  In an instant I was certain, sure as day, that I had just met my heart teacher. The tears I shed were those of absolute gratitude. My karma had ripened, enabling us to come together once again in this life. Every cell of my being knew this. I felt utterly devoted.

  The week was magical and full of learning. I was formally given my preliminary practice instructions and vowed to finish these; all one hundred thousand of three different accumulations plus one million recitations of another. (This is what it sounds like, and more. It can take years to complete. It was well beyond what Tsultrim had given me when we first reconnected.) I was excited to have a concise practice, one where I had a specific goal. A new world opened for me. And I took it very seriously.

  Leaving Tara Mandala after that visit was harder than ever before. I knew I wouldn’t see this formidable teacher again for a full year, and my heart broke as I watched him leave. But I realized the profundity of working with someone long-distance. To maintain the connection, faith must be present. I knew that no matter what, my heart teacher was only as far from me as my mind projected. In reality we were inseparable. And so in this way I practiced, seeing my lama in my heart center. Wherever I was and whatever I did, my lama remained with me.

  My celibacy took on a new meaning and a new purpose as I saw how rich my life had become. I was learning how to really take care of myself and eradicate the fantasy that always and so conveniently suggested that someone or something else could do it better. I was building a foundation, one that in this life I had not been taught or encouraged to do.

  I was beginning to feel like a nun, although I hadn’t taken my robes. Never before in my life had I been so devoted and disciplined. I had found a groove that went with me wherever I went. I awoke at 4:00 A.M. and had my first practice session; then I’d do my Ashtanga Mysore yoga, break for a snack and tea, and resume my sitting practice. My days were spent like this for quite some time, and although it was a grind, it helped me to focus and get through those last years of living in Los Angeles. I came to realize that for the most part it is only ourselves as individuals who can get us to practice and get us through practice, too. We can have friends and partners and business associates, but in the end we’re in charge of creating the lives we want to live. I was living that out.

  The following year my heart teacher returned to the United States. I was just about halfway through my Ngöndro acc
umulations and eager to report this to him. I was also eager to speak with him about my ongoing desire to take my robes as a nun. I was feeling more and more at ease with and empowered by my life as a celibate. I was on a path that fulfilled me.

  The fact that I loved celibacy didn’t shield me from the incessant questioning and the frank bewilderment of family and friends.

  “What? Are you nuts?”

  “Why would you do that? You’re in your prime!”

  “What a waste. You’re such a beautiful woman.”

  Kimora Lee Simmons famously said to me, “What’s up, girl? You got cobwebs in your coochie or what?” That was only slightly less classy than the typical remark.

  The bottom line was, most folks just couldn’t fathom why I might make a choice like that. Our culture has rigid criteria for women and their bodies. By being celibate I was making it clear that I wasn’t abiding by those criteria. I wasn’t worried about having a baby, wasn’t worried about having a lover, and didn’t feel obligated to give my body to anyone. Just my being open about celibacy pushed ­people’s buttons. I’d begun to realize why monks were meant to live in the monasteries. There was not much support for that life in our modern world.

  Sitting quietly with my heart teacher and a translator, I fidgeted around the subject until I finally had the courage to ask.

  “Rinpoche, I have a question.”

  He nodded, a warm smile pulling his round cheeks upward. “Yes, Carré.”

  “I wanted to know what you would think of me taking my robes? I have been celibate for three years now. This is not a problem for me. I feel very drawn to becoming a nun.” I waited.

  He looked at me hard, his gaze penetrating. What if he were to say yes? Was I really ready? But then he smiled. He lifted a finger and shook it at me, his head following the movement as his grin grew wider. It was clear he did not approve of the notion.

  “Why?” I asked, laughing with him. The second time! Turned down! What did he know that I didn’t? Obviously, everything under the sun.

  “Finish your Ngöndro. That is all I will say. Now it’s not the time. Finish your Ngöndro.”

  I didn’t argue. Part of me was relieved.

  I had another question for him. I told him I thought it was time for me to leave L.A. “I’m thinking of returning home to Marin,” I said. “I want to reconnect with my family.” I knew that this was a change I needed. I also knew I needed his blessing.

  My teacher looked at me and through me, his eyes far away. The room seemed more illuminated as we sat quietly, waiting, while he found the answer. He came back, his eyes focusing and his head nodding emphatically.

  “Yes. This is very good. This will complete a karmic cycle for you. It is time to return home.” He nodded and smiled and then, with a wave of his graceful hand, dismissed me. It was like that every time. Loving, spacious, open, then matter-of-factly dismissed. I appreciated that. His clarity and practicality affected me and quieted my drama every time we met.

  I thanked him and slipped back out of the room, pausing in the dark hallway to take a breath and steady myself. Okay, finish my Ngöndro. That much was clear.

  And in my spare time look for a new place to live in Northern California, pack up my house, and move. I wasn’t so sure it was going to be that easy.

  LAST MEETING WITH MICKEY

  Leaving Los Angeles was more complicated than I thought it would be. Returning from that winter retreat at the end of 2004 with my heart teacher’s blessing, I was eager to move back to the Bay Area. I had never felt L.A. to be my home, being the Northern California girl that I am. For many years I’d missed the rain, the weather, the leaves that turn brilliant colors in the fall. I’d missed the fog and the hikes through redwood forests. I’d missed the cliffs and the crashing waves. The Bay Area represented my roots, and I was now ready to return and reclaim them.

  But with each step I took toward extricating myself, it seemed as if Los Angeles were wrapping its tentacles around me all the tighter. I was beginning to see some of the wonderful things I’d created in my time there. I had found a sweet routine within a yoga community and had doubts that I would ever be able to find another community like it elsewhere. I had made my professional home in L.A. as well, and it gave me a comfortable lifestyle. Could that still work after a move? Fortunately, my agent reassured me that I needed to be happy first and foremost. Jeffrey said that when clients wanted to book me, they would simply have to bring me in from San Francisco.

  “Honey, you have to be happy. This is your life. Live wherever you feel supports that!” And I knew that Jeffrey was right. It was the truth. But somehow I was also looking for reasons not to go. I knew that I needed to move, but I also knew that the road might be rocky. I was going home to make amends with my family; we had visited and corresponded in the years since my sister’s wedding, but I was ready to have them more fully in my life again. And I knew that before that could happen, there might be some painful truths to revisit.

  I remember one of my teachers once giving me the advice to “act as if” when I wanted to manifest something. So I acted as if I were going to be moving soon. I packed all the things I needed and sold those that I didn’t need. I was determined to fit my entire life and belongings into one U-Haul that I could drive myself. I also called my family to tell them my news. I was coming back home.

  My mother wanted to help. In fact, everyone in my family wanted to. So I agreed to have my mother take a look at some rentals for me. My father was simple and sweet.

  “Carré, just tell me what you need.”

  I laughed. It was amazing to finally be in ongoing communication with them all. “Actually, Dad, there is one thing. When I find the place I’ll move to, could you fly down to L.A. and help me drive the U-Haul back?” I honestly couldn’t think of a better way to make the move. It seemed fitting. And I really did need the help.

  My father agreed, and while I continued my house hunt, I kept “acting as if.” When I got closer to leaving, my certainty seemed to be repeatedly tested. It was as if the universe knew that something big was about to happen and threw some mighty obstacles my way to be sure I was ready for it.

  I had just gotten home from my yoga class one afternoon when my cell phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Um, hi,” said the male voice. I didn’t recognize it.

  “Hi?” I said back. And then it dawned on me. It was Mickey.

  “Wow. Hey, Mick. How are you?” I asked. I was startled but not surprised.

  “Hey! Otis. Carré. It’s great to hear your voice. I . . . I was thinking about you,” Mickey said.

  “And you called.” I wasn’t too sure how I felt yet.

  “Yeah. I wanted to see if you wanted to get a cup of coffee? We could hang out. See a movie.” It was both great and terribly confusing to hear him. I had always hoped we might find a way to be friends. Mickey had been such a big part of my life and my growing up. In ways both good and bad, my time with him had shaped me irrevocably.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I was feeling it out, checking in with myself to see if the call felt right. It did.

  “Actually, Mickey, it would be great, really great, to see you.” I was hesitant, but also hopeful. I didn’t want him back as a husband or a lover. But perhaps we could be friends, or at least friendly. I owed it to both of us to be open to the possibility. We met at the Promenade in Santa Monica, the bustle of kids and tourists around us.

  He smiled sheepishly when he saw me, and I reached out to give him a bear hug. He mussed up my hair affectionately, then grabbed me again.

  “Damn, it’s good to see you, Otis!” And it was for me as well. He was still my old friend, even though it didn’t look like him anymore. I couldn’t help but notice all the work he’d had done on his face. Of course I’d seen pictures of him in magazines, but I wasn’t prepared for how different he looked up close. I felt sad for him. And still loved him the way one loves a brother. As I looked at the face I�
�d once known so well, I realized that the surgeries represented his pain and his constant attempt to mask what it was he was feeling. I had compassion. It made me wonder how well Mickey was really doing.

  “Let’s sit and have some tea,” I said and walked with him, arm in arm, over to one of the quieter cafés.

  We found a seat in a corner. I couldn’t help but notice that Mickey was looking at me longingly. I was uncomfortable. He placed a hand over mine, and I studied his fingers as I once had, his long nails arching over the nail bed. His hands were still strong. I pulled mine away and cleared my voice, looking him in the eye.

  “Okay. I just want to clear the air about something. I’m not sure if you know, but I’m celibate. I’ve been celibate for years. So with your call, I was hoping you just wanted to reconnect—as friends.”

  I waited. I had found my voice and didn’t want it to leave me now. I had the power to make myself heard, and that would keep me safe. But it was fascinating to feel my own angst well up as I sat there in front of him. I’d spent years working on myself, working to be able to handle this very moment. Yet still some faint triggers of fear and doubt crept over me.

  Mickey laughed, grinning broadly. “So you’re telling me you haven’t been with anyone for years?” I was surprised that out of everything I’d just said, this was what he was focused on. “That’s great news. I wouldn’t want to hear you’d been with anyone.”

  And in a flash my instincts were confirmed. He was still holding out for me. No doubt he thought it was good news that I was celibate, because perhaps that meant I was holding out for him.

  “Wait, Mickey, I just want to be clear with you. I’m here as a friend. . . . I mean, I would love it if we could be friends.” I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and opened them again. “I’m not interested in you as anything else. And if you can understand that, then I’m happy to continue this conversation.”