Yea, I’m into BDSM: Beatitude, Dharma, Stupas, and Moderation

October 8, 2017. Sedona, Arizona.

What the hell is a Buddhist Stupa, you may ask?

I suspect you may, because I certainly was, and by all accounts I should have known. In the five lost years I spent between high school and college doing sketchy blue collar work, abusing substances, and reading, I cleared entire shelves on Zen (and astrology but like, I’m not as proud of that one). I know more paradoxical riddles and methods of sitting real still than you could shake a shit-stick at. I also grifted my way through a grad course for my philosophy minor called “Special Topics: American Buddhism”, but that was chiefly just reading monotonous Alan Watts excerpts and arguing with communists.

Why they always gotta make it about the state, anyway? I’m just tryna talk about buddhanature and have a good time, it doesn’t always need to be civic responsibility and the plight of the proletariat. Besides, Buddha straight up said “the most important thing is to do good work”! Even Buddha’s telling you to get a job!

Sorry. I digress.

Two miles off the highway, through a residential area with street names like “Moondrop Ave” and “Allegra Drive” and the equally thematic “Splendor Court”, I found the dirt pull off for a ‘tranquility park’ that I am, quite frankly, too Western to remember the name of. I parked the car and shuffled up the path to the park proper, passing a shoeless nine-year-old girl who was discernibly closer to enlightenment than I have ever been.

The Stupa itself was a 36-foot tall pink monument with an alcove near the top housing, you guessed it, Buddha. A path was worn into the ground around it designating the meditative circle you were supposed to take while contemplating that good loving-kindness. Stupas function as compassion batteries, absorbing all the good vibes from decent, outwardly-projecting Buddhists, amplifying them, and broadcasting them across the world in an effort to cleanse the karma of all living beings. Only a Buddhist can say “#all lives matter” and really mean it, but they wouldn’t because of the douche factor.

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In a little pavilion next to the stupa was a man and three generations of women, all sitting cross-legged and listening to him tell a story in a gentle, nonthreatening voice. He was definitely moving in on the cute daughter, and she was definitely into it. Next to their gathering was some Vegan chow, a plastic baggy full of graham crackers that someone had covered in birdseed.

“Not very compassionate,” I chided to myself, realizing my internal monologue was being, well, a bastard. “This karma needs cleanin’.”

I did three laps of the Stupa and touched it, got my cosmic tally reset, then spun a couple of prayer wheels. As I understand, prayer wheels do the same thing the stupa does, but in a little burst when you spin it. Think of it like an automatic car. You press the pedal and the rpms gradually go up. Stomp the pedal and for a second your rpms’ll jump to 6k and your engine will scream. It’s like that, but with understanding and kindness.

prayerwheels

Prayer flags hung from the trees all around the walking meditation trail, and little shrines to Buddha were decorated with colored stones and flat, stacked rocks. These little cairns serve the same purpose as the greater and better organized stupa, but more localized; each stone functions as a prayer to impart blessings on the stacker and their loved ones, with the implication that the balance of the stones mirrors the desired harmony of the stacker’s life.

It was a nice place. Very peaceful. The boundaries were ill-defined, so at one point I accidentally wandered outside of the park and a quarter mile into the desert. Luckily, somebody in the peace park lit a joint and I followed the smell back. I walked in on a cadre of young ladies with an older woman, howling like wolves in the center of a mandala. It was some sort of prayer for friendship. It made sense. Wolves make good friends.

The Girl was blowing up my phone, insisting that the Buddhist would close the parking gate and lock us in the stupa if we weren’t out by 6. I hit the Buddha with one of the mudras I remembered from my Zen days, then followed the Friend Wolf Sisterhood out to the parking lot, escaped before they sealed us in, and made a b-line for Phoenix.

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haha gottem

We attempted to order a pizza from a place next to the hotel called Mellow Mushroom. Just one. The girl on the phone didn’t know any part of her job, so I’m hopeful that she was new.

“Hello, Mellow Mushroom, I don’t know what’s on our menu or how much anything costs, how can I realistically help you?”

Eventually I mined her for enough data to conclude that they had a “house special” which is what any other pizza joint would call a supreme. They clotted it with every available meat, which struck even an unrepentant carnivore like me as excessive. I had them remove the ground beef. The total for one supreme pizza was $30, or which translates to 120 chicken nuggets or 10 parking spaces on Vortex Hill, so I cancelled the order and found a Little Caesars attached to a beer store. Dinner was a pepperoni Hot ‘n’ Ready and a six-pack of PBR. Bone apple teeth.

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