Where are the teachers?

The Buddha was born a prince named Siddhartha. His biological mother, Maya, gave her life to bring him into this world. He was raised by his aunt, Mahaprajapati, who cared for him as her own child, feeding him from her breast and allowing him to leave her when the time came for him to renounce his royal life. Siddartha’s wife, Yasodhara, had recently given birth to their son when he left to conquer suffering. As he traveled, he found companions who showed him how to live as an ascetic in the woods, how to meditate and they educated him in the spiritual practices of the time—none of which satisfied him. When Siddhartha Gautama was on the verge of death, before his achievement of enlightenment was reached, a young woman named Sujata fed him, nourished him, gave him exactly what he needed with the skillful means of not too much and not too little so that he could achieve his ultimate aim and survive to pass on his wisdom.

I was sitting in a cocktail bar with a friend the other day. It was one of the first really hot days of the year and we giggled with giddy excitement as a thunderstorm raged outside of the big glass windows. We sat sipping sweet elixirs and after the storm passed we serenely lolled our way through conversation until she said something that turned my mind upside down. She said, “what if Siddhartha had to leave, in order to become what Yasodhara already was?” I felt a fire flicker inside of my chest.

It didn’t immediately make sense to me, but something fell into alignment the way Truth and Reality do when they enter my nervous system. We turned the idea over in the space between us like bakers kneading their dough, examining what that might mean and what the implications would be. And then we got distracted, finished our drinks and slowly made our way home, dancing in a breezy rhythm up the hill.

Yasodhara didn’t completely end suffering…none of them did, at least not until they became devotees of the Buddha, so how could it make sense? Siddhartha left to become something different, to become a Buddha, to get to the root of clinging attachment as the cause for suffering and to find a way to liberate himself from that dis-ease—and then to teach the way to the rest of us. Isn’t it legitimate to hold him in higher esteem than those who cared for him along his path, simply offering him a kindness but achieving nothing close to what he did?

What is the difference between a caregiver and a Buddha?

I had a dharma teacher once who got very sick. He almost died and for months underwent a tremendously painful medical treatment. He spoke of the woman who administered his medicine and the way her words of support and wisdom buoyed him through the hardship of healing. He also had a wife, and she cared for him, nurtured him and walked with him through it all. People flocked around him bringing food, support and companionship. He spoke of profound insights gained through the experience. His wife, his nurses and his friends witnessed and facilitated his recovery and his learning.

After he was in recovery and returned to us, his students, we sat at his proverbial feet and I received his words with reverence. With gratitude to the caregivers, I thirsted for his wisdom. The narrative of the teacher-on-high is so strong, so deeply woven into my identity as a Buddhist that I didn’t ever ask: where are the teachers in this story? Could there be more than one?

Maybe some answers are in the before and the after. The jataka tales are stories of Buddha’s previous lives and everything he did in many, many different forms to create the cause for his future awakening. These stories are filled with examples from across the animal kingdom, as well as other formed and formless beings, who perform significant yet fleeting and sometimes undetectable good deeds, from withholding their anger and violence to sacrificing their belongings, reputation, or even their lives. They are stories of beings making acts of selflessness with wisdom and compassion, which inspire change in the world and in other beings’ hearts.

They are tales that mirror the selflessness of Maya who gave her life to bring Siddhartha into this world, the letting go that Yasodhara practiced when her husband entered the woods, unsure if she’d ever see him again, or the small act of compassion of Sujata giving food to a starving man.

In Mahayana Buddhism, after one becomes awakened, they return to the world in myriad forms to help others. We call these beings Bodhisattvas. They stay for what seems to us humble humans like forever, to help us with our mundane and everyday troubles of body, mind, and heart. They provide for us, hear our cries and prayers, inspire our minds towards wisdom and away from ignorance, and they teach us the dharma so we can progress on our paths. They make small acts in the world. They show up, endlessly. They are caregivers to the nth degree.

Later that night I laid in bed, waiting for my mind to slow down and enter into the mysterious dream realm, but all I could think of were these women, erased by time and preference. Erased perhaps in part due to their virtue. The virtue that allowed them to tend to Siddhartha as the living being that he was, embodied in all of his humanness, with the everyday love and selflessness and attunement to interdependence that brought them each in time to total liberation as well. It’s a virtue that doesn’t ask to be remembered—which is its tragedy and, if we look closely enough, its magnificence.

Are you willing to be forgotten? I asked myself as I drifted off to sleep.

As the storm passed and the late spring sun made its final appearance of the day, my friend smiled at me as we said goodbye. Curiosity filled her eyes and I felt my heart settle because I realized in that moment that I am surrounded by my teachers every day, going about their business of waking up the world. My only job is to notice them, to see them fully, and to orient my life again and again in the direction of their enlightened way.