Cool Down

After our run around the perimeter of the gardens we walked down the center boulevard of skyscraper palm trees to cool down. I carefully analyzed Dan’s explanations of karma as I consciously took deep, slow breaths. “Ok but look,” I started. “What if you are a murderer, let’s say you murder your mother. I had an inmate who did that. Let’s say that at her moment of death she is somehow really happy and at peace. What happens then?”
“The idea is that if you killed your mother your mind would be such a disordered place that truly serene and unattached thoughts would not be possible. The hate that propelled you into that action would not be released by the action. You would only be intensifying the hate and appetite to kill,” Dan replied.
“Ok, that makes sense,” I conceded. “But let me tell you, for the most part, the long-termers at the prison are the best inmates. Except that one who killed her mother, she’s really creepy. She gives me a chill. But the others, you know, they’re all murderers, but they seem more at peace than the rest that come in and out, and in again on drug charges.”
“You are just comparing short cycles to longer ones,” Dan explained. “But who knows, maybe prison is a really transformative experience for the murders. It could be a really renunciant lifestyle when you think about it…
“Yeah, if you aren’t running a general store out of your cell or beating the hell out of another inmate with a padlock,” I interjected. “But it’s true. The feeling of the long-termers wing is sort of like a convent. The ladies are provided for just as nuns are provided for, they are removed from the pressures of the world, family, making money, everything. They wear a uniform and are withdrawn,” I mused out loud. “That reminds me of a long-termer I admitted to the infirmary the night before a colonoscopy. She had been a team hit-woman. Her male partner had been executed years ago. They had her all doped up in mental health before the execution. On the night of the execution they let her out on the yard to feel closer to his spirit or some crap. But that was years before I met her. By the time she was getting the bowel prep and all she was a really nice lady. Since the ladies don’t have wet cells we admit them to the infirmary for bowel preps and stuff like that. When they come over they just bring a little bag of personals and it gets searched. She had this glasses case that looked like a little purse. The officer was looking it over and the inmate commented that some of the new girls liked to carry it like it was a purse. That’s when the obvious hit me: They never carry purses. I mean, why? They don’t have money, credit cards, driver’s license, no makeup, nothing. But it was a weird sort of revelation for me because it is such a fundamental part of being an American woman. I have carried a purse since I was 12. Even going into the pen I had my little clear plastic bag of my stuff, I never brought my wallet in, but my plastic bag was my auxiliary purse.”
“Yeah and where do they go that they need a purse or could have one?” Dan asked.
“Right, I mean are you going to bring your bag out on the work gang or to your job in the kitchen?” I asked rhetorically. “So that was a moment for me where I realized how different the inmates lives are. No purses.”
“Sweetie, you had better stay out of prison then,” Dan joked. “No Coach? No Dooney Bourke or even Vuitton? How could you survive?”
“It would be a really difficult adjustment,” I admitted gravely, thinking back to the Coach Chelsea Envelope purse I had lusted after at the outlet mall before coming to Sri Lanka. “What would I need with a purse in Sri Lanka?” I had told myself firmly. Now I relished the ironic parallel between Sri Lanka and prison.

We walked in silence for awhile, moving out of the avenue of palms and reaching the great circle next to the mansion planted with an array of bright flowers. We branched around to the right of the 200 yard circle, about the size on an indoor track. I ruminated on my new understanding of karma and how it applied to my cancer patient.
“What we were talking about with the last thought thing does really make me re-think the things that I did for her that last night,” I replied. “I wish I could have been there with her the whole time, but I was slammed. I wish we would have talked out ahead of time what she wanted at the end. She was at the beginning of my career. With the next ones I was much more open and got them talking about what they wanted. I got to see my other cancer ladies walk out though. Granted one of them only lived three days as a free woman, but that’s better than dying in a cell in the middle of the night when everyone is too busy to sit with you.”
“Yeah and having to have some hippy-crap nurse chanting over you,” Dan teased.
“I know right?” I responded, laughing weakly. I paused to think over my other inmates and their crimes.

“Alright, but what if you are psychotic?” I asked. “NGRI is a big defense these days…”
“NGRI?” Dan asked.
“You know, Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity?” I replied matter-of-factly. “To qualify for NGRI you need to prove the defendant didn’t understand that what he was doing was wrong. To me it’s like circular logic. Obviously someone who puts their own kid in the microwave has some serious issues with right and wrong. The nature of the crime itself shouldn’t be the defense. They need to be out of society, end of story. I don’t care if you can stabilize people on meds or what. Who can make sure they take their meds when they get that early release? You got Hinckley getting off on the NGRI thing and he’s holed up at St. Elizabeth’s being taken out to Washington area bookstores and restaurants with hospital staff. He even gets extended weekend passes to visit his parents in Williamsburg. If it wasn’t for NGRI he’d be at Lorton and probably get killed with a sharpened toothbrush. I know people who worked at Lorton and they say it’s off the hook.”
“Alright, alright,” Dan began. “According to Buddhist philosophy there are five criteria for sin to be committed for killing. First there must be a living creature. You don’t sin by killing something already dead. Second you have to recognize that there is a life, I guess that could be affected by psychosis. Third you must intend to take the life, so if you kill someone in some sort of freak accident without intention the major sin of killing is not created. Fourth you must act to take the life, and fifth, the being must die. Going through steps one through four is still not good and your mindset is poisoned by all of that negative intention, but because the person didn’t die it isn’t quite as bad. Going through all of the steps except for number two, recognizing there is a life, is still pretty bad. Once again, if you are psychotic your mind is a really disordered place and not likely to move in the direction of compassion,” he explained as we completed the circle and started into the Banyan forest. The huge Banyan trees spread out their limbs almost parallel to the ground, dropping long fringes of roots down from the limbs. The swaying roots are thin and delicate until one finally touches the ground, then it grows into a thick buttress for the limb. The Banyan forest was a shady relief from the rising tropical sun.

“Ok, that makes sense,” I agreed. “But back to my cancer patient. So if the suffering isn’t paying some sort of debt, if she somehow got on the right track, she might not have to suffer for her crime then?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Dan answered. “Karma can come to fruition at any time, good and bad. In the story, Kali didn’t have to pay a debt for every life she has taken once she receives the Dhamma, renounced, and becomes a stream enterer. She does have to go through some small physical tortures around the town with boys shooting her with arrows and stuff like that before she finds her life in the forest, but she doesn’t have to compensate for each sin before she can exit the cycle of birth and death and enter nirvana. It’s not a balance sheet.”
“Well, that’s hopeful,” I commented.
“But it’s really, really hard to break out of those cycles,” Dan emphasized. “People get into these positive feedback loops of actions, anger and suffering where they re-enforce each other.”
“Like addiction,” I replied. “The addict wakes up in the morning feeling shame and hopelessness at the things he’s done and the life he has around him and so he uses. It’s a loop. Or I’m feeling fat so I say to myself ‘I might was well have that third piece of pizza and some M&Ms.’ Then I get fatter.”
“Right,” Dan agreed. “I mean, no, you’re not fat!” he said with mock sheepishness. “You tricked me!” he protested as I burst out laughing.
“It is a good way of thinking about it,” I admitted. “I have seen lots of people trapped in various cycles and it is really depressing.”
“It’s supposed to be depressing,” Dan replied. “The point of the teachings is to make someone understand that the world is basically hopeless so you should renounce and go live in a cave and meditate.”
“To me renunciation is too much like resignation,” I replied. “It feels too much like good old fashioned dysthymia, that toxic‘what’s the point?’ sort of reasoning. I fight that nearly every day. Like many Westerners I guess I like the surface teachings of Buddhism, the compassion, awareness of the moment, and the non-attachment. I like thinking about the complexities of karma and how people are caught in big and little loops. But I chafe at the renunciation and oblivion of nirvana that exists at the core of the faith. I could even go with nirvana defined in negatives because it is something beyond our understanding, but not renunciation. I feel like it is so much more important for me to get back into the prison or a hospital to help people when they need it most. That’s what gives my life meaning. That, jewelry, and high-end bags,” I joked.
“Yes sweetie, it’s ok to love your bags,” Dan replied, nodding his head mockingly. “But the spread of Buddhism to the West is an interesting phenomenon,” he continued. “People can think they are Buddhists and call Buddhism whatever they want because it isn’t set up as an institution over there yet. It’s starting to happen though.” He finished as we exited the Baynans, walking out of the shadows into the blinding light of the front gate area. I thought back to the prison orientation where we had a cultural understanding unit. The Sergeant made us go around the room and state our religious affiliation. On my row there were two Baptists, one Church of God, a Pentecostal Holiness, one Hebrew Pentecostal, and me. When I publicly identified myself as a Buddhist the Sergeant said “oh, isn’t that interesting.” My label had identified me as something other than Christian but with more punch than the wishy-washy title of Agonistic.

Walking back through the colonial-era 12 foot wrought-iron gates from the carefully tended peace of the gardens back into the throng of Sri Lankan life we were accosted by three-wheeler drives, a man selling spices, and a beggar. I could see myself now as the perfect example of the “neo-hippy,” as one of the night Sergeants called me, doing lots of yoga, making Buddhism into whatever suited me, and baking my own bread.