MY PATH TO THE DHARMA has been a labyrinth walk. It’s almost embarrassing to admit that it began at a book club — one where we were more focused on good food and drink than on deep discussions, as our choice of books, like The Da Vinci Code, made clear. That evening, a conversation about meditation ensued, and I was intrigued to learn about a Zen monk living on the island. I went to seek him out, an unusual decision for me because, while I occasionally felt a vague curiosity about spirituality, I was too lazy to be a spiritual seeker. Encounters with the religious dogma inherent in the traditions I encountered had always stopped me in my tracks. But something about the seeming simplicity of Zen appealed.

Most of my life has been based on the small twin-island state of Trinidad and Tobago, where the islands’ history has created a melting pot of peoples and religions, including Roman Catholicism, various Christian denominations, Hinduism, Islam, and others, all generally coexisting peacefully. 

I was raised by my aunt, who doted on me, loved her work, and strongly believed in God, even though regular churchgoing was not part of the equation. In our small household, I grew up with the idea of God as a living presence to whom one could speak directly — and I so believed. Since our faith wasn’t tied to rigid adherence to church doctrine, I was permitted to question and challenge any priests and bishops who sometimes visited my school and even our home. 

The sole child of my aunt’s only sister, who died bearing me, there were high expectations of me on the one hand and none at all on the other — a strange mix of too tight and too loose. I was adored and confident of acceptance at home no matter what, but my evident youthful indiscipline meant I did only what I wanted to do, scholastically and otherwise. Fortunately, I survived. I hated expectations being placed on me, and if whatever I did was praised, I would immediately change direction. Unwittingly, this became a leitmotif in my life, perhaps to counter being the sole child of a woman who, decades after her death, was still spoken of in superlatives: most brilliant, beautiful, talented, and so on. It wasn’t until I was well into my middle years that I finally understood that not doing what one knew oneself capable of also comes with a cost.

Professionally, early recognition came as a senior state criminal prosecutor, but success often meant there was a death penalty attached, the pronouncement of which caused me much internal conflict and visceral discomfort. I had to leave. I became a professional rolling stone, “a Jill of many trades, mistress of none,” — landing interesting and demanding positions before moving on. I changed career paths to explore new things and to be “of service to country and community” within realms I hoped could make a difference. The work was good, but, I have since recognized the snaking secret grip of my ego in much that I “humbly” undertook.  

In my late 30s, while the idea of creating a family of my own held no appeal, elements of dissatisfaction began to manifest — though I thought I hid them behind what many described as my dark sense of humor. Eventually, I attended multiple “self-awareness” courses over several years, run by a Roman Catholic who was also a psychologist. Initially, any identifiable tenets of religion were omitted, and each session began with a guided meditation. I soon recognized meditation and yoga as powerful tools for self-exploration. Several years later, in 2005, I appeared at the Zendo. It was life-changing.

Yet, despite being assured otherwise, even after years of practice, I felt I still didn’t know how to meditate. I didn’t get “it,” whatever “it” was, though I recognized that through practice and the dharma, my responses to every aspect of my life and others were changing. Everything I learned made sense. Just sitting became a way of life, and even though my personal practice had begun to feel just a bit dry, the fruits were evident.

Later, the monk who visited us for a few months each year transitioned fully to the Kagyu lineage, and I then took my vows. Sittings that initially felt as if fine sandpaper was being scraped along my arm became as dewdrops on a leaf, moist on my skin. Still, I remained mildly dissatisfied with my practice. I wondered if I had truly captured the essence of meditation and whether I could progress along the path without being a “good” meditator. I kept worrying about my “incorrect” meditation practice. I just knew I was not doing it right!

This feeling remained an undercurrent — not debilitating but present — until I encountered the Joy of Living with Mingyur Rinpoche. A simple statement, “When you recognize that your mind has wandered, you are actually back in meditation,” was an ah-ha moment for me. It was as if I had finally been given the keys to simply be — nothing to add or delete, just to be at home. 

Rinpoche’s teachings, presented with step-by-step simplicity, have enabled me to connect various past teachings to my lived experience, reminding me that “the sky is always there no matter what.”

I now possess tools for understanding previously ignored or incomprehensible things. The simple practice of body scanning, at any time, allows me to connect with my ever-present awareness. While there is much to learn, my encounters with the dharma, as I understand it now, have unbound me. Whether moving or stationary, there is no within or without; all just is. In this awareness, there is complete freedom and joy, which will deepen and expand. I am grateful.