My mother once told me that as a child I would occasionally steal into my older brothers room and vandalize some architectural project he had spent weeks working on in his uncommonly meticulous fashion.
I dont know why I did that. In fact, I dont remember doing it. But according to my mother, my brother would simply say, "Its all right. I was done with it anyway." And she, astonished, would think to herself, "This cannot be my child."
I was reminded of this in the aftermath of a incident a few years ago which provided me with an object lesson in both the emotional physics of violence----the terrible ease with which a sense of being wronged can escalate into a never-ending ping-pong of vengeance----and in the power of a solitary act of forgiveness.
I had gone to the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco to see an exhibit called "Wisdom and Compassion: The Sacred Art of Tibet." A group of monks from the monastery of the Dalai Lama were creating a six-foot-wide circular mandala----a sort of spiritual rendering of the cosmos----made of colored sand ground from gemstones.
For nearly a month, they worked silently, bent over the low platform that cradled the growing sacrament. They laid out their intricate geometry of devotion by hand, surrounded constantly by onlookers who stood sometimes for hours, as I did, simply watching, our busy lives uncharacteristically forgotten.
Although the mandala didnt fit my taste in art, I was nonetheless absorbed by the artistry and concentration that went into it. I was also astonished that anyone could stoop for so long without complaint. But the greatest measure of the projects drama and poignancy lay in the fact that it was temporary. In the Buddhist tradition of nonattachment, the monks intended from the very start to dismantle their creation after a few months on exhibit, and scatter its remains in the sea.
All that work wasted, I thought to myself.
The day before the mandalas completion, however, just as the monks were putting the finishing touches on it, a madwoman jumped over the velvet ropes, climbed onto the platform, and trampled it with her feet, screaming something about "Buddhist death squads."
It was as shocking as it was inconceivable, and an awful and profane misunderstanding of someone elses intentions. When I read about it in the newspaper the morning after, my head filled with images of frontier justice. But when I reached the end of the article, my rage turned into disbelief. In stark contrast to my own malevolent response, the monks was one of exoneration. "We dont feel any anger," said one. "We dont know how to judge her motivations. We are praying for her for love and compassion."
Sitting in my kitchen, I felt as incredulous as my mother once had. Coming from a long line of avengers----people who have demanded eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth----Ive always had a difficult time with forgiveness. I have hung on to certain betrays all my life, refusing to let go of things I long ago lost forever.
Still, when I heard that the museum officials were considering pressing charges against the marauder, it seemed that this would almost dishonor the monks gesture of absolution----an act that greatly defused the situation, drained much of the bitterness from it, and set a very hard example to follow.
Afterward, I took a critical look at my own reaction, at the awful instinctiveness of it, and at the alternative provided by the men who should have been the most outraged, but werent. I understood that I was moved by this incident precisely because I saw the mandala with my own eyes; perhaps I would find forgiveness more readily if I saw this woman for myself, bathed myself in her presence just as I did in the mandalas, wondered how many grains of sand she is made of, and who it was who worked on her.
The real teaching of the mandala has turned out to be not in its destruction but in how its creators responded to the death of their creation. Once again, life has imitated art: we know its going to end, but its still shocking sometimes how it ends, and how little any of it turns out the way we intended. The grace is in how we respond to the challenges fate puts in our way to test our resolve.
The monks have reminded me that to forgive is indeed divine, but that ordinary people can do it. Although I will admit that revenge can be unmistakably sweet, I also believe that the succor of revenge is no competition for that of forgiveness----not in the long run. Its all well and good to have laws that punish wrongdoing, but they cant set your soul to rights after youve been wronged. This is the hard, human work, although the monks showed me that there is a kind of divine contagion to even a single act of amnesty.
What is, for me, permanent about this impermanent exhibit is that I will take with me a few grains of the wisdom and compassion that were demonstrated there. I will honor the monks message all the more adamantly for knowing how the mandala was destroyed. And the madwoman, under psychiatric supervision somewhere, turns out to have been a great teacher.
** Excerpted from Callings: Finding and Following An Authentic Life (Random House) by Gregg Levoy.