Chödrön's growing influence
Kim MacAulay was there. A United Church minister and the chaplain at Dalhousie University, MacAulay holds the title of reverend, but also spends time each day doing Buddhist meditation. For her, the two religions complement each other. Chödrön's teachings help her cultivate what she sees as the essence of Christianity—loving herself and others.
Dozens contacted More when they learned the magazine planned to write about Chödrön's growing influence. A lawyer, several psychotherapists, a computer programmer, a physician, two university professors, a public school superintendent, an accountant, an auto worker and an international aid worker all said Chödrön's teachings help them in their work. The international aid worker was so eager to talk about Chödrön that he tracked down More by Skype from a bungalow in Chad, where he was working with Darfur refugees.
Deborah Brackney was given her first Chödrön book by an executive coach in preparation for corporate leadership. Now the vice-president of a large human resources consulting firm in Colorado, Brackney uses Chödrön's Buddhist texts to help manage 100 employees. "I see it almost minute by minute in the workplace," she says of Chödrön's mellowing influence on her management style.
Far more spoke about Chödrön's impact on their personal lives. Many credited her with helping them through the worst kinds of grief and heartache, including flirtations with suicide.
A spiritual journey
In 2008, MacAulay learned she had bladder cancer. She had been reading Chödrön's teachings for years, but the diagnosis clarified her spiritual direction. Suddenly, she understood the prescription to "Meditate like your hair's on fire."
Moments after the doctor delivered the diagnosis, MacAulay vowed to herself that she would see Chödrön preach in person.
As MacAulay waited in a room at Dalhousie University to see her spiritual idol, an androgynous monk sat cross-legged on the stage radiating a kind of electric stillness. The monk's quiet seemed to infect the crowd, which gradually calmed to a complete silence. There was the deep metal boom of a large brass gong and then a tiny woman swathed in voluminous robes the colour of dried blood stepped out from the wings. She was miniscule, more like an elf than a person, or perhaps an oddly human bird. She had the cropped haircut of an eight-year-old boy in the 1950s and a small square face punctuated by a big smile and framed by two long ears. Her right arm was bare. She settled into a big easy chair at centre stage and began to speak.
