Cor Blimey Guv

Tonight at Buddhism class we learned about the Bardo. The Bardo is an intermediary state usually associated with the time after death and before rebirth; a state when we have lost who we were in life (the characteristics and labels that define “me”), and a state when we can face experiences and challenges that will better prepare us for the next life. The title of the book known here as The Tibetan Book of the Dead is only the English interpretation of a text known in Tibetan as Bardo Thodol (meaning: bardo "liminality"; thodol as "liberation"), or more generously translated as Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State.

There are several other Bardos however; not just the one that describes the intermediary state between death and rebirth. The Bardo Thodol mentions three others: those of "life" (or ordinary waking consciousness); of "dhyana" (meditation); and of "dream". Together they form a classification of states of consciousness where any one state forms a type of "intermediate state" - intermediate between other states of consciousness. Indeed, we learned tonight that we can consider any momentary state of consciousness a Bardo since it lies between our past and future existences. Travelling on the bus home from work is a Bardo; even the time it takes to read this blog is a Bardo because you are existing in an intermediary state between the consciousness you experienced before you began to read, and that which you will attain after you have finished. As I have said above, all of life itself is a Bardo because it lies between two different states: birth and death.

Interesting stuff, and for anyone who thinks it’s all a bit esoteric and impenetrable, just think of this: next time you’re doing the washing up, you’re passing through a Bardo in the tradition of Tibetan Buddhists. There, doesn’t that make you feel better?

I’m about to embark on such a temporary state of consciousness by force. I have developed a small gum infection known, curiously enough, as “Vincent’s Infection”. The solution to this is a course of antibiotics and, whereas my usual reaction to the ‘no alcohol’ rule is to ignore it, the particular antibiotic I have been prescribed is the only one (apparently) where this rule must be obeyed. My dentist, the pharmacist and the leaflet in the box all say (in bold letters) No Alcohol. When my dentist told me about this and said I couldn’t drink for seven days, I asked her: “Seven days? What do you think I am? A Buddhist monk?” She displayed no sympathy for my position.

So, seven days without alcohol will indeed be a temporary state of consciousness not unlike a Bardo - the fact that I will be conscious at all is a shock to the system. However, the worse of it is that these tablets can only be taken – three times a day – after food. Food? I haven’t eaten since 1982, so what’s that all about, eh? Methinks I might have to move the Bollinger out and put a jar of olives in the fridge instead. The horror of it all. This is going to be a right old Brigitte, I can tell you (and that’s cockney rhyming slang, by the way).