Fearless or Fanatic

Dialing back fanatical vegetarianism to achieve balance

It was about a week after I stumbled out of the hospital, barely nineteen and fresh from a near-death experience (That story is here. ). I couldn’t sleep, so I picked up The Dhammapada—a little light reading, right? I flipped through the pages until my eyes landed on Verse 129: "All tremble at violence; all fear death. Putting oneself in the place of another, one should not kill nor cause another to kill."

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Bam. It hit me like a truck. I had just stared death in the face, felt its icy fingers brushing my skin, and here was the Buddha, saying what I already knew but didn’t want to admit: that my actions, my choices as a meat eater, were contributing to suffering and death. It was 2:00 a.m., but I couldn’t just sit there. I got up, grabbed a pen, and scrawled out a contract on the nearest piece of paper I could find: "I will no longer partake of the flesh of any animal, including but not limited to..." I signed my name. Sealed it. Made a vow right then and there.

But life isn’t that simple, is it?

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In Buddhism, there's an ongoing debate about vegetarianism. Some teachers, like Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche, require it. Others, not so much. I met Chatral Rinpoche in 1996, and he was a force of nature. Legend has it, after going into exile in India, a student confronted him. "I thought Buddhists had compassion for all beings. Why aren't you all vegetarians?" Rinpoche paused, really considered the question, and then said, "You're right." Just like that, he became a vegetarian and stayed that way until he died at 104.

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But not everyone sees it that way. Some lamas argue that eating meat isn’t the end of the world. If you make a prayer for the animal, you create a “fortunate connection” with it. When I was told this I protested that my prayers couldn't be that powerful. But one teacher, who practically kept a meat locker in his closet, told me my prayers were as powerful as anyone else’s. Hmm, okay. But tradition runs deep in Tibetan Buddhism, where meat is often part of ritual offerings and you're expected to eat it as a sacred substance.

I learned that the hard way.

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While living at a Buddhist retreat center in the Santa Cruz mountains, I crossed paths with a pint-sized reincarnation—a two-year-old Caucasian boy, already respected as the rebirth of a great Tibetan yogi. After one ceremony, he was handing out sweets to everyone. Cookies, candies—you know the drill. I was content picking at the vegetarian options having stated to someone earlier that I wouldn't eat the meat unless a Lama insisted. Suddenly, the boy got this dead-serious look on his face. He leaned over, picked up a roll of deli meat with his mouth, and dropped it on my plate. Just for me. I’m not one for coincidences, but that felt like a cosmic joke.

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I took the smallest piece possible, tossed it down my throat, and called it a day.

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But the universe wasn’t done messing with me.

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A year later, I was working with my heart teacher—a great Tibetan Lama. Not a vegetarian, but no judgment from him. Still, it put me in awkward spots, like when we finished a practice that involved meat offerings. I again told a friend, "I won’t eat it unless our teacher commands." Wouldn't you know it? Minutes later, a message comes through: "Everyone must eat the offering meat tonight." Timing? Perfect. So, I did my usual trick—a tiny bit of meat, swallowed fast. But another crack formed in my resolve.

Then there was the day in the upstate New York woods, building a retreat house with my fellow students. Lunch was cooking, and a woman I frequently clashed with was stirring the meat dish with the same spoon she used for my vegetarian meal. I called her out, and she stormed off to tattle to our teacher.

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Later, my teacher called me over, calm as ever. "We want to be like the Buddha, yes?" I nodded. "Did the Buddha have fear or was he fearless?" Easy question. "Fearless," I said. He paused, just long enough for the weight of the moment to settle, and then hit me with the punchline: "You are afraid of a spoon." I was thunderstruck. He was right. I'd gone insane and was such a fanatic that a simple spoon unwound me.

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Days later, he offered me his leftover soup from the previous night's dinner, a sacred honor to be offered his own food. "I don't remember if it’s made with mushrooms or meat," he said, "Do you still want it?” My two fanaticisms—vegetarianism and devotion to my teacher—collided. I couldn’t refuse. I opened the lid, stirred, and saw only meat. I had no choice. I was sweating bullets…it had been more than 10 years. I took a bite. And another. I thought mmmm—I liked it.

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That was the end of my strict vegetarianism. My teacher never ordered me to change; he simply let me come to the realization on my own. That’s the mark of a true teacher—not dictating, but guiding.

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Today, I still eat mostly plant-based, but every so often, I indulge in a steak. The lesson stuck, even 25 years later. No more fanaticism—just balance. A lesson I learned, one bite at a time.

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