And became a religion unto herself.
And eventually her followers were legion.
A pew within that lone church was forever reserved for none other than Diana Vreeland, who, during that season of hell and high water, had taken the young actress under her wing. The gimlet-eyed Garuda told her early on to “go with your heart,” and whenever Dusty flinched she need only direct her gaze to wise doyenne Diana, who never learned how to blink. (She loved that Diana injected her pillows with perfume-filled hypodermics.) She couldn’t number the hours she spent on the phone being firmly/gently talked down from the trees by that woman. Around the same time, D.V.’s dandyish grandson Nicholas, who resembled a softer, nebbishier Jerry Seinfeld, underwent a notable refurbishing himself (more a going in than a coming out): from womanizing apprentice-photographer to humble monastery-living monk. Handpicked by the Dalai Lama to become the abbot of an important tenth-century monastery in India, he was also director of the Tibet Center in New York. Dusty met “the Geshe” in 2005 (and many times since), courtesy of Richard Gere.
When the actress heard he was on his way to L.A., she decided to throw a dinner party. She thought it might be healing.
She reached out to the usual Maui Wowee bohos, spiritual simpaticos who enjoyed laying bread on the cause. (Of course Jeremy came, and Elise, who was on fire with beginner’s-mind excitement over TM. The gal was full of surprises.) Invitations were last-minute, so she couldn’t snag Jim Carrey, or her old friend Jeff Bridges, who texted love and namastes from Fiji. On a lark, she reached out to Laura Poitras, who sent regrets from Rio. But she was glad Shandling could come — he was a bit of a recluse, and no one made her laugh like Garry. A hundred years ago, Mike Nichols introduced her to the comedian at a dinner in Paris, and the three wound up taking an impromptu trip to meet Thich Nhat Hanh at Plum Village in the Dordogne.
Rounding out the group were her Point Dume neighbors, the Ruschas; one half of the sisters Rodarte and one third of the sisters Haim; Donna Tartt; and Michael Imperioli, who drove in from his Santa Barbara home — they’d met through Jim Gandolfini, whom Dusty actually roomed with in the early New York theater days. She didn’t know Michael that well but was surprised to learn he was on the “Vajrayana path” under the guidance of a man called Garchen Rinpoche. (Maybe Richard had already told her that.) The soirée was padded with enthused fillers as well — a sweet girl from Annapurna and an agent from UTA, both active in David Lynch’s foundation. Joan Halifax, who’d been giving a lecture in a private home in the Palisades, came halfway through dinner, all apologies. (Dusty met her through Eve Ensler.) Joan was a live wire, a charismatic, politically active Buddhist who, Dusty found out, via a Wikipedia refresher, had received “transmission” from Bernie Glassman and Thich Nhat Hanh. She was the abbess of a monastery in Santa Fe. There was something posh about her and Dusty called her Downton Abbess, which always got a laugh out of Joan.
The night was funny, spirited, messy, and profane. Per usual, Jeremy played court jester, the heterodox, half wiggy wag who relished his role as goad, gadfly, and sometimes churlish upender of the status quo. In other words, the man was fairly deep in his cups. Tonight, Joan was the one to get under his skin. (There was always somebody.) After she went on a bit about her favorite subject — the suffering of Afghani women — Jeremy suggested her concerns were “a little nineties.” Good thing she was a tough broad with a sense of humor. What really galled him was when she said it was “okay” to want to die for a moral cause and went on to invoke burning nuns as if self-immolation was something everyone should aspire to. In the same breath, he admitted there’d be something immensely appealing about watching Cara Delevingne, Kendall, and Gigi Hadid set themselves on fire in real time on BuzzFeed.
He got laughed at, laughed with, and forgiven.
“I was just in Hawaii with Ram Dass and Bernie,” said Joan. “And we had this whole conversation about Buddhism not being fun. So, that was my New Year’s resolution — make Buddhism more fun!”
Jeremy couldn’t help compare the haughty glibness of the head-shaven grande dame with that dangerously deranged couple, Devi and the Sir. What a gulf separated the parties! Queen Halifax was of the entitled, huckstering American Buddhist Hall of Fame ilk — serenity profiteers — that so enraged him, whereas “the travelers” were unfathomable, unpredictable, unfriendly, with the innate ability not only to astonish but (he sensed) transform. Now, that was crazy wisdom… It gave him a pang to wonder what they were doing, this very moment. He hadn’t yet made arrangements to see them again.
After supper they sat in the living room campfire-style and told ghost stories. Garry’s was about a friend who bought a home in Upstate New York. He set about enlarging a pond to make it suitable for koi. The day it was drained, a woman in monk’s robes knocked on the door. She said she lived there twenty years ago and wasn’t sure what compelled her to visit — she hadn’t been back to the place in all that time. He invited her in. When she noticed the wimpled waters of the pond outside his library window, she revealed that her little boy drowned there. After his death, she sold the house and took her vows at a Buddhist monastery up the road. Garry’s friend said it was obvious that by disrupting the waters, the child’s spirit awakened, calling to its mother.
Geshe Nicholas Vreeland, who was incredibly learned, was prompted to speak of the River of the Dead in Kusatsu’s Sainokawara Park. He said that a god called Jizo lived there, guiding the lost souls of children to save them from demons trying to prevent their passage. He spoke of reptilian creatures called kappas that lived in ponds and rivers — dirty tricksters who kidnapped toddlers and drowned them. They liked to fart a lot as well. Apparently, they were adept at stealing the shirikodama, the soul essence “that lives in the anus.” (Jeremy muttered, “Been there, done that.”) Ironically, Nicholas said, the kappas could be quite friendly and were famous for their almost compulsive sense of decorum. If an enemy bowed, they couldn’t help bow back, even knowing such formalities left them vulnerable to fatal attack.
Half of the Rodarte sisters listened with great intent, as if drawing future inspiration for a textile pattern; a third of the Haims was similarly entranced, lost in the acoustic, compositional mists of a nascent lullaby that might one day feature their bestie Taylor Swift.
While studying Indian folklore, Donna Tartt learned about women who die in childbirth during the Hindu Festival of Lights. She said they became a churel, a ghost known for its bloodcurdling scream. The churels sought revenge on family members who didn’t properly care for them during pregnancy. Other ghosts were called ubume—also spirits of women who died giving birth. When the babies grew up and cried in their sleep with longing for their mothers, the ubume comforted them with gifts that by morning turned into dead leaves.
“Amazing stories for sure,” said Mr. Imperioli humbly. He asked the author if she’d read Lafcadio Hearn, and Ms. Tartt said that she had. “Of course you have,” blushed the actor. “I forgot who I was talking to! You’re a great, great writer, Donna. My wife read The Goldfinch three times.” He quickly added, “I loved it too. And The Secret History.”