About a week and a half ago, Cathy Jackson, who teaches sadhana and refuge classes at KTC (the Tibetan Buddhist Meditation Center in Columbus) arrived in Mcleodganj, jet-lagged but as vivacious as ever. A lively woman with short blond hair (as it has been ever since her days in retreat) she's led a fascinating life and always has a good story or meaningful knowledge to share. Like most KTC'ers, I tend to call her by the appellation "Lhamo," given to her by Kenpo Karthar Rinpoche during her retreat days. I took her to Shangri-La Restaurant, the one run by monks, before we parted ways just an hour after meeting. As a student of Tai Situ Rinpoche, she was off to a yearly Mahamudra Retreat, an intensive Buddhist teaching for which the students are given "homework" of two hours a day for a year.
Some time later, just before Lhamo was scheduled to return to Mcleod, she calls me and invites me to Sherab Ling, Tai Situ Rinpoche's Monastery and Institute, to take part in the Red Crown Blessing. Thrilled at the chance, I book a taxi (not my preferred way to travel, but a necessary one considering Lhamo's luggage) and, as the sun rises over Bhagsu, leave for Sherab Ling. My driver, as it turns out, is related to the family whose guest house where I've been staying. As with most relationships in India, this one is a bit convoluted: "He is my cousin's brother." Hmmm. I'm quickly getting used to the fact that nearly everyone in Bhagsu seems to, somehow, be related to everyone else.
But leaving Bhagsu behind, we travel through two hours of hairpin turns and bumpy roads down into the valley. Sherab Ling sits just a short distance from Bir, where I spent a wonderful Losar with a Tibetan family, and the valley has become even more of a paradise than I remember. Up in Mcleod, there is no doubt that Spring has arrived: a million little flowers have appeared in the green landscape, the mountain goats, usually so content to munch on grass, have started butting heads. Butterflies have filled the air, so thick in some places that it looks like big, lazy flakes of snow are falling. Even the stray dogs have started acting more antsy.
But as beautiful as it is in the mountains, nothing can compare to the valley. If there is a shangri-la, it most certainly looks like Bir, with beautiful lush grasses, flowers, small bamboo forests (each one only a few meters across). Even the sun seems to be more perfect and more beautiful here.
The rocking of the car, totally without seat belts, rivals even a jeep on safari, and I'm glad for the chance to leave it's confines and explore Sherab ling. Nestled into the woods, it's unbelievably beautiful and serene. Crane 69 enjoys the path in the woods, while crane 68 sits along one of the 108 stupas lined along the path.
Lhamo's phone is off and on the door to her room is a note from another friend. With no answer, I assume that she must be at the main temple and head there myself. In the time I've known her, I've always known Lhamo to be both fiercely independent and insanely busy, so I assume that she must be attending to some pressing business.
Through the woods and fields of wildflowers, pausing to enjoy the view, I make my way to the temple. The space has already become quite crowded, and with time to spare, I decide to circumambulate , following old men and women chanting their Om Manis and holding their malas in the right hand. Tibetan families have dressed up for the event, women donning traditional dresses and men in their smart coats (usually with one or both sleeves hanging off their bodies), often with the traditional read roll of yarn around their heads. As I walk, I am greeted by Sonam Tsomo's mother, the great matriarch of the family in Bir, who had given me her handmade rugs for Losar. She is easily one of my favorite people in India, a warm and kind-hearted woman, who holds my hand and (according her daughter, I believe, although I still don't have all of the family members straight in this massive family), asks me to come back to Bir and wishes me "Luck on your journeys." An already beautiful day lights up as I see more and more members of this wonderful family.
Unable to find Lhamo in the growing crowd (which, I later learn, holds 1,500 guests), I decide to sit near the family instead. Next to me is a bearded man, from Kentucky, as he tells me, who happens to have known Lhamo for the last dozen years. "I haven't seen her in a few days, though," he says when I ask if she's in the crowd. This doesn't surprise me, for, like I said, she's very often quite busy. For over an hour we wait in the courtyard of the temple, sitting on the lightly carpeted floor.
Tai Situ Rinpoche appears and climbs the many stairs to the towering teaching throne (seat?); the crowd rises and prostrates. Part of the Karma Kagyu lineage, the current Tai Situpa is the twelfth to hold this title. He is said to be an emanation of Maitreya, the future Buddha. To put it simply, he is a very, very special, very important person and teacher in Tibetan tradition and I am very lucky to be here.
As with most empowerments I've taken part in, I only have a vague idea of what's happening. Rinpoche speaks in Tibetan, then reads the text at a rapid pace. He is empowering us, giving us permission, to perform the Vajrasattva sadhana (which, I believe, is a somewhat advanced and esoteric practice) while, at the same time, bestowing upon the crowd the Red Crown Blessing. The crowd repeats, in Tibetan, after him, then he rises to spread blessings over each person there (below is a video of the blessing). Like those around me, I hold out a bag of religious nick-nacks (in my case, dozens of blessing knots for the sangha back home), gathering the orange rice and blessing pills as if they were rupees. Crane 67 is given with my kotta (ceremonial white scarf) as part of the offering.
Blessed and empowered (and feelings so as well), the crowd disperses and I resume my task of looking for Lhamo. No sign of her. I return to the guest houses and ask the monks if she has checked out; one of them is her friend, and admits to not having seen her in some time. Rushing around the beautiful campus, usually a very level-headed and relaxed person, I can't help but think: I do not know the Buddhist death rites. If something has happened to her, I can't help her through the bardo.
It's a strange juxtaposition of worry and peace from the day's events. The monks and I finally decide to open her door in case she is hurt inside and unable to unlock it. The servant boy, an Indian of about twelve, cannot find the key; he smiles shyly at me, saying we can't get in. I'm torn between pity for him and wanting to make sure my friend isn't in danger. Finally, he walks (slowly) back down to get a monk to help us. About half-way through a bowl of unsorted keys in the monk's hand, the door finally opens of it's own volition. Lhamo stands, pale as a ghost, dazed. Sick, fevered, barely able to move, but alive.
"I remember thinking," she tells me, "that they watered the chili sauce down. A warning went off, but I didn't stop."
All I can say (I think we both can say) is thank God for the Z pack. Never leave home without super-antibiotics.
Once I'm assured that she will be okay, I return to my bumpy taxi and back up to the mountains that have my heart.
Some time later, just before Lhamo was scheduled to return to Mcleod, she calls me and invites me to Sherab Ling, Tai Situ Rinpoche's Monastery and Institute, to take part in the Red Crown Blessing. Thrilled at the chance, I book a taxi (not my preferred way to travel, but a necessary one considering Lhamo's luggage) and, as the sun rises over Bhagsu, leave for Sherab Ling. My driver, as it turns out, is related to the family whose guest house where I've been staying. As with most relationships in India, this one is a bit convoluted: "He is my cousin's brother." Hmmm. I'm quickly getting used to the fact that nearly everyone in Bhagsu seems to, somehow, be related to everyone else.
But leaving Bhagsu behind, we travel through two hours of hairpin turns and bumpy roads down into the valley. Sherab Ling sits just a short distance from Bir, where I spent a wonderful Losar with a Tibetan family, and the valley has become even more of a paradise than I remember. Up in Mcleod, there is no doubt that Spring has arrived: a million little flowers have appeared in the green landscape, the mountain goats, usually so content to munch on grass, have started butting heads. Butterflies have filled the air, so thick in some places that it looks like big, lazy flakes of snow are falling. Even the stray dogs have started acting more antsy.
But as beautiful as it is in the mountains, nothing can compare to the valley. If there is a shangri-la, it most certainly looks like Bir, with beautiful lush grasses, flowers, small bamboo forests (each one only a few meters across). Even the sun seems to be more perfect and more beautiful here.
The rocking of the car, totally without seat belts, rivals even a jeep on safari, and I'm glad for the chance to leave it's confines and explore Sherab ling. Nestled into the woods, it's unbelievably beautiful and serene. Crane 69 enjoys the path in the woods, while crane 68 sits along one of the 108 stupas lined along the path.
Lhamo's phone is off and on the door to her room is a note from another friend. With no answer, I assume that she must be at the main temple and head there myself. In the time I've known her, I've always known Lhamo to be both fiercely independent and insanely busy, so I assume that she must be attending to some pressing business.
Through the woods and fields of wildflowers, pausing to enjoy the view, I make my way to the temple. The space has already become quite crowded, and with time to spare, I decide to circumambulate , following old men and women chanting their Om Manis and holding their malas in the right hand. Tibetan families have dressed up for the event, women donning traditional dresses and men in their smart coats (usually with one or both sleeves hanging off their bodies), often with the traditional read roll of yarn around their heads. As I walk, I am greeted by Sonam Tsomo's mother, the great matriarch of the family in Bir, who had given me her handmade rugs for Losar. She is easily one of my favorite people in India, a warm and kind-hearted woman, who holds my hand and (according her daughter, I believe, although I still don't have all of the family members straight in this massive family), asks me to come back to Bir and wishes me "Luck on your journeys." An already beautiful day lights up as I see more and more members of this wonderful family.
Unable to find Lhamo in the growing crowd (which, I later learn, holds 1,500 guests), I decide to sit near the family instead. Next to me is a bearded man, from Kentucky, as he tells me, who happens to have known Lhamo for the last dozen years. "I haven't seen her in a few days, though," he says when I ask if she's in the crowd. This doesn't surprise me, for, like I said, she's very often quite busy. For over an hour we wait in the courtyard of the temple, sitting on the lightly carpeted floor.
Tai Situ Rinpoche appears and climbs the many stairs to the towering teaching throne (seat?); the crowd rises and prostrates. Part of the Karma Kagyu lineage, the current Tai Situpa is the twelfth to hold this title. He is said to be an emanation of Maitreya, the future Buddha. To put it simply, he is a very, very special, very important person and teacher in Tibetan tradition and I am very lucky to be here.
As with most empowerments I've taken part in, I only have a vague idea of what's happening. Rinpoche speaks in Tibetan, then reads the text at a rapid pace. He is empowering us, giving us permission, to perform the Vajrasattva sadhana (which, I believe, is a somewhat advanced and esoteric practice) while, at the same time, bestowing upon the crowd the Red Crown Blessing. The crowd repeats, in Tibetan, after him, then he rises to spread blessings over each person there (below is a video of the blessing). Like those around me, I hold out a bag of religious nick-nacks (in my case, dozens of blessing knots for the sangha back home), gathering the orange rice and blessing pills as if they were rupees. Crane 67 is given with my kotta (ceremonial white scarf) as part of the offering.
Blessed and empowered (and feelings so as well), the crowd disperses and I resume my task of looking for Lhamo. No sign of her. I return to the guest houses and ask the monks if she has checked out; one of them is her friend, and admits to not having seen her in some time. Rushing around the beautiful campus, usually a very level-headed and relaxed person, I can't help but think: I do not know the Buddhist death rites. If something has happened to her, I can't help her through the bardo.
It's a strange juxtaposition of worry and peace from the day's events. The monks and I finally decide to open her door in case she is hurt inside and unable to unlock it. The servant boy, an Indian of about twelve, cannot find the key; he smiles shyly at me, saying we can't get in. I'm torn between pity for him and wanting to make sure my friend isn't in danger. Finally, he walks (slowly) back down to get a monk to help us. About half-way through a bowl of unsorted keys in the monk's hand, the door finally opens of it's own volition. Lhamo stands, pale as a ghost, dazed. Sick, fevered, barely able to move, but alive.
"I remember thinking," she tells me, "that they watered the chili sauce down. A warning went off, but I didn't stop."
All I can say (I think we both can say) is thank God for the Z pack. Never leave home without super-antibiotics.
Once I'm assured that she will be okay, I return to my bumpy taxi and back up to the mountains that have my heart.
 |
| Prayer flags along the path. |
 |
| The courtyard (click to enlarge) |
 |
| Hundreds of monks and nuns come to the ceremony. |
 |
| Rinpoche looks quite regal here. |
 |
| Smiling and blessing the crowd, somehow Rinpoche seems much more approachable. |
 |
No comments:
Post a Comment