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Authors: Eliot Pattison
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clear and powerful as a great bell. “It was only sadness at leaving important things uncompleted. It is very difficult for him to give up.” The Tibetans believed that there was a period after death, sometimes lasting days, when a spirit was confused and would not accept that its incarnation was extinguished, when it might struggle to reanimate the lost body, to continue unfinished work.
“Rinpoche,” Shan said, “the stone eye is packed on a horse.” His gaze lingered upon the dead man. “But I cannot do this thing without you.”
“Drakte will learn to leave his body behind, my friend. So must you.”
“Drakte lost his life. That thing, that dobdob, could come back.” Shan looked away, into one of the small flames, and felt a sudden sense of desolation. Only hours before he had decided there could be nothing more important than returning the stone, for he, like the Tibetans, had come to see it as one of the seeds to be planted to keep the wisdom and compassion alive. But everything had changed when Drakte had arrived at the lhakang. Although Gendun and Lokesh would resist, would say Shan was denying his own deity, he had to solve the mystery of Drakte’s death. Because as important as returning the eye may be, there was something else, something he would sacrifice even his inner deity for, and that was keeping the old Tibetans safe.
“And a valley of people lost their deity,” his teacher replied. He let the words hang in the air a moment, until Shan looked back into his eyes. “It will be your greatest test. Look forward. Look inside. Not behind you. You must stop being the seeker you were and become the seeker you want to be.”
It was a topic of many conversations between them. Shan’s biggest spiritual handicap was his obsession with the workings of what Gendun called the fleeting, unimportant mysteries of the surface world when he should be looking to the mystery of his soul.
“You must stop being a seeker of fact and become a seeker of truth,” Gendun said. “That is how deities are repaired.”
“Rinpoche, after the durtro, don’t try to find us,” Shan said abruptly. Gendun looked at him, and Shan’s face flushed. The words sounded like Shan was bargaining, as if he were asking Gendun to at least acknowledge the danger that he always ignored. “You must go back to Yerpa,” Shan said, referring to the secret hermitage inside a mountain above Lhadrung, where Gendun was the principal teacher to a handful of monks. “Please.”
“My boots.” Gendun nodded toward to his feet, where the soles of his old work boots had split open at the toe. “My boots are tired,” he said, as though agreeing. “But first I must deliver the earth part of Drakte back to the earth,” he said quietly, looking at the dead man a moment before turning back to Shan. “May the Compassionate Buddha watch over you,” he whispered.
A single dried, brown leaf blew into the doorway. They watched in silence as the wind carried it out again, past the cluster of buildings and up into the air, until it soared out of sight. They both stared at the empty place it had been; then, as if the leaf had been a signal, Gendun turned toward Drakte, pausing to fix Shan with a brief gaze that somehow expressed worry and hope at the same time. “Beware of the dust and air,” he said with a note of finality, then sat and began reciting the Bardo again.
Beware of the dust and air. It was one of Gendun’s customary farewells, a way of saying pay attention only to the essence of what you encounter.
But something made Shan turn back as he reached the door. Gendun paused and slowly brought his eyes back to Shan’s. There was an exquisite silence between them for a moment, and Shan fought the urge to go to Gendun’s side and not move until the Bardo was done.
“The deity you find, Shan, will be the one you take with you,” Gendun said quietly, punctuating the words with another long stare before he turned back to Drakte.
As
“Rinpoche,” Shan said, “the stone eye is packed on a horse.” His gaze lingered upon the dead man. “But I cannot do this thing without you.”
“Drakte will learn to leave his body behind, my friend. So must you.”
“Drakte lost his life. That thing, that dobdob, could come back.” Shan looked away, into one of the small flames, and felt a sudden sense of desolation. Only hours before he had decided there could be nothing more important than returning the stone, for he, like the Tibetans, had come to see it as one of the seeds to be planted to keep the wisdom and compassion alive. But everything had changed when Drakte had arrived at the lhakang. Although Gendun and Lokesh would resist, would say Shan was denying his own deity, he had to solve the mystery of Drakte’s death. Because as important as returning the eye may be, there was something else, something he would sacrifice even his inner deity for, and that was keeping the old Tibetans safe.
“And a valley of people lost their deity,” his teacher replied. He let the words hang in the air a moment, until Shan looked back into his eyes. “It will be your greatest test. Look forward. Look inside. Not behind you. You must stop being the seeker you were and become the seeker you want to be.”
It was a topic of many conversations between them. Shan’s biggest spiritual handicap was his obsession with the workings of what Gendun called the fleeting, unimportant mysteries of the surface world when he should be looking to the mystery of his soul.
“You must stop being a seeker of fact and become a seeker of truth,” Gendun said. “That is how deities are repaired.”
“Rinpoche, after the durtro, don’t try to find us,” Shan said abruptly. Gendun looked at him, and Shan’s face flushed. The words sounded like Shan was bargaining, as if he were asking Gendun to at least acknowledge the danger that he always ignored. “You must go back to Yerpa,” Shan said, referring to the secret hermitage inside a mountain above Lhadrung, where Gendun was the principal teacher to a handful of monks. “Please.”
“My boots.” Gendun nodded toward to his feet, where the soles of his old work boots had split open at the toe. “My boots are tired,” he said, as though agreeing. “But first I must deliver the earth part of Drakte back to the earth,” he said quietly, looking at the dead man a moment before turning back to Shan. “May the Compassionate Buddha watch over you,” he whispered.
A single dried, brown leaf blew into the doorway. They watched in silence as the wind carried it out again, past the cluster of buildings and up into the air, until it soared out of sight. They both stared at the empty place it had been; then, as if the leaf had been a signal, Gendun turned toward Drakte, pausing to fix Shan with a brief gaze that somehow expressed worry and hope at the same time. “Beware of the dust and air,” he said with a note of finality, then sat and began reciting the Bardo again.
Beware of the dust and air. It was one of Gendun’s customary farewells, a way of saying pay attention only to the essence of what you encounter.
But something made Shan turn back as he reached the door. Gendun paused and slowly brought his eyes back to Shan’s. There was an exquisite silence between them for a moment, and Shan fought the urge to go to Gendun’s side and not move until the Bardo was done.
“The deity you find, Shan, will be the one you take with you,” Gendun said quietly, punctuating the words with another long stare before he turned back to Drakte.
As
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