Happy Mothers Day

Mothers Day is fun to contemplate. Here, we see Tiger Boy being kissed by Tiger Mommy. In Buddhism, every day is Mothers Day and all sentient beings have, at one time or another, been our mother.

Your Majesty

Was doing some Riwo Sangchö, over a period of days.

The winds came up. They lasted for a period of days.

Lay awake in bed all night, listening to my heartbeat.

Was thinking of a far-away fire. A fire ten thousand miles away. 

I did not see this fire; felt none of its warmth, saw none of its light. What went up in smoke, I cannot say. I do not know what the fire was fed. There was sickness, so maybe the fire was fed sickness. There being sickness, maybe the fire was fed the cure.

Over here, dust storms swirled around me. Ravens chased witches on the currents.

I received a letter:

In the practice of holistic wisdom, great perfection, all is meaningful. One is [not] in the center, to 'repel bad spirits' and have enemies, [this] is not the way of the yogin. 

I thought about kings.

Once, there were kings. Each king wanted to be bigger than the others, and eventually, strife broke out among them all.

Time passed. Strife continued. The causes and conditions that produce kings dwindled and changed in their result.

Today, there are but few kings.

We cannot say postulated strife among kings was in any way a cause of the dwindling, dying state of kingship. To say that would only be speculation.

Someday, there will be no kings. Royalty will disappear from the blood and blood will disappear from the royalty.

I thought about kings, and since there was sickness,  I thought about cells. 

These cells are in the center. They repel bad spirits. They fight off the enemy of disease. This happens like a space dance, the way ravens chase witches.

We begin by understanding that thoughts about being sick or not being sick-such as thinking, "I am really sick," "I am just a little sick," or "I am not sick,"-are dependently arisen, that is, the idea expressed in one only exists in dependence upon the other. Another way to say this is that such thoughts don't refer to anything truly existent.
It is like having experiences in a dream . . . Sickness is not something that truly exists, it exists only in dependence upon our idea that we are sick . . .
This is why the yogis in Tibet have a saying, "My body does not get sick, my thoughts get sick."
We should use our intelligence to see that "sickness" has no essence. Then rest in that: in the true reality free of thoughts about being sick.

There is, of course, nothing in the center of these cells except more space.

If we compare the cells to kings, it could be meaningful.

Or, I suppose we could call the spirits in from all directions, and reckon that we paid them off with swirling smoke.

As to the way of the yogin, this I simply do not know.

That quote above is from Khenpo Tsültrim Gyamtso Rinpoche

Remember Trungpa

Today, 4 April 2013, marks the twenty-sixth anniversary of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche's passing. He invested his life in us. May we every day remember him.

Family Member, Traveling

We used to catch the bus at the corner of Telegraph and Ashby, in Berkeley, California. We used to visit the university, and the shops on Telegraph Avenue. 

He would wear his robes.

I felt like Kipling's Kim.

Just to get out of the house, we took the bus up there, one summer's late afternoon into evening. We idled along the sidewalk, until he was suddenly taken by an M.C. Escher print in a shop window. 

We stood there a long time. He wanted to buy the print but in those days we never had any money.

I asked him why he liked the print. He said it was difficult to explain. He said, "This is how things are." He said, "This is how I see things." He said, "This shows something I will have to teach." 

He said, "This is very high understanding."

On the way back, he asked me how I got around with no car and did I always take the bus. I told him I always walked or hitch-hiked. He said, "Teach me how to hitch-hike."

So, we hitch-hiked back down Telegraph to Ashby, which isn't very far, and we walked home, and he said, "Next time, I won't wear my robe."

It was forty-five years ago. The world celebrates what he achieved since. 

I never came to much.

Suddenly, this evening around six o'clock, that M.C. Escher memory hitch-hiked back to me. Tears began falling as if there were nothing to prevent them. I was seized with such devotion and admiration for Rinpoche: at the notion he had invested such loving, painstaking care in a stupid boy; the notion he cared enough to show me a proper way to see.

So, you wrote tonight and asked me how things are, inside and outside me.

This is the only way I can answer you truthfully.

I am remembering my Great Teacher, and tears are falling, and if I had to give them a name I would name them tears of gratitude.

As humans, you know, we have a tendency to talk about love. Children talk about love with their parents. Poets enjoy writing poems about love. Boyfriend and girlfriend talk about love.

Husbands and their wives talk about love.

I don't know what love is. 

That abruptly-rising memory leading to today's tears is the reflection of what really happened.

Maybe that's what love is: that beautiful vajra tent of protection given to us when we are travelling.