Monday, December 03, 2012

Like Coming Home

I read what seemed a particularly well-sharpened passage the other day: a few lines from Diana Judith Mukpo's sometimes moving account of romance with her late husband, Chogyam Trungpa. They met, and quickly began relations, in 1968 when she was fifteen and he was twenty-nine. He was keen to marry her, and did so the following year, when she turned sixteen. I recall that the British newspapers were merciless, on the order of "mad monk robs the cradle" headlines.

The passage that caught my eye is where the former Mrs. Mukpo describes her initial feelings:
"...I knew that I had a very deep and old connection with him, and it stirred up a lot of emotion for me. The only way I can describe this experience is that it was like coming home. Nothing in my life had hit me in such a powerful way. I said to myself, 'This is what I’ve been missing all my life. Here he is again.' It wasn’t just that this was some cool, powerful experience. I knew him, and as soon as I saw him, I realized how much I’d been missing him. It was coming home. And from that moment on, I wanted desperately to meet him."
I find this to be such a wonderfully simple and accurate description of what actually happens in these circumstances, that I wish to share it with everybody. In particular, the idea of "coming home" resonates with what some of us have been fortunate enough to experience. Of course, this is almost immediately followed by what the Chinese philosophers call "...the myriad of things struggling to take form," or the crazy irregularities of love.

It can take considerable courage, and a not a few tears, you know? One has to applaud their strength. Although not particularly unusual by world standards, their relationship was somewhat unconventional by Western standards. By American standards, for example, Rinpoche was risking the possibility of a lengthy prison sentence. The young lady in question had to be not only true-hearted, but sure of herself, at an age when most young ladies are unsure of everything, and their emotions are volatile. 

Despite the age difference, despite the social obstacles, and despite some very vocal opinion at the time, these two old friends stuck together and managed to find their way home.

I write this for you travelers. I pray for your swift, unencumbered arrival. The idea of your continuum of personal love recognizing itself sufficiently enough to encompass current status is remarkable, don't you think so?

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6 reader comments:

Unknown said...

It's happened to me once to feel being at home... it was a beautiful feeling... thank you for taking me back to it!

Anonymous said...

and He brokes her hearth also. but in the end it´s all about love, dharma and ego.

Anonymous said...

Once again, your posts are remarkably synchronistic and (in this instance) encouraging...considering recent smiling faces spotted here and there. Still not sure what means your your "...idea..." nor how it applies in my case, however.

And I was just telling the story of a collaborative mo-mo-fest I had occasion to prepare (though just barely, what with the bloody pitch and yaw of chef's knives and bilingual repartee, whilst plying a rip-tide of rice-wine), together the late painter's namesake, once upon a dimly-remembered time.

Editor said...

Wherever you are, my offer to you still stands. The desert is an appropriate place on account it is "dry," get it? The thing is to understand that you are O.K. just as you are -- that seems difficult, doesn't it? Well, there is nothing to add, nothing to take away -- except maybe the sauce -- and sooner or later the dakinis will calm down and put away the knives long enough to hold a meaningful conversation. Better listen this time, eh?

Anonymous said...

Yeah. In any case light conversation is about all I'm up to anyway, if you get my drift{wood}. If push comes to shove, though, I'm taking the blue pill this time!

Paldor said...

I had this feeling twice so far: first when I arrived in Mc Load Ganj in 1991 and second when I came first to the states in 2009.