Kartok Getse, The Fearless Warrior

This post is humbly offered as a dedication to the memory of H.H.Kathok Getse Rinpoche, as we remember and honour a great and fearless Dzogchenpa. *

There are no random acts in the life of a Mahasiddha!
This must be loudly and clearly proclaimed because we ordinary beings with our limited perception perceive events very differently from those who come to this earth to benefit others.

Based on the evidence at hand, many would say that Getse Rinpoche left this world prematurely, due to an accident. But let us repeat. There are no random acts in the life of a Mahasiddha and nothing is as it appears to be. Transform this 'accident' into an act of supreme sacrifice and we come much nearer to the truth. Bodhisattva's appear in this world to remind sentient beings to recognise what actually is.

And this needs to be mentioned, in fact, it needs to be 'shouted from the rooftops' lest we forget!

And we do forget, constantly and miserably...

Getse Rinpoche was no more timid when facing death than he was in life. Having recognised the true nature of 'reality' he could move in this world without attachment and without fear. He did not relish the strictures of monastic life and yet neither did he shun them. He could 'dance the dance' while ever mindful of what really is and what really is, beckons us all.

In recognising that his time had come, he strode unflinchingly towards what awaited without even the least hesitation. By so doing, we can trust that impure karma has been averted and the unrelenting guru of impermanence has been clearly and unmistakably pointed out.

He had the courage to embrace the mortality of this earthly body and let it go when all the causes and conditions had ripened and in so doing he has bestowed upon us the supreme gift of the Dharma; that of remembering that we are not this body nor this mind!

He could gaze into the face of death without fear because he had established himself in what is deathless. In these impoverished times, when the Dharma is often practised without sincerity or determination, there are few who can understand the true activity of one such as this.

And yet here is the greatest teaching. Right here under our very noses. Not disguised, not edited, not covered over and not hidden. Right here and right now, as this whole mighty ship of samsara, within which we live, move and dream the dream of our lives, slowly and irrevocably sinks into the infinite ocean.

We, who are unmindful of what is approaching, continue to play out our lives, consumed by our dramas and our endless preoccupations.

Can we not give ourselves pause for thought? Can we not look up for a moment with an unclouded and undistracted view?

To the Lama who points fearlessly to that which is, we who falter in samsara bow down in profound gratitude for your immeasurable kindness...

*****

Geste Rinpoche
(shared by Tulku Jigme Wangdrak)

I was blessed. I met Getse Rinpoche soon after he left Tibet and arrived in India.
It was in the winter of 1997/8... It was in Bodhgaya.

Every day I had been passing many hours in a spot near the Bodhi tree, the place where the Buddha attained realisation. Just in front of me, a young Tibetan Lama was performing prostrations. Many hours of the day he was there, polishing the wooden prostration board with his gloved hands and long red robes...

In little breaks, we sometimes shared a few words and a few jokes. He knew a smattering of English and I a smattering of Tibetan.

One day, quite out of the blue, he asked me to accompany him to meet a Lama.
At first, I was hesitant, not wanting to be sidetracked or distracted. However, the following day, he spoke of this Lama again, impressing upon me, that he had just come from Kathok in Tibet, the place where my own teacher, Chadral Rinpoche, had spent many years.  When, on the following day, he asked me for the third time I began to take note. In a dynamic place such as Bodhgaya, unexpected meetings can come ones way and in turn be meaningful.

I followed him in the early afternoon through the market streets outside the stupa compound and into a small room in a simple building above the crowded bazaar. In that first meeting, I was somewhat taken aback, surprised, unsettled in a way which I could not quite understand. It was nothing which was said, as we merely exchanged pleasantries and discussed our respective teachers but the 'atmosphere' of this meeting somehow lingered on.

After that first meeting, I seemed to bump into him all over the place and at all times of the day and evening. I joined him and a group of his close ones on a pilgrimage to Nalanda and Rajgir one day and it was on this occasion that I became fully aware of his considerable power and presence.

During the bus ride on our way back to Bodhgaya that evening, he was facing me. Some hours into that journey, I suddenly looked up, as if prodded by some invisible hand. The first thing I saw was Getse Rinpoche's face and he was looking directly at me. He fixed me with a gaze for which I was entirely unprepared. If that moment had been in any way contrived, shyness would very likely have forced me to look away, but in the disappearing light of the day, my mind simply went blank and I was drawn into a vast and unfolding silence. His gaze was like a doorway into something beyond the universe. It was utterly riveting...

Before I knew it we were all clambouring off the bus and heading towards our various accommodations. He and I exchanged no words, nothing at all was said. After such a gaze, what could possibly be said? The world had stopped, period!

During that particular winter prior to meeting Getse Rinpoche, I had been deeply immersed in the mystery; 'who am I?' I had taken it as my main practice. Hours and hours I sat in blessed proximity to the Vajrasana seat beneath the sacred Bodhi Tree where the Buddha had realised the ultimate reality. I was determined to find a way into the ever-present portal of my own mysterious awareness. And then right there, and quite unbidden came one who had gone before, who had embraced the mystery, who could open the 'door,' and who was absolutely fearless and staring directly into the face of truth...

How can one ever repay such kindness?

I was fortunate to meet him on many occasions during the months and years that followed that first meeting in Bodhgaya. One can recount so many things about these times, but I will mention just one which comes instantly to mind.

One time when I was staying near Chadral Rinpoche's retreat centre in Godavari, he came for an unexpected visit. At that time a number of students were staying in the retreat centre inside the beautiful compound and gardens. Near the entrance into the retreat, Chadral Rinpoche had placed a notice announcing that none should enter the precincts therein save those mentioned right there on the notice. None would ever think to challenge the command of Chadral Rinpoche, an elder Lama, whose authority was sacrosanct.

Yet, after perusing the sign at the entrance way, Getse Rinpoche strode right on in, met with the students staying inside, exchanged a few words and a bit of banter and then went on his way again. Many of those who were there that day, were somewhat taken aback yet, this was quite in keeping with Getse Rinpoche's character.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Parvartimalai, Impossible Places

Parvartimalai

On top of a very steep and unusual chunk of rock sits an ancient temple. Parvartimalai is about 20 kilometers away from the small town of Pollur in the South of India.

A 3500-foot climb brings one to the entrance of a Siva temple which is said to be at least 2000 years old. This temple is perched on the very tippy-top of the rock summit. It is a hard and dangerous climb to reach that place and most certainly not for the faint of heart.

Since my earliest memories, I was always drawn to inaccessible structures in impossible places. Since hearing about Parvartimalai, a mere 25 kilometers north of Tiruvannamalai, my curiosity had been peaked. I soon harbored a secret ambition to climb up there,  see the temple and enjoy the surrounding stunning views with my very own eyeballs, despite the fact that I was no longer in optimum condition for such adventures.

Therefore very early one morning, I stowed a few snacks and some bottles of water into a daypack, jumped onto my 50cc TVS moped and headed off into the fading night to pick up my Telugu friend RC.

I suppose it would have been around six o'clock. It was a cool January morning, the very heart of a tropical winter in the South of India. I found my friend waiting in our pre-arranged meeting spot and very soon we were making our way along the still sleeping streets. We headed west from the town of Tiruvannamalai towards our intended destination.

TVS mopeds are not noted for their great suspension or speed, and we endured a cool and bumpy ride down country roads dotted with holes and various other unexpected obstacles.

As we approached our goal we could make out only the base of the mountain beneath a mass of swirling grey mist. Later I realized that it had been a good thing that we could not see the entire mountain before we climbed it because it is very likely I may have balked at the possibility of ever being able to climb it.

We had very little information as to where we should head in order to begin our climb but followed our noses and one small windy road which eventually brought us to a dead-end, a small temple and what looked like a well-worn pathway.

I parked the bike and locked it all up near the temple and we headed towards the mist. There was a lot of huffing and puffing for the first thirty minutes into our climb and then the body adjusted itself into a rhythm and it became somewhat easier.

Onwards and upwards we climbed, stopping only for short breaks to drink a little water and catch our breath.

We had heard that in this place, dogs are known to approach pilgrims and if they are smiled upon favorably by the local 'gods' these dogs might accompany one on the upward journey.

Very soon our first canine friend joined us with a very wide grin and amiable air and our group grew to three.

We took this as a good omen and continued on our way.
The higher we climbed the warmer it became and very soon the cloud cover which had been hanging over the mountain began to thin and then lift revealing the summit very far above.

During the first part of our journey what lay above us was mostly obscured by trees, shrubs, ridges and the folds of the hills which surround Parvartimalai. It took us several hours of steady climbing to scale this section and finally emerge on the lower limbs of the mountain directly below the pinnacle of rock on which the temple and some new buildings are precariously perched. 

Neither of us knew much about what we should expect to find on the way so every view opened up a new sense of wonder and surprise.

We soon realized that we had not brought enough water with us. A mere 3 litres, even on a winters day, in the South of India could barely assuage our increasing thirst.

The higher we climbed the warmer it became and very soon all traces of the early morning mists had disappeared.

Until that point, our only encounter had been with the dog which was guiding us onwards and upwards, not a single human being had crossed our paths. However, once we reached the stairway below the cliff which rose directly above, a few other pilgrims, all of them climbing from a different path which merged with our own, suddenly came into view.

At the base of the cliff, we removed our sandals and gazed up at the series of steep steps and ladders. In previous times, these luxuries had not existed and one would have been confronted with chains by which to pull oneself from one platform to the next. It all looked rather doubtful to me.

However, I was in no mood to even consider not continuing on with the ascent.

This was where we parted company with our canine friend and began the even more arduous part of our journey.
I decided not to think about what lay ahead, just to deal with one step and then another and see where that might eventually take me.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

The Simple Truth

Photo Credit. Man in the Universe

*****

"I warn you, whoever you are.

Oh, you who wish to probe the arcana of nature,

if you do not find within yourself that which you seek,

neither shall you be able to find it outside.

If you ignore the excellences of your own house,

how do you intend to find other excellences?

In you is hidden the treasure of treasures.

Oh, man,

 know thyself 

and thou shall know the Universe and the Gods!”

Inscription at the Temple of Delphi.

Do we give our permission to be born into this life? More to the point, ‘who’ is there to give that permission in the first place? Who is this ‘I’ that is born, lives for a while and then dies? From whence came this ‘I’ that we journey through life with so intimately and yet barely ever notice, let alone truly know?

Isn’t it remarkable that the very essence of what and who we are, should be something that most of us are quite ignorant of? Yet even that simple question almost never arises in our minds!

It would seem that we are thrust out into this world without choice and most of the 'happenings’ of life that follow appear to be choice-less as well. The Tibetan wheel of life depicts this cycle of existence in a very graphic, unemotional way, showing the beginnings of human life, from helpless infancy, through to adulthood and all the stages leading on from there to old age and finally death. Unless we are to meet with an untimely end, we all must pass through these various unavoidable stages.

Yet it is our ‘arrival’ at the time of birth and our ‘departure’ at the time of death that are the most mysterious aspects of our existence, giving rise to the eternal question, from where did I come, to where will I go? Everything in between seems geared to pull us away from investigating the origins of our ‘Self’. Are we not almost continuously consumed with the drama of ‘life’and what appears to be happening to us? The only respite we have from the round of endless distractions comes during our sleep, at which time we reconnect so naturally and effortlessly with our true nature that here again, we barely even notice it. We know that we must sleep and yet we take the ‘blessedness’ of that condition almost completely for granted.

Although it is true that we all are born and must die, how we live out our lives in between those two crucial events is not in the least bit certain. Do we allow ourselves to be tossed into the cauldron of life, believing it to be real and true, or, do we take what is our inherent birthright, as conscious, sentient beings and go deeper, to discover the truth of who and what we REALLY are. All of us have the freedom to glimpse beyond the veil of day to day circumstances, we have the freedom to discover our true origin and yet few of us seem compelled to do so.

If we are conscious and aware, then, no matter what our outer life circumstances may be, we have the potential to see beyond them to what really is and if the intention of self-discovery is strong, then rather than being distracting, life itself can provide the very tools with which to make this most important discovery.

*****

Excerpt from the book; Awareness Comes Knocking

The Silent Power of a Mountain

Mount Kangchendzonga

One day, while sitting in the loft of my 'tin palace,' a small retreat hut which I built at the end of a ridge not far from Darjeeling, a town in the foothills of the eastern Himalayas, I was overcome, as happened on many occasions, by the majestic vista that spread out before me.

 From my perch, I could gaze out the window past the cupola of a small Chorten which rose up right in front of my house. It had been there a lot longer than my little house. These structures are a Buddhist symbol of the stages of enlightenment and often contain the relics of holy beings. Beyond the chorten, a line of bamboo poles had been raised, each containing large colourful prayer flags which fluttered in the wind. Each flag was covered in ornate Tibetan script bearing mantras and prayers. 

Beyond this, a few sturdy trees clung to the edge of the cliff face hiding somewhat the vast chasm which opened up right below. From that point, space ruled and swirling mists rose up from the distant valleys far below. 

The huge peaks of the Himalayas rose up just a few miles to the north, and on a clear day, one could see from Mount Everest in the west, right across a huge swathe of towering peaks to the tiny kingdom of Bhutan in the east. 

But there were no clear mountain views that particular day. Instead, monsoon mists billowed around the steamy valleys in an endlessly shifting dance.

And yet, there were moments when the clouds parted during the rainy months and then one could catch a fleeting but unforgettable glimpse of the huge massif of Kanchendzonga, freshly dusted and clothed in a thick and brilliantly white mantel.

Kanchendzonga is the world’s third highest mountain. It is an enormous eruption of black and grey granite that rises up 8586 meters in the far eastern portion of the Himalayan mountain chain.
In size it is just a few meters short of Mount Everest.

Recognized as a sacred mountain by the natives of the fiefdom of Sikkim, it holds a certain mystic and is revered by the locals who remain committed to protecting it from the footprints of irreligious mountaineers. 

However, the mountain itself is a treacherous domain for mortals and many have lost their lives trying to scale its flanks.

But from a respectful distance, the monsoon vistas are very special. There is no other time during the year when the play of light is quite so luminous and pure. What can emerge between the billowing clouds for fleeting moments are evanescent explosions of brilliant color and light. They appear as almost not of this earth.

These glorious visions of the mountain had inspired and sustained me for the many years while I lived on that ridge. The mountains were a ceaseless ocean of shifting color and light. They never looked the same. The play of light, the subtle shades of color, the shifting clouds and moods which it drew forth at different times of the day and night; all were a constant reminder, for me, of the dance of life which is forever changing. One could never lift ones gaze and not find there a new world of wonder.

During those years this majestic view of clouds, light, and mountains was nature's teaching for me. To look out of my windows and see how everything interacts in the natural world was a constant and vital lesson in impermanence and change.

Nature reflects the basic truths of life ceaselessly and with unmatched simplicity and beauty.

Even so, we often fail to notice them. We are constantly reminded of life's impermanence and yet we are swallowed up by our thoughts and by the ceaseless stream of distractions which claim almost all of our attention from the very moment we wake in the morning until we close our eyes at night.

Caught by the movement of the forms upon the screen, our eyes fail to see the screen upon which their movement depends. We gaze right past what is always present, unmovable, unshakable and null, grasping instead at the dancing forms and the shifting play of colours, light and dark.

In times cluttered with ceaseless distractions it is in the simplicity of nature that we can find, quite effortlessly, little windows of opportunity; windows that allow our spirit to soar free from the worldly display for a moment or more.

In the freedom of just such a moment, we can begin to discern what is constantly shifting and changing and what is consistently present and stable and begin to know the difference. In our eternal search for happiness, this is a very essential milestone on our journey back to the source of all being.

The silent power of a mountain can help us to recognize the unshakable power within.

*****

Read more in Masters, Mice, and Men
Volume Three in the series; Shades of Awareness

The Alchemy of Generosity

I would like to share with you a true story that was told to me by someone directly involved in this incident.

Yogi Ram Surat Kumar

It is interesting to note that the Ashram of Yogi Ram Surat Kumar, (an Indian saint and mystic)  is one of the largest of its kind in the small city of Tiruvannamalai, which is situated in the state of Tamil Nadu in the South of India.

Yet he lived as a supremely humble being, appearing as little more than a simple beggar for the greater part of his life (1918 - 2001).

Yogi Ram roamed around India for many years aimlessly as a wandering sadhu. During these years he had the great good fortune to visit Tiruvannamalai while Sri Ramana Maharshi was still alive. On his very first visit, he had the definitive experience of recognizing his true nature in the presence of the great sage.

Thinking that he had achieved his goal, he left the Maharshi to resume his wanderings.
Many years of hardship followed until one day he realized that he
needed to return to the Maharshi's blessed presence in order to
achieve complete stability in his realization.

He made the long and arduous journey back to Arunachala. But sadly, it was too late. It was a horrible shock for him to discover that the Maharshi had already left his body. However, he stayed on in Tiruvannamalai, living mainly at the big temple of Arunachala in the town and often visiting the Maharshi's samadhi at Ramana Ashram.

During the nineteen sixties Sri Ganesan, one of the great grand nephews of Ramana Maharshi was overseeing the running of the Ashram. At that time he was a bright, young sprig who had just completed his studies at one of India's top schools. After some subsequent travels, he had come to Tiruvannamalai where he was requested to preside over the ashram and administer to the needs of a few of the older devotees who had remained after the Maharshi passed away.

In those days, Ramana Ashram was extremely poor. Often there was barely enough food to feed the inmates, let alone anyone dropping by for a meal.

Although Ganesan had grown up bathed in the brilliant light of the Maharshi's compassion and wisdom, as a young boy he could not appreciate just how extraordinary the Maharshi really was. Despite his childhood years being blessed to be in the Maharshi's near presence, to him at that time, he was just a sweet old man, his tata, (grandfather).

Many years later and after the Maharshi had passed away, Ganesan had returned to Tiruvannamalai in a very different state of mind.
He was now all grown up. Lifes 'slings and arrows of misfortune' had given him to contemplate his existence and place in the world and he was ready to hear the precious teachings of the Maharshi. He was also keenly aware of how important were those who were still living and who had enjoyed a close association with the great sage.

During this time, therefore, Sri Ganesan was developing a great affection and respect for Bhagawan's old devotees, and they, in turn, took him under their wing, uncovering for him, in the most skillful ways, the simple and yet profound truths that they had themselves imbibed at the feet of the Master. Deeply moved by their tenderness towards him, and the wisdom that they revealed, he vowed to always try to do whatever they advised him, at least to the best of his ability.

One day as Ganesan was going about the business of the ashram and passing from the Samadhi Hall to the office, he was called aside by one of these old devotees. To his surprise and then dismay, the man gave him a most peculiar and uncomfortable command. After pointing out a scruffy sadhu who was leaning untidily against a wall nearby, he told him to go over and make a prostration to him. Not stopping there, however, he also added that Ganesan should then go to the dining hall and try to find something for him to eat.

Being the president of Ramana Ashram at that time, Sri Ganesan was not given to prostrating himself to anyone, let alone some beggar who had wandered in off the street, very likely, he thought, to try to bum a free meal. Not only was he the president, but also a proud Brahmin, well educated and very much alive to all the etiquette, that one in his elevated station, would expect to receive from others. That aside, lunch was well and truly over, and it had been a meager meal. That he should have to scrounge a few morsels of whatever little was left behind did not give him cause to hope for a positive outcome.

However, such was his determination to stick by his former lofty
resolve, that he swallowed his initial feelings and went and
prostrated himself before the lounging form of the unkempt sadhu. The person in question drew noisily from a half-smoked bidi but showed no other sign of recognition, or response.

Somewhat embarrassed and put out, Ganesan dusted himself off and went to the kitchen to see if he could scrape together something in the way of a meal to offer to the sadhu. He managed to produce a humble serving of rice and sambar with a dab of mango pickle. During the years that followed and on three separate occasions, this same beggar came to Ramana Ashram and Sri Ganesan was requested to do the same each time.

Many years later, when Yogi Ram was at the center of a large and
thriving ashram of his own, Ganesan became an avid devotee. One day quite out of the blue the Yogi beckoned to him to come near. As Ganesan was often in the Yogis company he thought nothing of it and crept in close expecting to hear some request or remark. Instead, he was to hear the words; 'on three occasions Ganesha, you fed this beggar!'

It should be mentioned, that until that moment Ganesan never
realized their previous connection. Never, for a moment, had he
linked the beggarly sadhu to the gracious Yogi whom he now venerated. Many years had passed since the previous incidents and they were forgotten, well and truly.

Yogi Ram was, for two-thirds of his life ignored, mistreated and
turned away by many, many people, because he looked like an ordinary ragged beggar. He had spent many days without food, and he had suffered untold hardships, and yet he was later to become a benevolent 'Father' to many.

Yogi Ram made it his business, when circumstances permitted, to feed hundreds of sadhus, and ordinary laypeople every day.  In
fact, anyone who happened to walk through the gates of his ashram was welcomed in, treated kindly and fed with great affection and respect.

Such is the magical alchemy of generosity. As a humble outpouring of the heart, selfless generosity transcends all boundaries and can manifest itself with the most remarkable and unexpected outcomes...

When Mountains Move

I spent many months on end in the mountains just south of Mount Everest in the late 1980s and remember well, that there were several earthquakes during the time when i stayed just below the towering summit of Kumbila, the peak which is revered as the 'protector' of the region by the local Buddhist folk who reside there. Each quake was accompanied by landslides on the neighboring mountain slopes. Each quake was a sobering reminder of just how fragile life is.

At that time, i stayed in a tiny wooden hut that clung to the side of the mountain. From this perch, at 12,000 feet, whenever i looked out of my window, i felt as though i were looking out the window of an airplane.

In the 1990s under the guidance of the Tibetan Dzogchen Master, Chadral Rinpoche, i spent numerous summers camped out in a tent in the mountainous regions north of Kathmandu in an area now completely decimated by the impact a series of devastating earthquakes which hit Nepal in 2015. This area is known as Sindupalchowk. Rinpoche had several retreat centers dotted around the precipitous slopes of this mountainous region.

By the time i started to make the pilgrimage up there each year, he was already well into his eighties and no longer able to make the long and arduous climb up into the mountains by foot. However, he would come via helicopter, stay a few days or weeks, instruct those undergoing their long retreats and the few of us stragglers who had come to spend the summer months in the high alpine pastures far from the crowded, noisy and polluted marketplaces and valleys of Kathmandu.

It has been a dramatic and unnerving time watching the effects of the recent massive quakes, in two areas that i had come to know and love well.

Through the ages, since time immemorial, massive cataclysmic events have taken place on our planet yet when measured next to the span of our human lives, they seem far and widely spread apart. We measure our lives by the days, weeks, months and years that we witness passing by. Our tunnel vision gives us a feeling of continuity and safety even as we live and move within the tremendous and ever-shifting forces of the natural world which surrounds us.

The concept of the Earth as our 'Mother' is not by any means a new one. Since time immemorial people have felt that this earth upon which we 'live, move and have our being,' is in some profound and absolutely fundamental way connected to, not only our physical existence but also our emotional and mental well being.

Yet despite this ancient and known interconnection, we are now, perhaps more than ever, sadly disconnected from our 'Mother' Bhumi, routinely treating her with disregard and disrespect.

When the earth wakes up, stretches. When the earth sighs and heaves; all life upon it must take heed.

When mountains move, the very foundation and stability of all that we may have associated with steadiness and continuity comes into question. We are thrown back into ourselves, to find there, the truth of Who and What we REALLY are...

The Tigers in our Mind

Tigers in a Tropical Storm
Henri Rousseau

I spent a few months one summer in the 1980s at the Monastery of Tai Situ Rinpoche in Sherab Ling. This monastery is nestled between the folds of some foothills in Himachal Pradesh in the eastern Himalayas of Northern India. 

At that time it was not very developed and there were a number of retreat houses scattered throughout the forest below the main monastery compound. These small houses had been built by western students so that they could live near Tai Situ Rinpoche; a high Tibetan Buddhist master from the Karma Kargyu tradition. 

Their intention had been to spend their time near their teacher in order to receive his blessing and instructions and to practice as much as possible in retreats. In those days there were no fences marking where the boundaries of the monastery ended and the forest began.

When i was there, all of the huts, dotted throughout the forest were empty. Their owners had moved on and were either, back in their own countries working or living in other parts of the Himalayas. Most of the dwellings no longer contained any of the belongings of their previous tenants. Therefore, i had a choice of where i could stay. I decided upon a small wooden hut comprising of an upstairs loft where i could practice and sleep and a kitchen area below on the ground floor.

There were many non-human residents around when i moved in as it had been a long while since anyone had actually lived there. A large family of mice had made a home for themselves in the kitchen. There were several birds nests in the ceiling and many, large, hairy spiders all over the place. 

It was obvious that no one had been around for quite a while, as these residents had pretty much taken over. I had quite a time of it, cleaning, sweeping and airing the place out. Fortunately, i had a mosquito net with me so i could tuck it in all around my bed. I had discovered the virtues of mosquito nets in northern Queensland in my teen years when i stayed some months in a tropical forest. Not only did they keep out the mosquitoes, but also spiders, snakes, mice and so on...

During my first night in the hut at Sherab Ling, all the spiders came out from their places, and i will never forget it! I was sitting on my bed, fortunately with the net securely tucked in around me. I had extinguished my kerosene lamp and was sitting there in the dark, beginning to settle into a meditation session. I began to notice a peculiar sound, something like the tuk tuk tuk of numerous, tiny feet. I turned on my torch and flashed it around the room. Oh wow! Many long-legged spidery forms darted around among the shadows here and there. That night the spiders were, quite literally, dancing! They were coming out from every nook and cranny to check out the 'intruder'. Surely, i have never seen so many spiders before or since!

I was totally unnerved by this vision. Almost overwhelmed by the creepy sound of countless tiny claws scuttling around in the dark. I almost gave way to my fears and if it had not been for the flimsy mosquito net, which gave me a false sense of 'protection' i would have rushed out of that place and never gone back. Needless to say, i passed a very restless night.

Interestingly, they all disappeared during the following day and the second night they kept a respectful distance and adjusted themselves to my presence. For the remainder of my stay, i kept out of their way and they kept out of mine.

However, the stage had been set. My mind began to create all sorts of real and imagined stories with regards to the spiders and their whereabouts, especially at night!

In Himachal Pradesh, it is not tigers that roam the forests, but leopards. These beautiful animals occasionally came down from the hills to prey on the livestock kept by local villagers and in the monasteries, and while i was staying at Sherab Ling, down in the forest, at least one such animal was reported to be on the prowl.

 There were numerous pug marks to be seen here and there on the trails and so i had to be on my guard, especially in the evenings, when they were most likely to appear. This was potentially something a good deal more bothersome than the spiders. So I was forced to take note.

During that time I was taking lunch and evening meals up at the monastery, so i got into the habit of eating the last meal long before dark, and then trekking down to the hut before the sunset, as it was a good ten minutes walk along a dirt trail through the forest.

One night i was woken by, not one, but three leopards prowling around my hut. From what i could make out, there was a mother with two cubs, already halfway to adulthood.

They stayed for quite a while, sniffing around. One even jumped onto the straw awning that jutted out from my upstairs windows. I sat on my bed all through their visit, trembling. My windows were open, and if they had decided to come on in, i would have needed a lot more than a mosquito net for protection!

However, that did not happen. Instead, they went up the hill and killed the monastery's pet Ram, a grumpy, charismatic fellow who had been butting and playing with the children there for many years. I decided it might be a good idea to stay up in the monastery after that incident and moved up to the guestrooms the very next day.

Over the years, in the earlier part of my training, the presence of creatures, heard, but not seen, gave rise to many occasions in which my mind became completely preoccupied with all manner of distracting and fearful thoughts. They provided a fertile and challenging ground in which i could begin to unravel the 'workings of my mind.'

During the years that followed this incident i stayed in other forests and encountered other types of 'visitors', but none were ever more prevalent than the visitors in my own mind.

Perhaps the greatest value of staying in all those retreats was the fact that they gave me the time and opportunity to notice how 'mind' functions. When we are alone with your own 'mind' a lot, and begin to spend time noticing its movements, we start to see what a sneaky fellow it is! 

Becoming acquainted with the way 'mind' works, is essential if we want to begin to live in peace without ourselves and others in this world. It is the little 'golden key' with which we can unlock the door into 'self-awareness.'

Kyabje Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche

Some years after my visit to Sherab Ling, i met the great Dzogchen Master, Chatral Rinpoche. He began to send me off to my retreat hut with challenges like, 'go and see if you can find your mind, and come back and tell me about it.' With this bait thrown at me the whole tone and focus of my time in the mountains began to shift and change.

The great saint of South India, Sri Ramana Maharshi said;

'The attempt to destroy the ego or the mind through vehicles other than atma-vichara, (self-inquiry) is just like the thief pretending to be a policeman, in order to catch the thief, who is himself.'

The paths of Dzogchen and Atma-Vichara, (Self-Inquiry) have a lot in common.

Finding the mind, finding one's self'? 
Impossible; because they do not exist! 
The one cancels out the other!

And this is the whole point and beauty of these practices. However, until one takes up the challenge and seriously embarks upon the path of investigation, this cannot be truly understood or known.

It is a ludicrous exercise, but a very necessary one, and in the beginning one has little choice but to innocently go off and try. This 'inquiry' is absolutely crucial because it turns the mind 'inwards' towards its source. Unless and until we turn our gaze away from the distractions of worldly outer life, focussing all of that energy onto the nature of 'who and what we REALLY are,' we remain caught up like flies in a vast spiders web of thoughts and their endless spin-offs.

In order to assist his students to begin to turn their 'minds' inwardly, Chatral Rinpoche used, on occasion, to throw out zen-like 'koans.' When he was training a particular disciple, he would watch, wait and see how they would react to the 'bait' that was being dangled before them.

One of these koans consisted of the phrase; 'there are tigers in the forest'.

Every time he would meet one particular student, at some point in their conversation he would always throw in these words; 'there are tigers in the forest'! And then go on to some other topic, leaving the phrase just hanging there in the air, quite unconnected to anything else being spoken of, and apparently, quite nonsensical.

It became something of a standing joke between Rinpoche and one particular student, who later recounted this tale to me.  The student in question understood that Rinpoche had something very specific in mind, and was directly pointing it out, and this friend drove himself half nuts trying to figure out what it could be, but he just could never quite get it.

Then one day, the two of them were sitting in Rinpoche's room and while a conversation was going on between them, Rinpoche threw in the usual 'mind spanner'.

'There are tigers in the forest'. Student and teacher sat there looking directly at one another.

The conversation had suddenly come to a complete halt with these words. The young fellow sitting opposite him, in total exasperation, all wide-eyed, and open-mouthed, blurted out, 'are you sure?'

Upon hearing these words, Rinpoche collapsed into a fit of unconstrained, uncontrollable laughter. He was so unspeakably amused that five minutes later,  visitors and Lamas who had been milling around in the anterooms, began to appear in the doorway to see what was going on. They found the pair, rolling around on the floor, with tears flowing down their cheeks, clutching their bellies. 

When Chatral Rinpoche found something funny, he gave himself over to the humor of the moment with the gay abandon of a child. It was unspeakably infectious and utterly delightful to behold.

This was to be the culmination of months of baiting and challenging. It was such a pity that this valuable 'koan' was not really understood by the student in question. You can rest assured that he was laughing because Rinpoche was laughing. At that time he didn't actually 'get the joke', let alone it's deep and underlying meaning. The moment had not yet come for the 'penny to drop.' At least, not then. Only years and years later did he begin to 'understand'.

But in such matters 'time' is of the least concern. The seed had been planted, in due course, it would ripen and bear fruit. Each must proceed in his/her own time. Each in his/her own way.

This 'koan' was particularly relevant to the student in question. His solving of it contained therein an opportunity for him to address a deep and underlying 'habitual tendency' that consistently kept him from realizing the deeper truths which could have freed his mind from his habitual tendencies thereby helping him to break ground in his meditation practice. This is the value of a 'koan'. It is targeted and requires the active participation of the disciple, giving him/her a chance to resolutely dive more deeply into their own inner experience.

If ordinary mind is like a forest, then the tigers that roam there can be equated with certain types of thoughts, the type of thoughts that sneak up on us unawares and steal all of our attention. Tigers move about with the utmost stealth and considering their markings, they really have to in order to catch their prey unawares.

Of course the 'tiger' example is rather rustic and out of date but nevertheless, it points to a profound truth. For that particular student, it was well aimed and, like an arrow, it hit its mark, even if it was not recognized at the time. This 'bait', gave the mind something to grasp onto, thereby focusing, rather than scattering it. When the mind is focussed it becomes a powerful tool.

Where ever we are, whatever we do, our mind goes with us. Whether we like it or not, it is our constant companion, the shadow that accompanies us on every journey. We know it is there, but until we shine the flashlight of our attention upon it, it behaves like a shadow. Always present, but just out of the line of vision.

Finding the source of our mind, the source of our thoughts is the key to solving all of our problems.

Until we do this we are at the mercy of the 'tigers in the forest,'
the tigers within our mind.

This excerpt was taken from Tibetan Masters and Other True
Tibetan Masters and Other True Stories. The second book in the series, Shades of Awareness.

Letting Go of Our Addiction to Hope and Fear

Ever notice that we spend most of our time in a distracted state somewhere between an ever-swinging pendulum of hope and fear?

If we really give it some consideration it does not take much to realise that we keep ourselves away from the happiness which is always available to us in the present moment, by being constantly distracted by the hope of 'getting something' or the fear of losing it.

If we boil it all down, this is how things are for us.

So, while we are all seeking our happiness every moment of every day we are constantly sabotaging our own best efforts. We are our own worst enemy, barking up the wrong tree and generally way off the scent to use a few well-worn cliches.

A mere shift of focus and we could transform our world simply by staying with the dynamic and ever-living present moment which is completely free, ever available and the only thing which we really can ever have. Instead, we are like mice on a treadmill, running and running after something that we can never quite catch and no matter how far we run or for how long we just can't get anywhere or achieve the happiness we so desperately long for.

Why do we do this to ourselves? In the first place, we don't actually need to go anywhere and in the second, there is nowhere to go!

 A friend recently told me something which I found very interesting. 

In certain places in India, it is not uncommon to see fortune-tellers parked out on the pavements with a pack of cards and one or two green parrots locked up in a tiny cage. Many people believe that these green parrots have clairvoyant powers and can predict a person's future or a future outcome.

In the South of India, where this belief originated, one can find the green parrot honoured among the religious pantheon as a messenger, a harbinger of news and tidings. If we scrape the surface of deeper meanings here we can uncover a very profound truth indeed and one which has nothing to do with clairvoyance.


Continue reading in Return to Forever

The Face in the Mirror

Whose is the face in the mirror?

Yours..?

Behind that face, there is only 'now'

And 'now' is the faceless face of a million aeons...

The timeless 'you' beyond all seasons.

Colliding with the universe

We are cast out from infinity
Mind creates a circle of illusion.

But we are Blessed.
Our Source is ever Pure and Free

Even though we are Bound by the thrill of 
Being and Becoming.

May we swiftly

Merge into the Vast Expanse

Once and for All...

Lyse Lauren

We have such a strong habit of accepting that things are as they appear to be and yet our true purpose in life is to uncover how things really are, beyond appearances. The only way to really do that is to take a long, hard look at ourselves. Not at the image, as it appears in the mirror, but at what is perceiving the image as itself.

This journey begins and ends with our recognition of awareness.
We have an innate propensity to be mesmerised by the image in the mirror. We fail to notice what it is that is doing the noticing...


Continue reading in Return to Forever

Snakes and Fear, a True Story

You are the guardian of a treasure,

Oh, just like a sleeping serpent

And you shall see, I shall make you

Spin around like that sleepy snake.

Listen to me.

 Jalaluddin  Rumi 

India's Snake Woman,  the Nagini Druvinka Puri

Why do snakes inspire in us, two-legged creatures, a sense of wonder and fear?

Surely this has been so since earliest times? Their link with the primordial wisdom state and their connection to a mysterious realm not well understood by us, warm-blooded beings, does nothing to diminish our sense of their strangeness.

In New Zealand where I spent the earliest years of my life, there is nothing more poisonous afoot that a slimy little bug called, by the Maori, a Weta. Snakes in the land of the 'long white cloud,' are creatures that one only hears about. They are somewhere else; from far and distant lands. They could have been from Mars, for all I knew or could really envision in the early, formative years of my life.

Then, when I was sixteen years old, I moved to Australia and in a period of a few short months found myself in the wild northern territories. The lands of numerous peculiar, primordial, creeping and crawling creatures. Crocodiles, lizards and spiders of all shapes and varieties and of course numerous breeds and brands of snakes.

However, it was not until I moved to a patch of tropical forest near the small town of Kuranda in Northern Queensland, that I had my first close encounters with many varieties of these creatures.

I had moved to the forest in order to 'meditate,' but the good Lord had other plans for me. On the very first day in that new world, I had two very close encounters with a tree snake. Certainly, this breed is not usually poisonous, so as far as a gentle introduction goes, I suppose this was it. I quickly discovered that there were numerous and far more dangerous snakes also living in close proximity.

The tree snake and I, however, shared my forest hut for some six months or more. We respected each other's boundaries after the first two startling encounters and soon settled into cautious co-habitation. The snake lived in the loft of my forest abode where it had found access via some gap or other near the roof. I felt that this resident was infinitely preferable to a Boer constrictor, the likes of which very much favor such places.

I learned many, many things in this new environment that I could never have gleaned from any book or school. In fact, in these few short months, a whole paradigm change took place within my mind, one that was, very effectively, to shape and prepare me for future adventures which were not very long in coming.

I went into this environment at the age of eighteen. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, had never lived alone in my life and was as naive and innocent to the wonders of forest life as a newborn babe.

One, among many adventures that took place during those months, recently made an appearance in my little store of memories. It virtually bowled me over when the memory of it suddenly resurfaced while speaking with a friend on some related matter.

Until that moment I had quite forgotten about it altogether.

I would like to share it with you as it was one of those formative experiences, the likes of which we all encounter under different guises at one time or another in our lives. Very often we are shocked to the core of our being, but then somehow magically, we forget all about it within quite a short period of time. This was what happened to me.

I am sure that my body and psyche have retained and to this day continue to retain some imprint of the psychic impact of this experience, hence this post. Let me endeavor to unravel it with you, it may stir in you some long-forgotten memory of your own.

While living in the forest in Kuranda I used to come and go from my hut to the village on a small road bike. At that time I was staying some distance from the town and the only access to it was via a gravel road which forded a small river and was soon after followed by a very steep dirt track.

I would make the journey into the town probably about once a week or more frequently if the need arose. One time I remember coming back from one of these excursions and noticing a small creek trickling down amid the dense foliage on the side of the road. It had been my experience in the recent past, when with friends, that at the source of these little creeks one could often find beautiful waterfalls and cool blue ponds.

We had made several such explorations in this area and they had all been well worth the effort. For some reason, that day, I was very much pulled to explore this particular creek even though I was alone.

My curiosity was piqued and I was feeling particularly buoyant and adventurous that morning. I parked my motorbike on the side of the road and took off up the side of the rivulet. It was a gorgeous morning and sunlight shone through the forest leaves in dappled strands. The coolness and the luxurious greenness of this landscape lured me like a promise and taking no heed of anything else I dove into it bounding from one rock to another as I made my way up the stream.

In this mood of great exuberance, I continued to climb on and on always hopeful that the expected waterfall and icy pool would soon appear. Probably about an hour into my climb I found myself among a sea of boulders and the stream had disappeared beneath.

All along the route, I had begun to discard various pieces of my clothing. It was getting hotter and hotter and I did not for one moment even consider that I would ever meet anyone in such a place. I continued for a while longer until it became clear that the stream was not issuing from any nearby waterfall but rather perhaps some hidden spring which was well beneath the boulders over which I was climbing.

Taking a moment to catch my breath I suddenly noticed a movement in the corner of my eye. I looked towards it and saw a very large brown snake glide soundlessly beneath the large rock on which I was standing. I froze with fear.
An instant terror just rose in my belly and I suddenly felt paralyzed.

By that time I had, of course, encountered many snakes in and around where I was living. However, what I discovered that morning in this completely isolated place was that I had climbed into an area that was literally crawling with these creatures. I became aware that I was being watched and not by human eyes. There were snakes basking on the rocks to my left and to my right, above where I was standing and beneath the rocks I was standing on. Finding myself in their midst suddenly left me feeling incredibly alone and vulnerable. I became painfully aware of my nakedness as though someone had just thrown icy water all over me.

Somehow the myriad eyes which were watching me were unspeakably strange, alien and frightening.

Read on in Pieces of a Dream

Gone Forever: the Impact of an Unexpected Death

"In my early teens I used to cycle to school with a girl who lived quite near our house.
Jessie was a little older than me. She had gorgeous, healthy, long blond hair that always seemed to fall in perfect folds around her face. She was not beautiful but she was certainly attractive. Neither was she one of my closest friends, or a confidante, but I enjoyed her company on the long cycle rides to and from our college and over the years we had developed an easy going and pleasant friendship.

Every day we had to traverse many miles of road. We often found ourselves pushing into a strong head wind which made the journey seem that much harder and longer. Cycling together, Jessie and I would chat and joke about all sorts of things and the trip felt less tiring. Near the end while on our way home, we would push our heavy cycles together up the indomitably steep, ‘Tamaki Street’ which stretched up the hillside on the last leg of our journey. Alone, this last climb seemed interminable, but when there were two of us it didn’t feel quite so bad.

We made these trips two times a day and five days a week, month after month over a period of several years and because we shared this routine so regularly I seldom thought anything of it.

Then suddenly one day she was gone. I got the news from my sister, who heard it from a friend of hers. Jessie had been instantly killed when a motorbike, on which she was a pillion passenger, somehow missed a bridge, flew off the side of the road and crashed into a dry riverbed far below. It had happened two nights before word had reached my ears.

I was utterly stunned. Then, as the numbness began to wear off, a gradual and painful sensation of having been betrayed swept over me. I thought of all the days that we had cycled to and from school together. I thought of all the hours that we had spent in our respective classrooms, yet I could not think of anything that she or I had done in these past years that could have in any way prepared us for this!

I could think of nothing in my school or home life that came even near to addressing the fact of ‘death.’
The things which I had spent all my time doing up until that point suddenly appeared superficial and irrelevant. It felt as though the past years of my life had all been a dream.

All the days, months and years that we spent in our college, doing our lessons and then all the hours spent after school doing homework, suddenly all of that seemed like some kind of bad joke.

Despite my previous experiences, nothing I had done up until this point had ever really come close to addressing the issue of death. There quite simply had been no apparent place for it in the routine and predictable life that I had been living. But Jessie’s sudden demise completely shattered that illusion.

Suddenly everything felt empty and meaningless. There was something about this ‘death’ that made everything else appear unreal.

That life could be snatched away suddenly was something I had brushed against much earlier, but ‘I’ had gone on, life had gone on and once the old routines recommenced I had been lulled back into that shadow land which engrosses all of our energy and attention with things that we are somehow made to think are important.

That someone I had seen and shared time with almost every day for several years had now simply ceased to be; this was something quite new, strange and inconceivable. Of course I had heard about people dying but that was something outside my own personal experience.

With Jessie, it was different. I had walked and talked with her only days before. She had been so alive and so vital. Somehow to grasp that she had gone and that there was nothing that anybody could do to bring her back pushed through a barrier in my mind and challenged me to look beyond it.
I felt the presence of a ‘mystery’ which was simply unnameable.

That very day I made the cycle ride to school alone. It was a cold Monday morning. Never will I forget walking into the classroom and having to endure the silent stares of the entire class. No one knew what to say, no one knew what to do. Something unspeakably ‘mysterious’ had happened right in our midst and yet we all just sat there doing our lessons hour upon hour without even alluding to it.

In those days there was no pupil counselling to help students through any kind of crisis, there was no support at all.
One was simply expected to get on with it; with the same useless, meaningless grind, as though nothing at all had happened.

When Jessie died, everything felt different in a new way. I had reached an age when my mind was beginning to question and inquire. In earlier years I had simply accepted whatever came along, but now I felt no longer able to do that.

Her death left a completely unexpected, gaping hole in a day to day ritual that we had shared for several years. I found it impossible to accept that she had simply ‘ceased to be.’ The sense of absolute mystery about her disappearance from the world threw me into a sombre mood. I found no comfort in the words I heard in church.

I urgently needed to know what it actually means to ‘die.’ I did not want to hear some secondhand stuff that had been pulled from a book. I wanted more than that.

During that time, I discovered one thing that could bring a sense of relief and perspective to my life. I took to sitting outside at night and gazing up at the sky.

When I did this I could feel the ‘mystery’ and the ‘something’ which is so unfathomable about our existence. To look out and see countless stars and universes helped me to bypass my questioning mind and feel directly something which I could not name. When I looked into the vastness of infinity I could feel at once that there is so much more to our existence than the petty day to day concerns that ate up all our time and energy. This helped me to cope with my grief and frustration.

I suppose that is when I began to understand that the society I was growing up in would not be able to satisfy the deeper, inner questionings that this event triggered.

The intense and actual mystery of so-called ‘death’ loomed up before me as a huge and solemn unknown.

How was it possible to continue on with petty, boring daily life knowing that we all faced this huge ‘thing’ and that one day we too would die? Surely there was something more which we needed to know, something which needed to do to address it. This all welled up inside me with a great sense of urgency.

Western societies are not known for prolonging their mourning. In fact, the feeling one gets is that as soon as the loved one is buried or cremated, as the case may be, it is expected that there should be a sense of closure or, at least, the expectation of closure and everyone then goes on with whatever it was they were doing before.

To me, at that time, that felt like a travesty.

I felt that ‘death’ was not being given its full due, it was being brushed over in a way that seemed superficial and inconsistent with the fact, that each of us would have to face it at some point.

Why was it that no one seemed to wonder where she went or what actually happened to her? Why was it that people were able to believe, so unquestioningly, what they had merely been told? I knew that could never work for me.

It takes some unravelling to get to the bottom of the complex feelings that can accompany the loss of someone who has touched our lives. Most of the time, these feelings are glossed over, ignored, or buried beneath a load of distraction. There are endless ways of not confronting the reality of loss and death directly.

We avoid the confrontation by filling our time with self-centered and artificial distractions. Very often we are preoccupied with all manner of things that are not in the least bit vital and this is primarily how the days, months and years of our lives are filled. All the while, we know very well, that the ‘clock is ticking,’ that our time is running out, yet we are no closer to understanding what its all about.

Inherently we are so much more than we are led to believe. There is a mystery in that. A mystery far beyond the confines of what our day to day ‘thinking mind’ is willing or even able to comprehend. We can get a striking sense of that even very early in life.

Surely death is the greatest of teachers.

The fact is that we cannot escape ‘ourselves’, where ever we go, whatever we do. The inescapable fact of our existence is bound to  confront us, sooner or later and ‘death’ is one of the most powerful ways to bring this before our attention.

This is why it is vital to look more closely now in the midst of so-called ordinary life, with all its cares and distractions, because the ‘now’ is itself filled with immensity and holds the key to the deep, disclosing recognition of who and what we really are.

The now is all that we really have!

Jessie’s life came to an early and abrupt end and she did not know herself  beyond the body and mind and the routine day to day needs and preoccupations of worldly life. But it can be different for us. We have the chance to look inward and discern beyond what appears to be true to what actually is true.

Life gives us a push and in some instances a sharp and hard slap, forcing us to look further and more deeply. We are not bound to believe all that others would have us believe, we must discover the truth for ourselves and the signposts that rise up on our individual journeys are often uniquely and perfectly tailored to help us do just that and thereby, wake up.

May the inward journey for each of us begin now; fresh and renewed with each passing moment!"

*****

This excerpt is taken from my latest book;
Who Lives? Who Dies?
What We Need to Know Before We Go