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~The Lama's Letter to His Son~
I wrote the following imaginary piece to my son, imagining giving "heart advice" to him at the end of my life. I wrote it for a class on "paradigms of consciousness," in which we were asked to create a sort of spiritual autobiographical statement...
~*~
My son, as I write this, I am perched on a mountain in the Himalayan air. In a few days the old man's phurba will divide me until there's nothing there. Beyond the time we've spent together, what is left to say? I am the ray of light, and your mother the crystal that sparked the prism of your smile. If you cry for me, my heart-son, be sure you cry the Nile: Hold nothing back, but with thanks, feed the children and the crocodiles that gather on your banks.
My child, this world is a place of shadows, but it is our only home; it is the concrescence of desire and the spaciousness of Om. In the brilliance of their meeting, what is left to say? I found myself in the present motion of my hand, tapping grain by careful grain the colored shapes of sand, brilliant as the disk of sun; and I'll give myself to the Eastern wind when it lifts up what I've done.
You are not with me, my son, but I'm sure you hear these snoring trumpets shake the monastery walls. They are the voices of mountains, thoughts, and waterfalls. When you see where they are pointing, what is left to say? The self is Gift, and Gift is the thunder of the deep that splits the mighty world in two and makes the statues weep.
Listen, my son, I have only a few more things to say!
Emaho! Life is wonderful and pure. Know that what I've failed to give you, is what is already yours. Like the quick-turning eddy gathering leaves in the stream, we hold our bodies only for the briefness of a dream. Like the silver sides of fish that flash a moment and fade, the endless stream of mind is unceasingly displayed.
Love knows no direction. It is the original clarity of presence, the fire that fills all of space. In the immensity of the world, love is the intimacy that is already here, prior to our moving away. But when we return to love, it is that movement too. It is inescapable, and in that, love is ferocious: In the end, it will consume us all.
Hold to these things, my son, and we will never be far. What I am in my deepest, you already are.
~ Balder
~*~
My son, as I write this, I am perched on a mountain in the Himalayan air. In a few days the old man's phurba will divide me until there's nothing there. Beyond the time we've spent together, what is left to say? I am the ray of light, and your mother the crystal that sparked the prism of your smile. If you cry for me, my heart-son, be sure you cry the Nile: Hold nothing back, but with thanks, feed the children and the crocodiles that gather on your banks.
My child, this world is a place of shadows, but it is our only home; it is the concrescence of desire and the spaciousness of Om. In the brilliance of their meeting, what is left to say? I found myself in the present motion of my hand, tapping grain by careful grain the colored shapes of sand, brilliant as the disk of sun; and I'll give myself to the Eastern wind when it lifts up what I've done.
You are not with me, my son, but I'm sure you hear these snoring trumpets shake the monastery walls. They are the voices of mountains, thoughts, and waterfalls. When you see where they are pointing, what is left to say? The self is Gift, and Gift is the thunder of the deep that splits the mighty world in two and makes the statues weep.
Listen, my son, I have only a few more things to say!
Emaho! Life is wonderful and pure. Know that what I've failed to give you, is what is already yours. Like the quick-turning eddy gathering leaves in the stream, we hold our bodies only for the briefness of a dream. Like the silver sides of fish that flash a moment and fade, the endless stream of mind is unceasingly displayed.
Love knows no direction. It is the original clarity of presence, the fire that fills all of space. In the immensity of the world, love is the intimacy that is already here, prior to our moving away. But when we return to love, it is that movement too. It is inescapable, and in that, love is ferocious: In the end, it will consume us all.
Hold to these things, my son, and we will never be far. What I am in my deepest, you already are.
~ Balder
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Comments
May I have your permission to copy this for my own perusal and enjoyment?
I've never before read anything with this kind of rhythm in rhyme. It's new to me.
Thank you.
Brigid
Sure, feel free to print it out. The "style" is called prose poem, though I used a little more rhyme than most prose poems do.
Best wishes,
Balder
~*~
Now the grounds of the Palace of Shudhodana were vast without measure, so that a day’s ride by horse would not carry one from the East Wall to the West, nor could the Southern Wall be spied from the highest tower window in the North. Over the walls grew flowers of all kinds, of sweetest fragrance and hue, amidst which perched peacocks that fluttered and called in the scented breeze from the East, high above even the mango groves and tamarind trees. From wall to wall in a winding maze wound brooks, amber-colored, full of brilliant fish. Swift deer leapt the streams, and drank from lotus pools, and sported in the grass.
And it is said that every year the King pushed the wall back by another kosh, so that Siddhartha should never feel confined in his palace life, nor grow bored, nor wonder over much about the world beyond. And in the early years of his life young Siddhartha never wandered far enough to reach the outer walls, nor grew bored, nor wondered over much about the world beyond the fragrant, singing waters of his garden. For when he wearied of the palace games and performances, he would of an evening idle by the streams, feeding fish from his hands, following the white tufts of deer leaping in the deepening shadows under the mangos, and feel contented, wandering far till gongs and bells called him back to the palace for dinner.
It was on such an evening that the devas, watching from the heavens, saw that the time had grown ripe – young Siddhartha’s mind having grown still in his wandering, clear and concentrated – and they tumbled from the heavens as parrots, brilliant, five-colored, self-pure. Once they circled his head, twice, three times they tumbled in a wheel around him, calling out, then flying north toward the palace. Delighted, young Siddhartha followed them, thinking, “See how ungainly they are, these parrots! Scarcely can they hold in formation before they tumble apart again!” Laughing, he ran after them, the bright parrots, five-colored, self-pure.
At length he came to a shaded stream near the northern entrance to the palace, where the birds had settled, near a door he had passed through daily and never paused. The parrots had settled among the mango branches and were scarcely visible. Siddhartha sat down by the stream, thinking, “Strange I never stopped here, so near my home. Namaste, stately mangos. Namaste, ant kingdom, laboring in the grass. Namaste, little squirrels…” And he let his clear gaze fall on the busy workings of this corner of the world under the eave of the door to his home.
And in the amber-colored stream there turned eddies and little whirlpools, turning awhile then gone, and the young prince rested his gaze upon them, grown calm, concentrated, self-clear. “See how, turning, they remain,” he said to the parrots and mangos above him, and he sprinkled grass on the water. “See how they don the grass body, and how they shed it again.” And he gazed clear and calm on the still space where they turned, entering the first absorption, then the second…
And the sky above him pealed like a great bell, the guardians rejoicing, and all their retinue. And the four corners of the world, from Jambudvipa to Uttarakuru, and from Aparagodana to Purvavideha, all curled up, as a great camp is broken, and silken tents billow and flutter when the stakes are pulled; just so, the 10,000 world systems, uprooted, began to flutter and turn. And the young prince, unperturbed, unmoved, serene, heard not the singing of the devas, nor heeded the storm of the world as it spun and collapsed under his gaze. And as dreaming Vishnu himself curled up before him and collapsed in the single sphere, the young prince was as one in a deep sleep, unshakable.
And around him the devas rejoiced, and they sang his praises:
The young prince, self-clear, recollected, still
Does not yet see fully, but in this life,
This life he will…
And the bells pealed around him, and young Siddhartha roused himself and returned to the Palace, not for hunger’s sake – never again – but for the sake of his mother, who missed him still.
Oh, I loved this. I got completely lost in that world so quickly. I actually want to go back and reread it for sheer pleasure. I really enjoyed it.
I must tell Xrayman to read these. He'll be blown away.
I printed out both and thank you for your permission. I still have the images of the peacocks and parrots in my head. LOL! I can almost hear the stream. I was/am transported. Just amazing. Truly.
If you ever write a novel please let me know because I'll want to buy one of the first editions! Or a book of short stories. But if I may be selfish, a novel would be more satisfying. It's a funny thing but I was just thinking the other day about how I've never come across a novel about Buddhism or the Buddha's life. I was thinking how difficult it would be to make sure people understood that it was a work of imagination and not history. But that's neither here nor there. I love this, really love this.
Thank you so much.
Brigid
Care to tell us a little bit about yourself in the New Member's Thread in the Lotus Lounge? It would be nice to meet the person behind the prose.
Good to have you join us.
I'm so happy you enjoyed that little fable. Both of these pieces were experimental for me -- I don't usually write in this style -- but I had fun with them.
You're right that it's hard to find good Buddhist literature. Of course, a good "pseudo Buddhist" book is Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. There is also a nice translation of the Jataka tales, the stories of the Buddha's past lives, called, Once the Buddha Was a Monkey.
Federica,
Thank you for the welcome. Verbose is not a good thing, usually. Are you requesting me to make shorter posts!?
I will be happy to post an intro in the Lotus Lounge.
Best wishes,
Balder
Verbose is fine and most appropriate, when so greatly and obviously appreciated, as above!
Look forward to your 'intro'....
Just reread that second story a third time and I just love it. The style reminds me slightly of Michael Ondatje (SP? Canadian from Sri Lanka, wrote "The English Patient" and so much more...). I feel as though I can smell the warm air in your story, and hear the sounds of the flowing stream. It transports me completely. If you have any more and want to share, just PM me and I'd be grateful to read them. I haven't read fiction on months and I may be having withdrawal. LOL!
Brigid
I'm really happy you've enjoyed these little pieces! I have mostly been writing non-fiction these days, but I miss the freedom of poetry and fiction and may get back into doing it (it's been a few years!). I do have a couple more stories I could share. One was written at the same time as the above fable, and is also a Buddhist tale: a story modeled on a series of tales about the Buddhist king, Ashoka. The traditional stories about Ashoka are a little bizarre, and so my story is too! I also have a true, autobiographical story about getting sick in Indonesia and my strange encounter with an Indonesian healer. Neither story is saved on disc, though, so I'll have to retype them up before I can share them...
Best wishes,
B.
They both have me interested. Maybe I'll research stories about Ashoka in the meantime.
Thanks.
Brigid
I did find something that is sort of odd. It's more like a dream out loud than a story. Several Buddhist writers (say, at Naropa Institute) recommend automatic writing as a practice, and I do that every now and then, just letting something emerge without a goal and without interference.
Anyway, here it is -- an exercise in dreaming aloud...
~*~
In the heat of the helmet under the sun, there was the sound of water. It flowed close to the ear of the knight of that realm, my yidam, form-body beyond the desires that bring gravity to light. He rode on as the heat rose, and the sound of the water licked his ears, as the golden wasp licks the stamen of the flower growing from the crystal mandala of dreams.
As the metal of the helmet began to sing in the sun, to burn, he removed the heavy weight from his shoulders and listened. The sky’s silence rang above him, cut, just once, by the whisper of wings. But the sound of the water had vanished, as an image in dreams vanishes when the focus is too strong. He rode for a time with the helmet in his lap. The land around him had changed little. The green behind him was a memory only, a hint of light perhaps in the mirage at the edge of dunes. For days it had been like this. And the mirage ahead, as well, contained only the hope of green. Here, there were vast tracks in the sand that shifted with every breath. The horse sent rills of sand rolling down the slope. At the eastern edge of the world three mountains rose, the middle one higher than the rest – and there, there he thought he heard the round, sour note of goats conversing. Perhaps the dull clunk of a bell. It was hard to tell, the way sound stretched over these silences.
So he put the helmet back on his head. Its heat comforted somehow. But he also wanted to hear if the trickle of water returned, and it did. It moved like the shiver of delight; it brushed him like the faintly remembered kiss of an angel on the ear after sleep…
He rode on in silence, rocked by the horse; sure, somehow, under the clarity of the sky. He didn’t need to look at it to feel it, like the top of his skull suddenly blown off, like a blossom opening. The water, the stream was here, nearer to him than even these clothes he wore. And looking down, he found, strapped to his horse, his old crooked walking stick had begun to sprout tender shoots of green. He undid the leather buckle and held it aloft like a banner. Wind moved the tiny leaves.
And he shone, the knight of wands shone, yidam breathing full of life on the crown of my head… Breathing in, is breathing in him, and breathing him in. The wind moves, as it always does, in spirals. As it moves at the tips of our fingers, as the grouse moves, the colored winds, the beings of the teeming worlds, breathing through each other.
World, I breathe you in. What is there to hide from? Breathing out, I give you what is mine. What is there to hide?
There is enough hurt here for everyone, and enough love.
Breathe, and let the limbs like grasses wave.
Again I'm back on a horse, swaying, I feel the heat just as you describe. Your writing really speaks to me, to use a tired old phrase. But I can't think of any other way to describe it. I find it so rich but simple at the same time. I feel like I'm pulled from my place here, into that world there (here) completely. It's not like reading at all. Or even witnessing. It's like becoming what you're describing. I really can't explain it any better. I'm truly grateful.
I can't ride anymore because I have a disability, but when I read this I was back on a horse, I could even smell it, but mostly I could feel the swaying, swinging, rocking, the hoof steps in the sand. Amazing. And then pulled into the witness perception with "The horse sent rills of sand rolling down the slope." like a movie camera pulling back on the shot. And the sound of water in my ears with that heavy helmet on. I just love this. Thank you.
Brigid
Better late than never??
I just found and typed up that other Buddhist fable I told you about. I wrote it for the same class on Buddhist literature....
~*~
RUPA'S TALE
I.
In the western quarter of the palace of King Ashoka lived Rupa, his sister, fair to look upon, enamored of beauty in all its forms. Since the death of her husband at the Battle of Kalinga she had taken up residence in the King's palace, as he had grieved at her loss and wished to comfort her; and with the license granted her, she had established over the years a great court that rivaled even her brother's own since his awakening to the Dharma.
From the four corners of Jambudvipa she imported the choicest goods: gold and silver bangles, ivory bowls rimmed with emerald, saris fringed with pearls and precious jewels. She invited dancers and courtesans from far kingdoms, and provided for the livelihood of some of the finest musicians of Varanasi, so that at any hour of the day bells and flutes and shimmering strings rang over the high white walls of her court; and those passing under might pause, and rejoice, hearing in this desire-world the music of the devas…
But it came to pass that one day Ashoka heard that Rupa had begun to turn ascetics and all but the best dressed monks forcefully from her doors, and that one monk known to him had been badly abused. Ashoka was dismayed and asked his minister, Yashas, to verify the story.
In the evening, Yashas returned. “It is true, Beloved of the Gods,” he said. “Men bearing arms are posted at her doors, barring entrance to her court and heaping abuse on all ascetics that approach.”
“Did you gain entrance, Yashas?”
“Of course, Sire.”
“And did you question her?”
“I did. She mocked the dirty ascetics who strive for heaven in the next world, even while avoiding it in this one.”
Ashoka nodded. “And what of the bhikkus?”
“She said they are constipated, Sire, and she will have nothing to do with them. They are but dung that obstructs the joy of her court.”
Wailing, Ashoka fell over in a faint. When he roused himself, he vowed with firm resolve to see her false views overthrown.
II.
A few days later, during her sandalwood bath, as the sun tinged the walls and the hoopoe birds called out in the pink morning light, Rupa was disturbed by a commotion in the courtyard outside.
“Those shameless snakes have not yet learned they have no place here,” she said, rolling over. Warm hands massaged her calves and feet.
She expected the disturbance to cease - the ascetics and monks usually retreated without complaint when her guards dismissed them - but when unearthly growls and yelps cut through the early morning sounds of her court, she grabbed her silk wrap and rushed to the door, shouting, “Why so much trouble from naked, dirty men? Have you no swords?”
In the front courtyard she found the guards in a perplexed circle around a wild-looking, long-haired ascetic, who hung five feet above the polished floor in smoke and flashes of light. “So he floats!” she said. “Take him!” But the guards did not move.
Appalled by the dirty feet hanging before her, she grabbed the ascetic's long hair and pulled him back to the ground.
“Rajkumari,” he growled. “In this hair I keep my siddhis. If you harm even one strand, a plague will fall on your court for seven years, and every string will snap on these veenas, and every fruit that comes through these doors will rot, and every flower will die upon the vine…”
“It's not your hair I want!” she shouted, afraid. “It's your head! Take him to the jail!”
The guards seized him and took him outside. When they were out of sight, they released the ascetic, and then reported to Yashas to receive their pay.
III.
That evening, satiated on mango and ras malai, Rupa reclined on a bed of frangipani blossoms, lulled by song, and drifted into sleep. And when the moon had risen high over the walls and the deep of the night was on the court, she was suddenly roused by a terrible pressure on her wrist, by something coiling round her…
She sat up with a start, but the dream did not pass. Her arm felt as though it had been bound in rough rope. She jerked her hand and raised it to her face. There hung the ascetic's wild-eyed head, his long hair coiled around her wrist. She screamed and shook her arm, but the coarse locks held fast, firm as the murderous grip of a python.
Those who had been sleeping near her were roused, and some came to her aid, but none could free her arm of the deadly coils.
“Someone bring a knife!” Rupa yelled.
But her maid grabbed her arm. “No, Rajkumari!” she cried. “Do not cut the hair! Did he not say that would bring ruin on us all?”
Rupa dropped her head and sobbed.
And so Rupa lived encumbered by the ghastly fruit of her deed. She held court as usual, welcoming visitors and enjoying entertainments, and at first she strove to make light of her fate. She feigned indifference, and attempted to frighten monks from her door, threatening a similar fate if they trespassed there; but they only laughed at her, for they could see the meaning of what bound her, even when she could not. And so she retired to her palace and sought to enjoy its pleasures as before.
For several days little changed, but then the head began to show signs of decay, and to issue a stink that the incense could not fully hide. And her courtesans began to murmur amongst themselves - quietly at first, and then more boldly - that she had fallen out of favor with the gods. The head hung from her right hand, and so impeded her from feeding herself without the constant odor of death in her nostrils; and as the days passed, her servants grew less willing to draw close enough to feed her.
First to leave were the well-dressed monks, and then the musicians of Varanasi, and the dancers from Ceylon, and within two weeks her palace was nearly empty, but for a few of her cooks and attendants and her faithful handmaid, Sathya.
“I did not harm a single hair, Sathya,” Rupa said, “and still his curse is upon us! My life is in ruins…”
“It happened, Rajkumari, as it was bound to happen.”
Rupa designed ways to ease her burden - a wheeled cart to support the head, a flowered silken bag around it; and pots of scented water boiling in every corner of her home. But a silence was on the palace, and the veenas lay unused, and dust settled on the cushions and the inlaid floors. And it got so that not a single morsel passed her lips that did not remind her of the rotting flesh at the end of her arm. At night she slept fitfully, and she would wake with the impression that the ascetic's head had been speaking to her, softly, like the slow, inexorable voice of a river, but she could never recall the words.
One morning she woke and called Sathya to her side. “Go to my brother,” she said. “Tell him I am coming to see him.”
And in the afternoon, when all was prepared, she and Sathya, the only servant to remain, crossed over to the residence of Ashoka. She had removed the bag from the head, which was shriveled now like a dried myrobalan, and she walked with it freely. She saw the people at their daily chores, making ghee and yoghurt, drawing water, and she smelled death in every vat, and saw decay in every hopeful glance.
And at last she came upon the room where Ashoka reclined with his ministers. And when he saw her approach, her clothes a little stained, her hair not so neatly combed, and the death's head on her wrist, he rose to meet her, tears in his eyes.
“What is it, my sister?”
“My king, grant me permission to enter the forest life. I thank you for your hospitality, but it is all for naught.” She held up her arm. “Death advises me so.”
“Oh, Rupa!” he cried. “I did not mean that you should renounce your life with me here!”
“I do now what we all must do later,” she said. “Your palace, brother, has rotten foundations.”
Ashoka waved at a door. “Vajrakaya!” he called. “Please see my sister.”
The long-haired ascetic whom she had ordered beheaded stepped into the room. Turning to Rupa, he bowed and said, “Namaste, Rajkumari.” At that moment, the long hair uncoiled from around her wrist and the head fell to the floor, a heap of bone and dust. Rupa could not speak.
“Vajrakaya is your real advisor, sister,” King Ashoka said. “It was not right, that you turned the noble ones from your door. They showed me the way through the tragedy of Kalinga, as they could have shown you.”
Rupa looked at the dust on the floor. It had almost entirely vanished. “Then decay, too, is an illusion,” she said, and at that moment she entered the stream that had been murmuring nightly in her ears. She raised her hands together and made an anjali. “I am free from death, my brother. Honorable Vajrakaya. But I stand by my decision. I wish to renounce.”
“The forest life is not for you, Rupa,” Ashoka said. “You have no more death's head to hide in the wilderness. Pray you join the sangha, sister; join the Order of the Nuns.”
“So be it, brother.”
And it is said that Rupa ever after was mindful of her hand, freed of its weight, and that her insight grew with its every movement, so that with the momentary vanishing of each kalapa, she tasted the bliss of the vajra body.
THE END
Thank you so much for taking the time to post it. It's wonderful!
Love,
Boo
Best wishes,
B.