I Am Not on the Edge of a Forest

My opponent leads me along the one dusty road through Bor-Urt to the other side of town. He walks silently ahead, his eyes locked on the ground as if deep in prayer. Each time he moves, the small burlap sack slung over his shoulder clatters with a sound like old bones. In each hand he grasps a pool stick which he carries like a spear. An aura of violence surrounds him—some of it past, some of it yet to manifest. The way he walks with a swagger, his shoulders muscled like a horse.

Despite his aggressive emanations, something about this man’s presence comforts me. I begin to feel hopeful, a boat lifting off rocks as the tide rises. But then I remember the pitfalls of such feelings. Hope makes it difficult to accept things as they are when things as they are seem unacceptable. Hope is about projection, about living in a time to come. Doubt is one of the six mental afflictions and the near cousin of hope. To combat it, I must always remember where I am. On the edge of a forest, the sun would just now be falling into the tops of the trees, a spectacular sight. But at this moment I am not on the edge of a forest.

Instead, we turn and enter a neighborhood of ger. The structures look alien, like objects from outer space. I am used to ger dotting the grasslands, gray smoke spiraling from their iron stovepipes, their impermanence an absolute. One day you pass them and the next day they’re gone, a trampled circle left behind in a vast sea of grass. But here within the borders of a town riddled with square concrete buildings, the ger look extraterrestrial, a flock of peculiar animals penned in for the night.

Evening. Bor-Urt. A pool hustler. Emerging stars. Just last night the Rinpoche at Yatuu Gol asking me to make this journey. This is what life brings. I bow my head and accept.

For the sake of every sentient being who exists both now and in the thought realms of past and future, I must help find an ancient light, what we call a tulku. A tulku is the reincarnation of an enlightened teacher. This tulku chooses to be born again here in Mongolia under our eternal blue sky. While this being is not the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama Himself, who lives in exile in Dharamshala, this particular tulku is destined to help carry on our faith through these troubled times. My mission: to lend my strength where needed in the search for this reincarnation. Last night I stand in the Rinpoche’s cramped room, his bed piled high with prayer books, so many that he sleeps on a woven mat on the floor. When he requests that I lend my strength to the search, I know he is not referring to any physical gifts I may have but to my spirit, my indomitable patience, which is remarked on by others time and again, this rock that anchors me in this world. I tell him I am ready to add whatever light I may possess to the task. I bow in a manner that I hope conveys that I am aware of the trust being placed in me.

Then it happens. The Rinpoche offers me a bag filled with tögrög. For the journey, he says. Outside, the sound of Yatuu Gol’s only rooster informing the world of his existence. For the first time, the Rinpoche bows to me in a manner that goes beyond convention. Something in the length of time he holds the bow, the angle of his back. I am stunned. The world trembles. This elderly monk who survives the purges by remaining hidden for decades and is now single-handedly resurrecting the faith in a five-hundred-square-kilometer radius is bowing to me. He is bowing to me as an equal. When he stands back up, I accept the bag of money with both hands, and press it to my forehead. It is the most money I am ever to hold. May this tögrög bring only blessings into the world.