Listen Without Distraction

And what of the one whom we are seeking among the Reindeer People, the eagle hunters of the Altai Mountains, and the killing sands of the Gobi? Uncle does not say which is his old friend the One for Whom the Sky Never Darkens. First he must consult with His Holiness. Of the three children he only says when asked that all three are old friends—the boy shaman, the girl hunter, the ghostly dinosaur seer. Like mind, body, and speech, he says. It is then my brother silently reminds me that it is possible for a holy man to reincarnate his energy in several beings at once. It’s true. In Sikkim there are two reincarnations of the one named the Benevolent Jewel. One is the reincarnation of actions, the other of compassion.

Then a thought bubbles up simultaneously in both our minds as if my twin and I are crafting the idea together. The Dharma is perfect, but men are the instrument through which it turns. Men are fallible in ways the Dharma is not. In the turning of the wheel, mistakes can be made. Perhaps it is why up until now my brother and I are in conflict all these years. Our true self knows no division. If one of us is the 5th Incarnation of the Paljor Jamgon lineage, the Redeemer Who Sounds the Conch in the Darkness, then we both are. If one of us is not the 5th Incarnation of the Paljor Jamgon lineage, then neither are. We are both servant and redeemer. There is no contradiction, only peace.

From the back seat Uncle taps me on the shoulder. For you, is the reincarnation the only objective of this journey, he asks. When I don’t answer, he laughs, this man with one hand on the ashes of his heart’s disciple. It is a weak faith that depends on the existence of a single being, he says.

And with that briefest of Dharma talks, my understanding is perfected, the wheel complete. Everywhere the world is raining flowers. Before me the way is paved with the yellow dung of good fortune. A woman lies down to sleep, and in the night a white elephant enters her womb holding a lotus blossom in its trunk. Twenty-five hundred years later, an interviewer asks the Dalai Lama: China is destroying your land, your people, your culture—how do you remain so joyful? His Holiness responds: I cannot let them destroy my happiness.

In this eon, a thousand Buddhas are said to rise and fall. Siddhartha Gautama, the Shakyamuni Buddha, is the fourth Buddha of our age. The next Buddha is named Maitreya. All sentient beings contain Buddhahood. Before this universe ends, every single being is to attain it.

Let me die tomorrow and never be reborn. I am ready to take my vows to renounce the world. My doubts remain, but now I recognize that they are part of the path. I must let my doubts enter me the way one might welcome a stranger into a hut on the edge of a forest. When the stranger arrives, one does not ask the guest why they exist, what their purpose is. One simply sits and listens without judgment or striving. I seek nothing. I am nothing. There is only refuge in the Buddha, in the Dharma, in the sangha. There is only refuge in wisdom, compassion, and goodness. There is only refuge in the way things are.

In all four schools of Tibetan Buddhism, there is the practice of reincarnation. Whole books are written on the mysteries of death. As we drive toward God Mountain, I ponder this. How long does it take the self to dissipate? How does one hold on to the heart’s essence, the pure white light that shines in the center of the body after everything else is burned away? And do we come back to this earth in the same vessel, or is everything changed? Do we go back into the cosmic wellspring where each night is four billion years long, and at the end of it all, does the universe collapse on itself only to cycle into existence again? Or is it only metaphorical? Am I reborn each moment with each breath? Is each second of my life a choice? Does each instance take me down a different path? Does what I do from one minute to the next determine who I am and what energy I draw to myself? From my karma am I born and reborn thousands of times a day?

A few years back, His Holiness writes the following:

Therefore, as I have a responsibility to protect the Dharma and sentient beings and counter such detrimental schemes, I make the following declaration: When I am about ninety I will consult the high Lamas of the Tibetan Buddhist traditions, the Tibetan public, and other concerned people who follow Tibetan Buddhism, and reevaluate whether the institution of the Dalai Lama should continue or not. On that basis we will take a decision. If it is decided that the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama should continue and there is a need for the 15th Dalai Lama to be recognized, responsibility for doing so will primarily rest on the concerned officers of the Dalai Lama’s Gaden Phodrang Trust. They should consult the various heads of the Tibetan Buddhist traditions and the reliable oath-bound Dharma Protectors who are linked inseparably to the lineage of the Dalai Lamas. They should seek advice and direction from these concerned beings and carry out the procedures of search and recognition in accordance with past tradition. I shall leave clear written instructions about this. Bear in mind that, apart from the reincarnation recognized through such legitimate methods, no recognition or acceptance should be given to a candidate chosen for political ends by anyone, including those in the People’s Republic of China.

Listen without distraction: one day the light that is Little Bat may cycle back to this world, he who is well along the path toward mastering full-knowing. In turn, one day this light is to go in search of Uncle, just as one day someone is tasked with hunting for my brother, the Redeemer Who Sounds the Conch in the Darkness. Who knows what can be found if only one is open to seeing?

And now? Can you hear all the universes glimmering in your heart? Are you ready to drop the world’s bait? What would happen if we each renounce the need for a grand narrative and simply vow to be present for each moment along the path? Yesterday I am an old man sitting in an ocean of grass. Tomorrow I am an infant growing in the billion-billion-armed cave of night. I am. I am not. I am again. Maybe one day someone might come seeking me.