WE OFTEN HEAR STATEMENTS LIKE: “Death is the moment of truth,” or “Death is the point when we finally come face to face with ourselves.” And we have seen how those who go through a near-death experience sometimes report that as they witness their lives replayed before them, they are asked questions such as, “What have you done with your life? What have you done for others?” All of this points to one fact: that in death we cannot escape from who or what we really are. Whether we like it or not, our true nature is revealed. But it is important to know that there are two aspects of our being that are revealed at the moment of death: our absolute nature, and our relative nature—how we are, and have been, in this life.
As I have explained, in death all the components of our body and mind are stripped away and disintegrate. As the body dies, the senses and subtle elements dissolve, and this is followed by the death of the ordinary aspect of our mind, with all its negative emotions of anger, desire, and ignorance. Finally nothing remains to obscure our true nature, as everything that in life has clouded the enlightened mind has fallen away. And what is revealed is the primordial ground of our absolute nature, which is like a pure and cloudless sky.
This is called the dawning of the Ground Luminosity, or “Clear Light,” where consciousness itself dissolves into the all-encompassing space of truth. The Tibetan Book of the Dead says of this moment:
The nature of everything is open, empty and naked like the sky.
Luminous emptiness, without center or circumference: the pure, naked Rigpa dawns.
Padmasambhava describes the luminosity:
This self-originated Clear Light, which from the very beginning was never born,
Is the child of Rigpa, which is itself without any parents—how amazing!
This self-originated wisdom has not been created by anyone—how amazing!
It has never experienced birth and has nothing in it that could cause it to die—how amazing!
Although it is evidently visible, yet there is no one there who sees it—how amazing!
Although it has wandered through samsara, no harm has come to it—how amazing!
Although it has seen buddhahood itself, no good has come to it—how amazing!
Although it exists in everyone everywhere, it has gone unrecognized—how amazing!
And yet you go on hoping to attain some other fruit than this elsewhere—how amazing!
Even though it is the thing that is most essentially yours, you seek for it elsewhere—how amazing!
Why is it that this state is called “luminosity” or Clear Light? The masters have different ways of explaining this. Some say that it expresses the radiant clarity of the nature of mind, its total freedom from darkness or obscuration: “free from the darkness of unknowing and endowed with the ability to cognize.” Another master describes the luminosity or Clear Light as “a state of minimum distraction,” because all the elements, senses, and sense-objects are dissolved. What is important is not to confuse it with the physical light that we know, nor with the experiences of light that will unfold presently in the next bardo; the luminosity that arises at death is the natural radiance of the wisdom of our own Rigpa, “the uncompounded nature present throughout all of samsara and nirvana.”
The dawning of the Ground Luminosity, or Clear Light, at the moment of death is the great opportunity for liberation. But it is essential to realize on what terms this opportunity is given. Some modern writers and researchers on death have underestimated the profundity of this moment. Because they have read and interpreted the Tibetan Book of the Dead without the benefit of the oral instructions and training that fully explain its sacred meaning, they have oversimplified it and jumped to quick conclusions. One assumption they then make is that the dawning of the Ground Luminosity is enlightenment. We might all like to identify death with heaven or enlightenment; but more important than mere wishful thinking is to know that only if we have really been introduced to the nature of our mind, our Rigpa, and only if we have established and stabilized it through meditation and integrated it into our life, does the moment of death offer a real opportunity for liberation.
Even though the Ground Luminosity presents itself naturally to us all, most of us are totally unprepared for its sheer immensity, the vast and subtle depth of its naked simplicity. The majority of us will simply have no means of recognizing it, because we have not made ourselves familiar with ways of recognizing it in life. What happens, then, is that we tend to react instinctively with all our past fears, habits, and conditioning, all our old reflexes. Though the negative emotions may have died for the luminosity to appear, the habits of lifetimes still remain, hidden in the background of our ordinary mind. Though all our confusion dies in death, instead of surrendering and opening to the luminosity, in our fear and ignorance we withdraw and instinctively hold onto our grasping.
This is what obstructs us from truly using this powerful moment as an opportunity for liberation. Padmasambhava says: “All beings have lived and died and been reborn countless times. Over and over again they have experienced the indescribable Clear Light. But because they are obscured by the darkness of ignorance, they wander endlessly in a limitless samsara.”
All these habitual tendencies, the results of our negative karma, which have sprung from the darkness of ignorance, are stored in the ground of the ordinary mind. I have often wondered what would be a good example to help describe the ground of the ordinary mind. You could compare it to a transparent glass bubble, a very thin elastic film, an almost invisible barrier or veil that obscures the whole of our mind; but perhaps the most useful image I can think of is of a glass door. Imagine you are sitting in front of a glass door that leads out into your garden, looking through it, gazing out into space. It seems as though there is nothing between you and the sky, because you cannot see the surface of the glass. You could even bang your nose if you got up and tried to walk through, thinking it wasn’t there. But if you touch it you will see at once there is something there that holds your fingerprints, something that comes between you and the space outside.
In the same manner, the ground of the ordinary mind prevents us from breaking through to the sky-like nature of our mind, even if we can still have glimpses of it. As I have said, the masters explain how there is a danger that meditation practitioners can mistake the experience of the ground of the ordinary mind for the real nature of mind itself. When they rest in a state of great calm and stillness, all they could be doing in fact might be merely resting in the ground of the ordinary mind. It is the difference between looking up at the sky from within a glass dome, and standing outside in the open air. We have to break out of the ground of the ordinary mind altogether, to discover and let in the fresh air of Rigpa.
So the aim of all our spiritual practice, and the real preparation for the moment of death, is to purify this subtle barrier, and gradually weaken it and break it down. When you have broken it down completely, nothing comes between you and the state of omniscience.
The introduction by the master to the nature of mind breaks through the ground of the ordinary mind altogether, as it is through this dissolution of the conceptual mind that the enlightened mind is explicitly revealed. Then, each time we rest in the nature of mind, the ground of the ordinary mind gets weaker. But we will notice that how long we can stay in the state of the nature of mind depends entirely on the stability of our practice. Unfortunately, “Old habits die hard,” and the ground of the ordinary mind returns; our mind is like an alcoholic who can kick the habit for a while, but relapses whenever tempted or depressed.
Just as the glass door picks up all the traces of dirt from our hands and fingers, the ground of the ordinary mind gathers and stores all our karma and habits. And just as we have to keep wiping the glass, so we have to keep purifying the ground of the ordinary mind. It is as if the glass slowly wears away as it gets thinner and thinner, little holes appear, and it begins to dissolve.
Through our practice we gradually stabilize the nature of mind more and more, so that it does not simply remain as our absolute nature but becomes our everyday reality. As it does so, the more our habits dissolve, and the less of a difference there is between meditation and everyday life. Gradually you become like someone who can walk straight out into the garden through the glass door, unobstructed. And the sign that the ground of the ordinary mind is weakening is that we are able to rest more and more effortlessly in the nature of mind.
When the Ground Luminosity dawns, the crucial issue will be how much we have been able to rest in the nature of mind, how much we have been able to unite our absolute nature and our everyday life, and how much we have been able to purify our ordinary condition into the state of primordial purity.
There is a way in which we can prepare completely to recognize the dawning of the Ground Luminosity at the moment of death. This is through the very highest level of meditation (as I have explained in Chapter 10, “The Innermost Essence”), the final fruition of the practice of Dzogchen. It is called the “union of two luminosities,” which is also known as “the merging of Mother and Child Luminosities.”
The Mother Luminosity is the name we give to the Ground Luminosity. This is the fundamental, inherent nature of everything, which underlies our whole experience, and which manifests in its full glory at the moment of death.
The Child Luminosity, also called the Path Luminosity, is the nature of our mind, which, if introduced by the master, and if recognized by us, we can then gradually stabilize through meditation, and more and more completely integrate into our action in life. When the integration is complete, recognition is complete and realization occurs.
Even though the Ground Luminosity is our inherent nature and the nature of everything, we do not recognize it, and it remains as if hidden. I like to think of the Child Luminosity as a key the master gives us to help us open the door to the recognition of the Ground Luminosity, whenever the opportunity arises.
Imagine that you have to meet a woman arriving by plane. If you have no idea what she looks like, you might go to the airport and she could walk right past you and you would miss her. If you have a photo of her that is a good likeness, and you have a good picture of her in your mind, then you will recognize her as soon as she approaches you.
Once the nature of mind has been introduced and you recognize it, you have the key to recognizing it again. But just as you have to keep the photograph with you and keep looking at it again and again, to be sure of recognizing the person you are going to meet at the airport, so you have to keep deepening and stabilizing your recognition of the nature of mind through regular practice. Then the recognition becomes so ingrained in you, so much a part of you, that you have no further need of the photograph; when you meet the person recognition is spontaneous and immediate. So, after sustained practice of the recognition of the nature of mind, when at the moment of death the Ground Luminosity dawns, you will be able then to recognize it and merge with it—as instinctively, say the masters of the past, as a little child running eagerly into its mother’s lap, like old friends meeting, or a river flowing into the sea.
Yet this is extremely difficult. The only way to ensure this recognition is through stabilizing and perfecting the practice of merging the two luminosities now, while we are still alive. This is only possible through a lifetime of training and endeavor. As my master Dudjom Rinpoche said, if we don’t practice the merging of the two luminosities now, and from now on, there is no saying that recognition will happen naturally at death.
How exactly do we merge the luminosities? This is a very profound and advanced practice, and this is not the place to elaborate on it. But what we can say is this: When the master introduces us to the nature of mind, it is as if our sight has been restored, for we have been blind to the Ground Luminosity that is in everything. The master’s introduction awakens in us a wisdom eye, with which we come to see clearly the true nature of whatever arises, the luminosity—Clear Light—nature of all our thoughts and emotions. Imagine that our recognition of the nature of mind comes, after stabilizing and perfecting the practice, to be like a steadily blazing sun. Thoughts and emotions go on arising; they are like waves of darkness. But each time the waves unfurl and meet the light, they dissolve immediately.
As we develop this ability to recognize more and more, it becomes part of our daily vision. When we are able to bring the realization of our absolute nature into our everyday experience, the more chance there is that we will actually recognize the Ground Luminosity at the moment of death.
The proof of whether we have this key will be how we view our thoughts and emotions as they arise; whether we are able to penetrate them directly with the View and recognize their inherent luminosity nature, or whether we obscure it with our instinctive habitual reactions.
If the ground of our ordinary mind is completely purified, it is as if we have shattered the storehouse of our karma and so emptied the karmic supply for future rebirths. However, if we have not been able to completely purify our mind, there will still be remnants of past habits and karmic tendencies resting in this storehouse of karma. Whenever suitable conditions materialize, they will manifest, propelling us into new rebirths.
The Ground Luminosity dawns; for a practitioner, it lasts as long as he or she can rest, undistracted, in the state of the nature of mind. For most people, however, it lasts no longer than a snap of the fingers, and for some, the masters say, “as long as it takes to eat a meal.” The vast majority of people do not recognize the Ground Luminosity at all, and instead they are plunged into a state of unconsciousness, which can last up to three and a half days. It is then that the consciousness finally leaves the body.
This has led to a custom in Tibet of making sure that the body is not touched or disturbed for three days after death. It is especially important in the case of a practitioner, who may have merged with the Ground Luminosity and be resting in that state of the nature of mind. I remember in Tibet how everyone took great care to maintain a silent and peaceful atmosphere around the body, particularly in the case of a great master or practitioner, to avoid causing the slightest disturbance.
But even the body of an ordinary person is often not moved before three days have elapsed, since you never know if a person is realized or not, and it is uncertain when the consciousness has separated from the body. It is believed that if the body is touched in a certain place—if, for example, an injection is given—it may draw the consciousness to that spot. Then the consciousness of the dead person may leave through the nearest opening instead of through the fontanel, and take on an unfortunate rebirth.
Some masters insist more than others on leaving the body for three days. Chadral Rinpoche, a Zen-like Tibetan master living in India and Nepal, told people who were complaining that a corpse might smell if it was kept in hot weather: “It’s not as though you have to eat it, or try to sell it.”
Strictly speaking, then, autopsies or cremations are best done after the three days’ interval. However, these days, since it may not be at all practical or possible to keep a body this long without moving it, at least the phowa practice should be effected before the body is touched or moved in any way.
A realized practitioner continues to abide by the recognition of the nature of mind at the moment of death, and awakens into the Ground Luminosity when it manifests. He or she may even remain in that state for a number of days. Some practitioners and masters die sitting upright in meditation posture, and others in the “posture of the sleeping lion.” Besides their perfect poise, there will be other signs that show they are resting in the state of the Ground Luminosity: There is still a certain color and glow in their face, the nose does not sink inward, the skin remains soft and flexible, the body does not become stiff, the eyes are said to keep a soft and compassionate glow, and there is still a warmth at the heart. Great care is taken that the master’s body is not touched, and silence is maintained until he or she has arisen from this state of meditation.
Gyalwang Karmapa, a great master and head of one of the four main schools of Tibetan Buddhism, died in hospital in the United States in 1981. He was an extraordinary inspiration to all those around him because of his constant cheerfulness and compassion. Dr. Ranulfo Sanchez, chief of surgery, said:
I personally felt that His Holiness was not just an ordinary man. When he looked at you, it was like he was searching inside you, as if he could see through you. I was very struck by the way he looked at me and seemed to understand what was going on. His Holiness affected practically everyone in the hospital who came in contact with him. Many times when we felt he was near death, he would smile at us and tell us we were wrong, and then he’d improve . . .
His Holiness never took any pain medication. We doctors would see him and realize he must be in a lot of pain, so we’d ask him, “Are you having a lot of pain today?” He’d say, “No.” Towards the end we knew he could sense our anxiety and it became a running joke. We’d ask him, “Are you having any pain?” He’d smile this extremely kind smile and say, “No.”
All his vital signs were very low. I gave him a shot . . . so that he could communicate in his last minutes. I left the room for a few minutes while he conversed with the tulkus, whom he assured he was not intending to die that day. When I returned five minutes later, he was sitting straight up, with his eyes wide open, and said clearly, “Hello, how are you?” All his vital signs had reversed and within half an hour he was sitting up in bed, talking and laughing. Medically this is unheard of; the nurses were all white. One of them lifted her sleeve to show me her arm, covered with goose-bumps.
The nursing staff noticed that Karmapa’s body did not follow the usual progression of rigor mortis and decay, but seemed to remain just as it had been when he died. After a while they became aware that the area around his heart was still warm. Dr. Sanchez said:
They brought me into the room about thirty-six hours after he died. I felt the area right over his heart, and it was warmer than the surrounding area. It’s something for which there is no medical explanation.1
Some masters pass away sitting in meditation, with the body supporting itself. Kalu Rinpoche died in 1989 in his monastery in the Himalayas, with a number of masters and a doctor and nurse present. His closest disciple wrote:
Rinpoche himself tried to sit up, and had difficulty to do so. Lama Gyaltsen, feeling that this was perhaps the time, and that not to sit up could create an obstacle for Rinpoche, supported Rinpoche’s back as he sat up. Rinpoche extended his hand to me, and I also helped him to sit up. Rinpoche wanted to sit absolutely straight, both saying this and indicating with a gesture of his hand. The doctor and nurse were upset by this, and so Rinpoche relaxed his posture slightly. He, nevertheless, assumed meditation posture. . . . Rinpoche placed his hands in meditation posture, his open eyes gazed outwards in meditation gaze, and his lips moved softly. A profound feeling of peace and happiness settled on us all and spread through our minds. All of us present felt that the indescribable happiness that was filling us was the faintest reflection of what was pervading Rinpoche’s mind . . . Slowly Rinpoche’s gaze and his eyelids lowered and the breath stopped.2
I shall always remember the death of my own beloved master, Jamyang Khyentse Chökyi Lodrö, in the summer of 1959. During the last part of his life, he would try and leave his monastery as little as possible. Masters of all traditions would flock to him for teachings, and holders of all lineages would look to him for instructions, as he was the source of their transmission. The monastery where he lived, Dzongsar, became one of the most vibrant centers of spiritual activity in Tibet as all the great Lamas came and went. His word in the region was law; he was such a great master that almost everybody was his disciple, so much so that he had the power to stop civil wars by threatening to withdraw his spiritual protection from the fighters of both sides.
Unfortunately, as the grip of the Chinese invaders tightened, conditions in Kham deteriorated rapidly, and even as a young boy I could sense the impending menace of what was to come. In 1955 my master had certain signs that showed he should leave Tibet. First he went on a pilgrimage to the sacred sites of central and southern Tibet; and then, to fulfill a deep wish of his master, he made a pilgrimage to the holy places of India, and I went with him. We all hoped that the situation in the east might improve while we were away. It turned out, I was to realize later, that my master’s decision to leave had been taken as a sign by many other Lamas and ordinary people that Tibet was doomed, and it allowed them to escape in good time.
My master had a longstanding invitation to visit Sikkim, a small country in the Himalayas and one of the sacred lands of Padmasambhava. Jamyang Khyentse was the incarnation of Sikkim’s holiest saint, and the King of Sikkim had requested him to teach there and bless the land with his presence. Once they heard he had gone there, many masters came from Tibet to receive his teachings, and brought with them rare texts and scriptures that might not otherwise have survived. Jamyang Khyentse was a master of masters, and the Palace Temple where he lived became once again a great spiritual center. As the conditions in Tibet became more and more disastrous, more and more Lamas gathered around him.
Sometimes great masters who teach a lot, it is said, do not live very long; it is almost as if they attract toward them any obstacles there are to the spiritual teachings. There were prophecies that if my master had put aside teaching and traveled as an unknown hermit to remote corners of the country, he would have lived for many more years. In fact, he tried to do this: When we started on our last journey from Kham, he left all his possessions behind him and went in complete secrecy, not intending to teach but to travel on pilgrimage. Yet once they found out who he was, people everywhere requested him to give teachings and initiations. So vast was his compassion that, knowing what he was risking, he sacrificed his own life to keep on teaching.
It was in Sikkim, then, that Jamyang Khyentse fell ill; at that very same time, the terrible news came that Tibet had finally fallen. All the seniormost Lamas, the heads of the lineages, arrived one after another to visit him, and prayers and rituals for his long life went on day and night. Everybody took part. We all pleaded with him to continue living, for a master of his greatness has the power to decide when it is time to leave his body. He just lay there in bed, accepted all our offerings and laughed, and said with a knowing smile: “All right, just to be auspicious, I’ll say I will live.”
The first indication we had that my master was going to die was through Gyalwang Karmapa. He told Karmapa that he had completed the work he had come to do in this life, and he had decided to leave this world. One of Khyentse’s close attendants burst into tears as soon as Karmapa revealed this to him, and then we knew. His death was eventually to occur just after we had heard that the three great monasteries of Tibet, Sera, Drepung, and Ganden, had been occupied by the Chinese. It seemed tragically symbolic that as Tibet collapsed, so this great being, the embodiment of Tibetan Buddhism, was passing away.
Jamyang Khyentse Chökyi Lodrö died at three o’clock in the morning, on the sixth day of the fifth Tibetan month. Ten days before, while we were doing a whole night’s practice for his long life, suddenly the ground was shaken by an enormous earthquake. According to the Buddhist Sutras, this is a sign that marks the imminent passing of an enlightened being.3
For three days after he had passed away, complete secrecy was kept, and no one was allowed to know that Khyentse had died. I was told simply that his health had taken a turn for the worse, and instead of sleeping in his room as I usually did, I was asked to sleep in another room. My master’s closest assistant and master of ceremonies, Lama Chokden, had been with my master longer than anyone. He was a silent, serious, ascetic man with piercing eyes and sunken cheeks, and a dignified and elegant but humble manner. Chokden was known for his fundamental integrity, his deep, human decency, his courtesy of heart, and his extraordinary memory: He seemed to remember every word my master said, and every story, and he knew the smallest details of all the most intricate rituals and their significance. He was also an exemplary practitioner and a teacher in his own right. We watched, then, as Lama Chokden continued to carry my master’s meals into his room, but the expression on his face was somber. We kept asking how Khyentse was, and Chokden would only say: “He is just the same.” In certain traditions, after a master has died and during the time he remains in meditation after death, it is important to maintain secrecy. It was only three days later, as I have said, that we finally heard that he had died.
The Government of India then sent a telegram to Peking. From there the message went out to my master’s own monastery, Dzongsar, in Tibet, where many of the monks were already in tears, because somehow they knew he was dying. Just before we had left, Khyentse had made a mysterious pledge that he would return once before he died. And he did. On New Year’s Day that year, about six months before he actually passed away, when a ritual dance was being performed, many of the older monks had a vision of him, just as he used to be, appearing in the sky. At the monastery my master had founded a study college, famous for producing some of the most excellent scholars of recent times. In the main temple stood a huge statue of the future Buddha, Maitreya. Early one morning, soon after the New Year’s Day when the vision had appeared in the sky, the caretaker of the temple opened the door: Khyentse was sitting in the Buddha Maitreya’s lap.
My master passed away in “the sleeping lion’s posture.” All the signs were there to show that he was still in a state of meditation, and no one touched the body for three whole days. The moment when he then came out of his meditation will stay with me all my life: His nose suddenly deflated, the color in his face drained away, and then his head fell slightly to one side. Until that moment there had been a certain poise and strength and life about his body.
It was evening when we washed the body, dressed it, and took it from his bedroom up into the main temple of the palace. Crowds of people were there, filing around the temple to show their respect.
Then something extraordinary happened. An incandescent, milky light, looking like a thin and luminous fog, began to appear and gradually spread everywhere. The palace temple had four large electric lamps outside; normally at that time of the evening they shone brightly, as it was already dark by seven o’clock. Yet they were dimmed by this mysterious light. Apa Pant, who was then Political Officer to Sikkim, was the first to ring and inquire what on earth it could be. Then many others started to call; this strange, unearthly light was seen by hundreds of people. One of the other masters then told us that such manifestations of light are said in the Tantras to be a sign of someone attaining Buddhahood.
It was originally planned that Jamyang Khyentse’s body was to be kept in the palace temple for one week, but very soon we started receiving telegrams from his disciples. It was 1959; many of them, including Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, had just arrived in exile, having made the long and dangerous escape from Tibet. They all begged that the body be kept so that they could have a chance to see it. So we kept it for two more weeks. Each day there were four different prayer sessions with hundreds of monks, headed by Lamas of all the different schools, and often with the lineage holders presiding, and thousands upon thousands of butter-lamps were offered. The body did not smell or start to decay, so we kept it for another week. India is fiercely hot in the summer, but even though week after week went by, the body showed no signs of decay. We ended up keeping Jamyang Khyentse’s body for six months; a whole environment of teaching and practice evolved in its holy presence: teachings that Jamyang Khyentse had been giving, which were incomplete when he died, were finished by his oldest disciples, and many, many monks were ordained.
Finally we took the body to the place he had chosen for the cremation. Tashiding is one of the most sacred sites in Sikkim, and stands on top of a hill. All the disciples went there, and we constructed the stupa for his relics by ourselves, although in India all grueling manual work is usually done by hired laborers. Everybody, young and old, from even a master like Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche to the most ordinary person, carried stones up the hill and built the whole thing with their own bare hands. It was the greatest possible testimony to the devotion he inspired.
No words would ever be able to convey the loss of Jamyang Khyentse’s death. In leaving Tibet I and my family lost all our lands and possessions, but I was too young to have formed any attachment to them. But losing Jamyang Khyentse was a loss so enormous that I still mourn it, so many years later. My entire childhood had been lived in the sunlight of his presence. I had slept in a small bed at the foot of his bed, and woke for many years to the sound of him whispering his morning prayers and clicking his mala, his Buddhist rosary. His words, his teachings, the great peaceful radiance of his presence, his smile, all of these are indelible memories for me. He is the inspiration of my life, and it is his presence as well as Padmasambhava’s that I always invoke when I am in difficulties or when I teach. His death was an incalculable loss for the world and an incalculable loss for Tibet. I used to think of him, as I thought also of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, that if Buddhism was destroyed and only he remained, nevertheless Buddhism would still be alive, for he was the complete embodiment of what Buddhism means. With Jamyang Khyentse’s passing, a whole epoch, sometimes it seems a whole dimension of spiritual power and knowledge, passed with him.
He died when he was only sixty-seven, and I often wonder how the entire future of Tibetan Buddhism would have been different if Jamyang Khyentse had lived to inspire its growth in exile and in the West with the same authority and infinite respect for all traditions and lineages that had made him so beloved in Tibet. Because he was the master of masters, and since the lineage-holders of all the traditions had received initiations and teachings from him and so revered him as their root-teacher, he was able naturally to draw them together, in a spirit of devoted harmony and cooperation.
And yet, a great master never dies. Jamyang Khyentse is here inspiring me as I write this; he is the force behind this book and whatever I teach; he is the foundation and basis of the spirit behind everything I do; it is he who goes on giving me my inner direction. His blessing and the confidence it gives me have been with me, guiding me through all the difficulties of trying to represent, in whatever way I can, the tradition of which he was so sublime a representative. His noble face is more alive to me now than any of the faces of the living, and in his eyes I always see that light of transcendent wisdom and transcendent compassion that no power in heaven or earth can put out.
May all of you who read this book come to know him a little as I know him, may all of you be as inspired as I have been by the dedication of his life and the splendor of his dying, may all of you draw from his example of total dedication to the welfare of all sentient beings the courage and wisdom you will need to work for the truth in this time!