The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks Page A
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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During one of our long, epic talks about life and death, he’d “allowed as how” he wouldn’t mind having someone like me by his side when his time came. I never forgot.
As a young monk, I’d sat with more than one dying elder, but the moment of John D’s passing was uniquely his. And mine. Uniquely ours. His breathing became so shallow his chest barely moved, and I knew death was close. I hummed passages from the Bardo Thodol, gentle reminders to my friend to let go of any remaining attachment to his singular bodily form, and to dissolve consciously into the eternal oneness of space.
I’d closed my eyes, and felt into his breathing with my senses, until I could barely discern any breath at all. I repeated the sutras more and more softly, as I was taught, until the sounds were more vibration than vocalization. Then this: radiant light, illuminating my inner field of vision, and a heart-based surge of joy. Waves of bittersweet bliss merged with parallel waves that seemed to come from John D’s still form. The joy amplified—he was loving me, I was loving him, and a flowing, growing synergy connected and coursed between us.
A barely audible Ahhhhhhh escaped from John D’s throat, a long, slow out-breath. The in-breath never arrived. Only a hallowed silence, marked by my own pained smile of recognition. For John D’s final utterance was no death rattle, but rather a sigh of pleasure, the same exact sound he’d always made after lowering into his beloved Barcalounger at the end of a long day.
I set the program back on my shrine. I no longer wanted to meditate. I wanted to talk to Yeshe and Lobsang. To connect with two living, breathing hearts, in real time. I needed my friends.
I crossed the living room to my desk, fired up the computer, and opened Skype. A tiny Yeshe-image beamed from my screen, no bigger than the postage stamps I’d used for all those years when I’d communicated with my friends by letter. The Internet had made such things obsolete, but sometimes I still missed the sense of calm that came when I put pen to paper.
I connected, and typed into the message bar: You there?
Seconds later, a reply popped up: Yes. I’ll go get Lobsang.
Soon their two wavering faces filled the desktop, grinning from a monastery office thousands of miles away. Yeshe sipped from a teacup. Lobsang toasted me with his, and 8,000 miles couldn’t hide the twinkle of mischief.
“ Tashi delek! We’re just now enjoying that tea you love so much,” Lobsang said. “Our sister monastery sent us a special offering from their yaks!”
Yak butter tea was the staple beverage of Tibetan monasteries, and still considered a treat in India. As a young lama, I’d barely tolerated the pungent brew, at times the only hot drink to be had on cold Dharamshala mornings. The greasy swill was a far, far cry from the rich, sweet chocolat chaud of Parisian cafés, warm nectar I inhaled like a deprived bee whenever I was returned to my mother.
Lobsang slurped a large mouthful and followed with a contented belch. “Care to join?”
“Very funny,” I said, smiling.
“ Tashi delek, Tenzing!” As usual, Yeshe’s voice was louder than necessary. He didn’t trust the new technology. His face moved closer, tipped to one side. “You look tired!”
“I am.” They waited, happy to allow the silent connection between us to simply be. “I miss you,” I said.
Yeshe touched his forehead, his smile shy.
“It is always a happy day when we see our dharma-brother’s face,” Lobsang said, “but especially today.”
Something in Lobsang’s voice suggested their morning had not been entirely untroubled either. “Is there unrest in the Sangha? ”
“No more than the usual,” Lobsang said, “but sometimes these young monks can be infuriating. Much more infuriating than we were at their age.”
“I’m sure.”
“This morning, they handed us a petition,” Yeshe broke in. “A petition! Can you imagine? They say they need new
As a young monk, I’d sat with more than one dying elder, but the moment of John D’s passing was uniquely his. And mine. Uniquely ours. His breathing became so shallow his chest barely moved, and I knew death was close. I hummed passages from the Bardo Thodol, gentle reminders to my friend to let go of any remaining attachment to his singular bodily form, and to dissolve consciously into the eternal oneness of space.
I’d closed my eyes, and felt into his breathing with my senses, until I could barely discern any breath at all. I repeated the sutras more and more softly, as I was taught, until the sounds were more vibration than vocalization. Then this: radiant light, illuminating my inner field of vision, and a heart-based surge of joy. Waves of bittersweet bliss merged with parallel waves that seemed to come from John D’s still form. The joy amplified—he was loving me, I was loving him, and a flowing, growing synergy connected and coursed between us.
A barely audible Ahhhhhhh escaped from John D’s throat, a long, slow out-breath. The in-breath never arrived. Only a hallowed silence, marked by my own pained smile of recognition. For John D’s final utterance was no death rattle, but rather a sigh of pleasure, the same exact sound he’d always made after lowering into his beloved Barcalounger at the end of a long day.
I set the program back on my shrine. I no longer wanted to meditate. I wanted to talk to Yeshe and Lobsang. To connect with two living, breathing hearts, in real time. I needed my friends.
I crossed the living room to my desk, fired up the computer, and opened Skype. A tiny Yeshe-image beamed from my screen, no bigger than the postage stamps I’d used for all those years when I’d communicated with my friends by letter. The Internet had made such things obsolete, but sometimes I still missed the sense of calm that came when I put pen to paper.
I connected, and typed into the message bar: You there?
Seconds later, a reply popped up: Yes. I’ll go get Lobsang.
Soon their two wavering faces filled the desktop, grinning from a monastery office thousands of miles away. Yeshe sipped from a teacup. Lobsang toasted me with his, and 8,000 miles couldn’t hide the twinkle of mischief.
“ Tashi delek! We’re just now enjoying that tea you love so much,” Lobsang said. “Our sister monastery sent us a special offering from their yaks!”
Yak butter tea was the staple beverage of Tibetan monasteries, and still considered a treat in India. As a young lama, I’d barely tolerated the pungent brew, at times the only hot drink to be had on cold Dharamshala mornings. The greasy swill was a far, far cry from the rich, sweet chocolat chaud of Parisian cafés, warm nectar I inhaled like a deprived bee whenever I was returned to my mother.
Lobsang slurped a large mouthful and followed with a contented belch. “Care to join?”
“Very funny,” I said, smiling.
“ Tashi delek, Tenzing!” As usual, Yeshe’s voice was louder than necessary. He didn’t trust the new technology. His face moved closer, tipped to one side. “You look tired!”
“I am.” They waited, happy to allow the silent connection between us to simply be. “I miss you,” I said.
Yeshe touched his forehead, his smile shy.
“It is always a happy day when we see our dharma-brother’s face,” Lobsang said, “but especially today.”
Something in Lobsang’s voice suggested their morning had not been entirely untroubled either. “Is there unrest in the Sangha? ”
“No more than the usual,” Lobsang said, “but sometimes these young monks can be infuriating. Much more infuriating than we were at their age.”
“I’m sure.”
“This morning, they handed us a petition,” Yeshe broke in. “A petition! Can you imagine? They say they need new
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