No Small Miracle
“If you examine anything closely, you will not be able to find any point at which it has come into being, any point where it continues to exist, or any point at which it ceases to be.”
—HH Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche
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My whirlwind three-month romance with Nepal in 1994 ended on a distinctly unsentimental note. I succumbed to high fever and severe diarrhea only days prior to leaving Boudha; I was white as bed linen. The parasites that I so dreaded were feasting on my intestinal tract.
British Airways extended medical care and kindness way beyond the cost of my air ticket. They supervised the handling of my luggage, filled out the requisite travel forms for immigration, and graciously bumped me up to first-class for some comfort. I spent most of the flight doubled over and in the lavatory. Landing at Heathrow, I was put in a wheelchair and ushered to the airport infirmary where I slept soundly for a few hours following a physical exam, and then given guidelines for securing medical assistance in Britain.
After resting in London where I visited with Alak Zenkar Rinpoche which was a soothing treat—I headed back to New York and wasted no time securing a medical check-up at an international travel clinic. Tests confirmed that my intestines were at last free of amoebas, but I was physically depleted from the harsh medicine as well as from the parasites, and my gut could tolerate only a bland diet. It was blessed serendipity to meet up with Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche in Manhattan just days prior to his departure for Europe, and again a few weeks later (for Khenpo’s unannounced teaching and Tiklé Gyachen empowerment) at Lerab Ling.
When I first received oral instruction from this great Dzogchen master in the spring of 1992, I was magnetized by his hoarse whisper of a voice, gentle laughter, and expressive dark eyebrows, acutely triangular. Nyoshul Khenpo was the beloved teacher of many of the Tibetan lamas teaching in the West today including Khenpo Sonam Topgyal Rinpoche, Jigme Khyentse Rinpoche, Tulku Pema Wangyal Rinpoche, Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche, Mingyur Rinpoche, Tsoknyi Rinpoche and Sogyal Rinpoche.
Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche, Khachod Dechen Ling, NYC 1992 (Photo by N. L. Drolma)
At Sogyal Rinpoche’s request, I opened my home to Khenpo in the fall of 1993. To my surprise and delight, Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche arrived at my doorstep accompanied by Damcho Zangmo, his wife, a holy yogini whom I had not known of before. Her warmth was endearing and her laughter evocative of sweet-sounding silver bells. After the honorable couple settled in, I finished packing up my suitcase; I was prepared to spend the week at my boyfriend’s place. The older students in our local Rigpa sangha had instructed me to move out to allow Nyoshul Khenpo complete privacy. Damcho-la, however, insisted it was Khenpo’s wish for me to remain in residence. This news of course made me verrrry happy, my German boyfriend less so. I unpacked my suitcase, stashed it in the closet, and pulled out fresh linens for the daybed in the living room.
Khandro Damcho Zangmo in residence at Khachod Dechen Ling, NYC 1992 (Photo by N. L. Drolma)
The following day, Damcho-la went shopping with a student, and I stayed back to be of assistance to Khenpo. I was in the kitchen while Khenpo was taking a bath, but I could hear through the closed doors a vigorous splashing of tub water; it felt like I was hearing water for the first time—and it was laughing!
Nyoshul Khenpo later appeared at the entrance to the living room wearing only a skimpy, short bath towel wrapped tightly around his waist; He looked newborn and otherworldly with his head newly shaven.
I was startled by Khenpo’s uninhibited informality, which first heightened and then cut through my congested river of thoughts. Someone else more spiritually attuned or more open might have recognized the dreamlike nature of that moment, and awakened from this life’s deep sleep of ignorance. But, for me, the sight of Khenpo’s nakedness simply exposed my own uptightness and undue concern as the host of my teacher’s teacher to “do the right thing.” I relaxed gratefully. Khenpo’s simplicity and playfulness immeasurably ramped up my trust in dharma transmission beyond the spoken word.
Following upon the 1994 three-month summer retreat at Lerab Ling, I traveled to London to visit once again with Alak Zenkar Rinpoche, who was pleased to hear of my plan to rent Ani Jinba's flat for retreat in Amsterdam. That option fell through on arriving at the translator’s flat, so I quickly researched alternatives and wound up at the Karmapa’s center in Hantum, a piece of canal-riddled flatland in the northern Netherlands, dotted with meandering cows, where time seemed to have stopped and the tulips were blooming in winter.
The Kagyu center was deserted but for the resident lama, a diminutive yogi whose topknot of graying hair added a je ne sais quois to his perpetual invocation of the protective deity Mahakala. Prior to my commencing retreat, the lama requested that I draw a detailed image of Mahakala.
Black Cloak Mahakala, Tibet, 18th c. pigment on cloth, 27 x 18 in., Rubin Museum of Art, Gift of the Shelley and Donald Rubin Foundation.
I was inspired to comply, and the lama was pleased. For my retreat, he offered the bell and dorje that were resting on his choktse in the shrine room. Although I was not trained in the elaborate way of practice that called for their use, I accepted the ritual objects given their symbolism of wisdom and compassion. Soon after I was formally “sealed” in my retreat room, the friendly atmosphere changed markedly.
The lama’s attendant, a western woman, was to prepare all my meals and leave them outside my door; she was highly erratic in her service and one evening all that was left for dinner was a frozen, rotted torma—a ritual offering made of butter and tsampa. When my retreat ended, I walked into the lama’s kitchen and was confounded by the lama’s incoherence and wild gesticulations. He then pointed out my notes requesting food which, to my amazement, had been saved and tacked up ostentatiously on the kitchen wall.
“Milarepa, No! ... Milarepa, no!” he screamed. Well, I never claimed or aspired to be like Milarepa—Tibet’s renowned yogi and saintly poet who subsisted on a diet of nettles. I far more resembled Milarepa’s sister who lamented her brother’s sardonic humor and fierce disregard for worldly concerns.
Thangka image of Jetsun Milarepa (Artist unknown)
The yogi gestured for me to sit down to lunch and he proceeded to pile food onto my plate until the dish was an unappetizing mountain of slop. I had no idea what turned the yogi against me, but his rage killed my appetite and left me feeling sad. I hoped the situation would change. Why did this lama, who first greeted me so gently and welcomed me to practice with him in his storybook-like temple, now treat me so coldly? A Shambhala student had driven up on the weekend for a personal retreat and agreed there was something off in the environment; he kindly welcomed me to accompany him back to Amsterdam.
Five rainbows appeared in succession arching the sky as we sped along the highway, leaving Hantum with its surrounding windmills and mysteries behind us. Rainbows at the conclusion to a retreat traditionally signal auspiciousness. The retreat was wholly positive in that it brought my dharma practice to an entirely new level: I experienced the power of remaining steadfast in the face of chaos. It also inspired me to cultivate the Buddhist view that whatever one is experiencing is illusory, merely an appearance, not how it really is (and known by a sage). That said, it was healthy for me as a novice practitioner to admit my limitations which were exposed by the grim atmosphere, and to pack up and go. This retreat, my first outside the supportive confines of Lerab Ling, was a definitive coming of age.
After a friendly stop at Rigpa Holland and conversation with a longtime practitioner who knew of Hantum’s infamous yogi (and congratulated me for having survived some weeks with him), I continued on to a dharma center of the Geluk tradition for more solitary practice. It was ironic and timely, inspirational relief to discover “Milarepa’s Hundred Thousand Songs” in the center’s library. The dakini practice from Terton Sogyal’s Dakki Mengak was the focus of my 21-day silent retreat. Following upon signs of accomplishment and the close of retreat, I felt energized, calm and content, with no wish to speak to anyone about anything.
Sogyal Rinpoche, Rigpa retreat, Kent, CT 1993 (Photo by N. L Drolma)
Was this blissful equanimity to be short lived? My host in Amsterdam greeted me with a downcast mien and scurrilous news: A female student in the U.S. had filed a 10-million-dollar lawsuit against Sogyal Rinpoche, claiming sexual, emotional and physical abuse. Unfazed by the tabloid headlines (and ignorant of alleged behavior that two decades later would be emblazoned on the internet) I said, “Oh, this is crazy...Don’t worry.” (The case was eventually settled out of court for an undisclosed sum.) My cool detachment surprised and comforted my dharma sister because three weeks of heated, divisive talk within the Rigpa sangha had strained her faith. Solitary retreat spared me the discomfiting whammy of Rigpa’s group dynamics. It was time to fly back to America.
I ended the year on the road by entering into a one-month retreat at my friend Ananda’s country home in New Paltz, New York. Blessings were as bountiful as the snowflakes that were coming down thick and fast, transmuting the trees and bush and open fields into glistening, undulant hills of whiteness. I was no longer the speedy, chauvinist New Yorker— No small miracle!