Same Old Foolishness
My aging bones welcome the warmth of early summer-like weather, and I cannot resist the temptation to spend time on our back deck. I sit in a faux Adirondack chair overlooking our beautiful garden; the new greenery and flower blossoms inspire reflection. Everything is illuminated by the midday sun as it graces plants with a luminous halo. The scene evokes a distant memory of precious moments spent with my root teacher…
Years ago, before fire reshaped Breitenbush Hot Springs, I travelled there with my teacher Khenchen Palden Sherab Rinpoche and his brother Khenpo Tsewang Dongyal so they could experience the natural springs. They had a particular fondness for this kind of healing water. After following the rutted Forest Service access road and parking near the cabins, we hiked into the rock-encircled “tubs” and settled in for a relaxing soak.
Steam lifted into the crisp mountain air, visually softening the edges of every tree, shrub, and rock formation. Khenchen Palden stood up in the center of the spring and began making hand gestures in the steamy air. It seemed like he was painting a picture without paints on a canvas of space. His eyes sparkled, and he laughed at what seemed like infinite hazy designs that tickled his funny bone. I imagined he saw dots of light alternately forming into shapes, then dissolving into the mist.
After a few minutes of this space-play, he looked down at the river and smiled. In that moment, all the waters mingled: river, spring, and mist, merged into one. I felt mute to say anything, to interfere with the sacred silence. We all simply rested in the spaciousness of the light dance. Nothing else mattered—no solid matter to distinguish—no dividing lines…
I am now witnessing flying insects swarming together in our backyard. They form into delightful mini-clouds that rise into the air and disappear for no apparent reason. Lawn gnats become visible as tiny specks of light dancing to some kind of music my ears cannot hear. They look like micro-crystals that scatter sunshine for an indeterminate time, then vanish into space. The dots of white light appear as atoms trying to assume a shape—but not quite succeeding. There is more space than specks.
The memory of my root teacher, and the play of light before me now, are exactly the same—amidst their differences. Wherever we are, the light of sameness, the innermost single flavor of our wisdom nature, permeates our experience. No thought can divide it, nor hold it; yet it rests within the heart. We can feel how the light of compassion connects everything.
So, why do I bother to write about something that cannot be held within the boundary of words? I often rest with that question because I know this is a foolish endeavor. I am nevertheless content to appear a fool for the sake of light and love. I recall Bonnie Raitt singing, “When it comes to matters of the heart, there is nothing a fool won’t get used to.” I can only hope to be this kind of fool.