Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje passed away on July 22 in Santa Fe and was cremated on July 26. Bill O'Brien remembers him.
What have I wandered into? I shouted my question, "When does the burning start?" In a darkened room, Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche was sitting on a throne, a prayer wheel whirring energy in his hand, drawing the innermost being of the participants. The translator explained that one should bring photos of dead relatives and of the living to throw into the fire. People were throwing themselves body-length onto the floor. It all seemed so bizarre. I left my first dharma event, a dur, feeling that something had been pulled out of me.
The next day I sat in the far recesses of the room. He was sitting on a throne. Refuge was being given. Rinpoche placed the ceremonial crown on his head. There was a brilliant light. I was down on all fours. My first prostration. I never knew I could pay homage to anyone. Or spend a good part of the day crying.
Later it became commonly known that Rinpoche had cancer and soon would die. People could see him for five minutes. Hitchhiking into Los Angeles, I had an address, took buses, walked a lot and was able to clasp his hands. He asked me, "How is Chagdud Tulku? How are the Tibetan monks?" My five minutes were up.
"So how was he?" people asked. With someone like him one could never really know. A few weeks later, his cancer had gone into remission. Several months later, the cancer was back. There were a lot of idle speculations and genuine puzzlement. Soon he would die, within days, hours, any moment. A woman had a dream of Rinpoche, a burning candle in his heart. A few days later he was dead.
I was not intimately acquainted with Ngakpa Rinpoche. Every meeting seemed to occur by the most tenuous chance. I had the good fortune to attend a second dur. The scene was familiar. Sangha people from the Bay Area. Kind, good-hearted. People who had money. People who had no money. People who were crazy. Ah. The beautiful Oakland hills. My first cafe latte of the day. In the distance, a fire burning in the hills; before us, the ceremonial fire burning the photographs of loved ones. Rinpoche laughing, holding a feather, our cue to scream our hopes and fears into the fire. Some people at the event getting up to go back to their burning homes. Rinpoche saying, "Dedicate the merit of the practice to all those who have died. I cannot create rain; I must calm the wind. But first let's complete the dur."
Then we were all running for our lives. Smoke transformed the day into darkness, all across the Bay Area. Our light was an enormous fireball streaking across the hills. That night the winds were calmed.
The death of Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche has left me numbed by a sense of loss. I have not fully accepted it. When I contemplate his activity, I think of many waves, vast and great. I think of water.
Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje passed away on July 22 in Santa Fe and was cremated on July 26. Bill O'Brien remembers him.
What have I wandered into? I shouted my question, "When does the burning start?" In a darkened room, Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche was sitting on a throne, a prayer wheel whirring energy in his hand, drawing the innermost being of the participants. The translator explained that one should bring photos of dead relatives and of the living to throw into the fire. People were throwing themselves body-length onto the floor. It all seemed so bizarre. I left my first dharma event, a dur, feeling that something had been pulled out of me.
The next day I sat in the far recesses of the room. He was sitting on a throne. Refuge was being given. Rinpoche placed the ceremonial crown on his head. There was a brilliant light. I was down on all fours. My first prostration. I never knew I could pay homage to anyone. Or spend a good part of the day crying.
Later it became commonly known that Rinpoche had cancer and soon would die. People could see him for five minutes. Hitchhiking into Los Angeles, I had an address, took buses, walked a lot and was able to clasp his hands. He asked me, "How is Chagdud Tulku? How are the Tibetan monks?" My five minutes were up.
"So how was he?" people asked. With someone like him one could never really know. A few weeks later, his cancer had gone into remission. Several months later, the cancer was back. There were a lot of idle speculations and genuine puzzlement. Soon he would die, within days, hours, any moment. A woman had a dream of Rinpoche, a burning candle in his heart. A few days later he was dead.
I was not intimately acquainted with Ngakpa Rinpoche. Every meeting seemed to occur by the most tenuous chance. I had the good fortune to attend a second dur. The scene was familiar. Sangha people from the Bay Area. Kind, good-hearted. People who had money. People who had no money. People who were crazy. Ah. The beautiful Oakland hills. My first cafe latte of the day. In the distance, a fire burning in the hills; before us, the ceremonial fire burning the photographs of loved ones. Rinpoche laughing, holding a feather, our cue to scream our hopes and fears into the fire. Some people at the event getting up to go back to their burning homes. Rinpoche saying, "Dedicate the merit of the practice to all those who have died. I cannot create rain; I must calm the wind. But first let's complete the dur."
Then we were all running for our lives. Smoke transformed the day into darkness, all across the Bay Area. Our light was an enormous fireball streaking across the hills. That night the winds were calmed.
The death of Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche has left me numbed by a sense of loss. I have not fully accepted it. When I contemplate his activity, I think of many waves, vast and great. I think of water.
Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje passed away on July 22 in Santa Fe and was cremated on July 26. Bill O'Brien remembers him.
What have I wandered into? I shouted my question, "When does the burning start?" In a darkened room, Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche was sitting on a throne, a prayer wheel whirring energy in his hand, drawing the innermost being of the participants. The translator explained that one should bring photos of dead relatives and of the living to throw into the fire. People were throwing themselves body-length onto the floor. It all seemed so bizarre. I left my first dharma event, a dur, feeling that something had been pulled out of me.
The next day I sat in the far recesses of the room. He was sitting on a throne. Refuge was being given. Rinpoche placed the ceremonial crown on his head. There was a brilliant light. I was down on all fours. My first prostration. I never knew I could pay homage to anyone. Or spend a good part of the day crying.
Later it became commonly known that Rinpoche had cancer and soon would die. People could see him for five minutes. Hitchhiking into Los Angeles, I had an address, took buses, walked a lot and was able to clasp his hands. He asked me, "How is Chagdud Tulku? How are the Tibetan monks?" My five minutes were up.
"So how was he?" people asked. With someone like him one could never really know. A few weeks later, his cancer had gone into remission. Several months later, the cancer was back. There were a lot of idle speculations and genuine puzzlement. Soon he would die, within days, hours, any moment. A woman had a dream of Rinpoche, a burning candle in his heart. A few days later he was dead.
I was not intimately acquainted with Ngakpa Rinpoche. Every meeting seemed to occur by the most tenuous chance. I had the good fortune to attend a second dur. The scene was familiar. Sangha people from the Bay Area. Kind, good-hearted. People who had money. People who had no money. People who were crazy. Ah. The beautiful Oakland hills. My first cafe latte of the day. In the distance, a fire burning in the hills; before us, the ceremonial fire burning the photographs of loved ones. Rinpoche laughing, holding a feather, our cue to scream our hopes and fears into the fire. Some people at the event getting up to go back to their burning homes. Rinpoche saying, "Dedicate the merit of the practice to all those who have died. I cannot create rain; I must calm the wind. But first let's complete the dur."
Then we were all running for our lives. Smoke transformed the day into darkness, all across the Bay Area. Our light was an enormous fireball streaking across the hills. That night the winds were calmed.
The death of Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche has left me numbed by a sense of loss. I have not fully accepted it. When I contemplate his activity, I think of many waves, vast and great. I think of water.
Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje passed away on July 22 in Santa Fe and was cremated on July 26. Bill O'Brien remembers him.
What have I wandered into? I shouted my question, "When does the burning start?" In a darkened room, Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche was sitting on a throne, a prayer wheel whirring energy in his hand, drawing the innermost being of the participants. The translator explained that one should bring photos of dead relatives and of the living to throw into the fire. People were throwing themselves body-length onto the floor. It all seemed so bizarre. I left my first dharma event, a dur, feeling that something had been pulled out of me.
The next day I sat in the far recesses of the room. He was sitting on a throne. Refuge was being given. Rinpoche placed the ceremonial crown on his head. There was a brilliant light. I was down on all fours. My first prostration. I never knew I could pay homage to anyone. Or spend a good part of the day crying.
Later it became commonly known that Rinpoche had cancer and soon would die. People could see him for five minutes. Hitchhiking into Los Angeles, I had an address, took buses, walked a lot and was able to clasp his hands. He asked me, "How is Chagdud Tulku? How are the Tibetan monks?" My five minutes were up.
"So how was he?" people asked. With someone like him one could never really know. A few weeks later, his cancer had gone into remission. Several months later, the cancer was back. There were a lot of idle speculations and genuine puzzlement. Soon he would die, within days, hours, any moment. A woman had a dream of Rinpoche, a burning candle in his heart. A few days later he was dead.
I was not intimately acquainted with Ngakpa Rinpoche. Every meeting seemed to occur by the most tenuous chance. I had the good fortune to attend a second dur. The scene was familiar. Sangha people from the Bay Area. Kind, good-hearted. People who had money. People who had no money. People who were crazy. Ah. The beautiful Oakland hills. My first cafe latte of the day. In the distance, a fire burning in the hills; before us, the ceremonial fire burning the photographs of loved ones. Rinpoche laughing, holding a feather, our cue to scream our hopes and fears into the fire. Some people at the event getting up to go back to their burning homes. Rinpoche saying, "Dedicate the merit of the practice to all those who have died. I cannot create rain; I must calm the wind. But first let's complete the dur."
Then we were all running for our lives. Smoke transformed the day into darkness, all across the Bay Area. Our light was an enormous fireball streaking across the hills. That night the winds were calmed.
The death of Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche has left me numbed by a sense of loss. I have not fully accepted it. When I contemplate his activity, I think of many waves, vast and great. I think of water.
Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje passed away on July 22 in Santa Fe and was cremated on July 26. Bill O'Brien remembers him.
What have I wandered into? I shouted my question, "When does the burning start?" In a darkened room, Ngakpa Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche was sitting on a throne, a prayer wheel whirring energy in his hand, drawing the innermost being of the participants. The translator explained that one should bring photos of dead relatives and of the living to throw into the fire. People were throwing themselves body-length onto the floor. It all seemed so bizarre. I left my first dharma event, a dur, feeling that something had been pulled out of me.
The next day I sat in the far recesses of the room. He was sitting on a throne. Refuge was being given. Rinpoche placed the ceremonial crown on his head. There was a brilliant light. I was down on all fours. My first prostration. I never knew I could pay homage to anyone. Or spend a good part of the day crying.
Later it became commonly known that Rinpoche had cancer and soon would die. People could see him for five minutes. Hitchhiking into Los Angeles, I had an address, took buses, walked a lot and was able to clasp his hands. He asked me, "How is Chagdud Tulku? How are the Tibetan monks?" My five minutes were up.
"So how was he?" people asked. With someone like him one could never really know. A few weeks later, his cancer had gone into remission. Several months later, the cancer was back. There were a lot of idle speculations and genuine puzzlement. Soon he would die, within days, hours, any moment. A woman had a dream of Rinpoche, a burning candle in his heart. A few days later he was dead.
I was not intimately acquainted with Ngakpa Rinpoche. Every meeting seemed to occur by the most tenuous chance. I had the good fortune to attend a second dur. The scene was familiar. Sangha people from the Bay Area. Kind, good-hearted. People who had money. People who had no money. People who were crazy. Ah. The beautiful Oakland hills. My first cafe latte of the day. In the distance, a fire burning in the hills; before us, the ceremonial fire burning the photographs of loved ones. Rinpoche laughing, holding a feather, our cue to scream our hopes and fears into the fire. Some people at the event getting up to go back to their burning homes. Rinpoche saying, "Dedicate the merit of the practice to all those who have died. I cannot create rain; I must calm the wind. But first let's complete the dur."
Then we were all running for our lives. Smoke transformed the day into darkness, all across the Bay Area. Our light was an enormous fireball streaking across the hills. That night the winds were calmed.
The death of Yeshe Dorje Rinpoche has left me numbed by a sense of loss. I have not fully accepted it. When I contemplate his activity, I think of many waves, vast and great. I think of water.
