11
One Lesson
"I don't remember my death, of course," said the Dalai Lama. Joachim nodded his understanding. The two of them sat crosslegged at the head of the petitions room, its walls lined with an assortment of other monks. Joachim sat at the right hand of the Dalai Lama; an untidy heap of white scarves lay to the left of His Holiness, bulked out by the hidden lamb. The people had come; the people had gone: His Holiness relaxed in conversation.
"It took them four years to find me after my death. They approached me with a cushioned tray bearing a small number of my personal possessions mingled with other objects. I chose only my old things. They say that I tapped the Panchen Lama on the shoulder with my prayer wheel in the same way as I used to do when I was an old man." He sighed: Well, I am an old man once more; soon I shall have to go through it all again."
"Why?" Joachim asked him.
"One dies; one is born again: death is so brief!" replied the old one.
Joachim studied silence for a few respectful moments, then said: "But surely, the precepts of Buddhism include the extinguishing of personal existence. Have you not, in your many lives, acquired the merit to achieve Nirvana?"
"Oh, yes!" grinned the Dalai Lama. "I daily find Samadhi in my spiritual exercises; to return here is an act of will: a sacrifice I must make so that I may play 'The Good Shepherd' to my people." From deep within his robes, he drew out a crucifix and handed it to Joachim. "Tell me who that is," he said, smiling enigmatically.
"Yeshu ... Iesion ... Jesus ...?"
"Look! See! Understand!" the old man commanded him.
And Joachim looked: He saw the death; He watched the deputation on their long search: He understood the gifts of the Magi. He made to offer the crucifix back to the Dalai Lama but stopped. The lesson given - and received - His Holiness had turned his attention to other matters: he nursed a lamb in swaddling bands.
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This is one of the Tales of Joachim |
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Ink Amera |
(C) David 1/9/2007 |
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