I now keep my Netflix queue full so there's always something interesting heading my way for the low introductory rate. With some recent associations through Ram Dass, I chose a new biopic of the Dalai Lama wondering if any threads might develop on Buddhist themes.
There were no great surprises since the story of his life and the tumult of Tibet's recent history have become widely known through films such as Seven Years in Tibet and various celebrities who have become devoted followers of Buddhist teaching. What drew my attention was a very brief film clip toward the end of the story that showed him in recent daily activity: speeches, meetings with leaders, etc. The scene showed a seemingly endless line of Tibetan exiles in India who were slowly being ushered into the presence of the Dalai Lama to receive a blessing and a brief word.
It was very unremarkable and everybody seemed to know the role they were playing. The ushers saw the large number of visitors and kept things moving along. The exiles knew they were guests of His Holiness and moved by him with reverence. The Dalai Lama knew he was there to greet them and made a gesture to each one that passed by. Just as ordinary as shaking the pastor's hand after church on Sunday.
All of this routine disintegrated when one man bowed deeply to the ground and began to openly weep as he finally reached the Dalai Lama. He kept trying to speak despite his tears and it came out in the embarrassing high voice of a little boy who blurts out a stream of incoherent, inconsolable words as he runs into a parent's arms for comfort. The Dalai Lama bent forward, placed his hand on the man's shoulder and with no judgement or look of surprise simply received the moment in its fullness. No one was embarrassed, no one moved. His Holiness embraced the sobbing man and glanced toward the crowd as if he were looking upon the most intimate gathering of a family--not a religious scene guided by expectations and protocol.
When the Dalai Lama reached a certain age he was given a long list of new names to signify his future work. We usually hear two of these, "Tenzin Gyatso," which roughly means Ocean of Wisdom and Compassion. Each exile who passed through the receiving line saw the same figure of a man who is both a religious and world famous political leader. But some, like the one who wept, saw the incarnation of Compassion itself and greeted him with the depth of his crushing sorrow. The depth of Tenzin Gyatso's compassion was so vast that the man's spirit was no longer afraid to voice its anguish. There was enough space for it to finally release its fear. No words were required.
I enjoyed the treasure of four grandparents well into my twenties. When my first grandfather died, there was sorrow but many years of happy memories lifted my spirits and made the loss seem less painful. We were only a few hours away from the funeral when it happened that my grandmother (Nannie Simpson) and I were alone in the chapel during a lull of visitors. I don't remember what we were saying to each other but it disintegrated. My voice cracked and my tears flowed and my face fell against the black wool coat she was wearing. Here's the snappy college student sobbing on his grandmother's shoulder, totally out of control and totally safe. Something in me knew there was enough room to be afraid of death and afraid of a hundred other things that still frighten me.
I don't know what the Dalai Lama offered the crying man nor do I understand what my grandmother offered me. It wasn't an answer nor was it a consolation. It just was and they were in it with me.
There were no great surprises since the story of his life and the tumult of Tibet's recent history have become widely known through films such as Seven Years in Tibet and various celebrities who have become devoted followers of Buddhist teaching. What drew my attention was a very brief film clip toward the end of the story that showed him in recent daily activity: speeches, meetings with leaders, etc. The scene showed a seemingly endless line of Tibetan exiles in India who were slowly being ushered into the presence of the Dalai Lama to receive a blessing and a brief word.
It was very unremarkable and everybody seemed to know the role they were playing. The ushers saw the large number of visitors and kept things moving along. The exiles knew they were guests of His Holiness and moved by him with reverence. The Dalai Lama knew he was there to greet them and made a gesture to each one that passed by. Just as ordinary as shaking the pastor's hand after church on Sunday.
All of this routine disintegrated when one man bowed deeply to the ground and began to openly weep as he finally reached the Dalai Lama. He kept trying to speak despite his tears and it came out in the embarrassing high voice of a little boy who blurts out a stream of incoherent, inconsolable words as he runs into a parent's arms for comfort. The Dalai Lama bent forward, placed his hand on the man's shoulder and with no judgement or look of surprise simply received the moment in its fullness. No one was embarrassed, no one moved. His Holiness embraced the sobbing man and glanced toward the crowd as if he were looking upon the most intimate gathering of a family--not a religious scene guided by expectations and protocol.
When the Dalai Lama reached a certain age he was given a long list of new names to signify his future work. We usually hear two of these, "Tenzin Gyatso," which roughly means Ocean of Wisdom and Compassion. Each exile who passed through the receiving line saw the same figure of a man who is both a religious and world famous political leader. But some, like the one who wept, saw the incarnation of Compassion itself and greeted him with the depth of his crushing sorrow. The depth of Tenzin Gyatso's compassion was so vast that the man's spirit was no longer afraid to voice its anguish. There was enough space for it to finally release its fear. No words were required.
I enjoyed the treasure of four grandparents well into my twenties. When my first grandfather died, there was sorrow but many years of happy memories lifted my spirits and made the loss seem less painful. We were only a few hours away from the funeral when it happened that my grandmother (Nannie Simpson) and I were alone in the chapel during a lull of visitors. I don't remember what we were saying to each other but it disintegrated. My voice cracked and my tears flowed and my face fell against the black wool coat she was wearing. Here's the snappy college student sobbing on his grandmother's shoulder, totally out of control and totally safe. Something in me knew there was enough room to be afraid of death and afraid of a hundred other things that still frighten me.
I don't know what the Dalai Lama offered the crying man nor do I understand what my grandmother offered me. It wasn't an answer nor was it a consolation. It just was and they were in it with me.
Just perfect, Bryan.
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