The book lies open, Rinpoche’s face close behind it. Dark frames shade his eyes; above the pages are his nose, lips and a little stubble. The book takes up most of the space. He has left himself only a small corner.
On the subject of age, he offers a line about being neither old nor young: “a viable die~able age”. Viable sits beside die~able, a little mischief in a serious matter. “Who said that?” he asks.
His birthday in 2020 gives him plenty of people to thank. Thank you all; thank you, too, for insisting on holding the reminder of his age right in front of him. The well-wishers mean kindly. The birthday man chooses to point out this small implication.
He makes himself very small: a little member of a little species, hatched into this seemingly existent world. And everyone has gone to so much trouble over the event.
Growing older will happen; growing up still has to be learned. “I hope I will learn to grow up.”
Others have made sure he remembers his age. The work of growing up, he leaves to himself.
A Little More Lively
Someone is singing in the room. A woman in a pale top sits beside a man picking a small stringed instrument. Behind them, a listener sits at a table with a hanging cloth and a round metal vessel on top. People are close together, and so is the music.
The singer smiles and begins to clap. Behind her, another listener smiles and claps too; the fingers on the strings keep busy. A room can grow lively without much ceremony.
A room grows lively.
When he speaks of his birthday, Rinpoche also remembers the work of arranging it. Singing, composing, editing, organizing, administering: someone has to do it all. The birthday man receives the celebration; the work is in many other hands.
He is grateful for the work, and hopes everyone has enjoyed themselves. If his birthday gives friends and family a good, wild time, there can be more to come.
He even beseeches Arya Tara to bless him with parties wilder and weirder still. The next gathering, he hopes, can be livelier still.
Beyond the Cake
For his birthday in 2022, even the cakes eaten on his behalf are on his mind. People have baked them for him and eaten them for him. He hopes all this kindness will not raise their sugar levels or harm their health.
Others wish him a long life; his concern travels back to them. Their lives, their prosperity and their connection to the dharma are what he values.
He offers particular thanks to those who have released lives, planted trees, or made it possible for others to plant them. The birthday has reached as far as that.
“For life is all we have.” The beings released, he says, must feel the same, even if they do not think it. His “we” has room for many small lives.
A thin thread of smoke rises from an incense burner. Long leaves of scripture lie open on a wooden stand, line beside line. Smoke bends across the foreground; the shrine figures behind it sit quietly.
Smoke and pages.
At the Window
For his birthday in 2025, the joke is still there: thank you for being so relentless in reminding him he is getting old. Gratitude is due, but the question of age must still be accounted for.
At the window there is just a small flying insect. The frame is brown, the window open. The insect comes close to the edge, then flies a little way off.
Outside are green trees, a stone wall, and a pale slope in the distance. Against all that light and space, the insect takes up one tiny spot.
A movement of the wings, and it is somewhere else.
