The hills are still black, but the sky has taken on color. A band of orange-red lies along the ridge, fading upward into gray-blue. The rise and fall of the hills is clear, though the foreground is still thickly black. Light has arrived first. The details can take their time.
A morning like this gives Rinpoche pleasure, and something with which to tease the late risers: look what they have missed. With the view laid out before them, staying in bed begins to look like a poor bargain.
“Free of charge”.
Among the good things the world offers, he has noticed this advantage too. Such a long ridge, such a wide sky; three words suffice to settle the price.
Rain to Spare
There are things from the sky that arrive in more than manageable quantities. Heavy rain strikes the paving outside a sheltered entrance. Water splashes up; farther off, everything is pale with rain. Several pairs of shoes stand nearby, their dark reflections on the wet ground.
Cars pass behind the curtain of rain. Someone shifts their feet, then stands still; water shines beside the soles, and the rain outside keeps falling thickly. Weather like this makes the shelter a very small portion of the world.
Rinpoche has an inquiry to make on the rain’s behalf: “Anyone needs rain?”
He asks as though he has something to spare and could let another person have some. The rain has yet to stop; he is already looking for someone to take it.
Rain to spare.
Mr Cuckoo
Some sounds, though, he worries he may not hear again. Early one morning in April 2017, in Bir, Rinpoche hears a cuckoo. His form of address is courteous: “Mr Cuckoo”.
He worries that, in a few years, the bird may no longer be heard in Bir. How much a morning would lose if a familiar voice were suddenly gone.
Would people in Bir please record its voice? Those with good recording equipment are asked to help.
He has thought of the equipment, too. With the freely given morning light, he can tease people for missing it; for this gentleman’s voice, he asks someone to keep a record.
Learning to Fly
Birds must have their own advantages in looking at a forest. Seen from the air, crowns of trees crowd together along the slopes, pale green beside dark green, with hardly a gap. Farther off, a hillside fades into a thin whiteness.
Beside the cabin window are a red sandal and dark red cloth draped over a leg. The sandal has a reflection in the glass; below it, the trees are thick. A machine gives its passenger a little of a bird’s view.
“Bird”. For Rinpoche, one word will do for this view from above.
A little of a bird’s view.
Yet he has also offered a less approving comment on people imitating birds. Near at hand is the cabin frame, with a long runway stretching ahead. The human version of a bird’s ability comes with quite a collection of equipment.
