The Mantle
Not a resting place for the ashes of old lives
Forty years ago
“Be careful!” his voice stopped me in mid-descent. “Those cacti will go right through your tennis shoes.” Nodding, I took a few more steps down to the small ledge-like outcropping I’d chosen as my seat. Cross-legged in the desert scrub at night wasn’t the best idea. This perch gave me the luxury of settling my feet.
High on a ridge, overlooking the desert, we settled, breathing in the pure dry air, laced with sand and stillness. Calm. The nightly noises of the desert took over from our chattering minds, busy with unloading the four-wheel drives.
“Okay is everyone settled?” my Teacher gazed through the pitch dark. “Tonight I’m not going to talk much. I want to show you something.” As people began to meditate, he said, “No. Keep your eyes open, please. I want you to physically see this.” At that, his body vanished. Not unusual for him, but this was different.
At first I thought I saw a gigantic Buddha in the classical seated position, but as soon as my mind latched onto that, it morphed into an immense black void, whose blackness turned to midnight blues and deeps, punctuated by stars.
Through the starry depths emerged image after image of the enlightened ones, gods and goddesses, buddha after buddha…
