Had a family reunion recently. A traveling party of Tibetan monks who were accompanying the 17th reincarnation of their teacher.
Nice bunch. All of ‘em. First thing I noticed was they didn’t push in line. Or mutter snide little remarks at you under their breath. Or give you that fake “fcuk you” smile while they cut you off for the next taxi.
One of them, Zimpon-la, was this tiny little smiling artifact of a monk. Old. Real old. Like, “Knew the Buddha…personally”, old.
Had never been on a plane. Took a 14 hour flight from India to NYC, woke up the next day and ambled around as we toured The Met, The Reuben Museum, Rockefeller Center and Ground Zero.
Never stopped smiling. He was like being around a small little nova of goodness. You’d smile back at him, and he’d reach out and hold your hand. Just hold your hand. You could feel centuries of life in the crease of his palm. Suddenly you were in Tibet, sipping hot tea while snow peaks shone golden in morning sun-rays.
Then, just like that you were back. In NYC. And there was Zimpon-la, ambling down the hallway to his hotel room. Small little shuffling steps, taking him down the hallway like it was just another journey in his life.
Last I saw him, he was walking towards me to the dining room. I was so happy to see him. Had been a long time. Maybe, lifetimes. “Ahhh, Zimpon-la” kind of escaped from my lips, half-tearful, half-laughing to see my old friend.
He just beamed. Reached out, took my hand in his. He sort of held my hand to steady himself as he walked by. I wondered how many high mountain plateaus we’d traveled together, over the years.
How many long walks we’d taken across grassy meadows so vast it took an hour for the wind to blow over them from one end to the other. Cold, very cold, biting cold winters tent bound, sipping thick Tibetan tea laced with butter which coated our wind cracked lips.
Then, just like that I was back in NYC.
Sirens wailed, people yelled at one another. Time was no longer measured by how long the sun was in the sky, but by how late we were to the next meeting. Everyone looked so unhappy, rushing around.
A man cursed a woman who mistakenly took his drink from the counter at Starbucks. A women “tsked” in hot frustration at me because I wasn’t walking fast enough.
My lips were no longer cracked.
But my heart was.
Then I saw Zimpon-la. Tiny, little, robe-wearing, smiling Zimpon-la. Now, he was even smaller. In fact, he was inside every person I saw. There he was smiling, kindly. Helping others. And I realized, we’re all Zimpon-la’s. We just forget sometimes.
I’m trying to not push anymore. Or curse people under my breath. Or be angry with people because they’re too slow, too in-the-way, too old, too young, too loud, too rich, too homeless, too whomever-they are.
I’m trying to be patient. And kind.
There’s no need to hurry anymore, old is the new young.
