The Golden Storm Book I

By Robbie Robinson

Jeffery Scott Ramsden, is a professor of Asian Culture in a Southern California university. He has his idyllic life destroyed by random accident when his wife and parents are killed in an auto crash. Confused and shocked he spirals down losing all interest in living. Then, when all appears lost, he experiences an event that changes his life forever and which draws him to a mystical monastery deep in central Tibet.

Little does Jeff know his journey will lead him to find powers beyond his imagination. He will also uncover a global plot to plunge the world into a devastating war and will need all his new-found powers to thwart it. But can he do it alone? And can he learn fast enough to bring his strength to bear before these forces bring chaos to civilization?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robbie Robinson
• Release date: May 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9780971961708

Robbie Robinson

Though my pen name is Robbie Robinson, I was born Harold Banta Robinson in Newport, Rhode Island, on August 5th, 1946, son of a US Naval Officer. I spent the first 15 years of my life traveling the world wherever my father was stationed. I spent my pre-teen years in Morocco at the time it was getting its independence from France. I attended school in England and traveled extensively through Europe with my parents.My family moved to Mexico in 1960 when my father retired and I spent several years in school there, learning Spanish and other Latin American subjects.In 1966 I joined the US Marine Corps and spent a tour of duty in Vietnam. I was wounded twice and served with honor, my battalion being decorated several times for action in the field.I returned from the war disillusioned with violence and went back to Mexico, where I attended college. I began to study the various world religions and found a great affinity with Buddhism. As a religious philosophy it offered an antithesis to a violent world. During my time in Mexico I began an amateur writing career and then decided to become a writer. I moved to California in the late 1960's on my way to Asia to study Buddhism, but became enchanted as so many others with the Southern California coast and have never left.Today I live in the greater Los Angeles area, am recently a widow and have a son who is working in the film industry as an film editor, and who is married and I have a granddaughter, Dawn.My first book is the Golden Storm which is the first of a series of 9 books and is, in part, a culmination of years of research and spiritual searching. It is also the realization of my dream to write.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Error runs down an inclined plane, while Truth has to laboriously climb its way up hill.

Ancient proverb

The butter lamp flickered from a cold wind gusting through the dark chamber and chased shadows into the corners of the thick, ancient walls of the monastery wherein the room lay. The swirling air had the smell of snow off of high mountains and it made the room even colder than it had been. As the wind died, the night seemed to close in around the wavering light.

The room was bare, except for an exquisite carpet placed near the lamp. On the carpet sat a small man, a wizened ancient with the face of a child, serenity smoothing his wrinkles like a fountain of youth. The cold draft of air had not stirred the wisps of hair on his head, nor had it ruffled the dark, wine-colored robe he wore. If you were to touch his skin, you would have found it warm. He hardly appeared to breathe, so slow and deep was the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were focused far beyond the room and his awareness was flung out across the world, searching. He had sat in meditation since dusk the day before and had not moved even when a novice had come in and replaced the butter oil in the lamp to keep it burning through the long night.

In time, a window high in the wall of the room began to change from a black hole to a graying light. Then, as if called forth, a shaft of golden sunlight spilled into the room as the sun rose from behind distant peaks. A brilliant patch of yellow began to gradually move down the wall opposite the window until the beam began to illuminate the head of the old man. As the shaft of light touched his hair, it blazed into a halo of spun gold. His body took a deep breath and his eyes focused on the room. A smile deeply wrinkled his child-face.

He rose from the carpet and moved gracefully across the room to a small door set in the wall. Opening it, he stepped onto a veranda that ran the length of the monastery. His gaze lifted up eastward, across a valley far below, toward the distant mountains, whose tips were catching the morning light. Again, a smile creased his face and his eyes lit with an inner joy. He turned and moved down ancient, worn steps to the communal rooms in the lower part of the ancient structure.

Lobsang Rangjung was just heading to morning prayers when the old man found him. His tall, spindly frame bowed deeply as he greeted his abbot.

Good morning, Holiness.

The old man bowed in return. Reaching up, he placed his hands on either side of Lobsang’s head and gently pulled him down until their foreheads touched. I have sensed a Great One reborn and have found him, he said in a quiet voice. Summon the council.

Lobsang’s eyes widened. At once, Holiness. With a multitude of questions unanswered and, knowing his abbot would not answer them, he could do no less than gather the council quickly, so he turned and hurried away.

A short time later, the council was assembled in the abbot’s reception chamber. The high-ceilinged room was hung with hand-woven tapestries of rich color and intricate design, of great age, depicting scenes of ancient mysticism. Down each side of the room, crimson-painted wooden columns soared up and were lost in curling drifts of incense rising from braziers along the sides of the room. Sunlight slanted down from windows set high in the walls, diffusing into the smoke filled room and illuminating the gathering in soft golden color. The old abbot sat among silk pillows at the head of the room on a slightly raised dais. Arranged down the hall were the seven members of the monastery's governing council. They sat on cushions at low tables upon which rested tea cups and fans.

Since its foundation this monastery’s governing council had always had seven members and an abbot. Seven was considered a mystical number, signifying great causation and eight was the symbol of the Infinite. These numerical significances had been lost to the greater world in ages past, other than filtered and altered in the almost forgotten art of numerology and the wanderings of New Age gurus. But because of a deeper and more complete understanding of how the universe manifested, when this council of eight met, a great power was generated. Recent Western experiments had demonstrated when an observer was present the outcome of the experiment was different than when no observer was present but had balked at the idea there was an influencing connection between observer and observed. But this monastery had long known of the power of life interaction and with this power it was possible to bring into existence things which may never have existed otherwise – changes in the world and in the structure of civilization.

Nevertheless, the assembly had an outward appearance of normality with butter tea steaming in the cool morning air, placed there by novices who quietly departed.

Lobsang, as the abbot’s chamberlain, sat to the abbot’s right. His bald head, long face and thin body made him stork-like in appearance, his wine-colored robe hanging loosely around him. When he was nervous he knew his head swayed like a bird, so he kept his eyes averted and tried to concentrate on his tea cup. The immensity of the abbot’s message had deeply disturbed his usual calm and he did not want the disturbance to be noticed. He tried to keep his hands from fluttering by consciously placing them in his lap as he sat staring at his tea without seeing it. Silently he recited a mantra over and over – a litany of ancient, soothing words. He knew the abbot sensed his discomfort and, out of politeness, he strove to remain at least outwardly calm.

The room was quiet as each drank his butter tea. The only sounds were the gentle clicking of rosary beads and the soft murmur of voices as some of the monks talked quietly amongst themselves. Finally, the tea finished, the abbot cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of the meeting and the voices fell silent. Each monk sat up and focused their attention on their abbot.

The abbot, the Tulku Renchen Dorje Rinpoche, began speaking. His voice was low yet carried clearly through the room. His body did not move – in fact, it appeared that even his mouth did not open even as his voice filled the room. Deep lavender eyes looked at and through each seated monk. Each had the impression his abbot was sitting next to him, the voice in his ear like a confidential whisper.

"As you know, this monastery has spent many centuries waiting and watching for a Great One to come, one who will bring a new age of peace and enlightenment. Our oldest texts point to this age we live in as the time of his birth. The ancient writings tell us he will come from the West and will lift this world from illusion and darkness.

We have waited and prepared for one such as him for many years, our faith in the writings of his coming leading us forward. In these years, the Chinese have invaded our land, destroyed thousands of ancient texts, burned thousands of monasteries and shrines and killed thousands of our brethren. They have thrown great confusion into the lives of our people and driven them into apathy, causing many to turn away from the Path. A systematic destruction of our beliefs is even now still in progress. The abbot paused and there was pain in his eyes. Karma is often difficult, he said softly.

Many of the eyes of the lamas reflected this anguish, though their faces remained impassive. Except for a slight shift in some of the robes, which could have been the slight breeze in the room, there was no other movement. Mention of the legend of a Great One alerted everyone that something important was to be announced.

While this monastery was located in Tibet, it was far older than any Buddhist or Bon enclave and had existed for thousands of years previous. Buddhist legends spoke of the mystical Shambhala, a kingdom of spirit and enlightenment, from which would spring forth the final civilization of Earth. Shambhala had been sought by men for ages, most recently by Nicholas Roerich on behalf of an unofficial request of the United States. Hitler had sought it as a final solution to world conquest. No one had found it. Shambhala hid itself from the world and only those chosen could penetrate its mysteries.

Who were these monks and what did they worship? Let it be said they were followers of Truth and an older order of things. Much of their structure had filtered down into the newer religions and many of their truths as well. Yet they sat philosophically above and behind any existing religion on Earth. Their task was to watch for and bring to awareness rare individuals born into existence who had the ability to bring positive changes into the world.

The abbot looked up and continued. I have guided and protected this monastery, as have my predecessors, so we may be here to prepare the way for Great Ones, who will bring new enlightenment to the world. This is all knowledge you already know.

What you don’t know is, as of this day, our wait has ended. I have found one and he is in the West, as predicted.

The atmosphere in the room abruptly changed. It was as if the space in the chamber suddenly became clearer, more vibrant, the air shimmering with energy. The awareness of a great event passed through each monk and their attention focused more intently on the present moment. That focusing caused a psychic surge of power and it was not incidental most people of good will in the world felt a slight lifting of the heart for that moment and there was a quick sense of new hope that caused many of them to glance at those around them looking for something ineffable.

Lhaje Dhakpo Rinpoche, the monastery school’s headmaster sat to the abbot’s left. His face showed a deep peace and serenity, his age indeterminate. He sat in quiet dignity, his hands folded in his lap, a slight disturbance showing as his fingers quietly moved across his rosary beads. "Is this truly a Great One like the Buddha, Holiness?

The abbot’s face showed a flicker of doubt. I’m not certain if he is a Great One. He is one of great karmic strength and has tremendous potential. And that he is born in the West is an important sign.

But certainly not born in Islam, Holiness? asked the headmaster.

No, much further west, the old abbot smiled, America.

There was a stunned silence in the room.

America? exclaimed Padme Samdo, a monk sitting next to the headmaster. He raised his hands in a gesture of surprise. How can a Great One have been born into such a materialistic society as America?

Tulku Padme Samdo was the monastery librarian; a quiet man, well versed in the ancient scriptures the monastery so carefully guarded and which had never seen the outside world. He was short and compactly built. But his robes were always in disarray as if he had slept in them. He wore thick glasses and had ink stains on his fingers and looked like a librarian which, of course, he was. But his mind was sharp and his insight into the history of religions and philosophical ideas profound. He was the reincarnation of a monk of exceptional knowledge who had lived 100 years earlier and who had occupied the same position he now held. But at the moment he was disturbed by this unfolding knowledge.

Do not underestimate America, replied the abbot. While it leans toward what we understand as material illusion, it has great strengths. Its people have great heart and are, for the most part, gently inclined and seek the betterment of life. They are great humanitarians when compared to much of the world and their tolerance of diverse cultures and religions is greater than any other unenlightened nation. Given the right impetus, this nation could lead the world into the golden age. It is perhaps perfect a Great One is born there, if that is what he is. It is a new place in time, a new beginning and not burdened by thousands of years of karmic debt.

The abbot looked at his monks. He does not, of course, know yet he is a chosen one. His western upbringing has dimmed his awareness in some ways, though sharpened it in others. But it is one reason why I did not find him until he was fully grown.

Fully grown! But, Holiness, if he does not perceive he is a reborn one, how can we help him to bring a golden age into the world? It takes many years to train an acolyte, Lobsang, the chamberlain, spoke for the first time.

Nevertheless, it is our task to bring him to an awareness of who he is. It is the task this monastery was originally created for and why it has been so important for us to remain hidden, outside the turmoil of this country. Now we must begin our task in earnest and this will entail danger for us in more ways than one, replied Dorje.

How so, Holiness? asked Lobsang.

We must bring this man here to Tibet to this monastery and this will be very dangerous. The abbot paused to watch the faces around him as they contemplated this.

Our strength will be tested against the followers of illusion who use force and violence to achieve their material aims. We do not use force nor have we ever needed to confront this evil directly. This is because we do not put our attention on illusion. But we will now have to deal with this to bring the American here.

He paused to let his monks contemplate this and then continued. And what do you think this one will bring to us when he has awakened? I do not think our perceptions of spiritual truths will be able to remain as they are, for he may bring the final answers and these have not been known before. We will be tested and we will have to be awakened to a higher reality. This may prove difficult for some of us and possibly dangerous.

But surely this one will maintain the basic precepts of the Great Ones who have come before, Holiness, the Teacher said in a quiet voice. To think this American might completely change all he had spent his life studying and following shook him to his core.

No doubt, smiled the abbot, sensing the headmaster’s discomfort. Basic truths remain absolute as far as this plane of existence goes. Yet we will have to face the still unseen truths that bring full emancipation and enlightenment. I cannot imagine what they will be. If I could, then I would be a Great One. It should prove to be interesting, would you not say?

Interesting…yes, Holiness, interesting, the headmaster laughed gently. Suddenly his fears dissipated and his hopes rose. A final answer to spiritual entrapment, a freeing of the spirit to ascend to full enlightenment -- for everyone! For once, it was hard for the Lhaje Rinpoche to remain detached. Just as suddenly, his fear of confronting the materialistic evil in the world vanished. Perhaps right action was being called forth.

And now we must make plans to send someone to America to contact the reborn one and invite him to come to Tibet, though I do not feel this will prove a difficult task. He will be inclined in this direction, anyway. His innate spiritual nature and his karma will guide him to us. But he must come into Tibet physically and this will require our help. Dorje turned to the master of novices.

Urgyen Gyaltsab, I will require your best novice. This will be both a test for him, as well as a great privilege, for he will be the first of us to meet the reborn one. He is not to know he will be approaching a Great One, only that he is inviting a man to Nepal and accompanying him there. I, personally, will meet them in Nepal and bring them into Tibet. This is to be done to maintain our secrecy and hide our actions.

Urgyen Gyaltsab, an immense man full of great serene joy, who guided his novices on their first steps on the Path to Truth, gave a deep rumble of joy. His frame shook with each deep chuckle and his eyes all but disappeared into folds of flesh as his face creased into a wide grin. He gazed around at the assembled monks with the same detached amusement with which he surveyed all of life. What fun this was to be.

I have the perfect novice for this, Holiness, Urgyen stated. It had come to him immediately when he realized what the task was. He is the Tulku Pomdrakpa Rinpoche, a promising young man. He is the reincarnation of Lodru Khyempa Rinpoche, a monk of the 12th century by Western reckoning, who traveled far into Asia Minor along the Silk Road bringing the wisdom of Buddha. He is used to traveling to the West. Urgyen’s huge corpulent frame shook with silent laughter.

Yes, of course, smiled the abbot, a wise choice. Please prepare him for his journey but remember he is not to know whom he is meeting.

Urgyen bowed in assent.

The abbot then turned to the monastery provisioner, a monk of prodigious abilities. Nyugu Dorje almost single-handedly saw to feeding and housing the population of the monastery, handling its lands and husbandry and maintaining communications discreetly with the outside world. His attention to detail was a hallmark of his enlightened spirit. Nyugu Dorje, you must provide the novice with all that is necessary to get him to America and back and provision a yak train from here through the Xanhu Pass and back to bring the Reborn One here.

Holiness, the yak train will be ready and I can arrange passage for Pomdrakpa into Nepal and, from there, to America. We have friends in Nepal who can arrange this. Additionally, I will be able to provide him with ample funds and Western clothing for his journey. But where exactly in America am I sending him -- and what incarnation does the reborn one have, so Pomdrakpa may identify him?

I will provide you that information later this day, replied the abbot. First I must see the novice and give him the information he will need to make his pilgrimage. Please come and see me after the noon meal.

Yes, Holiness, Nyugu rose and bowed. Sensing the enclave was at an end the other monks also rose, bowed and began filing out of the room.

Lobsang remained behind and when the other monks had left he asked, Holiness, you mentioned only one reason for having difficulty locating the Reborn One. Was there another?

Yes, my son, the abbot looked at his chamberlain and there was a worry in his eyes Lobsang had never seen there before. Someone was trying to prevent me from finding him.

CHAPTER 1

"The golden rays issued from his skin and the golden portions of his eyes. Owing to them the different quarters of the globe shone as though besprinkled with some golden liquid, or overlaid with sheets of gold…"

From the Atthasalini

The late afternoon California sun slanted down under the trees and cast a warm golden glow on the day’s end. Jeff Ramsden could feel its warmth on his closed eyes and a slit of bright sun sparkled under his eyelashes. Nevertheless, the sun did not warm him any deeper than his eyelids and the surface of his skin. As his long slender body lay in his hammock in the backyard of his hillside Montecito cottage, his troubled mind returned repeatedly to a point in time, fixated by horror, three months earlier.

When the phone call came he was sitting in his university office. It had been a good day of teaching and research. He had seen one of his students brighten mid-course upon realizing she finally understood the difference between Mahayana and Hinayana Buddhism, known as the Greater and Lesser Vehicle. This had given him a vicarious joy of discovery, one reminding him of his own passion for Buddhist philosophy.

Then, sitting in his office with bright, cheery sun filling his office, he once again poured over an old copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead and once again thought he had penetrated its meanings just a little bit deeper. It really had been a good day. Then the phone call came and, with it, his world disappeared into agony.

Mr. Ramsden? a voice, female he thought, asked in a neutral official tone.

Yes, can I help you? he replied, distracted.

Mr. Jeff Ramsden, of 503 Arcadia Lane? The voice sounded mechanical and distant, hardly feminine at all, now that he thought about it.

Yes, I’m the guy. Can I help you? His attention was now drawn to the emotionless voice.

I’m sorry to report your wife and, we believe, your parents have been killed in a head-on auto accident on the 101 Freeway, she said.

Jeff sat there, his mind refusing to work. The words bounced around in his head while he tried to make sense of them. Must be a mistake, he didn’t hear it right, that was it. They have the wrong person. Bounce, bounce.

Not sure if she said wife, or parents, or both. Bounce, bounce.

Mr. Ramsden? Hello? Are you there? The disembodied voice rasped in his ear. Why couldn’t they leave him alone, he was thinking - phone calls in the middle of the day?

Then he figured he ought to answer. Yes? Yes, I’m here. His mind starts to go into overload, numbness seeping over his body. What do you want?

Did you understand what I said, Mr. Ramsden? We need you to come down to the hospital for positive identification. Or we can send a car for you, if you would prefer.

A car? Yes, a car would be good. It was the last coherent thought he had until a long time later. Yes, he had seen the bodies, yes, they were his whole life, yes, there was the funeral, yes, life had to go on, yes, his friends were supportive.

Whatever.

Carol Allison Ramsden. Carol had been his life. They first met in grammar school and had become good friends, in spite of being the opposite sex. They both loved hiking and exploring and had trekked the hills of Santa Barbara together many summers. Then in high school they began dating – what appeared to be a typical teenage romance. But it wasn’t. It had been built on mutual admiration and a friendship that had only grown. In their last year in college, he had proposed. She had accepted – there was no question. She took her degree in ethnobiology, a 20th Century discipline that studied the connections between environment and indigenous populations. He took his in anthropology and Eastern religion and they spent summers tramping the world on university sponsored research expeditions. They developed a respect for each other’s professional career in the same way they had for every other aspect of their lives. When Jeff came to teach at his old alma mater, so did Carol and they finally began to contemplate children. Like everything else between them, it was another part of their love and friendship and they looked forward to it with growing excitement.

The loss of his father, also a professor at the university and his mother, a teacher in a local elementary school deprived him of two of his best sounding-boards for life. They not only understood his passion for study but assisted him in many of his research endeavors with their own, not insubstantial, knowledge and education. They had been a close-knit family and Carol had been as much as daughter to them as she had been a wife to Jeff. In a world of declining family values, it was all an oddity, a throwback. But it was wonderful – the center of Jeff’s strength.

Now he lay in the hammock, a half-empty bottle of Scotch dangling in his hand and tried to turn time back like he did every waking moment he wasn’t working or having to deal with other people. What if he had called them and got them to meet him later? What if he had told his wife to stay home that day and not go out? What if he had just gone to pick them up himself instead of working late? What if they were coming to tell him she was pregnant? What if, what if, what if? That’s what regret was, wishing it hadn’t happened and trying to turn it around. But you couldn’t and it never did. Time just went forward, inexorably.

Whatever. He raised his head and took another swing of the 12 year old McClellan single malt. It still wasn’t helping.

So he lay there in the soft Santa Barbara sunlight with his thoughts churning around and around. Then something niggled at his awareness. It was like that pleasant feeling the warm smell of baking bread will give you or the sound of a gentle breeze stirring pine trees or, better yet, like being folded in the arms of your mother when you were young and in need of a pleasant place to be. It felt like that: a safe, happy feeling that comes with the best of the best times, everything perfect and beautiful and life full of promise.

He wondered where it had come from and put his attention on it. It seemed like it was coming from outside himself, outside his mind and body.

It was such an unusual feeling. And the more he put his attention on it, the stronger it became. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with the booze, in fact, the opposite.

Without consciously doing so, he let his senses move outward toward the feeling. They drifted up like smoke from the peaceful backyard. He picked up the sounds of a car passing on the street and the shouts of children skateboarding along the sidewalk in front of his house. In the background, the subtle murmur of Montecito underlay the early evening’s quieter sounds.

As he drifted, he imagined he was rising up above the town and he pretended he could look down on his drowsing form in the hammock strung between two live oaks. He gazed for a moment on a well-muscled body, tanned, red hair, handsome face, eyes closed. Then his imagined gaze swung up across the streets and homes and down toward the ocean, which was burnished with a golden sheen from the setting sun. Rising higher and looking north, he could see Santa Barbara with its sprawling marina, the boats drifting lightly on a high tide. Higher still and turning eastward, he perceived the Coast Mountains languishing in the late afternoon sun, their greens and browns muted to dusky rust and purple. As he moved across the sky, he could hear the sounds of greater Santa Barbara, automobiles rushing along Interstate 101, crowds along State Street, birds everywhere.

As he drifted higher, he spied the university to the north, jutting out on its promontory into the Pacific. He began to move toward the campus, lightly like a floating cloud. He felt calm, serene, happy, which he had trouble believing, but there it was. Then he was over the campus and moving toward the large building housing his small office and research room.

Without any transition, he was suddenly inside his office looking down at an open manuscript on his desk. The feeling that had drawn him was strong now. As he looked at the manuscript he saw it was an exquisitely rendered page from the Bardo Thödol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead. He could easily read the scripture: O child of noble birth, listen. Before you is the pure radiance of the clear light of reality. Remember it. O nobly born, your mind is now pure and empty, unformed and colorless, naturally clear, completely real, the Truth Body. In front of the text a face formed. It was benign and aged. It smiled at him in recognition. A sudden jolt went through him and his eyes flew open. He grasped and fumbled for a hold on something and almost threw himself out of the hammock. He dropped the Scotch bottle and it spilled out onto the lawn. Ignoring it, he lay there rocking back and forth, stunned. The vividness of the experience held his attention, particularly the phrase from the manuscript. He tried to dismiss it as imagination, but it was too real. Who was that face?

O child of noble birth, he murmured as he settled the swaying hammock, Before you is the pure radiance of the clear light of reality. The phrase was like a trigger. He felt an infusion of well-being, realizing, somehow, this is where the first feeling originated. He looked toward the last crimson glow of the setting sun. The sky around it was running in liquid streams from red to deep purple with borders of green. He had never seen anything like it. The sea was cobalt and the trees an iridescent green. Everything was vibrant and alive with energy. He looked down at his hands and they appeared to be glowing with some inner light. He could feel energy coursing up and down his arms. He had never felt so alive, so in tune with life. He felt as if everything around him was an extension of himself - as if he was infused into every particle of energy and matter in the universe. Time seemed to have no meaning, as if all time was forever now. It felt like any moment could be experienced at the same time as any other moment. It was marvelous and Jeff laughed out loud in pure joy. He did not even remember how the afternoon had begun in the hammock. Or rather, it seemed like a dark dream wafting away on the sunset.

He couldn’t think of what had happened to him. He didn’t feel drunk, in fact, he felt more sober than he had in weeks. He smiled and wondered when he had last been completely sober. He could still recall his ever present anguish but it was not as connected to him as before – more like a distant painless memory. Something was different. His mind drifted back to the open book.

He remembered The Bardo Thodol is used by monks to take a spirit at body death and attempt to guide it toward enlightenment, breaking the birth-death cycle. The words of scripture were whispered in the ear of the dying person. His mind swirled into the concepts of the text. He sensed and felt some great distance in his consciousness and a vast space opened. Memories and fantasies whirled around him, all of them pleasant, his loss buried under an intense optimism he couldn’t shake.

He wondered again if the alcohol had finally driven him over the edge. He tried to return to his misery and found he couldn’t and wondered why he would want to. Had the self-pity provided him some kind of substitute for his family? Just now things seemed clearer to him than they had in a long time. He looked again at his hands and still saw the glow of life energy. He looked up and still the air was filled with a communication, an attachment.

I’ve fallen into a drunken stupor in the middle of the afternoon and I should be glad it’s Sunday, he thought ruefully, again shaking his head, trying to dispel the imagery. But he knew it wasn’t true. He was too alive. He felt he could know anything and be anywhere. Reality seemed fluid, both in time and space.

A suppressed memory suddenly arose. He remembered a time when he was about thirteen and was climbing the hills behind Santa Barbara with Carol. He had reached the top of a lower hill and turned to look back at the ocean from the heights. In that moment he experienced a feeling that the whole world had opened to him. All of life seemed to communicate to him on some deep, bonded level.

He got the sense he was a shepherd of all of the life around him and he tried to dismiss it as light-headedness from the climb. However, the experience stayed with him vividly and worried him. He shied away from it, afraid he might be going crazy. Perhaps he was. It was one of the few things he had worried about sharing with Carol, afraid she wouldn’t understand. But she did and it had been the moment when he first thought he might be in love with her.

Now here was this same feeling again, even stronger. But rather than alarm him now, it made him simply curious. And then other, older and deeper memories began nudging at his awareness – flashes of mountains, brilliant blue skies, the sound of temple bells, the smell of snow.

Jeff Ramsden glanced around. What was going on? How did this have anything to do with anything? Who was that face? As his eyes wandered over the backyard and out to the sea in the distance, he felt an overwhelming need to pursue this experience further. He had a certainty if he turned his back on it somehow his denial would accelerate his life down a dark path where he would become lost in misery.

Turning away equated with returning to the emptiness of life without his family. It was a terrifying thought.

Dear God, what’s going on? Jeff spoke out loud, his fear solid, whether from the truth of the experience or the possibility of losing it all because he was insane. He couldn’t tell.

It looks to me like you are wasting a perfectly good surf day ruminating on imponderables, replied a voice.

Jeff looked up. Standing on his back porch was Tsang Rampa, his closest friend. For just a moment, Jeff saw a nimbus of shimmering green and blue light around Tsang that quickly faded as he walked over to Jeff.

The clarity of the previous moments diminished and Jeff felt as if he were shrinking, graying, the luster going out of his vision. With it went some of the fear and some of the loss returned. But not as much - not as much.

Are you okay, Jeff? Tsang asked as he studied Jeff’s troubled look. Tsang eased his lithe frame down into a lawn chair, brushing back his long, black hair. He glanced down at the empty Scotch bottle but didn’t say anything.

Jeff looked at his Tibetan friend. Short, dark, thin and wiry - Jeff thought he looked like a ballet dancer, but had never said so, even in fun. He didn’t know what the girls saw in him but they did. Tsang was almost buried in women. He even considered himself a macho American, for all his Asian looks. No other person in his life outside of Carol was as close a friend. He and Carol had met Tsang in college and they had all become fast friends. The Tibetan had joined them on many of their expeditions to Asia. Tsang was a Tibetan language teacher and this had been useful many times in the Himalayan Border States. His knowledge of the language spoken in the exiled Tibetan communities and his general understanding of the hill country had gotten them into many places they otherwise would not have. His irreverent, funny look at life had augmented Carol and Jeff’s love of adventure in such a way that the three of them had become inseparable. Tsang had once told Jeff that he would never marry because Jeff had stolen the only woman worth marrying on the planet. Carol had punched him. They all had laughed and gone surfing. But Jeff knew that Tsang was half in love with his wife and could well understand the sentiment. Jeff now looked at Tsang and wondered if that impish humor was going to surface if he tried to talk about what had just happened.

I think I’ve been drinking too much or working a little too hard on those translations, Jeff decided to say instead, as he wiped his hand across his forehead. He looked at his hand. It no longer glowed. He glanced at Tsang and saw a concerned expression on his friend’s face. I’m okay. Tell me what you’re up to.

I seem to recall, dude, you were going to meet me for some waves this afternoon. I’ve been down at Rincon waiting for you to show up for the last couple of hours. I did not, however, miss the opportunity to gather to myself some excellent rides you will have missed, for sure, bro, Tsang said, as he leaned back in the lawn chair, studying his friend. He saw the same square-jawed face, not beautiful or even particularly handsome, but honest and open. He saw the same wavy red-gold hair, same blue eyes; same tall, athletic frame he had known for years - but something was different. It wasn’t just Jeff’s expression, but something deeper.

Tsang, you know anything about the Bardo Thodol? Jeff asked his friend, not appearing to have heard a thing Tsang said.

Bardo Thodol? I thought we were talking about surfing. Tsang looked again at his friend. Jeff had a far-off look in his eyes, his attention on something distant. It was part of the change he saw, but not all of it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it seemed Jeff was less sorrowful than he had been in a long time. And he realized he was not going to get Jeff to discuss surfing today.

The Bardo Thodol. Hmmm. Yes, it’s the deathbed thing Tibetan monks do when somebody’s dropping the bod. They whisper in the guy’s ear or something even after he dies. Pretty weird. Why’d you ask?

"There’s a passage: 'O child of noble birth, listen. Before you is the pure radiance of the clear light of reality. Remember it. O nobly born, your mind is now pure and empty, unformed and colorless, naturally clear, completely real, the Truth Body.' Recognize