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The Flying Mystics An image of a kingly eagle Some thirty years ago, when I was studying Tantric Buddhism with the Tibetan lamas in the refugee camps of Himalayan India, I became a student of a master by the name of Ngakpa Yeshey Dorjey Rinpochey. At the time, he was living as a rainmaker and rainstopper, and his most famous client was the present Dalai Lama. Whenever the Dalai Lama was scheduled to give a teaching or initiation somewhere, Ngakpa-la would be dispatched a few days in advance to perform his weather-control rituals. Generally he would be asked to make a few light sprinkles in places that were overly dry and dusty, or to stop the rain if the heavy Indian monsoon season had set in. In Old Tibet the Dalai Lamas generally kept three weather lamas of this nature in their employ. However, as refugees in India, the Tibetan Government-In-Exile could afford only the one. During my twelve-year study in Dharamsala, I saw Ngakpa-la control the weather in this way on several dozen occasions. When he wasn’t busy with tasks to facilitate the Dalai Lama’s teaching schedule, he would accept simpler contracts from more ordinary folks. Farmers would hire him to make rain during planting season, or to stop rain during harvest. Similarly, construction companies would often avail themselves of his skills; the most common request here was for him to stop the rain when cement was being poured to create the roof of a large building, and then make occasional light sprinkles for the few days to follow, to prevent cracking of the newly set cement. Although popularly known as Ngakpa-la, or “Mantrika,” and also as Chargak Lama, or “The Rainstopper,” Rinpochey was in fact the fifth incarnation of a famous flying mystic from the mid-seventeenth century. In other words, he was one of Tibet’s three thousand tulkus, or “reincarnate lamas,” and had been discovered and recognized as such when only two or three years old. His official incarnation name was Chokden Lama, or “The Winged Lama,” a title given to him by the Fifth Dalai Lama in roughly 1650 because of his flying abilities. The gravity-defying adventures of this master came to the Fifth Dalai Lama’s attention when a tribe of marauding Mongolian warriors attacked the former’s temple. Looting temples and other treasure troves in foreign lands was a main source of Mongolia’s income at the time. Tibet, as Mongolia’s neighbor to the south, was a popular target. Most Tibetan homes, temples and monasteries were therefore encircled with a high wall so as to offer some protection from just such an attack. On this occasion, the Mongolians surrounded the lama’s hermitage and prepared to make their assault. Suddenly the lama stepped onto the temple roof, stretched out his arms in wing-like fashion, and soared off into the air, his white yogic robes flowing in waves around him. He flew in circles above the Mongolians for some time, singing mystical verses to them and daring them to shoot their arrows. They were thunderstruck by the spectacle, dropped their weapons, prostrated in respect, and begged his forgiveness. The Fifth Dalai Lama, who had become spiritual and temporal head of Tibet in 1642, soon heard of the event. He sent a letter to the flying mystic, asking him to come to Lhasa for a tête-à-tête. The Great Fifth re-named him Chokden Lama, which literally translates as “Lama Possessing Wings.” He also proclaimed him to be a national treasure, and commanded him to set up the infrastructure of a reincarnate lama. In other words, the Winged Lama should immediately plan his future lives, so that each successive reincarnation could be found at a young age, returned to his hermitage, and re-trained in the traditional lineages of his predecessors. Ngakpa Yeshey Dorjey was in his fifth incarnation as the Winged Lama when I first met and studied with him in 1972. As fate would have it, he was again closely connected with the Dalai Lama, although this time it was with the latter’s Fourteenth rather than Fifth incarnation. Ngakpa-la was only in his fifth rebirth since his meeting with the Fifth Dalai Lama, so obviously his emanations had all enjoyed far longer lives than had those of his protégé. Another of my Tibetan gurus in India was the late, great Serkong Tsenzhab. The latter part of his name, “Tsenzhab,” is a title indicating that he was a tutor to the Dalai Lama. In Tibet a young Dalai Lama would be given two principal gurus, known as Yongdzin Chey Chung, or “Senior and Junior Guardians,” and seven scriptural tutors, known as Tsenzhab Dun, or “Seven Scriptural Tutors.” Serkong Tsenzhab Rinpochey was one of the humblest and most down-to-earth people I have ever met, which makes the story that he told all the more powerful. At the time a Western Buddhist nun had come to visit him, bringing two friends with her. During their conversation one of the ladies described a famous kite festival in Tibet that she had read about, and asked Rinpochey if he had ever witnessed it. Perhaps the question was not translated quite correctly, because Rinpochey replied, “No, I never saw kites fly. But I did once see a man fly.” Everyone was stunned, and their mouths dropped open. Rinpochey looked at them inquisitively and said, “You people are Buddhists. Surely you know that highly accomplished masters can fly.” He then went on to tell his story. The event occurred, he said, when he was in his youth. He and his father were out taking a walk in the mountains behind their home, when they saw a famous yogi step out of his cave. The yogi had been in retreat for some fifteen years, and in accordance with retreats of that nature had an injunction not to meet with anyone during the extent of the practice, with the exception of his gurus, a designated doctor in case of medical emergencies, others who had completed a similar yogic training, or the handful of people who had been designated to bring him his occasional delivery of basic food staples, i.e., barley flour, tea and butter. Thus when the yogi stepped out of his cave and came face to face with two peoples not on his list, he was placed in an awkward situation. At a loss for any other means by which to avoid breaching his sacred pledge of solitude, he stretched out his arms like a bird extends its wings, and flew off into the sky. The Western woman looked at Rinpochey and blurted, “Fly! Did you say fly? Did he start running and then take off in a cloud of dust? What did it look like?” Rinpochey replied, “No, there was no dust. The yogi simply looked at us, very calmly stretched out his arms, gently hopped from the earth, and took off in flight. There was no running and no dust.” The oral and literary traditions of Tibet are rich in stories of this nature. Similarly, themes celebrating famous flyers are popular subjects in Tibetan art. Anyone who has spent any amount of time listening to Tibetan lamas teach, or has read much Tibetan historical and biographical literature, or is an enthusiast of Tibetan sacred art, will be well aware of the legacy. Most Tibetans take the stories at face value, for they believe that all humans have the potential to fly. In fact, according to Buddhist doctrine, everyone who accomplishes high spiritual realization also attains this power. However, not everyone who gets it will publicly demonstrate it, for to do so requires the facilitating condition of what Tibetans call dul-ja ley-gi trelpa denpa, or “beings to be tamed possessing the necessary karmic connections.” In other words, an ordinary person must have the good karma to witness such an extraordinary event. Although tales of flying mystics of the past are widely prevalent in the Buddhist tradition, stories of such masters in the present generation are always kept secret. This is to honor the command of the Buddha himself, who said, “Leave public talk of personal experiences of a paranormal nature to those with delusions of grandeur.” In other words, one should not speak openly of one’s own direct experiences of such phenomenon, other than in very particular and discrete situations. Buddhism as a living tradition thought hard about how to solve the dilemma of the edict not to speak about personal experiences of paranormal phenomena. After all, this edict runs counter to the natural human urge to immediately share stories of all unusual experiences with family, friends and even strangers. The result was an unwritten rule to the effect that one could publicly celebrate paranormal stories about masters who had already passed away, but should be more discrete in dealing with extraordinary deeds of the living masters. For this reason I have been very careful in the above two anecdotes not to describe my own direct sightings of flying mystics, but rather to limit myself to relating flying episodes that were proclaimed by two of my teachers, both of whom have long since passed away. Were I to describe my own sightings of yogic UFOs, it would only serve as evidence of my ignorance of that particular instruction from the Buddha. On a different note, in the early 1990s I was asked to look into the possibilities of getting permission for a few Tibetan athletes to participate in the Summer Olympics that were scheduled to take place in Atlanta in 1996. Everyone thought that this would be a fun way to remind the international community of Communist China’s continued illegal occupation of Tibet. I spoke to the Dalai Lama about the idea, and suggested that we try to enter some Tibetan flying mystics in several track and field events, such as high jump, long jump, and so forth. The Dalai Lama laughed and replied, “Don’t you think that this would be cheating? They would have such an unfair advantage over the ordinary athletes.” In the end we didn’t succeed in our quest. The Olympic Committee did not want to irritate China by giving Tibet a visible presence at the games, and the lamas were reluctant to play with such an unfair advantage. However, two Atlanta residents and cultural impresarios — Geshey Lobsang Tenzin Negi, a Tibetan lama who teaches at Emory University and also serves as the Director of the Drepung Loseling in Atlanta, and Prof. Lloyd Nick, the Director of the Oglethorpe University Museum of Art — convinced me that it might be more practical to organize an exhibit of personal sacred art objects of His Holiness the Dalai Lama in Atlanta during the period of the Olympics. This at least would give the Tibetans a presence in Atlanta during the games. The exhibit indeed came to pass, and I was careful to see that a few paintings were included containing references to Tibet’s famed flying mystics. If we were not going to be allowed to have the flyers compete in the flesh, then we could at least have them present in spirit. The exhibit and accompanying reader were entitled “The Mystical Arts of Tibet, featuring sacred personal objects of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.” The show broke all attendance records at OUMA, and the accompanying reader (The Mystical Arts of Tibet, published by Longstreet Press) sold well. How delighted I was, then, when recently Donald and Shelley Rubin of the Rubin Museum of Art in New York invited me to curate an exhibition of Tibetan paintings for the Oglethorpe University Museum of Art in Atlanta, and also to write an accompanying reader. Back to our discussion of flying mystics at the Olympic games: I still think we should continue to apply to the Dalai Lama to have him send some Tibetan flyers to a future Olympic event. At the very least, we should demand a levitator or two. But perhaps this will have to wait for the world to have a few more dulja ley-gi trelpa denpa, or “beings to be tamed having the necessary karmic connections” to personally witness such a spectacle. From their side, the Himalayan flyers and levitators are willing and able to come fly over here for a while. They just await our karmic ripeness, the mysterious force of destiny that would enable us to meet with or behold the flying mystics in person. In the meantime, we will have to content ourselves with stories of the magical exploits of these unique beings as found in the literary and oral traditions, and also as depicted so frequently and with such enthusiasm in Tibetan sacred art. Exerpted from Glenn Mullin’s book, The Flying Mystics of Tibetan Buddhism, published by Snow Lion Publishers, NY. |
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