Bodhisattva

“The great sage Gyalse Ngulchu Thogme (1295–1369) was born in Phuljung, a few miles to the southwest of Sakya Monastery, in Tsang, central Tibet. His father, Konchog Pal, “Glory of the Three Jewels,” and his mother, Chagza Bumdron, had pure minds and great faith in the Dharma. His mother had felt great joy, and her compassion had deepened, throughout the time he was within her womb. He was given the name Konchog Sangpo, “Excellence of the Three Jewels.” As soon as Gyalse Thogme learned to speak, it became evident how full of compassion he was. One day, as he sat on his mother’s lap, he saw a leaf whirled up into the air by the wind. He began to cry intensely.

“Why are you crying?” asked his mother. He pointed a finger at the disappearing leaf and said, “An animal has been carried away into the sky!” On another occasion, after he had begun to walk, he went outside but returned only a few minutes later, naked—to the great surprise of his mother. “What have you done with your clothes?” she asked. “There was someone out there who was feeling cold,” he replied. She stepped outside to see who it was, and saw that her son had put his clothing over a frost-covered bush. Stones had carefully been placed on the corners to keep the coat from flying off.

When he played games with his friends, Gyalse Thogme never minded losing. Indeed, he felt sad if others lost rather than he. Scouting for dry wood with the other children, he would feel glad when they found some, even when he himself came away empty-handed. But if he found wood and the others did not, he would either help them in their search or give them his own wood, for fear that their parents might scold them. As a game he used to make little stupas, or make believe that he was receiving teachings, or giving a teaching himself.

A few pages of a holy book in his hands would instantly turn any sorrow into happiness. But when people allowed their clothes to brush over the holy scriptures, or when they showed any other form of disrespect toward them, he would feel sad. In short, like all great beings, Gyalse Thogme suffered more than others when they themselves suffered, and he felt happier than others when they were happy.

He was three years old when his mother died, and lost his father when he was five. His grandmother raised him until he was nine, and then she, too, died. From then on, until he was fourteen, he was cared for by his maternal uncle, Rinchen Tashi, “Auspicious Gem,” who taught him to read and write. Gyalse Thogme was always grateful to the uncle who had set him on the spiritual path. One day, he said to his uncle, “From now on, give up attachment to this life and simply practice the Dharma. I’ll provide you with food and drink by going to beg for alms. This will be my way of repaying your kindness.” He kept his word, and that is how they lived from that time onward.

At the age of fourteen, having realized that the joys of samsara are like a dreadful burning pit of red-hot embers, he took the vows of a novice monk and received the name Sangpo Pal, “Splendor of Excellence.” The proper activities of a monk comprise study, reflection, and meditation, and accordingly, from the age of fifteen onward, he received teachings from numerous spiritual teachers of all schools. Never flagging in his studies, he soon became exceedingly learned. He not only memorized most of the texts he studied—sometimes upon hearing them only once—and penetrated their meaning without difficulty, but was also able to answer questions in public on the most subtle points of doctrine. His teachers declared him to be a second Asanga (Asanga was a great Indian pandita famous for his universal knowledge), and from then on he became known as Thogme Sangpo, “Excellent Asanga.” He was only nineteen. His learning in the sutras and tantras grew, and through meditation he developed authentic experience of the meaning of the teachings. His sincerity, motivation, and endeavor were such that during a month in retreat he made more progress in his spiritual realization than others might achieve in three years.

At the age of twenty-nine, he took the full monastic vows at the Monastery of É. He observed the discipline of a monk in an exemplary way until the end of his life, never neglecting even the minutest of vows. Aware of the negativity associated with animal furs and skins, he carefully avoided wearing clothes of such materials. He began to give regular teachings on fundamental Mahayana texts such as The Way of the Bodhisattva and The Transcendent Perfection of Wisdom, and composed numerous commentaries that clearly explain the profound meaning of these teachings. Gyalse Thogme was truly like the sun, radiating rays of compassion and wisdom toward all beings.

‘Shining from the great sun of his wisdom and love, Warm rays of teaching, debate, and composition Dispelled the darkness of ignorance And made the lotus garden of the Buddha’s teachings bloom.’

In the course of his studies and teaching, he encountered a period of great material hardship. Various people proposed that he learn how to give initiations and perform rituals in order to earn money without much effort. His response to such no doubt well-intentioned but misguided suggestions was to compose The Thirty-seven Verses on the Practice of a Bodhisattva, which sums up the whole bodhisattva path.

When Gyalse Thogme was thirty-two, he accepted the position of abbot at the Monastery of Tara, and remained there until he was forty-one. But when the Monastery of É insistently invited him to be its abbot, he declined, saying that someone better should be sought. He recommended the famous Khenpo Wanglo, who was duly appointed. Everyone was satisfied. Throughout his life, countless beings were drawn to Gyalse Thogme by his kindness, his gentle speech, his flawless behavior—always in accord with what he taught—and his skillful way of teaching in a manner appropriate to each individual’s nature and capacity.

‘Greet them with the flag of generosity, Appeal to them with gentle speech, Inspire their confidence by acting with consistency, Attune yourself to them and give them perfect advice.’ His generosity was indeed limitless. As it says in The Ornament of the Mahayana Sutras, “There is nothing a bodhisattva will not give: his wealth, his body—everything.” That was just how Gyalse Thogme, from his early youth, used to give away everything without restraint, giving whatever he had to friends and to the poor, regardless of his own poverty. To those who affectionately tried to stop him, saying that if he gave so much, he would have nothing left to live on, he would reply, “I won’t die of starvation. And even if I do, I don’t mind!”

Once, when a student came to see him, the only thing Gyalse Thogme had to give him was a precious stupa. Just afterward, one of his disciples, who could not bear to see his master part with such a sacred object, went to the student, bought the stupa from him, and offered it back to his master. But Gyalse Thogme gave it away to another person, and the same thing happened again several times. From his youth he had totally severed all ties of desire and attachment. He was a wonderfully good person. During a period of acute food shortages in Ngulchu, someone offered him some barley flour. Soon, Gyalse Thogme was giving away a full plate of it to any beggar who came by. Beggars came repeatedly until he hardly had anything left to eat himself. One beggar saw this and scolded the others, saying, “Don’t you see he has no more than a cupful of flour left? Isn’t it unfair to keep on begging from him like that?”

One day, Gyalse Thogme gave a beggar a fine woolen undergarment from central Tibet. And when the same man returned the following year, he gave him a new woolen cloak. The beggar was delighted, but Thogme, thinking that he could have given him something even better and that it was wrong not to do so, handed him his own long woolen cloak. However, the beggar stayed rooted to the spot, not daring to take it.

When someone told Gyalse Thogme that to be excessively generous to others and allow them to take whatever he had might not be truly beneficial to them, he replied, without any pretense, “I am truly happy that others use my possessions as much as they like.” And he added, “The Dharma Lord Jamsar said, ‘Since I do not have the slightest feeling that I am the owner of my belongings, someone who takes them all away can hardly be a thief.’ The great Kashmiri Pandita Shakya Shri, Lord Götsangpa, and many other sages took the vow never to own anything. Compared with their generosity, my own is like the tip-toeing of a fox compared with a tiger’s leap. Yet, since I try to emulate them, I feel that when people use my things and take them away, not only are they untarnished by the fault of theft, but their well-being is truly increased.”

The many beggars who used to live nearby said he always spoke gently to them; they never heard a single word of scolding from him. Gyalse Thogme himself sometimes said that he was never able to say harsh words to anyone. As he always attuned his words to the nature of others, there came a time when whatever he said was a spiritual instruction.

When trouble broke out in Sakya, Jamyang Dönyö Gyaltsen and his brother had to flee farther east into central Tibet. Lama Rinyewa confided to Gyalse Thogme, “When all these annoying things happen, I somehow manage to control my mind by applying the right antidotes. But what a lot of thoughts of attachment and anger I have! Does that happen to you?” “All the joys and sufferings of this world are just projections of our minds and the result of our past karma,” Thogme replied. “As I have a little understanding that in relative truth everything is like an illusion, and that in absolute truth everything is utterly beyond conceptual fabrications, I don’t experience attachment and hatred at all.”

Gyalse Thogme retired to the hermitage of Ngulchu at the age of forty-two. He remained there until he was sixty-five, dedicating himself entirely to spiritual practice, and showing in body, speech, and mind every aspect of perfection. Until the end of his life he seldom lay down, but instead stayed sitting upright, cross-legged, day and night. Yet his health was not affected and his face always looked young and radiant. His inner realization was revealed on many occasions in miraculous deeds and in feats of clairvoyance.

Once, when he and a few companions were on their way to meet the master Sönam Trakpa, they came to a dry, desertlike place called Shangda. “Let’s eat here,” he suggested. His companions objected. “There’s no water,” they said. But Thogme replied, “Go and collect some dry wood. I’ll take care of the water.” When they returned, they found that Thogme had made a depression in the sand. It was full of water. After their meal, the water was still there, but not long afterward there remained no trace.

On another occasion, when he was giving an empowerment of Amitayus, the Buddha of Longevity, his face looked to some of those present as dazzling white as a snow peak. During the call for blessings, his face turned an orange-red, and during the expulsion of hindrances, it turned dark red and wrathful, and his hair stood on end. Another time, some especially devoted disciples saw him as Eleven-Faced Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha of Compassion.

Once, when an army from central Tibet was approaching Ngulchu, Gyalse Thogme told all the inhabitants to run away. But they wouldn’t listen. Since the northerners had won last time, they said, and nothing had happened, surely there was no need to worry this time. Thogme was insistent. “This time you must escape!” he said…

Near the end of his life, when Ngulchu Thogme first showed signs of sickness, he said that no treatment was likely to help, but to calm everyone he took some medicine nonetheless, and let prayers and ceremonies be performed on his behalf. When someone asked him if there were any way to prolong his life, Thogme said, ‟‘If my being sick will benefit beings, may I be blessed with sickness! If my dying will benefit beings, may I be blessed with death! If my being well will benefit beings, may I be blessed with recovery!' This is the prayer I make to the Three Jewels. Having complete certainty that whatever happens is the blessings of the Three Jewels, I am happy, and I shall take whatever happens on to the path without trying to change anything.” His close disciples begged him to consider whether medical treatment or anything else they could offer him would be of any benefit. But Thogme said, ‟I have reached the limit of my years and my sickness is severe. Even the attentions of highly skilled physicians with ambrosia-like medicine would be unlikely to contribute much.” And he added:

If this illusory body, which I cling to as mine, is sick—let it be sick!
This sickness enables me to exhaust
The bad karma I have accumulated in the past,
And the spiritual deeds I can then perform
Help me purify the two kinds of veils.

If I am in good health, I am happy,
Because when my body and mind are well
I can enhance my spiritual practice,
And give real meaning to human existence
By turning my body, speech and mind to virtue.

If I am poor, I am happy,
Because I've no wealth to protect,
And I know that all feuds and animosity
Sprout from the seeds of greed and attachment.

If I am rich, I am happy,
Because with my wealth I can do more positive actions,
And both temporal and ultimate happiness
Are the result of meritorious deeds.

If I die soon, that's excellent,
Because, assisted by some good potential, I am confident that
I shall enter the unmistaken path
Before any obstacle can intervene.

If I live long, I am happy,
Because without parting from the warm beneficial rain of spiritual instructions
I can, over a long time, fully ripen
The crop of inner experiences.
Therefore, whatever happens, I shall be happy!

And he continued, ‟I've been teaching these pith instructions to others, and I must practice them myself. As it is said, ‘What is called sickness has no true existence whatsoever, but within the display of delusory phenomena appears as the ineluctable result of wrong actions. Sickness is the teacher that points out the nature of samsara and shows us that phenomena, manifest though they may, have no more true existence than an illusion. Sickness provides us with the grounds for developing patience towards our own suffering, and compassion for the suffering of others. It is in such difficult circumstances that our spiritual practice is put to the test.' If I die, I'll be relieved of the pains of my sickness. I can't recall any task that I've left undone, and what's more I realize how rare an opportunity it is to be able to die as the perfect conclusion of my spiritual practice. That's why I'm not hoping for any cure for my illness. Nevertheless, before I die, you may complete all your ceremonies.”

One morning, at dawn, he asked his disciples to help him sit slightly more upright, and then said, ‟I feel extremely well like this, do not move my body at all.” From that morning until the next evening he remained seated in the lotus posture; his mind remained one-pointedly in equanimity, and within that state, he passed away and departed into bliss.”

~ Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, The Heart of Compassion: The Thirty-seven Verses on the Practice of a Bodhisattva