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One day, Changsha went wandering in the mountains.
Upon returning, when he got to the gate, he was asked, “Where are you coming from?”
Changsha said, “From wandering in the mountains,”
“Where did you go?”
Changsha said, “I went pursuing the fragrant grasses; I returned following the falling flowers.”

—Blue Cliff Record, Case 36

Last week, my plan to bring this koan was interrupted by my catching a cold—I’d forgotten about colds these last three years and my resultant inability to speak without coughing. Since Chris Gaffney kindly filled in for me and hosted an exploration into this koan, this week I was planning on continuing to bring the koan of the week from the morning meditation. However, that plan has been interrupted by a couple of things.

First, the koan of the week hasn’t been announced yet. Second, I received a video of the ongoing prayers for the quick return of Lama Zopa that are being offered at the Kopan Monastery in Nepal.

Once again, life has interrupted my plans for life, and I find myself wanting to bring this koan again as part of my own ongoing prayers, remembering how the Lamas often spoke about the way meditation and prayer are the same.

That’s what meditation practice does, it interrupts our habitual way, our plans, for moving through life. I learned about Lama Zopa’s death during a retreat last weekend. At the time, we were sitting with this koan about scented grasses and falling flowers, which are words often quoted to accompany a person as they leave this world.

In the past, when I’ve spoken about my time with the Lamas, I usually talk about Lama Yeshe. But it was Lama Zopa whom I first saw at my first meditation retreat. He entered the meditation tent to give the first talk on the first morning, and my immediate impression was, “This is a holy person.”

Not the kind of thought I would usually have. But he somehow fit a teacher archetype I didn’t know I had in me. He was slight of build and looked fragile as he walked towards the high seat. I couldn’t tell if the way he looked down came out of being humble or from being careful to not step on insects, or perhaps both.

What he spoke about was death. And the way he spoke about it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Not in alarm, though there was something about the matter-of-fact way he spoke about death that was alarming. There was also the thrill of hearing someone talk about something I had often thought about since early childhood, but had never spoken about: that we’re all going to die.

When I had questions, I went to Lama Yeshe. Nonetheless, I felt a great affinity for Lama Zopa. I participated in two three-month meditation retreats with the Lamas in that first year of my practice. I also went on a short trip with Lama Zopa to a lake considered a manifestation of Padmasambhava. I trekked with him and others to his home village of Lawudo to participate in a retreat in his cave. Lama Zopa was considered the reincarnation of the Lawudo Lama, a hermit monk who had lived in that cave. He was also considered a reincarnation of Padmasambhava.

Hearing about Lama Zopa’s death, together with this koan about scented grasses and falling flowers, reminded me of all the other fallen flowers: My other first teacher, Lama Yeshe, my first Zen teacher, Shibuya-san, my first koan teacher, Kusan, my second koan teacher, Aitken Roshi, and my “three is a charm” koan teacher, Yamada Roshi.

I met Lama Zopa when I was “wandering in the mountains” and I “followed the scented grasses” with him and Lama Yeshe. Now I’m returning, following the fallen and falling flowers, appreciating their scent.

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All are welcome. Register to participate.

—David