Robin

This is some of what I remember: Robin's enormous yellow Samsonite suitcase, perfect luggage for a wish-fulfilling jewel; Robin cruising around in the car he'd inherited from his mother laughing, "Death has been good to me!"; Robin at a dinner party making a joke about masturbation & the whole room going quiet; in Robin's living room, sitting down on what looked like a couch, & sinking to the floor; hanging out with Robin on his front porch, eating cookies & drinking tea (Robin poured some tea into a saucer for his beloved dog) talking about Buddhism--his teachers, mine, the differences & similarities of our respective traditions; Robin breaking off in mid-sentence to stop & stare, mesmerized by a passing female jogger, then taking up right where he'd left off. I remember his wonderful laugh & how he could talk about anything, swinging wildly from Dzogchen to Buffy the Vampire-slayer & back, without missing a beat. We spent one happy afternoon wandering around Walgreen's, when neither of us had much money, discussing all the merchandise & eventually buying a translucent blue plastic mug (him) & some red & green padded envelopes (me) & feeling we'd spent our time & money well. Later, after he found out about his illness, enthusiasm undimmed, he took me to his favorite restaurants where he held forth on art, music, literature & philosophy, relating it all to Buddhism & always coming up with fascinating & original connections that made me feel like going out immediately & reading, seeing, hearing & thinking more about every subject he mentioned. One time we met at his hotel in New York & as we were crossing Broadway to look for a place to sit down & talk, he spontaneously hailed a cab in the middle of the street & took me to the Palm Court at the Plaza Hotel for High Tea. We ate tiny pastries & drank tea with milk under the most beautiful crystal chandeliers I'd ever seen. It was magical. A lot about Robin was magical--his irrepressible energy & zest for life, his passion for practice, his courage in the face of illness, & his immense neverending ecstatic & inspirational appreciation of everyone & everything everywhere. I'm glad he gleefully got into manicures & pedicures & having his clothes custom-made by a tailor ("I'm turning into a metrosexual!" he announced, laughing). I'm glad he got a fancy iPod with a white ring of a speaker that made the room fill with music. I'm glad he planned that trip to Hawaii. I'm glad he found students who wanted to learn everything he knew. I'm glad he took up the piano & learned to play so beautifully. Every time I spoke to him he had more stories of his escapades--all hilarious or touching or both. I'm glad he had so many friends who stayed with him till the end of his life. I'm very glad I met him. Shardrol Du-nyam Wangmo, New York