Offering for Simon Luna's Tribute
Written by Citlali Pena
Tepoztlan, Morelos
Mexico
Setting Luna, rising Sun
To Simon Luna, Vajra Joyful Sun
The last image I have of Simon is of laughter, of the easy openness with which he greeted surprise.
I'm away, in a little town near lake Patzcuaro, for a permaculture course, a big adventure for me, a sacrifice for my husband Andres, who has advanced ALS, a terminal motor neuron disease. Now paralyzed, and unable to speak,we function as one organism, or at least try to. This trip is his gift to me, and though I know he is well cared for I fear he will die while I'm gone. I even made him promise me he wouldnt.
Sitting in a circle in the garden, after introductions, another student comes to me, asks If I belong to the Shambhala community. Deborah is the administrator of Casa Werma, a property in Patzcuaro where Rimpoche Chogyam Trungpa wrote a sacred text. She met Simon Luna, a couple months ago, when during his trip to Mexico, he stayed at the house. I haven't gotten over the surprise of the connection, images of big gentle Simon fluttering about my hearts eye, when she says "Simon died this morning, he had a heart attack, arriving at the Santiago de Chile airport".
Siimon Luna was an Acharya, one of few master teachers of Shambhala, Andres and I met him in Tepoztlan during the weekend where he taught us of Drala: the aspects of reality that awaken our perception to the power and magic of things as they are. He later visited us at our home -talk of teachers dharma and death under warm spring rain- and recommended the book we are reading now: "Peaceful death, joyfull rebirth" by Tulku Thondup.
Startled in the damp morning grass, dew beads glistening on deep purple lillies, the long mane of a willow swaying gently. I breathe the inescapable mystery of death, the unceirtanty of its arrival. When people meet Andres, and see sharpness of bone, the pure shine of mindfullness in his eyes there is an unspoken assumption that he will die first.It hasn't always been the case.
Invited to spend my last night at casa Werma. I arrive weighted down by despair over the day's intense mental work on future scenarios combining degrees of energy descent and global warming- all involving suffering and death. My spinning mind comes to a halt in front of a mirror flanked by a huge laughing skeleton woman in oversized hat blooming with flowers and elegant long dress. La Catrina is a symbol of mexican's playfull defiance of death. Somehow, I feel comforted by her presence.
I meditate by the fire, in the room where Simon stayed, whispering gratitude to him, for his teachings, reciting prayers. Walking through the garden the next morning I am flooded by the notion that without death there is no dance, and the delicate feathery green carpet of leaves I trample regretfully with dew wet boots, will rot into rich humus, supporting life.
A big black and yellow butterfly lands close to me on a cone of orange trumpets unfurling its long tongue into the sweetness. I see Simon in the black velvet of this Drala, there is no death but transformation. The dark Mother, nurturing life, has taken him to another level of existence where bodhisatvas are hope for future consciousness.
I am told Simon spent his last night watching shooting stars in the Colorado sky. Some people feel he already knew. But when I close my eyes I remember our farewell. He had started up the steet when I yelled "Luna , caramba, come back here immediately!". He turned around briskly, startled. It took me a couple seconds to realize our dog, Luna, shares with Simon the name of the moon. As I explained his shocked expression gently tumbled into surprised laughter and he walked away with that squinty whole face smile of his shining like the sun on the wet cobblestone street.
Tepoztlan, Morelos
Mexico
Setting Luna, rising Sun
To Simon Luna, Vajra Joyful Sun
The last image I have of Simon is of laughter, of the easy openness with which he greeted surprise.
I'm away, in a little town near lake Patzcuaro, for a permaculture course, a big adventure for me, a sacrifice for my husband Andres, who has advanced ALS, a terminal motor neuron disease. Now paralyzed, and unable to speak,we function as one organism, or at least try to. This trip is his gift to me, and though I know he is well cared for I fear he will die while I'm gone. I even made him promise me he wouldnt.
Sitting in a circle in the garden, after introductions, another student comes to me, asks If I belong to the Shambhala community. Deborah is the administrator of Casa Werma, a property in Patzcuaro where Rimpoche Chogyam Trungpa wrote a sacred text. She met Simon Luna, a couple months ago, when during his trip to Mexico, he stayed at the house. I haven't gotten over the surprise of the connection, images of big gentle Simon fluttering about my hearts eye, when she says "Simon died this morning, he had a heart attack, arriving at the Santiago de Chile airport".
Siimon Luna was an Acharya, one of few master teachers of Shambhala, Andres and I met him in Tepoztlan during the weekend where he taught us of Drala: the aspects of reality that awaken our perception to the power and magic of things as they are. He later visited us at our home -talk of teachers dharma and death under warm spring rain- and recommended the book we are reading now: "Peaceful death, joyfull rebirth" by Tulku Thondup.
Startled in the damp morning grass, dew beads glistening on deep purple lillies, the long mane of a willow swaying gently. I breathe the inescapable mystery of death, the unceirtanty of its arrival. When people meet Andres, and see sharpness of bone, the pure shine of mindfullness in his eyes there is an unspoken assumption that he will die first.It hasn't always been the case.
Invited to spend my last night at casa Werma. I arrive weighted down by despair over the day's intense mental work on future scenarios combining degrees of energy descent and global warming- all involving suffering and death. My spinning mind comes to a halt in front of a mirror flanked by a huge laughing skeleton woman in oversized hat blooming with flowers and elegant long dress. La Catrina is a symbol of mexican's playfull defiance of death. Somehow, I feel comforted by her presence.
I meditate by the fire, in the room where Simon stayed, whispering gratitude to him, for his teachings, reciting prayers. Walking through the garden the next morning I am flooded by the notion that without death there is no dance, and the delicate feathery green carpet of leaves I trample regretfully with dew wet boots, will rot into rich humus, supporting life.
A big black and yellow butterfly lands close to me on a cone of orange trumpets unfurling its long tongue into the sweetness. I see Simon in the black velvet of this Drala, there is no death but transformation. The dark Mother, nurturing life, has taken him to another level of existence where bodhisatvas are hope for future consciousness.
I am told Simon spent his last night watching shooting stars in the Colorado sky. Some people feel he already knew. But when I close my eyes I remember our farewell. He had started up the steet when I yelled "Luna , caramba, come back here immediately!". He turned around briskly, startled. It took me a couple seconds to realize our dog, Luna, shares with Simon the name of the moon. As I explained his shocked expression gently tumbled into surprised laughter and he walked away with that squinty whole face smile of his shining like the sun on the wet cobblestone street.
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