Free Deshi by John Donohue

further.” There was some laughter again and a smattering of applause. Then he grew more serious. “But I have thought long and hard on a question very much like yours.”
    Changpa looked into the rear of the room, toward his questioner. For a brief moment, I saw the flash of focus in his eyes. It transmitted a sense of power and perception that was almost frightening in its directness. It was similar to what I often glimpsed in my own teacher: a revelation of an ability as intriguing as it was scary. I could see the young man standing next to me almost sag at the impact of Changpa’s gaze. I don’t know what he had hoped to achieve through his question. I only know that he got more than he bargained for. He sat down then, slowly, collapsing like a deflated balloon.
    The lama continued his explanation as if nothing had occurred. But I noticed the tilt of Yamashita’s head: he had seen it, too.
    The holy man’s words grabbed my attention again. “Certainly Chenzerig, the Buddha of Compassion, provides people with an awareness of many different things in different ways. Some people hear the beauty of music more clearly than others. Artists are more attuned to the subtlety of color. These are sometimes vehicles to lead us to dharma, to truth.”
    The room grew quieter as people listened intently. For the first time that evening, Changpa sat on the platform provided him. His hand reached into his robes and drew forth a string of prayer beads. He gestured with the beads. “But sensation often can serve as an impediment. Each bead on this mala represents four obstacles to truth. There are twenty-seven beads here, and four times twenty seven is one hundred and eight.” I saw a number of heads nodding in recognition of the point. Changpa smiled again. “We believe that there are one hundred and eight basic obstacles that need to be removed or purified to reach the True Way.” His fingers worked the beads almost automatically. “In our daily lives, the endless details of existence can sometimes obscure the dharma, the true path. It is like the old saying you have: a man cannot see the forest for the trees.” He looked around the room.
    “My gift is that I can sometimes be elevated to a place where I can see the forest. Or even beyond it. I do not think it a mystery. Perhaps it is that, for a brief time, the Way is less…” he struggled for a word, his eyes remote. Then he finished. “… less occluded.” He smiled sadly. “It is, I believe, what the Lord Buddha seeks for us all.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I had noticed Yamashita leaning forward, as if to better catch Changpa’s explanation. As the lama finished, my teacher sat back, slowly exhaling in a sound that telegraphed a release of tension and a sense of deep satisfaction.
    There was a reception for Changpa after the lecture. It was an invitationonly deal, but Yamashita’s name and mine were on the list. It was held in a special exhibition gallery near the auditorium—not because the space was conducive to crowds, but, I suspected, because there was no furniture to move.
    Even so, it was packed. The audience streamed out of the theater, setting up currents of movement, eddies of conversation. I tried to work our way through the crowd, but gave up and took my teacher around to the gallery’s back entrance. A few people had the same idea. And they were being screened by a large guy with a clipboard. He wasn’t wearing a museum staff uniform. And there was a subtle undercurrent in the air around him, a hint of barely suppressed anger. Or fear.
    As we moved closer, I got a better look. He was in his mid-twenties, and had the easy stance of an athlete. Maybe six-two or three. Not huge by NFL standards, but big enough. He certainly loomed over me. I don’t think Yamashita, who’s even smaller, noticed. He’s not even concerned, with these things. Size to him is merely part of an equation of angles, distances, and lines of attack. It’s certainly not an