Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

a

voice

told her there wasn’t much time. A lama wrote somewhere that even the riders of horses may have a moment to rest during a race but not mankind who from birth with each breath gallops toward the arms of the Lord of Death.

Lisanne was twisted by g-force to lay on her right side. Something so strange popped into her head. She once saw a TV show about a woman who trained orangutans to talk. The university lost their funding and the orangutan that she used to have conversations with was now encaged, awaiting transport to a zoo. He hadn’t seen her in a long time and became excited when she left her car and walked over. He began to “sign,” and the woman translated for the camera crew. Clinging to the bars of the cage, the orangutan said, “Where’s the key?” Then, “Where’s the car?” and

I want to go home

A great force stole the air from her and Lisanne didn’t know if she saw or had merely imagined the moon dip and the sun rise, real and imagined were as one, dreamed and nondreamed, expansion and contraction, guest and host, and she tried to merge the white and red mustard seeds in her heart as darkness came and thunder returned to her ears with utter determination she prayed for the winds of prana to blow the pearly droplet from the central channel straight out the top of the librarian’s head even though the audiotapes said only trained masters should attempt such a thing let alone effect it — but how could any of that matter because Lisanne’s heart was so pure — pure as her Intent — and she rammed the librarian’s consciousness through the dead woman’s thousand-petaled lotus into the heart of space then did the same for herself just as she’d practiced, did her very best to send her own awareness like an arrow into the heart of space, the heart of love, she conjured no Buddha above, the tapes said imagine something beloved suspended there but she envisioned no deity, no Kit, no Philip or dead father with borrowed Milarepa, not even her boy, the love-child whom she of late had taken to calling Rob Jr., not Siddhama anymore, please forgive, forgive me that jejune demotion, nothing above for that arrow to pierce except light, the pure light that was everything, clear light and blissful heart of space, that’s where she sent whatever she had, nectar, nectar everlasting, for herself and librarian, for all beings alive, dead, and yet to be born, and that her final thoug—

H.H. PENOR RINPOCHE formally recognized Kit Lightfoot as a tulku, or reincarnation of a twelfth-century Buddhist master. Both Ram Dass and Robert Thurman were present when Kit was told. The actor was profoundly moved. Later, Tenzin judiciously cautioned him not to “go public” with the announcement; it was the sort of thing, he said, that could easily be misconstrued. Kit, of course, agreed. His ego made no demands in that regard.

His Holiness had noticed auspicious portents on the occasion of their first encounter at Tara Guber’s, more than three years before. Further clues to his enlightened status became manifest when Penor Rinpoche visited the Lightfoot home in Riverside, and during subsequent meetings at the Stone Canyon compound. Aside from an abstruse welter of personal characteristics tying Kit to his centuries-old predecessor, His Holiness had perhaps been most impressed by the movie star’s equanimity and consistency of desire to help others — the compassionate jailhouse meeting with his assailant being a prime example — despite the experience of great trauma related not only to his injury but to the death of his girlfriend at the hands of his father. After H.H. Penor Rinpoche consulted with the peers of his lineage, Kit was recognized but not enthroned. Tulku hood was something to be earned, rather than conferred.

Unfortunately, the revelation was leaked to the press, and skepticism, however briefly, prevailed. It was broadly hinted (even among those claiming to be spiritually evolved) that Kit Lightfoot’s tulku status had been bestowed by virtue of his many generous donations, both past and relatively recent, to certain clinics and monasteries in Mysore, Burma, the Netherlands, and elsewhere. No one seemed to care or take public note that his root guru, Gil Weiskopf Roshi, had close ties to H.H. Penor Rinpoche and the Nyingma lineage that stretched back many years or that Kit had visited the Namdroling monastery with his teacher.

His Holiness still felt a measured response to the controversy was in order and released a kind of elegant disclaimer, via the Internet, stressing that no relevant persons or entities had received any substantial donations from Mr. Lightfoot. Moreover, the announcement of his being a tulku, far from being frivolous or ill-conceived, was measured and sober minded. Such a recognition, he said, was to be celebrated, not rebuked. The statement of his rebirth was a simple fact and not meant to imply that Mr. Lightfoot was a realized being, merely that he possessed special gifts and the potential to aid others. Much training lay ahead. There were no guarantees regarding each tulku ’s “success.” Taking the high lama road, the Rinpoche closed his statement by reiterating that the discovery of a jewel should provoke joyousness, not cynical dissent. He hoped that one day, that would be so.

• • •

“DID YOU KNOW we worked that thing out with Charlize?” said Rob.

“Cool,” said Kit. “When’s she gonna be here?”

“She’s in South Africa now. End of next week.”

“Now there’s a long flight,” said Kit.

“Tell me about it,” said Rob. “I’ve done it — more than once. You guys know each other, right?” Rob called through the open door to his assistant.

“Maybe we met at some benefit. Toronto? Maybe, yeah. I think it was the film festival.”

Megan poked her head in.

“When’s Charlize coming, do we know?” asked Rob.

“Saturday,” she said.

“Saturday?” said Rob, with a minifrown.

“She had a family thing and had to wait until the weekend.”

“OK,” said Rob, resigned.

“Excuse me, Kit,” said Megan, respectfully. “The camera crew’s ready.”

“Great!” said Kit, standing.

“What’s going on?” said Rob, nonplussed.

“Kit’s being honored next Sunday by a group in Washington.”

“NIF,” said Kit. “The Neurological Injury Foundation.”

“How great,” said Rob.

“I’m sorry,” said Megan to the director, deferentially. “I thought you knew.”

“No,” said Rob. “But that’s fine.”

“That’s probably my fault,” she said. “Anyway, Kit’s not able to attend the gala because of our rehearsal schedule.”

“Galas are a good thing,” said Rob.

“That’s why they’re going to tape. It shouldn’t take very long.”

“If I’d have known,” said Rob, “we could have worked our rehearsal schedule around it.”

“I mentioned that to Kit—”

“It’s OK, it’s OK — I didn’t want to go to Washington,” said Kit. “Didn’t feel like doing the poster-boy thing this week.”

“You can use my office for the taping if you like,” said Rob.

“They’re pretty much all set up in the courtyard,” said Megan.

“Let’s do it,” said Kit.

(Trademark grin.)

• • •

KIT SAT IN the courtyard in a safari chair. The makeup artist zapped a zit while the D.P. tweaked lights and meters.

The director said, “OK, folks, are we set?”

“Ready,” said the A.D.

“Mr. Lightfoot,” said the director. “Are you good to go?”

“Ready-steady,” said Kit.

“Ready Steadicam,” said the D.P., nonsensically.