I
 

Eagle Meadow (Extracting the Essence of Flowers)

It is late July in the Sierra Nevada, and spring has just arrived in Eagle Meadow.Trees, cliffs and snowfields tower in majestic proportions. Undulating between powerful blasts and soft caresses, the wind flows down the valley, carrying the sounds of birds singing with unusual joy. The sun blazes then hides behind massive translucent formations of weightless ivory drifting regally through the sky. Like nepenthe, the legendary ambrosial intoxicant of ancient Greece that brought sweet relief from sorrow, the intense clarity of the mountain air produces an exhilaration of the heart that lifts the veils from the mind and senses.

Throughout the meadow, wildflowers are growing. Following patterns of water, warmth, wind and earth that only they comprehend, the flowers spread across gentle green contours and along damp rivulets, climbing up embankments, carpeting the forest floor and clinging to cliffs. Golden yellow, blood red orange and flaming bold vermilion, they blossom with ecstatic abandon, exploding their seeds into the waiting mossy soil. Feathery turquoise lilac and pink lavender pearls hide in the shade, while milky rose fuschias dance among myriad shades of coral and white. Around the base of soaring fragrant cedars, incandescent ultraviolets mingle with indigo jasmine blues, as honey amber creams trickle through cracks in rocks, accentuated by tiger bronze starbursts and lichen rust browns.

It was in places like this that Himalayan yogis once practiced the art of metok chulen, “extracting the essence of flowers.”

“Extracting the essence” (chulen) of flowers (metok) is one of many chulen practices that have been performed by ascetic hermits and lay people of Asia through the ages to cure diseases, promote longevity, and refine consciousness. During the practice of metok chulen, seekers of health and wisdom fast in the solitude of alpine meadows and other natural places, cleansing and rejuvenating themselves with medicinal pills prepared from flowers. Other types of chulen methods included the preparation and use of essences derived from herbs and medicinal plants, minerals, waters, and even stones.

Metok chulen was brought to Tibet from India in the eleventh century by the yogi Padampa Sange, who is reputed to have lived to the age of 572. The teachings of this tradition are preserved in calligraphed and woodblock-printed manuscripts; one of the earliest of these texts was composed in the fifteenth century by the second Dalai Lama. This ancient lineage survives to this day, and flower pills are still produced by some Tibetan doctors and pharmacies using ingredients from the forests, mountain valleys, and hillside gardens.

There are said to be three levels of spiritual maturity among metok chulen practitioners. The lowest are those who practice simply to cure a physical ailment. Mediocre students are those who undertake the disciplines due to poverty or a lack of food and clothing. The superior disciple is one who possesses a strong sense of worldly renunciation and has no desires other than to go beyond all suffering. Those who perceive the inherent misery of cyclical existence, and realize that even the greatest pleasures of the gods are ephemeral and meaningless, are practitioners of the highest caliber; these yogis have a natural disinterest in materialistic possessions, and love the life of solitude in their yearning for nirvana. Those who believe they can purify their negative karma simply through the suffering of asceticism, those who wish to practice because of miserliness and those seeking fame are considered below the level of inferior students, and not given teachings.

According to the traditional instructions, flower pills are to be prepared on an astrologically auspicious day when the flowers are in full bloom. The yogi first bathes and dresses in clean clothes, then visualizes Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of compassion, while reciting the six-syllable mantra, Om mani padme hum. Following this invocation he collects flowers that have medicinal virtues beneficial to his bodily temperament, such as rhododendron for a phlegmatic constitution. These are dried slowly in a shady place, so as to preserve their fragile essences and active ingredients. Once the flowers have dried, they are carefully ground into powder and mixed with roasted barley flour. The powders of other medicinal herbs are then added, according to the condition of one’s health; commonly used ingredients include myrobalan fruit, sandalwood, nutmeg, saffron, and aquillaria wood. Honey or molasses is added to the finished dry mixture. From this sticky mass, pills the size of sheep droppings are made, which are then placed in a sacred container such as a skull cup or jewel box.

When the yogi is ready to commence the practice he retires to a solitary location, cleans the retreat shrine, arranges offerings on the altar and then consecrates the flower pills. Beginning with the traditional preliminary practices, he takes refuge in the three jewels of the Buddha, the Sangha, and the Dharma, raises his mind with altruistic motivation to release all beings from suffering, and fills the universe with boundless love and compassion. The pills are then blessed by reciting the “mantra of emptiness:” Om svabhava shudo sarvadharma svabava shuda hum.

The yogi then visualizes that he becomes the goddess White Vajra Yogini. Resplendent with ornaments of bones, jewels and instruments of power, she gazes into the emptiness of space while dancing upon a corpse, inviting the lineages of Gurus and Buddhas to gather like clouds. In this form, the practitioner imagines that the essences of the five universal elements, the spiritual merit of all beings, the majestic qualities and excellent glories of the world are absorbed into the pills as rays of light, transforming them into ambrosia of uncontaminated wisdom. Maintaining this contemplative vision, the yogi utters the secret mantra of the goddess one thousand times and completes the consecration by blowing on the pills.

There are many methods, prayers, and visualizations taught in the numerous lineages of metok chulen. The most basic procedure for consuming the pills is for those who wish to gain its lowest benefit, that of ridding the body of diseases. For this purpose, the practitioner again transforms himself into the goddess, recites her mantra, then crushes a pill and swallows it. The pills are consumed three times a day, at dawn, noon, and dusk, with hot water, light tea, or porridge, depending on the practitioner’s level of strength. As the yogi swallows the pills he envisions that they fill the body with blissful nectar.

Ordinarily, this practice is prescribed for a length of twenty-one days. With the exception of light tea and the flower pills, all solid food is to be avoided during this time. During the first week, the meditator begins to lose attachment to food; during the second week numerous diseases vanish; and during the third week, strength is regained. While engaged in metok chulen, yogis are advised to apply themselves to gentle devotional practices and light physical exercises that open the circulation of pranic life force, but to avoid strenuous exertion, which may create new diseases. At the end of the third week, the fast is broken by taking one bowl of dilute porridge; this is continued daily for a week, gradually increasing the amount and variety of food until one has become accustomed to a normal diet again. Nutritious and heavy foods like meat and dairy should not be consumed immediately after this practice, because of their potential to cause digestive stagnation.

Numerous benefits are attributed to the practice of metok chulen. Among these are alleviation of diseases and physical ailments, restoration of youthful vitality and rejuvenation of immunity. Because the needs of the body are greatly reduced one is freed from economic restraints; by avoiding improper forms of livelihood, one is able to achieve realizations of various spiritual practices. Wisdom deepens, intellectual powers are increased, and one becomes loved by all.

II

Red Lanterns and Vermillion Pills

The week of New Year’s festivities have ended. Hsin Tao left last night, and immediately the weather turned to winter again, with fierce winds driving blasts of rain against the mountainside. The monastery is almost deserted except for a few nuns keeping the candles lit in the Lotus Hall, as the others stay in the warmth of their rooms. The night is pitch black across the wild landscape.

How is it, I wonder, as I make my way past the glowing New Year’s lanterns waving in the dark trees, that a man can accomplish what the Dharma Master has done? He came from an impossibly disadvantaged background, being an orphan of war in a poor Southeast Asian country. He was literally fending for himself in village streets, running half wild, yet has become a world spiritual leader, friend to the wealthy and powerful in political and religious circles, and beloved by millions.

His willpower was one factor, I know. It is a subject that has come up several times in our discussions, and a common theme of Dharma talks during retreats. Shih Fu was a monk with such extraordinary willpower that he had traversed the stages of death and rebirth in his ascetic practices, not just metaphorically, but physically.“It is my understanding,” I had asked recently, “that when you did your last retreat in the cave here, you lived only on water for two years. Is that correct?”

Hsin Tao reached behind his dragon throne and pulled out a jar half-filled with tiny vermilion- colored pills. I was familiar with these from my study of Tibetan medicine, and knew that they had a remarkable history, fascinating preparation method, unusual ingredients, and most of all, profound uses.

“I took nine of these longevity pills each day,” Shih Fu replied. “Three pills for one meal.”

“Is that all?”

“And water. But I could not take too much water, because then the pill would be urinated out.”

He gently rolled a pill around between his thumb and index finger. “This is nutrition,” he explained. “In order to keep the nutrition in the body there cannot be too much water; only a half cup of water with the three pills.”

I climb the short incline out of the forest onto the first terrace, and pass the shrine of relics. On this landing the wind always blows with even more intensity, as the walkway is open and exposed with a dizzying view down to the ocean. I remember how I sat quietly after Hsin Tao had spoken, considering the magnitude of the endeavor that he had undertaken.The Dharma Master continued. “Of course, at the beginning of such a practice we are accustomed to eating a lot. But to pursue truth, this is what I had to do. I got dizzy for a week. I could see nothing. After one week I was better, and not so dizzy. After one or two months I got more strength, but I also got thirsty. Gradually I started losing my strength again, and could not sleep. I had no strength to sleep.”

“No strength to sleep?” This information struck me as profound, and I suddenly understood a fundamental cause of insomnia and other sleep disorders.

“It takes strength to sleep,” he replied simply. “When you have no strength you cannot mesmerize yourself to sleep.”

I gazed at the Master, fascinated with what he was saying.

“It takes strength to mesmerize yourself to sleep,” he repeated. “I wasn’t able to mesmerize myself. I could not sleep, so I just sat.”

I tried to remember the stages of falling asleep that he was describing. How did I mesmerize myself to sleep last night, I wondered? There was something mysteriously intriguing about what the Master was saying.

I pause at the landing in front of the small temple where the golden Buddha reclines, lit by a soft glow that spills out across the wet tiles of the courtyard. The cliff behind the temple is now dark, after being dramatically lit during the New Year’s celebration. The deep red lanterns hanging from the awning spin madly in the wind, as the roar of crashing waves rises from below.

Hsin Tao went on. “After six months the muscles were gone, then the skin. This was troublesome, because the bones put pressure on the sinews, and I felt pain. The nervous system was under pressure. No matter whether I walked, or sat, or lay down, the nervous system was under pressure. So I walked a bit, sat a bit, and lay down a bit. In this way, I observed myself until I gradually got better.”

Six months of no food, I reflected; it was far beyond what any ordinary human being could endure and still survive. It was physiologically impossible according to modern medicine. It was past the last stage of starvation. But then he went further in his yogic practice, and his body became rejuvenated instead of perishing.

“After one year the pain was almost gone,” the Master continued. “I could climb the mountains and do some chores, although I didn’t have the strength to speak loudly. I climbed all the mountains nearby with my followers, looking for springs. There were snakes and many kinds of insects, but I took the lead. This is how the cave was found, as a result of my fasting.”

The Patriarch Temple, where we sat, was built into the face of the cliff, a few steps from the cave where Shih Fu completed his two years of extreme austerities.

“The original site where I practiced was noisy,” Shih Fu said, referring to a smaller cave on a higher part of the mountain where he had started his fast. There were other monks using that cave at the time, and the activity disturbed his intensive concentration. “Some people thought that this site was better for practice, so we moved here.”

Originally, the cave was hidden, a small crack in a vertical rock face, surrounded by forested mountainsides plunging hundreds of feet into the narrow ravines below. During meditation, Shih Fu clairvoyantly saw its location; using ropes, he and some of the nuns climbed over the cliff and dug out the blocked entryway.

During the second year of his retreat, the Master’s strength would continue to increase, even as he continued his ascetic fast. In total, he would live for over two years on pills made with less than half a teaspoon of consecrated wild herbs and a cup and a half of water daily. Those disciples who witnessed him at this time describe how the cave changed from being cold and damp to warm and dry, and how Shih Fu’s clothes always smelled sweet without washing.

I climb the last stretch of wet stairs toward Yuen Lai Ji, Cloud Gathering House. A wild cat runs across my path, as I feel my way carefully through the dark. A few more steps and I come to the narrow inscribed monolith standing in the corner where the building meets the vine-covered cliff, the stone that appeared in a dream before my arrival at the monastery. I pause, catching my breath.

“Gradually, I became happier and happier,” Shih Fu had concluded. “I slowly got the answers to many of the questions and difficulties that I didn’t understand.”

“Was there a particular question in your mind when you started this practice that you wanted to have answered?” I had asked.

“I did not know when I would die, and that was a troubling thing,” the Master replied.

“Do you know now?”

Hsin Tao laughed. “Now I don’t care when I go.”

My room in Cloud Gathering House is warm and dry, as I set down my bag and prepare for evening meditation.