A Lama Scalps a Yeti

Lama Sangyay Dorje lived all alone on the snowy mountainside above

Dingboche, near the world's highest peak, Mount Everest. He was a holy

hermit, vowed to silence, who selflessly dedicated his days to

altruistic prayer and meditation.

One night the lama was sitting up and keeping silent vigil over the

moonlit world of men and creatures, praying for their salvation even

while they slept. A huge yeti silent stole up on him, intent to kill.

Yet so awesome was the saintly lama's peaceful presence that the

terrible Wildman was, without a single word, cowed into temporary

submission.

With gentle gestures the ragged monk welcomed his fearsome visitor. As

the lama had long ago befriended the entire world, including all

beings without exception, he was absolutely free from fear. For the

first time in his life the terrible yeti felt accepted rather than

feared, and his untrammeled spirit soared with an indescribable relief

such as he had never before experienced in the company of another.

Sangyay Dorje knew better than to preach to the benighted yeti. He

simply treated his unexpected visitor as part of his household; for he

knew that in this way he could eventually tame the Abominable

Snowman's savage nature, and sow the seed of peace and enlightenment

in his heart. For whomever is connected to a saint, sage, monk or nun

participates in, and inherits a share of, their excellent karma.

Little or no vegetation grows at that high altitude, far above the

treeline; therefore the ascetic lama habitually subsisted on weak tea,

dried yak cheese and tsampa, roasted barley flour. However, from that

day on the yeti brought the lama fresh meat; then the monk would pray

over the flesh, sending the deceased spirit on to better rebirths.

Only then would the pair of solitary mountain-dwellers, in silence,

share their simple repast.

Thus the years slipped swiftly by, as they do. The lama grew ancient

and infirm; the powerful yeti continued to bring him food, collect

firewood, and carry water from a nearby stream. Never did the lama ask

the hunting Wildman to reform his uncouth ways, although he himself

well understood the Buddha's teaching concerning the law of karma,

cause and effect: that one inevitably reaps what one sows, and that to

kill will cause one to be killed. Again and again the saintly sage

prayed for his friend, the hairy behemoth who acted as his servant.

Never did one word of human speech pass between them; nor did their

mutual understanding and respect ever require it.

One day a great avalanche of snow filled the mountains with its

terrifying roar; that night the yeti failed to return to the

hermitage. By moonlight the aged lama went out to seek him, holding

his gnarled walking stick in one hand and a well-worn rosary in the

other. Hours later Sangyay Dorje found the yeti's gigantic corpse

tossed like a broken twig at the bottom of the avalanche. He

immediately performed the yogic practice called Consciousness

Transference, sending his friend's consciousness principle on to

higher rebirth. Three days later, according to tradition, he hacked up

the corpse, with prayers and incantations, and fed the flesh to the

circling, hungry vultures.

Only the yeti's scalp he kept. Later he bequeathed it to the monastery

at Pangboche, where it remains a treasured relic today--the sole yeti

scalp in captivity.

Both silent lama and lomar (disciple) have long passed on to the

higher realms, where progress towards spiritual liberation is assured.

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Protection Against Yetis

Once an aged Nepalese man carried a large sack of corn through the

forest to a small abandoned mill, to be ground into meal. Darkness

fell before his task was completed, so he had no choice but to spend

the night.

In the dead of night, the old man was curled up next to his small

fire, on the floor of the mill shack. Suddenly he woke to find a huge,

apelike creature towering over him.

"Who are you and what do you want here?" thundered the colossal biped.

"Only to grind my corn," squeaked the timid villager.

"This is my secret domain!" proclaimed the yeti. "None see me and

leave here alive."

The man was terrified. But one hope dawned in his mind, and a plan was

spawned. "Lord yeti," he began: "It is our religious custom to anoint

our legs before departing on the great journey beyond this world. I

beg of you, only let me perform these final rites before you take my

life."

The surprised yeti nodded his agreement. Then the man sat down and

began rubbing butter on his legs, up and down, massaging both sides.

"This is how we scent ourselves before beginning a pilgrimage, Great

Snowman. Then our well-oiled legs swiftly and easily carry us wherever

we wish to go."

"Let me try some of that!" bellowed the yeti, sitting down with a

crash. He failed to notice that the old man massaged the yeti's own

hairy legs, thick as trees, with pine resin slipped from a woven

shoulderbag, rather than butter.

Then the man took a burning firebrand and held it near his own legs,

making the butter stream down. The yeti likewise took up a flaming

stick; but when he held it next to his legs, the pine resin instantly

blazed and his entire body seared up into flames. He bounded away,

screaming, into the surrounding forest, never to be seen again.

That is why the mountain folk of Helambu always carry pine resin in

their shoulderbags, as protection against the terrible yeti.

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How to be Free of Yetis

Many yetis used to live on the slopes of Mount Everest, near Soulu

Kumbu in eastern Nepal. The Sherpas of the village of Namche Bazaar

eventually grew accustomed to them, although in the dark of night

their sudden apparitions sometimes scared unwary travellers half out

of their wits.

One day, trouble began. Whatever fields the hardworking Sherpas

planted during the day, the yetis would tear up at night, undoing all

their work. However, the villager's were afraid to fight the huge

yetis, and were at a loss what to do. No answer loomed in sight.

One day the entire village met in an uncultivated field. Sure to make

enough ruckus to attract the attention of their unwelcome neighbors,

the destructive yetis, the Sherpas proceeded to hold a great

celebration -- drinking chang, dancing and feasting. Eventually,

seemingly drunk, the entire band of merry villagers began playfully

swiping at each other with wooden swords and curved knives, with

increasing intensity, until dusk descended. Then the villagers

returned to their humble homes, leaving behind their mock-weapons and

empty whiskey jugs.

Soon after dark, the youngest, most agile men stole back to the

party-place, where they swiftly replaced the wooden weapons with real

ones, and filled the whiskey pots with the strongest homemade brew

those high mountains had ever seen. Then they slipped unseen back to

their homes. At midnight the mischievous yetis came to the field. They

immediately drained the chang pots to the dregs, and began dancing and

playing with the swords and knives, just as they had seen the Sherpas

doing that afternoon.

In the ensuing drunken confusion, tempers flared; none among the yetis

survived. Thus the villagers were rid of the Abominable Snowmen, and

the fields again became fruitful.

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from: http://www.dzogchen.org/yeti/

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------Fernandinande-----------

If I ever get real rich, I hope I'm not real mean

to poor people, like I am now. (J.H.)

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