eighteen
A blaring sun beams high in the sky, beating her blazing rays down our path as Sangmo and I walk to the edge of the village. So hot already, and summer is yet to arrive. First house on the left—I’ve been here before. Father took me before he brought me to Dechen. I didn’t understand why we’d visited this strange Buddhist lama, who was not a monk, nor a layperson either. It was years later, when I studied Buddhist philosophy and its rituals, that I came to understand the ngakpa’s role in it all.
The ngakpa’s house is as I remember it—a white-washed enclosure, a myriad of colorful prayer flags fluttering from large poles at the entrance and a neatly kept courtyard. A tallish woman stands in the doorway.
“Nordun-la, so good to see you again.” She steps out. “It’s been a long time.
