The-Tibetan-Book-of-Living-and-Dying

234 THE TIBETAN BOOK OF LIVING AND DYING
Supreme practitioners of Dzogchen, as I have said, have
completely realized the nature of mind during their lifetime.
So when they die, they need only to continue to rest and
abide in that state of Rigpa, as they make the transition
through death. They have no need to transfer their consciousness
into any buddha or enlightened realm, for they have
already made real the wisdom mind of the buddhas within
themselves. Death, for them, is the moment of ultimate liberation—the
crowning moment of their realization, and the consummation
of their practice. The Tibetan Book of the Dead has
only these few words to remind such a practitioner: "O Sir!
Now the Ground Luminosity is dawning. Recognize it, and
rest in the practice."
Those who have completely accomplished the practice of
Dzogchen are said to die "like a new-bom child," free of all care
and concern about death. They do not need to concern themselves
with when or where they will die, nor do they have
any need of teachings, instructions, or reminders.
"Medium practitioners of the best capacity" die "like beggars
in the street." No one notices them and nothing disturbs them.
Because of the stability of their practice, they are absolutely
unaffected by the environment around them. They could die
with the same ease in a busy hospital, or at home in the
middle of a nagging and squabbling family.
I shall never forget an old yogin I knew in Tibet. He used
to be like a Pied Piper, and all the children would follow him
around. Everywhere he went, he would chant and sing, drawing
the whole community around him, and he would tell
them all to practice and to say "OM MANI PADME HUM,"
the mantra of the Buddha of Compassion. 4 He had a big
prayer wheel; and whenever anyone gave him something, he
would sew it onto his clothes, so that he ended up looking
like a prayer wheel himself as he turned about. Also, I remember,
he had a dog who followed him everywhere. He treated
the dog like a human being, ate the same food as the dog
from the same bowl, slept next to him, looked on him as his
best friend, and regularly even talked to him.
Not many people took him seriously, and some called him
a "crazy yogin," but many Lamas spoke highly of him and
said we should not look down on him. My grandfather and
my family would always treat him with respect, and would
invite him into the shrine room and offer him tea and bread.
In Tibet it was the custom never to visit someone's home
empty-handed, and one day, in the middle of drinking his tea,