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Mad

Isn’t Milarepa a bit mad?

Milarepa sings a song to Padampa Sangye:

Homage to the holy Lamas!
I take refuge in your kindness.
Please dispel obstacles
And lead me the right way.

People ask themselves,
Isn’t Milarepa a bit mad?
In truth, I think I am,
And here’s the method to my madness:

Mad father, mad son—
Madness is passed on.
Great Rigdzin is mad,
My ancestor, the excellent Tilopa, is quite mad,
And my grandfather, Naropa, is definitely mad.
Mad is my old father Marpa,
And I, Milarepa, why, I’m mad too!
This Rigdzin transmission
Of four enlightened bodies is madness.

Tilopa’s Mahamudra
Is an absolute madness.
Naropa’s ascetic awareness
Is mad, mad, mad!
My father, Marpa Lotsawa,
Is crazed by the demons of the four classes of tantra.
I, Milarepa, know mind and energy—
Most certainly a madness.

Mad is the view that holds no favorite
Mad the meditation that refuses references
Mad the conduct that hides no agenda
Mad the result that preys on neither hopes nor fears
Mad the promises kept honestly.

I’m more than mad, I’m a raving lunatic—
I drive demons mad
With the Lamas’ instructions.
I turn witches mad
With the dakinis’ blessings.
I dement the happy demented
With ultimate absorption.
I craze she-demons of realization
With games of enjoyment.

I’m more than a raving lunatic, I’m really sick—
I’ve got backaches from Mahamudra
And chest pains from Dzogchen
I’m weak from ‘vase breathing’
Feverish with wisdom from above
Chilled by meditation from below
Hot and cold from bliss and emptiness.
I vomit—oh-uh, there’s the oral instructions.
Then reality arouses me, and I lie back.

I’m beyond sickness, I’m a dead man—
In the view, which is vast,
I died along with my prejudices.
In meditation, which is spacious,
I died along with my ups and downs.
In conduct, which is extensive,
I died along with my moral claims.
In fruition, which is inclusive
I died along with my hopes and fears.
In samaya, which is universal,
I died along with my pretenses.
I, the yogi, died
In the planes of enlightenment.

I’m to die tonight? No shrouds for my body then:
Rather, the subtle perceptions of external appearances.
No strings for me:
Rather, the rope of the central channel.
No maudlin relatives:
Rather, the child-disciple of awareness.
For this yogi’s body, no gray funeral:
Rather, the path to enlightenment.

Guided by the dakinis,
Led by the Kagyu Lamas—
No meadow on a hill for my corpse:
Rather, the peak of Samantabhadra.
No cemeteries visited by foxes:
Rather, the pleasure grounds of wisdom and skillful means.
Yes! Rigdzin’s own grave!