The day after the consecration of Pema Choling, we perform the “Sur” ritual for the historic parsonage’s late previous owner…
At the start of June, I move into my historic parsonage.
Overwhelmed, out of my depth — but also relieved and grateful for the lovely renovated flat on the ground floor of the main house.
My new flat has three rooms, a spacious bathroom — and a pretty little country-style kitchen.
The house-clearance company took the kitchen table away.
But they left the blue glassware, the pots, and the cutlery. And various other things they had no use for. Half-empty bottles of ketchup and barbecue sauce in the fridge, for instance.
While Suriyel tries to get the heating system running, I go through the kitchen drawer by drawer.
In the wall cupboard above the stove, little spice jars are stacked up. I find a spice mix for pickled gherkins, and another specifically for chips.
The things that exist!
In the pull-out cupboard beside the fridge: sleep and calming teas. Several packets. In the wall cupboard next to it, herbal calming drops.
It’s a strange feeling, suddenly being confronted with the past life of a stranger.
Of whom we know only that he was called “Frank.” And his surname. Because that’s still what’s written on the letterbox and the doorbell.
The estate agent who handled the sale didn’t know much more either. The heirs had instructed him to sell the parsonage. Frank had died unmarried and childless.
I go through the drawers. Cutlery, wooden spoons, a tin opener.
The contents of the last drawer defy easy categorisation. I pull out bin bags, tealights, a screwdriver, and a broken lighter.
Also a stack of plastic cards. I sort through them: a fuel card, a loyalty card from the local discount supermarket, a window fitter’s business card — and a driving licence!
Frank’s driving licence!
A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and downturned corners of his mouth looks back at me with a serious expression.
So that was Frank!
I turn the licence over. Frank, I note, was almost exactly Suriyel’s and my age.
And he would have had a birthday in just a few weeks!
When Suriyel comes into the kitchen to check whether the radiator is heating up, I hold Frank’s licence out to him.
“Look what I found!”
Suriyel turns the licence over in his hands and studies Frank’s photo intently. He’s just as moved as I am.
“Why is the licence still here? Didn’t the heirs want it?”
“I don’t think so. Otherwise they’d have taken it with them.”
I point to the date of birth. “Look. Frank’s birthday falls after the weekend Rinpoche’s coming. We could ask Rinpoche whether we should do a practice for Frank on his birthday?”
Suriyel thinks that’s an excellent idea.
I put Frank’s licence back in the drawer.
The day after the consecration of Pema Choling, I take Frank’s licence back out.
Rinpoche will be leaving us that evening.
After breakfast, I show Rinpoche the licence. “Look, Rinpoche, this is the late owner of Pema Choling. He died two years ago. Tomorrow would be his birthday. Can Suriyel and I do a practice for him on his birthday? Maybe Chenrezig?”
Rinpoche studies Frank’s photo closely too. Then he shakes his head.
“No. Not Chenrezig. And not on his birthday. It would bind him to you and to the place. He has to move on. We will do a Sur for him. Today.”
That, I think, is a wise decision on Rinpoche’s part.
At the same time, Rinpoche’s answer confirms my own sense of things: Frank never left the historic parsonage. Even though he died two years ago.
According to Buddhist teaching, no more than forty-nine days should pass between a being’s death and its rebirth.
But the path out of the bardo — the realm between death and life — into a new life is a complex process, prone to disruption. Some get lost along the way.
It seems to me that this is what happened with Frank. This feeling — that he’s still here, invisible but energetically present — accompanies me through my first weeks at the historic parsonage.
Rinpoche seems to feel it too.
Hence the Sur.
The practice that nourishes the deceased in a way that makes a good rebirth possible.
In the morning, all the guests gather in the pavilion.
In a portable incense burner, Rinpoche carefully prepares the smoke offering for Frank.
Then he takes his seat in the green velvet armchair and guides us through the practice.
The opening prayers, taking refuge, bodhichitta, and finally the transformation of the offering.
Rinpoche takes the small bowl of Sur powder and tips it over the glowing coal in the incense burner. A thin column of smoke rises.
He beckons Suriyel over and presses the smoking incense burner and a feather fan into his hands. “Carry it through the house.”
I jump up and follow Suriyel, who strides out of the pavilion and into the main house.
Together we walk from room to room. Suriyel leads, I follow behind. We both recite a mantra. In each room, Suriyel moves from corner to corner, fanning the smoke of the burning offering with the feather fan.
After twenty minutes, we’re back in the pavilion. In our absence, Rinpoche and the sangha have also been reciting a mantra.
For Frank.
Who can hopefully move on now. Into a good new rebirth.
Suriyel sets the incense burner, still glowing with coal, on the ground in front of Rinpoche. Then, like me, he settles onto a meditation cushion.
Suddenly, one of the Dharma brothers, who has a seat with a view of the pond, calls out loudly: “There! A water snake!”
Just like the day before, everyone jumps up, trying to catch a glimpse of the pond and the snake. (→ Link zu “Water Snake”)
Again, I’m too slow. By the time I manage a glimpse through the window, the snake has already disappeared into the reeds by the bank. Just like yesterday.
“That one was noticeably smaller than yesterday’s!” someone remarks, having had better luck than me.
“Yesterday’s water snake was the Naga king. And today’s was the Naga queen!” another declares with great certainty.
Rinpoche says nothing to this. He looks content.
The Sur seems to have worked…
