Eros and Holiness: The Dancing Master: Part Sixteen: Marc Gafni

marc gafni
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The Dancing Master

There is a wonderful story of Eros and love which I told my students at a special Kabbalistic ceremony the day before Cary and I were married.
It is a story which hints at many of the truths we will play with in our journey together. It is about walking through the void. Every time we walk through and not around the void we come out stronger.

Reports had reached a young Dalai Lama that a certain Master of Kung Fu was roaming the countryside of Tibet converting young men to the study of violence. Rumors even began circulating that this Master of Kung Fu was an incarnation of Shiva Natarajah, the Hindu God in his aspect of the Lord of the Dance of Destruction. The Dalai Lama decided to invite the Master for a visit.

Pleased with the invitation, some weeks later the Master of Kung Fu strode into the Dalai Lama’s ceremonial hall. The Master of Kung Fu was stunning indeed, with thick blue black hair falling down over the shoulders of his black leather suit. “Your highness,” he began, “know that you are beautiful people. I wouldn’t think of doing you harm.”
“When you want to harm,” asked the Dalai Lama, “what kind of harm can you do?”
“Royal Highness, the best way to show you would be for you to stand here in front of me while I do a little dance. Though I can kill a dozen men instantly with this dance, have no fear.
The Dalai Lama stood up and immediately felt as if a wind had blown flower petals across his body. He looked down but saw nothing. “You may process,” he told the Master of Kung Fu.
“Proceed?” said the other, grinning jovially, “I’ve already finished. What you felt were my hands flicking across your body. If it please your Highness, this was a demonstration in slow motion, extremely slow motion, of the way I could have destroyed the organs of your body one by one.. I could have taken them all out during that one little dance.”
“I know a master greater than you,” said the Dalai Lama.
“Without wishing to offend your Highness, I doubt that very much.”
“Yes, I have a champion who can best you,” insisted the boy king.
“Let him challenge me, and if he bests me I shall leave Tibet forever.”
“If he bests you, you shall have no need to leave Tibet.” The Dalai Lama clapped his hands, “Regent,” he said, “summon the Dancing Master. And while were waiting, lets have some tea.”

The tea ceremony was just about over when the Regent returned with the Dancing Master. He was a wiry little fellow, half the size of the Master of Kung Fu and well past his prime. His legs were knotted with varicose veins and he was swollen at the elbows from arthritis. Nevertheless, his eyes were glittering merrily and he seemed eager for the challenge.

The Master of Kung Fu did not mock his opponent. “My own guru,” he said, “was even smaller and older than you, yet I was unable to best him until last year. I could have finished him easily had I ever been able to touch him, but he moved too fast. Only last year did I finally catch him on the ear and destroy him, as I shall destroy you when you finally tire. To show that I know your methods and wont be tricked into exhausting my energy, I shall first let you strike me at will. Your frail little hands can do me no harm while I’m at full strength.”

The two opponents faced off. The Master of Kung Fu was taking a jaunty, indifferent stance, tempting the other to attack.

The old Dancing Master began to swirl very slowly, his robes wafting around his head. His arms stretched out and his hands fluttered like butterflies toward the eyes of his opponent. Their fingers settled gently for a moment upon the bushy eyebrows.
The master of Kung Fu drew back in astonishment. He looked around the great hall. Everything was suddenly vibrant with rich hues of singing color. The faces of the monks were radiantly beautiful. It was as if his eyes had been washed clean for the first time.

The fingers of the Dancing Master stroked the nose of the Master of Kung Fu and suddenly he could smell the pungent barley from a granary in the city far below. He could smell butter melting in the most fragrant of teas, as the Dalai Lama, incomparably beautiful, sipped tea and watched him calmly.

A flicking of the Dancing Master’s foot at his genitals, and he was throbbing with desire. The sound of a woman singing through an open window filled him with exquisite yearning to draw her into his arms and caress her. He found himself removing his leather clothes until he stood naked before the Dancing Master, who was now assaulting him with joy at every touch.
His body began to hum like a finely tuned instrument. He could hear the great long horns resounding in a thousand rooms of the Potala, praising creation. He opened his mouth and sang like a bird at sunrise. It seemed to him that he was possessed of many arms, legs, and hands, and all wanted to nurture the blossoming of life.

The Master of Kung Fu began the most beautiful dance that had ever been seen in the great ceremonial hall of the Grand Potala. It lasted for three days and nights, during which time everyone in Tibet feasted and visitors crowded the doorways and galleries to watch. Only when he finally collapsed at the throne of the Dalai Lama did he realize that another body was lying beside him. The old Dancing Master had died of exertion while performing his final and most marvelous dance. But he had died happily, having found the disciple he had always yearned for.

The new Dancing Master of Tibet took the frail corpse in his arms and, weeping with love, drew the last of its energy into his body. Never had he felt so strong.

marc gafni
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