Long a favorite of mine of the Bill Martino posts; I offer this as a visit to the spirit of the man who built H.I. and long generated the spirit and the structure which has helped so many, both in Nepal and throughout the years of this forum Finn: Don't forget that lonely flute player. I won't. Sometimes when I'm up very late fighting the insomnia that comes with this current territory and it's very quiet, I'll hear him in my mind. Yangdu's in bed, the TV's off, the lights are low, I'm in my recliner and in front of me are thankas and numerous other Buddhist icons glowing in flickering candlelight. I'll close my eyes and let my mind drift back to that Tamang. He's over on his roof with his basari and I'm on mine with my Khukuri rum or an iceberb beer. It does not sound like a spiritual setting -- rum or beer and a basari player -- but it is. The sun is setting and up on the hill maybe a quarter or half mile away I watch the golden spires of Swayambunath, my favorite Buddhist temple in the entire world, turn into a glowing golden red, watch the prayer flags flying in the evening breeze, listen to the bells and gongs ringing softly in the distance, and always in the background is the Tamang and his basari making sweet sounds that I have never heard before and have not heard since. And I can feel myself dying, drifting away to I don't know where, floating away with the prayers of the prayer flags, here and then diminshing like the sound of the basari, here momentarily, alive and full, and then gone. I can feel Bill Martino dying and being replaced by someone new. The experience is mystical, wonderful and comforting. I do not fight the death and welcome the new unknown. All my old misbeliefs and misconceptions are fading away, being replaced by a new philosophy and realizations which fill me as nothing ever has in 50 years. Without really realizing it, I am becoming a Buddhist. It is a slow and gradual process and I am not even aware of what is happening to me. Almost every evening I go up on the rooftop and experience this evening ritual and then one day I awaken and realize that I have changed. I am no longer my self but am someone new. I am a stranger even to myself. I find all my old fears and regrets have somehow washed away to be replaced by something new and peaceful and fullfilling that I do not quite understand and that old emotions have vanished, replaced by better and nobler ones. Although my old self is dead I have never felt so alive and vibrant. I suspect the transformation is what Christians call being born again. One does not forget such an experience and the Tamang was a part of it. No, Finn, I will not forget the lonely flute player.