When Milarepa was deep in his meditation practice, he lived alone in a small rocky cave. One day, after wandering in the mountains gathering food, he came back and found his cave filled with demons. They were horrible, ugly, frightening creatures — squatting everywhere, growling, laughing at him.
At first, Milarepa tried to teach them the Dharma. He sat calmly and spoke of impermanence, of emptiness, of compassion. But the demons only laughed louder, mocking him.
Next, Milarepa grew angry. He shouted at them, demanded they leave. He tried to scare them away. But the more he fought, the more solid and powerful the demons became, as if they were feeding off his fear and anger.
Realizing his efforts were useless, Milarepa paused. He remembered the true essence of his practice — not fighting with appearances, not clinging to fear or pride. So he softened. He sat down and said gently, “I accept you. You may stay if you wish. This cave is big enough for all of us.” Hearing this, many of the demons disappeared instantly, like mist touched by the morning sun.
But one demon remained. The biggest one, the most terrifying, its mouth open wide, dripping with blood. It seemed it would devour him whole.
Milarepa felt a deep surge of fear rise up — but he did not run. Instead, he walked straight toward the demon. He bowed low and placed his head inside the demon’s mouth, offering himself completely. “If you wish to eat me,” he said, “then eat me.”
In that moment of total surrender, without a trace of resistance or fear, the final demon vanished into nothingness.
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