by David Michie
“‘Where would I possibly find enough leather,’” quoted Oliver, “‘with which to cover the surface of the earth? Yet wearing leather just on the soles of my shoes, is equivalent to covering the earth with it.’”
“Wonderful!” said Tenzin. “Sometimes we can’t avoid stepping on thorns, but we can stop them from hurting us.”
Intrigued, I moved closer to the office door. The verse Oliver had just quoted couldn’t have been a better description of my experience that morning. Little had I realized that I had wandered out into the world without the emotional protection to which I had become accustomed.
“So, how is your mother?” Oliver asked Serena.
“Stronger and stronger by the day.”
“Keeping up the meditation?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent!”
“Even starting to enjoy it a little. Which is making her concerned. She sees it as a Buddhist practice, and she’s a Catholic—although a lapsed one.”
Oliver chuckled.
“Even though His Holiness has always encouraged her to stick to her own tradition, she can’t help feeling—”
“She’s being surreptitiously converted into a Buddhist?” Oliver finished for her.
“Exactly!” Serena beamed.
“Well, you can tell her to relax because meditation isn’t owned by Buddhists. Different meditations are used by Christian monastic orders like the Franciscans and Benedictines. And there are secular practices like Transcendental Meditation and mindfulness meditation that have no connection to any religion.”
“But meditation is central to Buddhism.”
“Definitely.”
“Why is that?”
Oliver leaned back in his chair. “Buddhism is about understanding our own true nature. What and who we really are. Having a head full of ideas about this only gets us so far. What really matters is discovering it for ourselves. And that’s only possible by training the mind so that we can experience our most subtle levels of consciousness directly.”
Serena nodded. “Geshe-la was talking about the importance of realizations only last week.”
“Because they’re so important,” agreed Oliver. “I know people who’ve received many teachings, and they’ve read a ton of books, and they’re very knowledgeable about the teachings and can explain them well. And they’ll say, ‘I feel I’m just going around and around in circles, never making any progress,’ and the problem is almost always that they don’t meditate. That’s because their understanding is only skin-deep.”
Having allowed the tea to brew, Tenzin picked up a battered silver teapot in a knitted salmon-pink tea cozy and, after reverentially rocking it three times to the right and then three times to the left, began pouring out three cups through a strainer.
Accepting a cup from Tenzin, Serena said, “I will tell Mum what you said about Christians meditating, Oliver. I’m sure she’ll be reassured.”
Oliver nodded. “I remember meditating in a Benedictine monastery when I was young. And at a Quaker meeting. Dad took me along—part of reaching out to other faiths.”
“Your father was a Buddhist?” asked Tenzin.
“Oh no!” Oliver chuckled. “A vicar. Still is. I was brought up very Church of England.”
“Intriguing!” Serena raised her eyebrows.
“Services three times every Sunday. High days and holy days. Bible verses to learn by rote. When I was growing up, everyone thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“And instead . . . ?” prompted Tenzin.
“Instead I studied languages, including Sanskrit, and found myself drawn to Buddhism.”
“How did your parents react?” asked Tenzin.
“It was a gradual thing. They had plenty of time to get used to the idea. The paradox is that I go home and find half my Buddhist books in Dad’s study—he goes through them to pinch ideas for his sermons.”
As the three of them laughed, I decided to find out if there might be an afternoon refreshment in the office for me. I stepped into the room and behind Chogyal’s old chair, currently occupied by Oliver.
“Is there anything that you miss?” asked Serena.
“About the Church of England?” asked Oliver. “Not anymore. In my very early days as a Buddhist, I used to miss the music. All that glorious orchestral work. And the sacred choral pieces—especially from the baroque period. Even some of the hymns, which form part of my earliest memories. Music is incredibly powerful, almost magical in the way it marries consciousness to energy. Different music carries different vibrational qualities, and just listening to it can change one’s own energy and mood—it’s like alchemy.
“When I first began practicing the Dharma, I felt I’d turned away from all that, but then my understanding of Buddhism deepened and I came back to sacred music with a fresh appreciation. What is it, if not an attempt to express the inexpressible?”
The late-afternoon sun, sliding toward the horizon, reflected from a window opposite and filled the office in a glow of ethereal light. It seemed obvious now why the Dalai Lama had chosen Oliver as his new interpreter. Not only for his understanding of Tibetan, English, and a half dozen other languages. It was also for his radiant intelligence—one that seemed, quite comfortably, to straddle East and West, Buddhism and Christianity, outer and inner realities. Oliver was not only a translator of words. He was also spiritually multilingual.
“So I no longer miss the music,” he continued. “It has returned to my life as a source of great joy.”
Serena and Tenzin had been listening intently as I hopped from the floor to the desk and approached the tea tray. I leaned over it, nostrils twitching, to confirm that more than a smidgen of milk remained in the jug. Then, sitting purposefully, I looked directly at Serena and meowed softly.
The three humans seemed to find this amusing.
“Oh, HHC, would you also like something to drink?” Serena asked unnecessarily, glancing at Tenzin. “Do you usually . . . ?”
“She hasn’t joined us in the past.” Standing, Tenzin pushed aside letterhead marked with the heraldic crest of Kensington Palace to make space for a saucer from the tea tray. “First time for everything.”
“A very polite meow,” observed Oliver, sipping his tea.
“Rinpoche is a darling cat,” said Serena, leaning forward to stroke me.
“Rinpoche?” Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “I thought she was HHC?”
“Oh,” Tenzin said, chuckling, “she is a cat of many names. His Holiness calls her Snow Lion. That’s his personal term of endearment.”
“To my mother, she is the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. And at the Downward Dog School of Yoga, she is revered as Swami,” Serena added.
“Swami?” Tenzin reacted with surprise. “I didn’t know that one.”
I could tell the direction his thoughts were taking by his tone of voice and shot him a glance. There was, dear reader, another very different name that had been bestowed on me during my earliest days at Namgyal. It wasn’t one I approved of, and it had been given to me in this very office by the Dalai Lama’s driver—a rough sort of fellow. It was one of those nicknames that captures your behavior at its very worst, to everyone’s amusement but your own.
Understanding my glance, Tenzin fixed his features into his diplomat’s poker face. “Swami . . . ,” he repeated. “She’s been called worse.”
“We usually bestow different names on those whom we love,” observed Oliver. I looked over at him, taking in the eyes sparkling behind the spectacles, the aura of niceness about him. Oliver and I were going to get along well, I decided.
“Think of the Dalai Lama,” said Oliver. “When he was reinstated on the lion throne in the Potala Palace, he was given many names. The Lotus Thunderbolt. Great Precious Prince of the Soft Voice. Mighty in Speech. Excellent of Knowledge. Absolute in Wisdom. The One Without Equal. Powerful Ruler of Three Worlds. Of course, most of us know him simply as the Presence.”
“Kundun.” Ten
zin used the Tibetan word.
“Perhaps the most apt,” said Serena. “When you’re with him, sometimes even when you’re not with him—”
“You feel it.” Oliver met her eyes with a warm understanding in his own.
“I’m so pleased you’ve come to Namgyal,” Serena said as she reached out spontaneously to squeeze his hand. “You probably don’t know this, but I was good friends with your predecessor, Lobsang.”
“Actually, I did know.” Oliver put down his cup and pushed back his chair. “And I’m glad you mentioned it. I found something the other day I thought you may like to have.”
After he left the office, Tenzin and Serena exchanged a few words about how very special His Holiness’s new translator was and how wonderfully he fitted in. After lapping the very last drops of milk from the saucer, I sat up, raising my front left paw and beginning to lick it in preparation for a post-prandial face wash.
When Oliver returned he was holding a small, square Kodachrome photograph, which he gave Serena. As soon as she saw it, her face lit up.
“Oh my goodness! Where did you find this?” she exclaimed.
“I was clearing out some bookshelves and it fell out from somewhere.”
“I don’t even remember . . .”
Tenzin was peeking over her shoulder. I paused my face-washing momentarily. The photograph was of Lobsang and Serena as teenagers in the kitchen downstairs. Both were wearing aprons and chopping vegetables, no doubt in preparation for a VIP lunch.
“All those years ago.” Serena’s voice was soft. “Dear Lobsang. I so hope he is well.”
“I’m quite sure he is,” Oliver assured her. “He’s living in Bhutan right now.”
“With his family?”
“Some sort of job helping the queen.”
My ears pricked up at this. As a relative of the Bhutanese royal family, it had been Lobsang who’d arranged for the adoption of my one and only daughter, little Snow Cub, by the queen.
“How interesting the way the world turns.” Serena reached out to stroke me. “And how reassuring that Lobsang will be keeping an eye on Rinpoche’s daughter.”
“In Bhutan?” asked Oliver.
As Serena explained the connection, Oliver looked over at me with new reverence.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “So HHC is the queen’s cat’s mother!”
“Could there be any higher nobility?” Tenzin asked with a droll smile as the three of them observed me washing me ears.
“There may be,” smiled Oliver. “But none that I’ve ever heard of!”
His Holiness returned that afternoon, and within minutes of his arrival was receiving a visitor. His guest was a very senior executive from one of the best-known social media organizations in the world. Being a cat of immense discretion, let me just say that name of the company where the visitor was a high flier is reminiscent of the sound made by birds in the trees. By way of a further, very subtle clue, the corporate brand is not a million miles away from rhyming with that essential cat bathroom provision: litter.
“Your Holiness,” began the visitor. He had a balding head, dark-rimmed glasses, and a radiant intelligence. “The reason I’m here today is to invite you to address a conference of the world’s leading consumer electronic companies in Silicon Valley next year.”
As I eavesdropped from my place on the sill, he went on to explain how every year there was a big conference offering a forum for social media networks, consumer product manufacturers, and mindfulness teachers.
After the visitor had finished his explanation, the Dalai Lama reached over and took his hand. “Tell me,” he said as he looked deep into his eyes, “do you yourself meditate?”
“Oh yes, Your Holiness!”
“And you encourage others in your organization to do so?”
The visitor nodded. “It’s an important part of what I do. Of course, you can’t force someone to meditate. But we have daily sessions, dedicated quiet rooms, and at certain meetings, like brainstorms, we always begin with two minutes of meditation.”
His Holiness was intrigued.
“Can I ask why?”
It was as though he had pressed a Play button in the mind of the Californian businessman.
“We operate in the most ferociously competitive markets of the world. And the fastest-moving!” His eyes lit up, and his face became animated. “By the time any new product becomes available, it is already six, twelve months out-of-date. In our business environment, one thing matters more than anything else: innovation! We need to be creative. We need to unleash our employees’ talent to work out what’s going to matter to consumers a year from now, and to develop the perfect application for them before anyone else does.
“We find,” he said, his voice lowered to a sacramental tone, “that when people meditate, they are more innovative.”
The Dalai Lama was nodding seriously.
“By contrast, if their minds are agitated, they can’t see what might be staring them in the face.”
This was a theme I’d often heard His Holiness talk about. “Like a glass of storm water scooped out of the gutter,” the Dalai Lama said. “Very murky. But rest the glass on a flat surface for a while, and the sediment settles. You have clear water—you can see right through it.”
“A wonderful metaphor!” chimed the visitor. “I will definitely be sharing that one when I get home. We also find that when people meditate they are more relaxed. It’s easier for them to be more playful and creative, to optimize innovation—which is critical for our business.”
The Dalai Lama considered this carefully before saying, “It is very interesting to hear the different purposes to which meditation is being put.”
“We attribute half our NPD—sorry, New Product Development—to mindfulness practice.”
“Very impressive.” His Holiness was smiling.
“And that’s only the start of it. There’s now plenty of research showing that when people meditate, their focus improves. It’s a highly transferable skill. Whether you’re sitting on a meditation cushion concentrating on the breath or in front of a computer screen concentrating on an e-mail, you become more productive, less easily distracted, and your memory recall improves.”
“Good for the employer,” observed the Dalai Lama with his trademark chuckle. “More profit.”
“The bottom line is always important,” agreed the visitor. “That’s not a problem, is it? It’s not like we’re subverting the practice of meditation.”
His Holiness pondered this question for a moment. “Generally speaking, motivation always comes first, yes? When encouraging your staff to meditate, if your motivation is to help them be more useful, happier, more functional for their own benefit and for others—well, no problem.”
“There is a growing debate about whether companies should encourage meditation,” said his guest. “The purists are arguing that it is unethical to ‘use’ a practice designed for spiritual progress in the pursuit of profit.”
“If profit is the only goal, then there is a problem,” the Dalai Lama continued. “But if profit arises from better creativity, and more fulfillment, better job satisfaction then . . . meditation is helpful. In Tibet we have a saying about meditation and ethics. For a non-meditator, an unethical action is like a hair falling on the hand. For a meditator, the same action is like a hair falling on the eyeball—big problem. When people meditate regularly, greater ethical awareness quite naturally develops. What could be better for the world’s biggest companies than if all their employees were to meditate? I would like to see this: all the largest global organizations encouraging people to meditate. This would be a very big step toward world peace.”
“These are some of the themes that our Wisdom Conferences explore!” said the visitor. “The role of social engagement and how happier employees make for happier communities. There are some very exciting studies showing how meditation improves job satisfaction and staff retention at the same time as reducing stress and burnout.
“For me, the biggest benefit of all has been changes in the way that people get along with one another at work, in their emotional regulation. It is usually possible to find solutions to technical problems or financial problems. But people problems? They are the most difficult to manage. Fortunately, we have discovered that when people meditate regularly, especially as a team, they don’t get so hung up on small things.”
“Less attachment.” The Dalai Lama was nodding. “More openness.”
“Exactly. In fact we’ve come up with this phrase: A company that sits together, knits together.”
His Holiness laughed as he reached over to take his visitor’s hand again. “You are a very good advertisement for meditation,” he said, still chuckling. Then his expression turned serious. “But if you really want me to speak at your conference, I will have to talk about my concerns, too.”
“Concerns?”
The Dalai Lama pretended to hunch over a cell phone, his thumbs moving over an imaginary screen. “Too much activity. Mindless distraction. This creates great agitation. It destroys inner peace. If people get too caught up with their phones they are robbed of contentment.”
No one could deny the point the Dalai Lama was making. I saw it myself every day down at the Himalaya Book Café where, instead of enjoying the wonderful surroundings and experiencing the novelty of the place, tourists from all over the world would sit huddled over their mobile devices, utterly absorbed in what was happening on the other side of the world or frustrated by the lack of network speed that slowed down message exchange.
Stirring on the sill, I reached out both front paws for a languid stretch before hopping down from my usual place and making my fluffy way over the carpet to where the two men were sitting.
“These are valid points,” the visitor was saying. “Whenever new technology emerges we must question the best uses to which it can be put.”
“Motivation,” summarized His Holiness.
“Of course.” The other man seemed unsure of how to respond to my evidently unexpected appearance while also trying to find a more positive response to His Holiness.
“I have a Buddhist friend who has created an app for his cell phone. At random times of the day, it makes a special sound. He calls it his ‘bodhisattva alert.’ It’s a reminder to question his actions at that moment.”