The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow

by David Michie

  “It’s hard to say exactly how,” she told him. “Perhaps, more of a feeling than anything else.”

  “A feeling?”

  “Sì. I find I am . . . noticing things more.”

  His Holiness nodded.

  “It sounds silly, but the other day I collected azaleas from the garden and was arranging them in a vase for the hallway. It is something I’ve done a hundred times over the years. But as I looked at them last week, I noticed how beautiful they are. Really noticed. The feeling was forte—strong!”

  The Dalai Lama was smiling.

  “It was the same with that music.” She exchanged a glance with Serena, who nodded.

  “We played a record, music from my youth that I know so well. But the feeling was so intense, I was so caught up in it, I found tears streaming down my cheeks.”

  Serena reached over and clasped her hand briefly. “Sentimental old thing.”

  Mrs. Trinci was nodding, moist-eyed at the recollection of it.

  “Anything else?” asked His Holiness.

  Mrs. Trinci shrugged. “It may be nothing, but the other day our accountant phoned. I was speaking to him and I felt myself getting tense. I noticed what was happening.”

  “You said you felt your shoulders tightening . . . ,” prompted Serena.

  “Sì. So as he was talking I took a few mindful breaths, like you showed us when meditating. It created more space. And I remembered all the times in the past when I’d felt tense while speaking to the accountant. And to many other people.”

  The Dalai Lama was still nodding.

  “Do you think this has something to do with meditating?” she asked.

  “Definitely,” he said.

  “Even though I wasn’t meditating when the accountant rang? Or when I picked the flowers?”

  “Of course.” The Dalai Lama paused for a short while, thinking of the best way to express himself. “If you do exercise, like running or . . .” He gestured picking up weights. “If you do it regularly, even for just a short time, it affects everything, yes?”

  The two women nodded in understanding.

  “So, mindfulness is like this. Little by little, you become more mindful, more aware of every action of your body, speech, and mind. Not just when you are meditating. This is most useful, because it is only when we are aware of what is happening that we can change.”

  “You can’t manage what you don’t monitor,” proposed Serena.

  “Very good!” His Holiness’s face lit up.

  “And this can happen,” Mrs. Trinci’s voice betrayed her doubt, “even though my meditation isn’t improving?”

  His Holiness tilted his head to one side.

  “I’m not judging it.” She held up her arms in defense. “I know I mustn’t do that. I’m just saying it hasn’t got better even though I’ve been doing it for six weeks.”

  His Holiness smiled. “When you look for signs of progress in meditation, it is not helpful to look back six weeks, months, even last year. If you compare, say, to five years ago, ten years ago, then you see definite signs of change. And in the meantime, as you have experienced, there are many benefits.”

  Mrs. Trinci pondered this. “Like a slow awakening.”

  The Dalai Lama nodded. “Buddha means ‘awakened.’”

  “You said that meditation makes you more aware of what is happening so that you can change.” Serena’s brow furrowed as she searched for the right words. “Is there any particular thing we should be trying to become more aware of?”

  “Each of us is different. Different temperaments. Different challenges. If we suffer from stress”—he gestured toward Mrs. Trinci—“it is most useful to notice when we are becoming tense. Only then can we modify our behavior—as you are already doing.”

  Mrs. Trinci basked in His Holiness’s approval. “And I’m going to continue,” she told him. “I have already noticed very good changes. And I have begun to realize that six weeks is just the beginning.”

  When he smiled at her, the whole room lit up with his warm benevolence.

  “In general,” he said, returning to Serena’s question a few moments later, “the best place to start is with mind itself. As Buddha said: ‘Mind is the forerunner of all actions. All deeds are led by mind, created by mind. If one speaks or acts with a serene mind, happiness follows, as surely as one’s shadow.’”

  For a while we sat together in the lamplight, contemplating Buddha’s wisdom. Outside, the sky grew even darker and wind howled down the Kangra Valley. We felt safe and protected, not only because of the softlit glow of the room but also because of the peace that came from being near His Holiness. It was as though the elements themselves were inviting us to be present in this moment. Just the four of us, simply abiding in the here and now. Once again I marveled at the discovery of how, even when the world outside was in a state of tumult, by drawing attention to the present moment, we could experience an abiding serenity.

  Mrs. Trinci and Serena understood this, too, and for a while we sat without the need for anything to be said. Eventually, His Holiness spoke.

  “Both happiness and unhappiness arise from thought. Our challenge is to develop those thoughts that create happiness and avoid those that cause us to suffer. So much of the time, we are having negative thoughts without realizing what is happening because we’re so caught up in them. Or because we can’t help ourselves. But with mindfulness, it’s possible to become more aware. To observe what we are thinking, and if necessary, to change.”

  The two women considered this for a while.

  “Your Holiness, what thoughts create the greatest happiness?” Mrs. Trinci asked.

  Reaching over to where she was sitting, the Dalai Lama squeezed her hand. “When we think of other beings with compassion, this makes us happiest. When we consider how to help others avoid suffering and give them contentment, we, ourselves, are the first to benefit.”

  “It seems so simple,” said Serena. “But it’s not easy.”

  His Holiness nodded. “You are right. Our instinct is to think about the self. About me. This is our usual mantra: ‘Me, me, me, me, me.’” He smiled. “But this is not how to think if we wish for happiness. Mindfulness can be a tool to help us replace thoughts of self with thoughts of others.”

  By late morning the monsoon clouds had blown away. Mrs. Trinci and Serena had left Namgyal, freshly inspired by the benefits of meditation practice. And I decided to reprise my now-officially-recognized role as Sacred Being at the Himalaya Book Café.

  As I wobbled through the front door of the establishment, I noticed that the mood in the place seemed unusually boisterous. Once on the top shelf, I saw that a lot of the noise was coming from a corner table where Franc, Ewing, and a number of friends were gathered, having lunch. Bottles of champagne were being popped with liberal abandon. Frequent bursts of laughter reverberated across the café for the next hour or two. The cause of the celebration remained a mystery, however, until Ewing made his way over to the piano. He lifted its lid and played a succession of extravagant, percussive chords worthy of Liberace at his most grandiose. He brought all conversation in the café to a halt, then segued into a rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Everyone in the café joined in, and the corner table loudly sang “dear Franc” at the appropriate moment.

  So leisurely and indulgent was the birthday feast that it wasn’t till half past three that desserts were served, and it turned five o’clock before people began leaving. Franc, evidently in no mood to end the party, made his way up to the sofas in the bookstore and, insisting that Serena and Sam join him, ordered another bottle of champagne. His two dogs, sensing an opportunity to be fed, scrambled from their basket under the reception counter, raced up the steps, and bounded onto the sofa that Franc was sharing with Sam. Not wishing to miss out, I soon followed by sitting on Serena’s lap.

  “Looks like you had a great birthday lunch,” Sam said, nodding toward the table where Franc and his friends had been gathered.

  “Th
e best ever!” replied Franc, eyes sparkling. “All this”—he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole café—“has been wonderful! Thanks to you, Serena!” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “Oh, you’re welcome. But it wasn’t all because of me,” Serena protested, her face alight. Along with Kusali, she had presided over the lunchtime celebrations, making sure both food and service were flawless. “I think everyone here has been wanting to repay you for the wonderful soiree.”

  “Here’s to many more of them!” Franc raised a glass. Then, after everyone had sipped a little champagne, he added, “I should have begun holding them years ago. But I needed to work though some stuff first.”

  Franc noticed Serena’s questioning look. “The thing is, piano was my life growing up. I played in concerts and with orchestras, you name it. It was my passion. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps—to study engineering. He was furious when I took music classes in college. He warned me it would be impossible to make a decent living, that I should follow my head, not my heart. So when I went through an especially bad time in my early thirties, when I was out of work, and it seemed my father’s harshest predictions were coming true. I wanted to get as far away from there as possible. So I fled to India.”

  “Really, Franc?” Serena’s voice was soft.

  From her lap, I was paying close attention. In the past, Franc had very rarely spoken about his personal life. Whether it was Geshe-la’s teaching on self-acceptance, or several hours of champagne consumption, or perhaps a combination of the two, he had revealed more in the past few sentences than in several years. And, it seemed, there was more to come.

  “I just wanted to go someplace where no one else knew me. At that time, northwest India seemed like the very end of the world. But I got here, and . . .” He flashed them a rueful smile.

  “Discovered that you were still yourself?” Sam queried.

  “Exactly.”

  “No matter how far we travel, we can never escape from ourselves,” Sam said, speaking with the authority of personal experience.

  “So I threw myself into the café.” Franc shrugged. “With His Holiness just up the road and all these people in red robes, I thought it would be cool to be a Buddhist. Well, I sure got that wrong!” He chuckled. “But Geshe Wangpo pulled me up.”

  “I’ve always wondered how he became your teacher,” Serena said. “He takes on so few Western students.”

  “Oh, the Dalai Lama set up the whole thing,” said Franc. “Chogyal, who used to be one of his executive assistants, came in here one day asking if I’d take in little Kyi Kyi, who had been abandoned.” Franc patted the Lhasa apso beside him on the sofa. “When I went to Chogyal’s office in Namgyal to collect him, His Holiness just appeared.” Franc shook his head with a smile, “He would have seen me coming. I was full of it, in those days, absolutely full of it.”

  “Whereas now?” chanced Serena mischievously.

  “Still quite full of it, but at least I know I’m full of it,” he retorted, laughing.

  “Anyway, His Holiness came straight to the point and said I needed a teacher. When I asked who he suggested, he named Geshe Wangpo.”

  “Did you have any idea he was one of the strictest monks at Namgyal?” asked Sam.

  “None at all,” replied Franc. “Obviously the Dalai Lama’s idea of a joke. But Geshe Wangpo was exactly what I needed. He quickly made me realize that Buddhism has got nothing to do with shaving your head or collecting initiations. It’s all about the mind. The more classes I went to and the more meditation I practiced, the more I began to work out, for the first time, really, that most of my unhappiness was self-created. I was torturing myself with all these unhappy thoughts—especially about my father.”

  A few moments of silence followed before Sam nodded. “Sounds very similar to me.” He glanced around the table before saying, “I came here after I was laid off from a bookstore in Los Angeles. I was also torturing myself with all these negative thoughts.”

  As the others murmured sentiments of sympathy and surprise, I turned to look at Sam. I remembered how nervous he had been when he’d first arrived at the Himalaya Book Café.

  “I used to beat myself up thinking I was a hopeless failure,” he continued. “That I might have a head full of facts, but nobody liked me. I couldn’t relate to people.”

  “I remember practically having to beg you to come and work here,” confirmed Franc with a grin.

  Sam nodded.

  “You know, I’d even been to see a therapist about it. She explained how it wasn’t any one thing that had actually happened that was making me feel bad. Plenty of people lose their jobs and don’t fall in a heap. It was my thoughts and interpretations that were doing all the damage. Problem was, they had become so automatic I couldn’t seem to stop them. It was only when I went up the hill to Geshe-la and started practicing mindfulness that I became aware of what was going on in my mind. That I could do something about it.”

  “This is fascinating!” Serena replied. “Just this morning, the Dalai Lama was saying almost exactly the same thing, but in different words. Tell me, did the therapist suggest what you should do to get rid of the unhappiness-causing thoughts?”

  “She did,” replied Sam. “And it wasn’t what you might think. Instead of more positive thoughts about myself, she recommended changing the subject altogether. She said I should concentrate more on thoughts about people I care about who are having a difficult time.”

  Serena’s eyes twinkled as she sat back in her chair. “That’s just what His Holiness says, too.”

  “There are a ton of parallels,” Sam observed with authority. “Many Westerners, looking at the ornate Buddhist temples, the monks in red robes, the rituals, prayers, and teachers make the understandable error of thinking of Buddhism as a belief-based religion, a kind of Christianity of the East. But in reality, it’s nothing like that at all. It’s important not to get sidetracked by what look, to us, like religious trappings. The main purpose of Buddhism is to experience the nature of mind. How our minds work is the main focus.”

  “And the approach,” said Franc, “is very—”

  “Rigorous,” chimed Sam. “You have someone observing a subtle aspect of consciousness over a five-thousand-hour period in a retreat. Then someone else replicates the process. They develop a language to describe their discoveries. Over thousands of years, these concepts are repeated, tested, debated. The result is a coherent understanding and some very clear direction on how best to manage your mind.”

  After a pause Serena said, “No wonder His Holiness has such a clear understanding. And is always so happy.”

  “I’ve still got a fair way to go to get to that stage,” Franc said, looking from Sam to Serena with a playful smile before raising his glass. “But in the meantime, there is champagne!”

  A short while later I had my own opportunity to practice mindfulness, specifically, to meditate on catnip. I decided to make my way from the Himalaya Book Café back up the hill, past the Namgyal gates, and directly to the garden.

  Since my first discovery of this delightful hallucinogenic I had been back several times—judge not, dear reader, we cats have no access to the beer fridge, the wine cellar, or the liquor cabinet. What harm could possibly come from a few minutes rolling around in a flower bed?

  As I walked, I remembered what Mrs. Trinci had told the Dalai Lama that morning. How she had really noticed the beauty of the azaleas from her garden. How she had shed a tear over a much-loved piece of music. Mindfulness was having a ripple effect across her life, bringing a fresh vividness to all that she observed. Was it having the same effect on me, too?

  For it seemed that, in the past few weeks, I had not only begun to notice things in the world around me more—I had also started to become more intuitive, more aware of connections, sensations, interrelationships to which I’d hitherto been oblivious. My encounter with Yogi Tarchin and Serena had been a part of this, a stepping-stone to the vivid recol
lection of my previous life in a dream. It was like having the door opened to a whole new understanding of reality.

  I threw myself into the catnip with wanton abandon. I rolled and stretched and curled and shivered for the few minutes that the mysterious herb created its giddying effect.

  It was only since I’d started trying to be mindful that I had discovered catnip. Only in recent weeks, since I’d become more fully awake to my senses, that I had found my way to this source of extraordinary pleasure. Was it the case that a mind less full of habitual fluffy thinking had made me more open to new possibilities? Was it purely coincidental that the catnip had appeared in the garden at this time—or did a clear and open mind allow the most delightful new opportunities to become apparent, spontaneously and without effort?

  It was only when I was quite finished in the catnip and had begun contemplating the walk home to Namgyal that I turned to survey the whole garden. As I did, I noticed the shed door was open again. There was nobody inside.

  Could an invitation be more irresistible?

  Within moments I was inside the small wood cabin, sniffing its pungent aromas. Some were earthy and instantly recognizable, like a sack containing the mulch that I’d find scattered liberally around the bases of garden shrubs. Other odors, like those contained in evil-looking plastic bottles, made me recoil. All sorts of gardening tools were affixed to a board facing the door, each neatly occupying its own labeled place. A variety of further sacks and containers sat beneath a bench. I was investigating these with the deepest curiosity when I heard a scuffing noise behind me. A shadow suddenly fell over me. Panic-stricken, I darted into the narrow space between two sacks, just catching a glimpse of the man as he came through the door.

  He turned out to be none other than His Holiness’s driver.

  If I had been asked to name one person at Namgyal who I would be happy never to see again, I would have had no difficulty in naming the Dalai Lama’s driver. Fortunately, I rarely encountered him. His chauffeuring duties brought him upstairs only infrequently. When I did see him, it was usually from the safety of my sill, while I watched him polish and buff the official Namgyal Monastery car. A large man with a gruff presence, he was the one who had suggested when I caught a mouse during my earliest days at Namgyal that I should be named Mousie Tung. It was a name that had greatly amused everyone in the executive assistants’ office—with the exception of me.