The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (3 page)

Even though she'd spent most of her adult life in Europe studying as a chef and working in several famous restaurants, Serena retained a special connection to the Dalai Lama. As she did to me. From the moment we met, Serena and I were the very closest of friends. She explained that her mother had been discharged from the hospital. The heart attack caused no major damage. There was no need for surgery, nor was Mrs. Trinci in any pain. But she was suffering from high blood pressure, and from now on, she needed to take medicine every day. In addition, the doctor had strongly advised her to find a complementary method to help manage her stress: meditation.

His Holiness immediately volunteered to be her teacher—an offer that delighted Serena. “Personal instruction by the Dalai Lama!” she exclaimed.

“And of course you are welcome to join her,” His Holiness added. When the Dalai Lama made such offers, they were never casually intended. “If we suffer from stress, if we lack peace of mind, meditation becomes more important. For all of us.”

On a nearby armchair, I was following the conversation with interest.

“Pain is inevitable,” the Dalai Lama continued. “Suffering is optional. We will all have to endure trauma and challenges. What matters is how we move forward afterward. Do we keep carrying the trauma and its causes in our mind? Or can we find a way to let go of them, to end our own suffering?”

The conversation was starting to have a personal relevance.

“This is where mindfulness can help us.”

As I turned to observe His Holiness, I discovered that he was looking directly at me.

I expected Mrs. Trinci and Serena to appear in His Holiness's rooms within days. But a whole week went by, followed by another, and still there was no visit. There seemed to be some kind of obstacle. Surely Serena wouldn't have forgotten? And what possible reason could Mrs. Trinci have for not seizing this opportunity? My own Post-Traumatic Flea Disorder was nowhere near as threatening as a heart attack, but it was still the cause of deep mental agitation, a gnawing concern that I was eager to hear the Dalai Lama explain.

As it happened, I had to wait more than a month before, late one afternoon, Mrs. Trinci and Serena appeared at the main gates to Namgyal. A short while later, the two of them were ushered into His Holiness's chamber. Ordinarily, his visitors would be seated demurely on one of the chairs opposite him, but these were no ordinary visitors. They were family. Catching sight of me on the sill, Mrs. Trinci immediately came over to where I was sitting.

“Oh, little
dolce mio
!” she exclaimed.

I got up, stretching my front paws out ahead of me with a luxuriant quiver, then arching my back appreciatively as she stroked my neck.

“But what is this?”

“Flea collar,” said His Holiness.

“
Mamma mia,
my poor little treasure!” she said as she bent down, nuzzling my head with her face. “How you have suffered! And how I have missed you!”

“She has missed you, too.” His Holiness was standing by his chair, observing this all with a smile. “And all the special treats from downstairs,” he added with a chuckle.

“Don't worry, she gets plenty of those at the café,” came Serena's droll voice from next to him. Serena was co-manager of the Himalaya Book Café, one of my favorite haunts, conveniently located less than ten minutes away.

Once the three of them settled into their chairs, I made my way toward them, eager not to miss out on anything.

“Tell me, my dear,” His Holiness said as he reached over and took Mrs. Trinci's hand in his own, as was his custom no matter who was visiting. He gazed deeply into her eyes. “How are you?”

Finding herself in his compassionate presence suddenly became too much for Mrs. Trinci. Overwhelmed, she dissolved into tears and had to retrieve a handkerchief from her purse. Through sobs, she explained how much of a shock the heart attack had been. How desperately she had just wanted things to go back to normal. But her doctor told her there could be no such thing. There had to be a new normal. She needed to make changes to her life if she was to manage her high blood pressure and to avoid future heart problems.

From the carpet I studied Mrs. Trinci's face closely. I don't know whether it was that she wasn't wearing her customary mascara or that she was bereft of her signature bracelets, which would clang emphatically whenever she moved her arms. But it seemed to me that something had changed. Something about her energy was less vital. That unquestioning invincibility about her presence had gone. For the first time that I could ever remember, Mrs. Trinci looked vulnerable. Walking over to her chair, I hopped up and settled beside her, offering reassurance in the form of a gentle purr.

“The doctor said I should take up meditation. I am very grateful to you for offering to show me how,” she said, reaching over to stroke me.

“Yes, I remember saying this to Serena,” replied His Holiness. “When was that?”

Mrs. Trinci turned to Serena. “Ten days ago?”

“A month.”

“One month,” confirmed the Dalai Lama in a thoughtful tone.

There was no need for him to say anything else. As twilight deepened, an unasked question became so loud, so self-evident, that Mrs. Trinci felt compelled to answer it. “I . . . I didn't come to see you earlier because, well”—she was shaking her head sadly—“I'm not sure I
can
meditate.”

Perhaps she had expected His Holiness to chastise her. It was hard to tell from her tone if she was embarrassed or despairing. But the Dalai Lama glowed with amusement, as though what she said had to be a joke. In that moment, whatever tension had been present in the room seemed to shimmer away. First Mrs. Trinci and then Serena picked up on the Dalai Lama's mirth, and they both got caught up in the hilarity of what Mrs. Trinci had just said.

“Tell me,” said His Holiness, eyes still twinkling with amusement, “why do you think you can't meditate?”

“Because I have tried!” Mrs. Trinci's voice rose. “Several times.”

“And?”

“My mind.” She met his gaze. “It's out of control.”

“Very good!” He brought his hands together, chuckling at her observation. “Had you ever noticed this before?”

“No.” It didn't take her long to ponder the question. “Not really. I'd never tried to focus like that.”

“Then you have already made the first, most important discovery,” said the Dalai Lama. “It is only when we acknowledge we have a problem that we can do something about it. You now have first-hand understanding of how out of control the mind is. You see, my dear,” he said, regarding her closely, “when we are suffering from stress, it isn't only because of our circumstances. Generally, we think everything is about what's outside of us. The externals. We think that if I didn't have this problem, if I wasn't in this situation, then, no stress. But there are other people in even more challenging situations who are thriving. The stress isn't coming from ‘out there.' Mainly it is coming from our mind.”

The Dalai Lama leaned forward in his seat. He was including all of us in what he was saying—not only Mrs. Trinci. “When we practice meditation, we begin to monitor our mind. And when we pay much closer attention, we can start to manage it.”

“But is there really any hope for me?” Mrs. Trinci asked. “When my mind is so crazy?”

His Holiness regarded her solemnly. “When we begin trying to meditate, most of each session we are thinking about everything
except
the chosen object of meditation. This is the same for everyone. Normal.”

I had never heard the Dalai Lama speak so directly to a beginner before. But what he said came as a massive relief. I wasn't the only one! It seemed that Mrs. Trinci and I had an important thing in common—apart from our love of gourmet cuisine. We both suffered from fleas. We might want to enjoy meditative calm, but no sooner would we begin a session than there'd be a scurrying, an agitation. Our contemplation would be abruptly overturned. Unwanted thoughts would intrude into our concentration, utterly destroying our peace of mind. Cats evidently weren't alone in this. When it came to meditation, it seemed, humans were flea-infested, too.

“It is the same for all of us,” continued the Dalai Lama. “All of us have to start somewhere. Where you start is unimportant. What matters is where you finish.”

There was a pause as we contemplated this. Then Mrs. Trinci spoke, her voice softly apologetic. “So you are willing to teach me how to meditate, even though my mind is so bad?”

“Of course!” His Holiness's face lit up. “This is why we are here.”

The Dalai Lama seemed to be referring not only to the fact that we were gathered in his room; he seemed also to be hinting at a greater purpose, an underlying connection.

“You have always been so generous, cooking wonderful food for our visitors,” the Dalai Lama said as he brought his palms to his heart and bowed to Mrs. Trinci. “Perhaps in some small way I can repay your kindness.” His expression turned suddenly serious. “But you must never say ‘my mind is so bad,' because this is mistaken thinking. You may experience great agitation. Much distraction. But this is temporary. Thoughts arise, abide, and pass. They are not permanent. Like clouds, no matter how completely they fill the sky or how long they seem to stay there, they, too, will pass. And when they do, even in brief moments after the end of one thought and before the next one begins, you can catch a glimpse of your mind. You can see it for what it is. Your mind, my mind, all our minds have the same qualities—perfect clarity, lucidity, boundlessness, serenity . . .”

As he spoke, Mrs. Trinci began to well up. His Holiness was communicating, and not only with words. He also conveyed the meaning of what he said in such a way that the feeling of it became wonderfully palpable.

Looking over at her daughter, Mrs. Trinci noticed that Serena's eyes also began to fill.

“As you abide with mind,” he continued, “more and more you will also come to discover that your own primordial nature is one of pure, great love and pure, great compassion. All begins with abiding in this moment, here and now.”

For a while we sat in silence. An early-evening breeze rippled through the open window—air that was fresh from the mountains and steeped in pine. It seemed to carry the promise of something new.

Then the Dalai Lama said, “I would like to give you all a challenge. I would like you to meditate for ten minutes every day, for a period of six weeks. At the end of the period, we can all review whether meditation holds some value. If so”—he nodded—“if there is some change, then we carry on.” He shrugged. “If not, we can say ‘I tried.' Does this seem fair?”

“Only ten minutes?” Serena raised her eyebrows.

“To begin with, yes. You may be surprised how much change we can experience with only a short period of focused attention each day.”

Serena was nodding, accepting His Holiness's challenge. She glanced over at her mother, who, after initial hesitation, began nodding, too.

On the chair, I felt the full gazes of the Dalai Lama, Serena, and Mrs. Trinci upon me.

Responding to the attention, I looked up. And meowed.

All three of them laughed.

“The power of meow?” suggested Serena as Mrs. Trinci stroked me.

“Exactly,” said His Holiness, chuckling. “It is the pathway to well-being and to discovering our own true nature.”

That night, the Dalai Lama attended a session in the temple. By the time he returned the moon had risen, casting the courtyard in ethereal silver.

I always love how the moon transforms a familiar scene into something quite magical. If daylight belongs to the dogs, then we cats are creatures of the night. We are the feline yin to the canine yang. Denizens of a time of mystery and wonder. For my own part, I enjoyed nothing more than sitting in nocturnal reverie beneath the brooding Himalayas, their icy peaks coolly gleaming in the starlight.