“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.

Tags: David Michie The Dalai Lama's Cat Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net