Our Lama's greatest gift
A mouse-size musing from the Dalai Lama's Cat
(Photo courtesy of Eszter Naujoks on Unsplash)
What is the greatest gift a spiritual teacher can bestow on us? The most treasured of prizes that it is possible to possess?
Even though I have observed the exchanges between lamas and students since I was just a kitten and – as you know better than most, dear reader - am among the wisest and most percipient of cats, the subject of a guru’s greatest gift was not one to which I’d ever devoted a moment’s thought. Until one particular afternoon when His Holiness gave a public audience downstairs.
A small group visitors, Asian and Western, monastics and lay people, had gathered for this most auspicious of encounters. Quietly settled on a chair to one side, I felt the hallowed but electrified hush of anticipation as the hands of the wall clock flicked towards the allotted time. The moment that the Dalai Lama stepped into the room, in an instant sweeping away the earnest silence with a wave of benevolent, joyful energy.
I never tired of observing the ritual offering of white scarves. That special instant of connection when His Holiness placed each white scarf back around the neck of a visitor, and met their eyes with his own expression of oceanic compassion. He said a few words to the group while standing among them, all the while holding people’s hands in each of his, the better to convey his warm affection.
Then taking his place on a chair to face his visitors, who sat or kneeled on cushions before him, there followed brief exchanges with members of the group. This was when a French man explained that he was making a pilgrimage to Dharamshala from Marseille in memory of his late, beloved teacher. When he mentioned the lama’s name, the Dalai Lama’s face lit up. “An old school Geshe,” he nodded respectfully. “And a great teacher.”
“Oui!” The Frenchman, smiling, seemed emboldened by his response. “He gave his students a clear understanding of the entire path to enlightenment.” Touching his heart he said, “I believe this was his special gift to us.”
His Holiness’s eyes twinkled in the mischievous way they sometimes do when he hears a thing that requires a perspective-changing response. One that, in this particular case, he was evidently keeping up the sleeve of his robe for the moment. Instead, he asked, “Is there anyone else here whose lama has also passed away?”
Three American women were immediately nodding. “Our teacher wasn’t a Geshe,” said a feisty, bright-faced woman in her forties. “She had little formal training like your Geshe,” she glanced at the Frenchman. “But you could tell that everything she did was motivated by bodhichitta. And over the years, that way of seeing things became our too.” The woman’s colleagues were nodding. “We feel this was her gift to us.”
“Very good,” smiled the Dalai Lama.
An Indian man, 30-something, with a gleaming black moustache and the most penetrating dark eyes, raised his hand politely. His Holiness gestured that he should speak.
“I only met my master twice,” he said. “So, I hardly knew him. We didn’t really have a personal relationship. But on those two occasions when we sat in meditation together, I felt such extraordinary peace, such clarity, that I had no doubt it was possible to train the mind to experience a different reality. This,” he declared earnestly. “Was his very great gift to me.”
The Dalai Lama looked from one to the other of the visitors who had spoken, before surveying the group as a whole. “So,” he brought his hands together beaming. “You all received gifts from your teachers?”
There was a general nodding of assent. Which was when he surprised them with a question. “What, would you say, is the greatest gift that a lama can give?”
In an instant, his visitors were looking downwards. Or sideways. Or studying their fingernails. Anything to avoid the awkwardness of being unable to answer a simple question with an equally simple answer.
As much as the Frenchman evidently prized the clarity of conceptual understanding, he wasn’t about to claim that it trumped bodhichitta or meditative absorption. The other visitors evidently felt the same way about the gifts bestowed by their own particular gurus.
Which was the more important? And why? Who wanted to risk giving the wrong answer on the one and only occasion they were likely to meet the Dalai Lama himself?
His Holiness took in the blank faces and anxious glances of his guests with an indulgent expression before putting them out of their misery.
“The greatest gift is one that each of your lamas has, quite clearly, already bestowed on you,” he said. Then as they all looked back towards him, with an eager curiosity. “It doesn’t matter if your lama is a very highly qualified Geshe,” he met the Frenchman’s eyes. “Or someone without such formal training,” he glanced towards the Americans. “Whether your relationship lasted a long time, or was only brief,” he nodded towards the Indian man. “This is also not important.”
“Even the emphasis of your lama’s teaching – conceptual. Aspirational. Meditative. Even these,” he shrugged. “Matter less.” His expression shifted becoming wistful. Without putting it into words, he seemed to be reflecting on his own late lamas.
“The main gift of a lama,” he declared softly, “is to be dispensable.”
There were expressions of bewilderment the moment he said this. Puzzled faces as his visitors tried to digest what they’d heard. For my own part, the moment he said it I realised that he was, to some extent, talking about himself and his own role as a teacher. His own purpose to transmit the Dharma - in such a way that, when he was gone, it would endure in the hearts and minds of those he had encountered.
I responded reflexively. Hopping off the chair where I was sitting, I padded across to His Holiness and launched myself onto his lap, circling several times before looking up at him. I, for one, didn’t want him to be dispensed with.
Chuckles sounded from around the room. Looking down, the Dalai Lama stroked my face with both hands. “It’s alright, my little Snow Lion,” he murmured reassuringly, calling me by my favourite name. The one that only he ever used.
Looking at his visitors he continued, “Teachers are in many different guises. They come to connect us to the Dharma. This is their job. Their purpose. Some students respond to certain teachers and methods more than others. This is just karma,” he shrugged. “In time we will all come to understand and embody the path on every level.”
As so often when His Holiness spoke, he communicated with more than words alone. In giving voice to ideas, they were self-evident in an almost palpable way, as though we were already being offered a glimpse of what it was like to embody the path on every level, enjoying a preview of how it felt to experience a more enlightened state of being.
“We may miss our beloved teachers and wish that they were still with us. Wanting to spend just a little more time together. But if we understood what they taught, and that wisdom has become part of who we are. If we have integrated the Dharma into our lives, then our lama may die, but from our perspective as students, nothing is lost. We still feel their presence.” He was touching his heart.
“If we remain connected to the path after the lama has gone,” he continued – as did the feeling of oceanic benevolence. “If we continue to be inspired even when he or she is no longer alive - what greater gift can there be than this?”
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Paying subscribers have helped support a number of not-for-profit organisations, including Buddhist activities in the Himalayas and animal rescue centres in my home country of Zimbabwe.
On a visit to Twala Trust Animal Sanctuary, whose work includes taking care of injured animals who can’t be returned to the bush, I was delighted to meet Rhonda the bushbaby.
Bushbabies, galagos, or “pookies” as they are also known, are native to sub-Sahara Africa and quite the cutest little primates you’ll ever meet. They are nocturnal, and with their huge, brown eyes and cute little ears they look like they are straight out of Central Casting at Disney!
