Guardian of the three baskets
Mouse size musings by the Dalai Lama's Cat
A moment of enchantment, dear reader: I padded into the kitchen one morning to find something new. No - not a delicious soupҫon, although such a discovery is always most welcome. Nor even His Holiness’s VIP Chef, Mrs. Trinci, who can always be relied upon to lavish bountiful affection on The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived.
Instead, on the wooden kitchen table were three baskets. Rectangular in shape and in three different sizes, they were woven from strands of cane and bamboo. Through the medley of different smells pervading the room, I instantly caught a bouquet of herbaceous reediness, along with the scent of long, warm days drying out in the sun. The tang of resin varnish, pungent, cloying and curiously beguiling. I must investigate further.
Hopping from floor to chair and chair to table, I sniffed at the receptacles, drawing in the full redolence of them, mouth parted in vomeronasal mode. I pressed them tentatively with my paw, checking for pliancy. Before, with a certain inevitability, I climbed into the first one, which I found rather small. I could sit down in it alright, but it wouldn’t allow for a supine cat to lie in comfortable repose. The second basket, however, had ample room for a luxuriantly fluffy body such as mine to settle nicely. The third was altogether larger – but not as snugly enclosing as the previous one.
I returned to the medium-sized basket, circling about several times as we cats like to do, before sitting upright to survey the view. Taking in the familiar vista of the kitchen and simply abiding in the present moment from this aromatically different vantage. Gradually, I settled down further, front paws tucked beneath me.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I heard was Oliver, one of His Holiness’s Executive Assistants, saying with mock-seriousness, “Are you suggesting, Mrs. Trinci, that we send each of the earthquake victims a cat?”
“Mamma Mia!” Catching sight of me, Mrs. Trinci was soon caressing me with great adoration. “She is blessing the baskets, don’t you see?” she said after a few moments, having found a reason for my being there. Mrs. Trinci had always been extravagantly indulgent when explaining my behaviour.
“Is she really?” Although Oliver’s tone was more sceptical, he was looking at me with a smile.
At that moment, Tenzin arrived through the back door with a cardboard tray holding mugs of take-out coffee from Ricardo at The Himalaya Book Café. The three of them were soon sipping their morning flat whites and cappuccino while Mrs. Trinci told them about her plan.
The day before, His Holiness had received word of an earthquake that had destroyed part of a monastery further along the Kangra Valley. Although damage had been limited, the monastery’s entire food store had been destroyed, leaving not only the monastery without any provisions, but also leaving destitute the small community who also stored their harvest in the facility.
The Dalai Lama had put out an urgent appeal for assistance. Bulk pledges of staples like barley, rice, lentils and beans had already been made, and transport was being arranged. For her part, Mrs. Trinci had the idea of non-essential treats to everyone, including baskets for the local community – a small basket for those who lived alone, a medium size for couples, and the largest container to be given to families. She proposed making large quantities of cookies. Sid and Serena were sourcing other items – sugar, spices, butter and tea.
After discussing what would be valued most by the monks and villagers, there was a pause before Oliver said to Mrs. Trinci, “It’s very good of you to be doing this.”
She shrugged. “Part of my Dharma practice. I’m not a very good meditator. And I know that we Buddhists need to experience the true meaning of shunyata, but this subject I find difficult.”
Tenzin, suavely attired in his suit as always, nodded towards the table, “The three baskets,” he murmured.
Mrs. Trinci looked somewhat puzzled by this sudden turn in conversation.
“What you just said,” he explained, for Oliver’s benefit as well as hers. “You described the three baskets, the Tripitaka, the core teachings of the Buddha.”
“Which are?” Mrs. Trinci wanted to know.
“The sutra basket, is about ethics. How we are to behave in accordance with the principle of non-harmfulness. Your practice of generosity-” he made a sweeping gesture towards the table. “Fits in with the first basket.”
Mrs Trinci was following him closely.
“You said you’re not a very good meditator?” he continued. “That’s the second Vinaya basket. It’s about developing our concentration. Meditation.”
“Si.”
“And therefore entirely appropriate that HHC should be in it!” Oliver butted in, eyes twinkling.
“And the third basket, the Abidharma basket, is the understanding of shunyata. Wisdom. The nature of reality. Each of these sets of teachings-,” with his free hand he indicated layers, “-builds on the previous one. You can’t perfect wisdom without concentration, and you can’t perfect concentration if you lack ethics.”
There was a pause before Mrs. Trinci said, “Thank you for explaining, Tenzin. Even though I have been practising Buddhism for many years, all the time I keep learning new things.”
“Same for us all,” chuckled Oliver.
“But sometimes,” her expression turned pensive. “I can’t help wondering if there’s something wrong with me. Not only me. With most of us Buddhists these days. We all seem to find it so difficult. So many things to learn! Why do we never hear of anyone attaining nirvana or enlightenment? Why did His Holiness and the Dharma suffer the great cruelty of being driven out of Tibet? Are we in the last days of the Buddha Dharma?”
It was rare to hear Mrs. Trinci sound quite so melancholy, or give expression to ideas so sweeping in their implications. She seemed to be suffering grave doubts about the spiritual path on which she had found herself, beginning to doubt if it led anywhere.