How to avoid 'idiot compassion'
Mouse size musing by the Dalai Lama's Cat
Have you ever done something that goes completely against your principles, dear reader? Come, come - we know each other far too well for you to grow coy with me! I am not asking you to publish a confession in the village square. Merely to pause and ask if your conduct always aligns with those noble values you press so earnestly to your heart? Or whether, on occasion, it wanders off without supervision.
As a mature feline long accustomed to dozing in gentle concord with the teachings at Namgyal Monastery, and purring with discreet attentiveness while eavesdropping on His Holiness’s conversations, I assumed myself a rather accomplished practitioner. Not merely Buddhist-adjacent, you understand. But immersed. A cat so steeped in the Dharma that doing something contrary to my ideals was simply unthinkable.
Until I did.
Or rather, until I found myself doing it.
Or, if we are to be scrupulously honest - and I insist that we are - until I was well underway before the faint but unmistakable scent of hypocrisy rose to my nostrils.
There I was, late one morning, making my unhurried way towards the entrance of that most civilised sanctuary, The Himalaya Book Café, when a soft thud sounded above me. A flutter of wings. A frantic rustling through the leaves of a nearby potted hydrangea. Then silence.
At my paws lay a Himalayan bulbul. Its jaunty black crest — ordinarily arranged with enviable confidence — now tilted tragically to one side. The saffron flash beneath its tail, so reminiscent of a novice monk’s robes, was stilled in collapse.
In a single, fluid movement, I had the bird in my mouth.
There was no committee meeting. No internal recitation of the Five Precepts. Simple instinct took command.
Moments later, I was padding into the café and my customary seat. No one paid me particular attention. The customers were absorbed in bright conversation. The wait staff, long accustomed to my comings and goings, barely glanced up.
The magazine rack - where I generally occupy the uppermost shelf so as to be better admired - stood at the back of the room.
It was only as I approached it, the small, feathered form still suspended from my jaws, that awareness began to dawn.
What, precisely, was I doing?
What had I done?
A tiny bird — a sentient being — had flown into a window. It had fallen helplessly to the ground. And how had I responded? Like any savage beast! I had seized upon a meal I neither required nor, truth be told, even wanted.
And the evidence of my lamentable wrongdoing wasn’t subtle. It was dangling from my mouth.
To compound matters, from the back banquette came a bright peal of laughter — unmistakable. My most lavish patron, Mrs Trinci. She, her daughter Serena, and café-owner Franc were assembled at their customary table, radiating conviviality.
What was I to do? Suddenly I was profoundly discombobulated. Had the previous sixty seconds been available for replay, I would have done everything differently. Perhaps even arranged a small avian vigil beneath the hydrangea. But time does not flow backwards.
There was nothing for it.
With what I hoped passed for composure, I sprang onto the banquette and advanced along its length. His Holiness’s VIP chef was in the midst of an expansive, bracelet-clanking gesture when I gently - very gently - laid the bulbul beside her elbow.
“Mamma mia!” she cried. “A bird!”
Serena leaned across her mother. Franc popped upright from the opposite side of the table.
“Is it alive?”
Head Waiter Kusali - omnipresent, as ever - descended with a freshly laundered white napkin and enclosed the bird within its folds. He lifted it close to his face, studying it with grave attentiveness, then rested the tip of his right index finger lightly against its chest.
No one gave me so much as a glance.
“What do you think, Kusali?” Serena prompted at last.
His eyes narrowed. With infinite care, he extended one delicate wing. Then the other.
Time elongated.
“I do not know about the neck,” he said finally. “But the wings are not broken. I think it may be stunned only. I will take it to the back.” He inclined his head towards the kitchen. Beyond the café lay a small garden, bordered by hedge and copse.
Nodding towards the entrance, he added, “This has happened before. A bird flies into the French doors. Once, a dog reached it before it recovered. Another time, it was lifting off when a truck struck it.”
A small silence followed.
“But this time,” Mrs Trinci declared, turning towards me - Kusali’s cautious assessment having, in her mind, confirmed her most lavish assumptions - “the bird’s life has been saved by The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived!”
Kusali glanced at me evenly. The consummate diplomat.
“That may very well prove to be true,” he said.
And with that, he carried the bulbul outside.
Mrs Trinci was already bending towards me, arms extended, intent on smothering me with kisses.
“I doubt she knows how to hunt,” said Serena, more cautiously.
“That one couldn’t catch a bird unless it flew straight into her mouth,” Franc added with a chuckle.
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved at being absolved of predatory intent or outraged at his casual dismissal of my prowess.
“I’m sure Kusali is right,” Serena continued. “The bird must have flown into the window and she found it on the ground. Hopefully it only stunned itself.”
“Even so,” Mrs Trinci insisted, undeterred by such subtleties, “for saving the life of another out of compassion, she has surely earned herself a treat?”
“I would never begrudge HHC a treat,” said Franc, signalling to a waiter by pointing his forefinger discreetly in my direction. “But was it compassion?”
“Ah.” Serena’s met his expression meaningfully. “I know what you’re saying.”
“Visitors come in here-” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned across the table “-from all over the world. I hear them speaking about loving-kindness. About compassion. So often, they misunderstand.”
“Many people seem to think that compassion means giving others whatever they ask for,” Serena’s eyes were bright with conviction. “Becoming a doormat in the name of kindness.”
Mrs Trinci, having gathered me securely upon her lap, looked from one to the other with keen interest, as though attending a spirited panel discussion.
“Just last week I received one of those dreadful ‘Life Release’ flyers.”
Serena shook her head, sadness shading into indignation. “Freeing sparrows from tiny cages.”
The practice of releasing captive birds had, in recent years, evolved into a brisk commercial enterprise in local markets. Hundreds of sparrows were trapped annually and confined for weeks in cages scarcely large enough for a wing to extend, sold to the devoutly well-intentioned so they might purchase the opportunity to ‘practice compassion’. Far from alleviating suffering, the ritual had become the very source of it.
“‘Idiot compassion!’” Franc said with feeling. “That’s what Geshe Wangpo calls it.”
At that moment, a waiter arrived bearing three cups of coffee, which he set carefully before them.
“We are fortunate to have the three lamas as a reminder.” Serena’s gaze drifted past the table to the thangka hanging on the wall behind Franc.
It depicted the great Lama Tsongkhapa, serene beneath his golden hat, flanked by his two heart-disciples, Gyaltsab Je and Khedrup Je. At Gyaltsab Je’s heart shone Chenrezig, the Buddha of Compassion. At Tsongkhapa’s heart, Manjushri, the embodiment of Wisdom. And at Khedrup Je’s heart, Vajrapani, radiant with enlightened Power.
“Exactly,” Franc nodded. “Compassion, wisdom, and power. We need all three together to produce beneficial results. Compassion unguided by wisdom is naïve. Wisdom without compassion is cold. And power without either…” He let the thought trail off.
“If people truly understood that compassion must be guided by wisdom,” he continued, “they wouldn’t buy birds from market traders. The industry would collapse. They would channel their goodwill into something genuinely helpful.”
“Supporting animal sanctuaries,” Serena said. “Or planting trees. I’ve heard those used as better alternatives.”
Mrs Trinci took a thoughtful sip of coffee, her bracelets chiming softly as she lowered the cup.
“Talking of wisdom and compassion,” she murmured, “makes me think of poor Stefano.”
Serena nodded, her expression shifting. “Mum’s nephew. My cousin. Back in Italy. His son, Luca, is struggling with drugs.”
“Everything,” Mrs Trinci said, spreading her hands in emphasis. “He gave Luca everything. Money. Patience. Second chances. Third chances. Trying to save him.” She shook her head slowly. “Now he has stopped. He says Luca must save himself. He will only pay if he goes to rehab.”
Franc grew pensive, the fine lines around his eyes deepening as he contemplated that narrow, excruciating boundary between helping and enabling.
“It’s a hard wall to build,” Serena said, leaning back in her chair. “Especially now. We seem terrified of anyone experiencing the smallest discomfort. And it begins so early, doesn’t it? Participation prizes at school — where no one truly wins, and therefore no one learns how to lose.”
She gestured towards the street beyond the café windows. “I see it everywhere. Parents who race to deliver a forgotten lunchbox the moment a child whistles. Teachers who quietly inflate a grade to spare a student from feeling ‘discouraged.’ We call it kindness.” She paused. “But I’m not sure it is.”
“You think we’re merely postponing the reckoning?” Franc asked.
“I think we’re teaching children that the world has no edges,” Serena replied softly. “And then they turn twenty-five — like Luca — and discover that the world has nothing but edges. By then, they haven’t grown the skin to withstand them.”
Serena’s mother met her gaze and nodded.
“As for power,” Serena continued, warming to her theme, “some people are so accustomed to believing the world is controlled by a handful of billionaires that they overlook how much power they themselves possess. Compared to most people in history, we’ve never been so powerful.”
Franc nodded vigorously. “And never so interconnected. It has never been easier to direct that power to alleviate suffering. If you wanted to help someone in another country a century ago, you had to be a monarch or a missionary. Today, I can sit at this very table with my smartphone and - for the cost of two coffees – help with a micro-loan to a woman in Zimbabwe so she can buy a sewing machine. That’s the power of an emperor sitting in our pockets.”
On Mrs Trinci’s lap, I began to purr.
Reminded of my existence, she stroked my back and ventured, “Even this little one has power.”
Serena and Franc turned to her with polite curiosity.
“This morning, she might have ignored that bird. Had she done so, perhaps a dog would have reached it. Or a truck. Or some other calamity. But instead, she brought it to us.”
“She did indeed,” Franc conceded, although with less reverence than I would have preferred.
“You speak of combining compassion with wisdom and power.” Mrs Trinci bent to embrace me with extravagant affection. “Well - HHC displayed all three. And it isn’t even lunchtime!”
Moments later, a waiter arrived bearing a ramekin of the day’s plat du jour — a piquant bouillabaisse, and one of my more cherished weaknesses. Mrs Trinci, reclining once more in satisfied benevolence, permitted me to be transferred from her lap to the lower shelf of the magazine rack, where the dish was set before me with appropriate ceremony.
I commenced at once.
After devouring it with gusto - and performing my customary, meticulous post-prandial ablutions - I ascended to my rightful place on the top shelf.
As Mrs Trinci and Serena prepared to depart, they paused beside me with bright expressions. The report from the back garden was triumphant: left in the dappled sunlight, the stunned bulbul had regained consciousness and flown, somewhat shakily at first, to the sheltering trees.
Amid their congratulations, I allowed my gaze to drift towards the Tsongkhapa thangka upon the wall. There they were: Chenrezig at the heart. Manjushri at the mind. Vajrapani in the hand that acts.
It is true, dear reader, that I began my morning in thrall to the most primitive of instincts. Yet as I basked in the affection of my dear friends, I recognised something rather more subtle. Even a so-called “savage beast” may serve as the conduit for a small miracle - provided she delivers the problem into hands possessed of genuine skill.
Perhaps that is the greatest power of all: recognising the limits of our own wisdom and having the good sense to place matters before those who possess more.
And if that particular realisation happened to arrive accompanied by a ramekin of bouillabaisse? Well. I like to think of that as a participation prize of the most delectable kind - one which, I trust, not even Geshe Wangpo would begrudge.
A NOTE ABOUT LAMA JE TSONG KHAPA
For practitioners with an interest in the great Lama Tsongkhapa, I would highly recommend the biography written by the wonderful Thupten Jinpa, who was principal translator for the Dalai Lama for over thirty years. His book is called ‘Tsongkhapa A Buddha in the Land of Snows.’ It is an inspiring and engaging read in which we learn not only about Tsongkhapa, but gain precious insights into the Dharma too.
A DOUBLE/TWIN ROOM NOW AVAILABLE ON MINDFUL SAFARI THIS JULY
Due to a cancellation, a double or twin room has become available on our Mindful Safari this year which runs from 27 July - 2 August.
As you may be aware, Mindful Safari is usually fully booked by Christmas. So this is a rare opportunity if you thought you had missed the boat. People often tag on other Africa experiences - we are happy to suggest ideas and put you in touch with our travel agent, Chanel Loxton who, like me, was born in Zimbabwe. You’ll find more information on Mindful Safari here.
UPDATE FROM TWALA
Photo: Juno today: a life transformed
Earlier this week I sent out an appeal on behalf of Twala Trust, one of the three non-profits we support. My sincere thanks to each and every one of you who generously responded, either by becoming a paying subscriber, or by making direct donations via the Michie Foundation/GDG.
I know I make this point often but it is worth remembering - every day that goes by we make a huge difference to many vulnerable people and animals whose lives, without us, would be truly awful.
For a wonderful, real life example of the benefit of combining wisdom with compassion and power, we need look no further than Juno.
Sarah Carter, at Twala Trust, first told us about Juno last November when she was surrendered to Twala in a terrible state after a truly horrible life of neglect and abuse.
Photos: Juno four months ago
I know that a number of readers thought the kindest thing for her would be to be to put her to sleep. But the Twala Team had the wisdom to know that transformation was possible - despite all odds. Empowered by our donations they were able to act with compassion to resolve her health problems sysematically.
Juno’s skin problems were managed with medication and special shampoo. Her painful eye infection was treated - when she first arrived, she could barely open her eyes. And after she grew stronger, having been seriously malnourished, she underwent surgery - for sterilization and the removal of mammary tumours.
Photo: Juno (at the back) with friends Snooty and Scooby
After a life in which Juno experienced little but pain and fear, Sarah managed to coax her, little by little, into accepting that most powerful of all medicines - love. Initially there were little treats and gentle cuddles. The hesitant wag of a bedraggled tail.
Now she lives with Twalas’s vet nurses in their house where she is confident, relaxed and on the receiving end of great care and affection. Content to nap in the sun or on the couch, when it rains or on cold nights, she has her own comfortable bed to lie on.
Who would have thought that four months could see such a remarkable transformation?
To all of you who help this and the many other Junos whose lives we have touched, my heartfelt thanks!
May all beings have happiness and its causes!
May all beings be free from suffering!
Sitting in bed with coffee on a cool Arizona morning, I rejoiced when I saw we were going to have a morsel of wisdom from hhc. And enjoyable it was. I think I will look into the book that you recommended, David. But then to have an update on Juno was the ramekin of bouillabais for me. I've often thought of her, truly the most pathetic and heartbreaking animal that I've seen at Twyla Trust. A living indictment of the worst of humanity. Her recovery and all the compassion, wisdom and power that has made it happen will be my inspiration for the day. Thank you so much. Kathy
Hello David, I was thrilled this morning when I saw that HHC had published another mouse size musing! It was such a beautiful story and one which I could relate to, so thank you for that. However, it made my day to hear of Juno’s recovery. When I saw her photo four months ago, I doubted that she would survive. But today, I cried tears of joy as I read of her progress and I am so in awe of Sarah and the Twala team. Their endless patience, kindness and skill is simply inspirational.
With love to you and Koala.
🙏🏻🪷❤️