Meditation Bowl

Spirit Rock, 2007

I first met Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet, in early July of 1979.

At the time I was traveling through India, at the tail end of an epic bout with dysentery. I had arrived in McCleod Ganj, a Tibetan refuge on a hill above the Dharamshala valley. Drinking po-cha at a small restaurant, I ran into a friend we’d met in Kathmandu: a Mexican journalist named Anna Victoria.

Anna was ecstatic: She had just received permission to interview His Holiness for a Mexican magazine. When I asked if she needed a photographer, her eyes lit up. “Claro!” she exclaimed.

As my recollection of that morning is dim, but I was sure I’d made a fool of myself. So I searched through a plastic bin in my closet to find the journal I’d kept I 1979. The entry from that day—predictably titled “Hello, Dalai”—contradicted my uncharitable memory. In fact, I had felt blessed by the opportunity to meet the man—though at the age of 25, I had little concept of who the Dalai Lama was.

The “simple Tibetan monk” greeted us with genuine pleasure, curious eyes, and a disarming lack of formality. While Anna asked questions, I fiddled with my flash and settings, trying to get a good shot despite glaring backlight. He regarded me with definite interest, I’d written afterwards. My regret was not being able to return his gaze, except through the meticulously focused lens of the camera.

A few years later, the Dalai Lama visited Santa Barbara to give a public talk. I’d moved there in 1980, and by then had some Buddhist education. My friends and I were seated in the third row of the auditorium when His Holiness walked onto the stage. The house lights were up, and he scanned the audience. Immediately his eyes caught mine. He smiled. I looked from side to side, certain he meant someone else—but the Dalai Lama pointed at me emphatically. He then pantomimed a camera, peering intensely through a phantom viewfinder as his finger snapped an invisible shutter. My mouth dropped open; he pointed at me again, and laughed.

Years later, the Spirit Rock Meditation Center invited me to tell a story about the Dalai Lama. That story, though very different, also paid homage to his remarkable memory. Having lit many candles in Tibetan temples, I think now of some lines by the Greek poet George Seferis:

What can a flame remember? If it remembers a little less than is necessary, it goes out. If it remembers a little more than is necessary, it goes out. If only it could teach us, while it burns, to remember correctly.

The gift I received for my Spirit Rock story was this beautiful meditation bowl. I’m gifting it to my goddaughter Amy, a wise soul. I hope she’ll remember me correctly—or, at least, charitably.