Note to readers: I wrote this piece years ago, and have always wanted to share it, but I didn’t have a true platform until now. Platform aside, I understand that in the time since I wrote the piece, news sites and social media have had a field day chewing on some of the Dalai Lama’s more recent comments and actions. I’ve read through many of the reports offered by CNN, BBC, NPR and others, and find that I still believe in my piece, and in all that I learned and observed during my day with His Holiness. And today is his 89th birthday, so . . .
On to the piece:
A bunch of years ago, I had the chance to hear His Holiness the Dalai Lama speak at Middlebury College. Despite my having only a rudimentary knowledge of his teachings, I understood this opportunity was a big deal, so made a point of attending. As our whole family was invited, I was thrilled to be able to take the kids, then aged 11, 16 and 18.
The event was held in Middlebury’s field house, and there were easily a couple of thousand people in attendance. As I chugged along in the rock concert-style security line, I wondered how His Holiness felt about this scene. What he thought of secret service-looking dudes with wires in their ears (probably packing heat) fishing through bags and backpacks, waving metal detecting wands and patting people down. All seemed a long way from the spiritual plane I imagined a personage such as His Holiness occupying.
Seated and waiting in a packed audience, I took stock. I felt fine about the older two of my kids having the ability to give the event their attention, though I suspected the youngest would most likely get ants in her pants pretty quick. I gave her a small notebook and a pen, asking her to write down her thoughts and make some drawings. My ask came also from a deeper ulterior motive: as a writer, primarily for children and young adults, I was curious about her impressions of His Holiness and the event.
After all possible ado, out strode his His Holiness surrounded by stone-faced security-monks in red and yellow robes. With the ripple of a collective inhale, the audience seemed to breathe in His Holiness as he smiled back with his infinitely photo-captured beatific expression. He, too, wore red and yellow robes, though immediately there was a difference between him and his entourage. He was the only one with a snappy red sun visor perched jauntily over his brow, and it was hard to miss the very workmanlike and comfortable-looking brown leather shoes on his feet.
The talk—more of a moderated conversation really—began, and the audience sat rapt, listening to His Holiness’ views on topics ranging from politics to religion to the environment. Though I listened with interest, my writer brain took note of the man and his manner. “How” he spoke was of as much interest as “what” he spoke of. No matter the topic raised or question posed, he exuded calm and listening, never interrupting or pontificating, often answering a question with a thought and/or another question. And he laughed. Frequently. And not just any kind of laugh. A silly-sounding musical trill that exuded warmth and humor, for sure, and something else I can only say felt like . . . inclusion. He wasn’t laughing at us or at the question or at himself. To my view, he laughed because life and all people are full of humor and beauty, and he finds the whole shebang endlessly delightful. I craned my head around, looking at members of the audience, at my whole family; the expressions on their faces reinforced my impression of his laughter: everyone was with him, hearing what he had to say, and completely tuned in.
Then the moderator fielded some questions from the audience, and my impression of His Holiness’s laughter deepened. Someone asked him about his thoughts on prayer, and with that musical laugh, His Holiness replied that he wondered why his prayers would be heard over possibly the opposite prayers of another. Someone else asked him to name a world leader who he was most pleased to meet, and His Holiness surprised the audience by speaking of a time where he enjoyed a delightful Texas BBQ lunch in the company of the amusing (his words) U.S President George W. Bush, a leader who would seem to have had (in general) an agenda quite opposite to that of His Holiness. Both of these answers were offered in a light, calm tone and even as they surprised me with their content, they provoked my thinking. How easy it might be for a figure such as His Holiness to stick to a clear faith-based agenda and message, yet here he was out in the world, modeling the kind of open, curious behavior that engages not only the expected audience, but that also reaches across boundaries to the unexpected audience.
These observations made me watch him more closely during the luncheon that followed, where a couple of hundred of us took over one of the small college dining halls to enjoy the meal. His Holiness sat at a central table near a bank of windows, chatting easily with his table companions, most of whom were college students. When the dessert of chocolate cake was served, I remember His Holiness rising, cake plate in hand, to stand at the windows behind his chair, taking in the lush view of Vermont foliage in full blazing October technicolor. That image of him has stayed with me, truly, of His Holiness immersed in the moment, enjoying his cake and the view.
So, what does this array of impressions and images have to do with writing for an audience? His Holiness is referred to as “the spiritual home of Tibet,” and I suspect there is no hard and fast prescription for how he could spend his days and share his teachings. What he seems to have chosen is to be in this world, accepting the challenges of being in this world (such as needing kick-ass security) and delighting in moments that offer engaged people and beautiful views, not to mention chocolate cake. He also seems to have developed as charming, accessible and pleasant a persona as one could imagine: one that allows people across cultures, locations, ages and walks of life to hear him and all he has to say. And that’s it, fellow writers: if I want my writing to be read by my targeted audience and beyond, I would do well to consider “how” I’m telling my story—including the unexpected “how”—as seriously as the “what” of the story. If you don’t believe me, listen to the Dalai Lama, especially listen for his laugh. It’s a keeper.
Here’s what my daughter drew that day:)
credit Marley Tipper, age 11