The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (22 page)

I walked over and rubbed her legs, purring appreciatively.

“You see?” said Tenzin, as though my appearance confirmed what he'd just said. “You have been missed—and not only by the human residents.”

Mrs. Trinci soon lifted me onto a counter and, while stroking me effusively, reminded me why I was her
tesorina,
or treasure. Face-to-face like this for the first time in weeks, I could tell that something had changed. It wasn't only that her mascara was less thick and that she wore only one gold bracelet instead of a whole percussion section. It was more her manner. She was just as warm and engaged as before, but there was a quietness about her. A calmness in her focus that I had never observed before.

“I'm pleased to see you here, too, Serena,” Tenzin said, welcoming her.

“Just like the old days.”

“She's a good girl,” chimed Mrs. Trinci.

“When I offered to help,” said Serena, “I never thought she'd accept. She's usually so stubborn.”

“I've changed.” Mrs. Trinci shrugged. “Why make things difficult for myself when my own daughter is one of the best chefs this side of Europe?”

“Oh, pffff!” Serena made a face.

“Quite right,” agreed Tenzin.

“I realized that I don't need to prove myself,” Mrs. Trinci continued.

“You already did that a long time ago, Mrs. Trinci,” Tenzin assured her, shooting a look toward the oven, where the cookies were baking to a rich, gold color.

“Would you like a plate of cookies to take upstairs, Tenzin?” Serena asked, noticing his glance with a smile.

“Only if . . .”

Serena was already opening the oven door and pulling out a tray of cookies baked to perfection.

“Be careful when you take a bite into them,” she warned, lifting several onto a plate with a spatula. “The chocolate inside is still hot.”

That was how, a short while later, Tenzin, Oliver, and I found ourselves enjoying celebratory tea and cookies on a balcony. Between the executive assistants' office and His Holiness's suite was a VIP lounge where visitors could be seated before being shown in for an audience. That lounge opened onto a balcony that was rarely used. The Dalai Lama was over at Namgyal Monastery all morning, so the unused balcony, with its arboreal view of the local countryside, was the perfect spot to relax.

Tenzin had prepared two cups of tea in the correct manner: by warming the teapot first, measuring out five heaped teaspoons of Ceylon leaves, adding the boiled water, allowing proper time for the tea to steep, gently rocking the teapot first one way and then the other, and finally pouring the tea into cups through a strainer. In the meantime, Oliver had poured out a saucer of milk for me.

In the open air, the three of us enjoyed our treats with the mindful contemplation of connoisseurs.

It was only after the two men had finished their cookies that Oliver wiped his hands on a napkin and opened a folder on his lap.

“The figures in from Herne Hill Monastery are especially interesting reading,” he said.

Tenzin looked over with a querying expression. Herne Hill was one of the most isolated monasteries of all, and although not a large one, the
sangha
there was well known for its commitment to meditation retreats.

“Average age,” Oliver quoted, “eighty-four.”

“That is high,” agreed Tenzin.

“Highest of all the centers in our census.”

“I visited there a few years ago,” Tenzin told him. “There was no hiding the wrinkles, but the monks' demeanor, their life force, was still very youthful. They are an excellent case study of what happens when people are left alone to get on with their practice.”

Oliver nodded. “In the West, we are still struggling to learn how consciousness affects the body. But just recently there have been some great results showing how meditation slows down aging. Telomerase activity. Genetic copying. It all adds up . . . to eighty-four!”

Tenzin chuckled.
“Average,”
he emphasized. “Half of them are older than that.”

For a while, the only sound was of me licking the saucer to purge it of every last drop of cream. Every rasp of my tongue caused the saucer to clink against the leg of the chair on which Oliver was seated. Oliver reached his arm down to stroke me.

“Why is it,” mused Tenzin, “that Westerners struggle so much with the idea that the mind affects the body?”

There was a pause while Oliver considered the question. “It was only about a century ago that mind was even considered to be a valid scientific subject.”

“About two and a half thousand years after the East?”

“Exactly. Up till then, Western science focused on the external world. For most of this time, people thought of the mind as part of the soul—it was a religious matter. When scientists finally did turn their attention to consciousness, at first they thought it amounted to nothing more than brain activity.”

“The mind is the brain?” asked Tenzin.

“It's what a lot of people still assume.”

Oliver raised his cup to his lips and sipped his tea reflectively. “Trouble is, scientists can't really prove the theory—to explain exactly how cells can create consciousness, for example. To me it seems as unlikely as saying that your laptop can feel emotions.”

“Haven't I read somewhere that there is still no evidence that memories are stored in the brain?” Tenzin raised another objection.

“Exactly. Despite billions of dollars of research, it's never been proven. And there are other big holes in the theory, like how people in comas, whose brains are completely inactive, later report the most vivid experiences.”

“Not a very convincing theory,” observed Tenzin.

“But you'd be surprised how many Western scientists still believe it,” agreed Oliver. “Fortunately, things have started to move on. Recent developments in quantum science have helped us see the most wonderful convergences between Western science and Eastern wisdom.”

“Ancient and contemporary.”

“Outer and inner,” Oliver said, eyes sparkling. “The Buddhist definition of mind as ‘a formless continuum of clarity and cognition' is very much in keeping with quantum science theories that matter and energy are two aspects of the same reality. E = mc
²
.”

Tenzin was nodding. “I have also read about how quantum science has no notion of subject and object.”

“Exactly,” chimed Oliver. “This perhaps gives us a clue to why meditators who have some control of mind also have some control of the body.”

Tenzin nodded. “The one manifests as the other.”

As the two men continued to discuss the subject, talking with some excitement about the subjects of consciousness and healing, I found a sunny spot on the balcony between their two chairs and began a post-prandial grooming session. I listened to Oliver explain how the words “meditation” and “medication” came from the same Latin root word,
medeor,
meaning “to heal” or “to make whole.” How our every thought has an energetic component that translates into a physical result. How the placebo effect provides evidence of the power of the mind.

Such conversations intrigued me because we cats, too, are mind-havers. We also have consciousness. Thoughts and feelings manifest in the bodies of felines as much as in humans. Is the act of purring, known to resonate at a level that promotes healing, not evidence that we cats possess an innate understanding of how to use our own consciousness to “make whole”? And is it possible that feline longevity, like human longevity, can be extended by of our state of mind? In a home filled not only with the necessities of life but also with a true sense of giving and receiving love, is a cat like me more likely to thrive into ripe old age than when bereft of kindness?

The two men were chuckling at a joke of Oliver's when I detected movement in the room behind them. Through the open doorway to the balcony, there was a swish of red robes—and then His Holiness appeared.

For a moment it was as though a head teacher had made an unexpected appearance and discovered his students at play instead of working. For my own part, having reached the most delicate portion of my grooming routine, I had raised my leg and was attending to my nether regions. I, too, looked up at the Dalai Lama, caught unawares.

Oliver and Tenzin made as if to rise to their feet. I lowered my rear leg.

“Please! Stay!” His Holiness gestured at them emphatically.

“Your Holiness—” began Oliver.

Tenzin chimed in, “We thought—”

“One of my meetings was canceled. I'm home early.”

“We are celebrating a milestone with the census.”

“Very good,” the Dalai Lama said, nodding. Then, wagging his hand between the two of them, he added, “I am pleased to find you working so well together.”

An enigmatic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

On the middle of the afternoon that same day, Mrs. Trinci was shown into His Holiness's office.

“I wanted to thank you for a wonderful lunch,” the Dalai Lama said, taking her hand as he sat down on a chair next to hers. “Our visitors especially liked the . . . how do you say . . . blinis?”

“
Sì, sì
,” Mrs. Trinci beamed.

Forehead wrinkling in concern, he continued, “Not too much stress in the kitchen?”

“Oh no.” She shook her head and paused for a moment before continuing. “The weeks of rest when I was at home gave me time to think. I remembered the advice you gave me when I first started cooking here.”

Both of them smiled at their fond recollection of an earlier time.

“You said to me,
semplice
. Simple.”

The Dalai Lama nodded.

“I think those early months were the most enjoyable. I used to love being asked to prepare lunch for Namgyal. But I think I forgot about being simple. I wanted
meglio
—better and better. I wanted to . . . excel. Then, when I was resting, I remembered again: keep it simple. You never asked me for
complesso. Magnifico
! You never asked to impress your guests!”

His Holiness chuckled. “You are right.”

“So now, I go back to being simple. It's not about me. Being a great chef. It is for your guests. Simple, delicious meals.”

“Very good. Thank you!” The Dalai Lama reached out again and patted her hand. “I am pleased to know that you have taken something very useful from the heart attack. You are cultivating inner peace. Contentment. A focus on others.”

He brought his palms together and bowed toward her, signaling that their brief meeting was at an end.

They both stood, and Mrs. Trinci made her way out of the room. At the door, she paused.

“Thank you, Your Holiness, for everything you have done for me and for Serena.”

His glow filled the room.

“You might like to know that she will soon be moving quite close to you. Just down the road,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the bungalow. “She and Siddhartha are making a home there.”

The Dalai Lama nodded. “I think she mentioned . . . some delays?”

“
Sì, sì.
But no more. The builder has promised to be ready. They are having a housewarming party in a few weeks. I know you don't visit people at home usually, but I thought I should mention it, because the house is just ten minutes from here.”

“A near neighbor,” confirmed His Holiness.

“It would be a wonderful surprise for Serena and Sid if you would consider blessing their new home . . .”