This March, I will be participating in a meditation marathon as a fundraiser for Orgyen Khamdroling Center in Denver, CO. It has been our teacher, Anyen Rinpoche’s, vision to build a Dharma center in Colorado that welcomes people of all levels of interest in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition.

In August of 2011, that vision came true! The building is a beautiful old church in Denver and is already home to a bustling community of practioners. Still, the building needs lots of work and loving care. In order to help complete the long list of projects that need to be done we will be hosting a 25 hour Medicine Buddha practice at the Center on March 10th, 2012. Although, I won’t be physically there, I will be participating from India.

This is the link to my secure fundraising page.

Medicine Buddha practice is an amazing meditation that brings not only health and healing to individuals but also has the potential to bring peace and healing to the world at large. It would be a great pleasure to me, even if you are not Buddhist, if you would support me in this practice and fundraising event.

Thank you again!

I went down to Tsug Lakhang, the main temple of the Dalai Lama, the other day on a whim. I’d been studying hard, writing hard, trying to make the most of my time here. But I needed a break.

When I got there the place was packed. There was a prayer ceremony going on and every Tibetan in Dharamsala seemed to be there. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was happening but when I did, my heart broke.

It turns out it was a prayer vigil for all those who are suffering and dying inside Tibet under the oppressive Chinese government. They were especially remembering the seven people this year who have set themselves on fire in protest.

I didn’t understand the words of the prayers as I sat in the middle of a group of monks and nuns, but the meaning was all around me.

After the prayers we all gathered down in the courtyard to listen to a speech by Tibetan Prime Minister in Exile, Lobsang Sangay. He’s strong man, a natural leader, which is good because he has big shoes to fill. He’s the first elected prime minister who will be taking over the political leadership role of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

He spoke in Tibetan for most of the time but at the end offered a short speech in English. He talked of solidarity and the ultimate price Tibetans are paying to get the world to listen to their plight. He called the Chinese occupation of Tibet unacceptable and that every minute they are their flies in the face of any human ethics.

He applauded the support of the west but called for more concrete action. Then he warned of reports of a new Chinese military buildup in anticipation of demonstrations around Losar and the anniversary of the March 10th uprising. He called on all of us to support resolutions being considered by western governments, including the U.S., to support the Tibetan people.

After the speech, we marched together through the streets of McLeod Ganj. The emotions were not of anger or rage or uncontrolled passion. There were no cries of “Death to China!” no calls for revenge or holy war. And if anyone has a right to call for those things, it’s the Tibetan people.

Instead of angry slogans the mass of thousands began chanting a prayer. I was filled with admiration and inspiration as I recognized the words.

Jang Chub Sem Chog Rinpoche

Ma Ke Pa Nam Kye Gyur Chig

Kye Pa Nyam Pa Med Pa Dang

Gong Ne Gong Du Phel War Shog

May the supreme precious mind of enlightenment,

Which has not arisen arise,

That which has arisen not be broken,

And may it continually increase!

It is a prayer for the ultimate enlightenment of every sentient being in this crazy, mad world. Even the Chinese, who have done them so much wrong. I walked along amazed as I realized that this was there call for justice, their slogan, their cry that they wanted all the world to hear.

As the marchers dispersed into the night, and I made my way home in the cold and the few flakes of snow that had begun to fall, I couldn’t help myself but hum the melody of the prayer all the way down the hill.

It’s a melody that’s still with me now and a reminder that to be loving, kind and compassionate to each and every being on earth no matter what they’ve done to you, is not just a dogmatic pipe dream but a reality that some people actually live everyday.

I’m at Gaya train station now. The last time I was here it was vacant at three AM, wind blowing cold down the tracks, blowing trash and dust over the body of a starving man who lay hopeless on the platform.

But today, it’s packed with Tibetans who, along with me, are all making their way back to Dharamsala.

I’m still worried about the validity of my ticket, but only a little. Actually, I’m remarkably at ease. This time I’m trying to bend where and when India wants me to and so far, it’s working out just fine.

Really, all I need to know is if I’m on the right platform. If I can get on the train to Delhi, any train to Delhi, and they don’t throw me off, I know everything will be OK.

So I ask the stationmaster. He’s no Mr. Personality but he tells me that I’m in the right place. He doesn’t look up from his desk and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just bored. I thank him and he gives me the requisite, though still mysterious, head bobble.

I’ve only just sat down when the train arrives. It’s on time. It hisses to a slow stop and a thousand ex-pilgrims push and shove and elbow each other on to train cars that are already nearly full.

I push and shove and elbow with the best of them, holding my RAC ticket out in front of me as I squeeze through the mass of bodies. I’m half expecting someone to just grab it out of my hand, look it over and with a kind and knowing nod, point me in the right direction. But no one does.

My bags are getting heavy, my pack’s straps already slicing into my collar bone, so I decide to ask a Tibetan family if I can sit next to them until someone official-looking comes by. Maybe there’s a conductor who can help me.

“What seat number?” the older sister asks pointing to my ticket.

“It’s RAC,” I say like I know what I’m talking about.

“Hmmf. RAC. Unconfirmed,” she says. “You don’t have a seat,” then she shoos me away.

I try to resist smugly thinking something like didn’t we all just come from two weeks of teachings on loving-kindness and compassion? But I can’t help it and so I think it anyway. Then I pick up my bags again and shrug. At least the mystery of the ticket is solved.

I walk up and down the train for a while looking for some free space to sit. Turns out there are lots of other lucky RAC ticket holders besides me and they are all crammed into filthy corners or laid out in the middle of walkways.

I find a spot in between two of the cars. It’s no better than anyone else’s. The floor is covered in grease and mud (I hope). And just for that little something extra in this seller’s market, I see that it’s right next to the toilet.

I’m not complaining. It’s a place to sit and so I hunker down, building a little fort for myself out of my bags. I feel safe and happy even as a steady stream of passengers open and close the toilet stall doors dousing me now and again with an eye-watering cloud of methane.

Gross, right? But what you have to understand is that I’m on the right train. I would have sit on the roof or hung out one of the doors. And besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned while traveling in India, it’s to lower your expectations. Sometimes you don’t have to but when you do, you will never be disappointed.

The train lurches a few chugs up the track taking us east to Delhi, 700 miles away. The wind is blowing through the window above my head. The sun hasn’t gone down yet and I realize it’s going to be a long, cold night. We aren’t scheduled to arrive till five the next morning.

So I hunker down. I pull out a book and try to make the best of it.

Dinner time passes. It’s dark and very cold. I’m just starting to think about sleep when two young Tibetan boys walk by. They stop to look at me, then whisper to one another.

“Don’t you have a seat?” one of them asks.

“This is it,” I say.

They toss a few lines of Tibetan back and forth.

“We have two beds. If you want, we can share one and you can have the other,” the first one says.

At first I pretend that I don’t understand. But I know exactly what they mean. This is a sleeper class train. Each birth has six bunks: one on the bottom that functions as a seat during the day, one in the middle that folds out of the wall, and one up by the ceiling that just barely allows one very thin person to crawl on top of it. Just to be clear: they are not comfortable even when you have one to yourself.

I hesitate as I think all this through.

“Come,” the first boy says. “It’s OK.”

I follow the boys, Tenzin and Jigme, down the narrow aisles, three or four cars lengths. They lead me to their berth. There are a few Indian men sitting in there as well, playing cards and drinking chai. We all pile in. There’s not much room so I try to stuff my gear under the seat.

“No,” Tenzin says. “Give them to me.” Then he piles my backpack on to his things making even less room for him to sit.

There’s something of a language barrier so there’s some awkward silences. Finally I turn to Tenzin.

“I just want to say thank you so much,” I say. But actually, I’m not really thanking him at all. I know this as soon as the words come out of my mouth. What’s really happening is that I’m feeling guilty and even a little bit jealous. You see, I know in my heart that there is no way I would ever be this generous. I would not offer to give up my bed with a fifteen-hour train ride ahead of me. It’s just not in me. I’m generous with some things but when it really comes down to it, I’m still number one.

“No,” he says. “It’s OK. Our school motto is ‘Put Others First’. So we’re just trying to do that.”

He’s smiling and I know that he means it. It’s not forced. What’s more, he and his friend expect nothing in return.

“Well, time to go to bed,” Tenzin says.

We pull down the middle bunk and I climb in. It’s barely enough room for me and I wonder how the two boys are going to manage.

I lean over the edge of my bunk. I thank them again.

“It’s no problem,” Tenzin says. “Goodnight!”

And that’s it. The lights go out and I’m left to mull over my own shortcomings while I stretch my thin shawl over my shivering body. I’m expecting a long night of tossing and turning as I beat myself up for not being as good as the two boys sleeping below me. Some Buddhist I am.

But then it hits me. Generosity goes two ways. Gratitude is just the other side of the same coin. You can be stingy with receiving kindness just as easy as you can with giving it. You can fear owing the person doing the giving. You can feel jealous of their kindness and selflessness too, thinking ‘why can’t I be that amazing?’

Then you shut down. Then you don’t really receive anything at all and you miss out on so much.

I decide to not let that kind of thinking take me over. Not this time. Not tonight. Suddenly I feel warm. I feel hope and happiness. As I feel my heart opening, I feel how lucky I am to be able to be the recipient of such kindness. In fact, I feel nothing but blessed.

The train shakes and rattles through the night. It shakes and rattles all the way to Delhi. And as I drift in and out of consciousness I catch myself smiling in the dark and whispering, thank you, thank you, thank you…

And this time, I know that I mean it.

Thirty seconds ago, I wasn’t sure if I was going make it back to New Delhi at all.

When the travel agent in Bodhgaya hands me the train ticket, I’m still not sure. It’s a crumpled up piece of paper, a little sweaty and starting to wear at the folds from being in his back pocket for I don’t know how long. I had made the reservation the day before and paid him most of the money then. It was an act of faith.

“Come back tomorrow. Same time,” he said.

I knew I could trust him. I could see it in his eyes. In any case, I had no choice. That’s just how things like this work in India.

So, today, he hands me the ticket. I look at it. It looks legit. There’s the name of the train, the time, the date. Wait. The date reads the day before I had wanted to leave.

“That’s when it leaves Purni, not Gaya,” he says. Then he takes a pen and crosses out the printed dates and times and writes in the time and date we had talked about. He hands the ticket back to me and is about to walk away.

Are you confused yet?

Well, it gets better.

“So what’s my seat number?” I ask. There is no seat number printed in the little box marked “seat number”. I think this might be crucial.

He turns and gives me the little Indian head bobble that, as far as I can tell, means one of three things:

1.) Yes, I will take your money especially since it’s four times what I’m charging the guy behind you.

2.) I think you’re nice.

3.) I don’t want to answer that.

At first I think it’s #3 but then he says:

“It’s a RAC ticket. Half seat.” He says it matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” I say like I understand, like I’ve bought hundreds of “half seat” train tickets in India this month alone. Heck, it’s what I do.

“So it’s like a shared seat,” I say confidently.

This is too much for him. I am wearing out my welcome. He pretends that he doesn’t understand but then says:

“Yes.”

That’s it. We’re done here. He walks away. This time for good.

I fold the ticket and zip it safely away in my money belt. This ticket is gold. There are 200,000 other people gathered here in Bodhgaya and each and every one of them will be leaving once Kalachakra is over. Most of them made reservations months ago. Every train, bus, plane and taxi is booked for days after the event. I’m one of the few who didn’t plan ahead.

So I feel more than lucky. Hell, I feel chosen. I feel the sweet caress of divine intervention. I feel the planets, the stars and the constellations all honing in on my tiny corner of the universe just to make things work out for little old me.

“Hot damn!” I say to myself as I walk back into the chaos and the crowd.

“I’m gonna get back to Delhi after all.”

In the end, I was right. I could feel that in my bones. What I didn’t expect was that I would learn so much along the way.

When you practice the Dharma, rely on the inexhaustible wealth of being content with whatever comes. ~ Patrul Rinpoche

“What in the hell am I doing here again?” I asked no one in particular as I got up from my meditation cushion.

I looked around my new apartment in McLeod Ganj, the final touch of my romantic plan that has been unfolding for the past three years. I couldn’t wait to get back here, to study, to write, to practice. But suddenly there was nothing romantic about my situation at all.

“This can’t be how the yogis and yoginis do it. Is it?”

I know those great meditators put up with a lot of hardship but it’s cold here. I mean freezing cold. I can see my breath as I count each in and out, morning, noon and night. I can see snow, too. Yes, snow, right outside my window.

There is no heat in this room or in any of the rooms here in Dharamsala. In fact, the only heat to be found is in a few of the nicer cafes or around the campfires of scrap wood the locals build for themselves on the sides of the road. Even then, we all wear jackets all the time.

But that’s not all that was bumming me out. Earlier, I was upstairs looking for the landlady, a young German woman who married a local. They have a nice family now and two guesthouses like this one. They are very prosperous, laid back and they all smile a lot. Anyway, I was up there looking for the stove she promised me yesterday when I ran into her four year old son and his younger brother.

“Hi there!” I said eager to make friends.

They responded by kicking me in the shins over and over again, smiling devilish smiles all the while. Their nanny just laughed as she ran off to find my stove.

I had gone on that little scavenger hunt to make myself feel like I wasn’t completely helpless. You see, only minutes before, I had turned on my computer, ready to write, ready to get this show on the road. It was plugged in and the power, which had been mostly off for three days, seemed to be flowing fine. All systems go.

Then I looked up at the battery icon. “Battery not charging” it said. I watched as the number started to fall. Seventy-two percent. Seventy-one percent. It was only a matter of time before the battery was completely dead. Then what?

That was it. My heart broke. Such a little thing to break a heart, right? But my computer was such a big part of this plan. I had agonized over bringing it at all, afraid that it wouldn’t last two weeks in the cold and the damp. Maybe I was right.

My whole plan went up in smoke. No writing, no reviewing Rinpoche’s teachings, no Tibetan language video course all stored neatly and proudly on the center of my desktop. Nothing.

Then I listened to the voices outside. A cacophony of gibbering and jabbering in four different languages. I didn’t understand a word of any of them. Suddenly, I was very, very alone.

I have to admit I panicked. In twenty seconds I imagined a new plan. I looked at my watch. 3 o’clock. I had time to pack up all my things, march up the hill to the bus stand, catch the Volvo Deluxe back to Delhi. It would only be $200 to change my flight. If all went well, I’d be back home by Friday. Problem(s) solved.

But then I shook it off. I remembered the same feeling on my last trip, only a few days in, when things weren’t going quite my way. I was being too rigid then, like I am now, not letting things happen naturally but instead trying to force them to my will.

So I said to heck with it all. If my computer was trashed then so be it. Maybe I could get another one. Or maybe I could just write the book longhand. It didn’t matter.

“I’m here,” I thought. “It’s time to just deal with what is.”

And so I sat some more.

Later on, I put on my jacket and went out to find some dinner. I laughed all the way up the hill as I realized that it was my choice to come here and that I would make that choice again without even blinking. I walked till I found a little place that looked warm and dry. I ordered spaghetti and French fries. Hot lemon tea. Comfort food.

I looked over at the table next to mine, saw everyone there bundled up in their North Face jackets, their breath steaming when they laughed and joked.

“So it’s not just me who’s cold,” I thought.

And then I laughed again.  After all, this is temporary anyway. It’s all impermanent. The cold. The computer (it’s charging fine as I write this). Both the fear and the uncertainty and even the joy that is sure to follow.

Had breakfast and coffee at the “espresso bar” just outside our camp. Bamboo poles hold up a tarp, an old, rusting folding table, and that’s about it. Oh yeah, and the chrome toy “espresso maker” that doesn’t make espresso. It does steam milk but otherwise it’s just there for show. But the nice guy who runs it makes nice little cups of instant coffee and sweet milk. We’ve become regulars there and he always likes to see us in the morning.

“Namaste!” he said and put both his hands to his heart. It’s a beautiful gesture. I think it means basically “I hold you dear to me”. That’s how Indians show respect and gratitude, not the hands folded at the heart and bowing like most westerners think. Doing that usually just gets you a weird look and a fumbling, unnatural bow in return.

We sat at the tables outside the stall on the side of the road. A young Tibetan man, Lobsang, talked to us over eggs and coffee. It was a nice little impromptu dharma lesson, history class and reality-check all in one. He told us that he came from Tibet as a refugee in 2006. The Chinese had killed his mother and grandfather. On the way over the Himalayas, his friend died after falling into a rushing river. Unfortunately, this is a common story.

“I don’t feel suffering for this,” he said. “Suffering only in mind.”

Then, in broken English and despite the fact that he was just a lay practitioner, he gave us one of the most succinct and practical dharma teachings I’ve ever heard. All the world’s religions have the goal to lead us to happiness. This happiness eludes us because we grasp at things that have no substance. We seek happiness in money, power and prestige but then we die without having found satisfaction. The true path to happiness lies in realizing the true nature of reality and by treating everyone and everything on this planet with love and respect.

And that was it. Nice to meet you and have a nice day. I had a lot to think about as we made our way down to the Kalachakra ground.

The walk was the same as it always is: total chaos and frenzy. It never ends here. A constant assault. My nose is running and clogged with thick, stringy mucus from the pollution. My eardrums are raw from the non-stop honking of horns. (India, is it really necessary to honk your horns all the time? What would happen if you stopped for just a few minutes? Would there be some calamitous hundred-rickshaw pile up on the no lane highway?) Then there’s the Smell of India. The guide books allude to it but they are never specific. Let me clarify: It is an olfactory army marching straight up your nose. It does not seek to lay siege but rather to lay waste. It is burning, rotting garbage, dead dog, piss and shit, festering pools of standing water, bad breath, sweat, moldy crotch and an occasional wafting puff of incense thrown in just to keep you on your toes.

And none of this, not the sounds, the sights or the smells, ever stops. Ever. Sometimes it’s all just too much and I want to just find the off switch or at least the volume nob. But there is no such thing. India is on all the time and there is no escaping it.

Made it to the Kalachakra ground and found our seats that we’ve kept for the whole time so far. The custom is that you place a piece of foam or cardboard with your name on it on the ground and, by some miracle of human kindness and cooperation, 100,000 people agree that you can sit there for the duration of the teachings. It’s really wonderful.

There were actually no teachings today. Those are over till the actual empowerment begins tomorrow. Today was more ritual preparation and chanting. Talked to a couple of Sakya monks during a break. They were very nice. One of them sneezed at one point.

“Bless you,” I said.

“Kalachakra only blessing I need,” he said with a clear light in his eyes and smiling. And so I believed him, both his words and his smile.

It was a short day so we left the grounds around 2. It was nice to have an easy day. The long walk back to camp was slow, both of us tired. This is a beautiful experience but it is demanding on body and mind. The swelling energy of thousands. Sleeping outside on the ground in the cool, damp nights. The intensity of it all. Moments of spiritual euphoria juxtaposed with the reality of the suffering here.

The beggars have been out in full force since I arrived over a week ago. Lepers with their stumps. Young men with limp, spaghetti-like legs that have been decimated by polio or MS (I’m not really sure). Filthy children in rags who materialize by your side the second you stop to buy a bottle of water, like they were always there but not seen. They all ham it up of course. Open arms, crying out in Hindi, some even singing at the tops of their lungs melodies of lamentation and hard luck: The Broke Down Raga Blues.

All the while, they stuff cash into secret pockets, dumping their shining begging bowls out just enough so they don’t seem too full. But we all know that Kalachakra is their mother lode.

Some people say don’t give to them. They list a host of reasons and some of them even make sense. The beggars are con artists who are just pulling your heartstrings, they say. Giving to them is really just selfish, a few rupees to ease our guilty consciences. Or maybe, we’re not doing them any good at all, that we’re really just enabling their victim behavior. Then there’s the argument that it’s simply their karma.

But then I saw a woman yesterday helping her teenaged son to urinate by the side of the road. He was one of those with spaghetti legs and he couldn’t walk at all. He was lying on the ground next to a filthy, greasy pool of water. His mother held his penis, aiming it away from his body and into the puddle. When he was finished, she pulled up his pants and lifted his broken body back on a wooden cart that she rolled through the crowd, resuming their begging.

My god, I thought, she is a saint of the earth. Then I thought maybe even that one act of supreme patience and kindness would one day result in her and all beings enlightenment. That’s karma, too after all.

So I have to wonder. What is the right thing to do? I really don’t know. It’s a question I haven’t resolved yet. I’m not giving alms like I did on my last trip. I do agree that it’s not the solution to these people’s troubles. Better to give a bit instead to the local free clinic that does a lot of good for these people year around, even when the Kalachakra crowds are gone and the money’s been spent.

The main thing is to not shut down or become jaded while I’m here facing all of this. No matter what the reality of their situation, con artists or truly suffering souls (and what’s the difference really?), these people are still my kind mothers right? They still deserve my love, respect and compassion. It’s hard but I’ll just have to keep my heart wide open.

12/28

Made it! I’m in my room at the Hare Krishna Guesthouse in Delhi. It stinks like paint thinner and some kind of toxic glue but the man at the front desk remembered me from three years ago and so I don’t really care.  I love it! I’m here!

Delhi is the same as I remember it, too. The airport may be brand new, a sparkling jewel for the eyes of the world to behold, but the city is just as dirty, sad, strange and beautiful as it ever was. Speeding through the orange dusk light, the thick and pungent haze that is the atmosphere gone wrong, I saw an older woman standing on the median, elegant in flowing silk sari. A blue light shone in her hand and she brought it to her ear to answer her smart phone. Just moments before a man on the side of the road hobbled along on a homemade crutch. The old and the new, international finance and inconceivable poverty and despair live seamlessly together here…

12/29

Overheard a British guy talking to a Tibetan at the airport terminal as I was waiting for the flight to Patna. They were talking about how they were getting to Bodhgaya so my ears perked up. After the flight I caught up to the Brit and asked him about his plans.

“I just met this Tibetan fellow but it looks like we’re going to share a ride there. You’re welcome to come along,” he said.

We all met at the baggage claim. Tenzin was the Tibetans name. We went outside around 4:30 to meet his friends who were meeting him. His “friends” were a monk and a Geshe (high-ranking Tibetan teacher) from Dharamsala. Turns out Tenzin is a recognized reincarnation of a famous teacher. He has his own monastery in Nepal but for now is living as a layperson in Canada. He said it has been an invaluable education for him.

He and Geshe-la got a cab for me and George (my new British friend) and we all head off as a caravan. This was really, really fortunate because I had no idea how I was going to get to Bodhgaya or if it was even safe to travel that late in the evening (it’s a four-hour drive). The locals say it’s not safe as the highway has a history of banditry (yes, as in BANDITS!).

Got into Bodhgaya around 9:30. Total chaos as everyone begins to arrive for Kalachakra. Tibetans everywhere, lights, horns, rickshaws, dust, people pressed all around. Caught a rickshaw to the tent city at Magadh University and only got taken for 100 rupees. Not bad for my first rickshaw ride…

12/31/11

There are an estimated 200,000 people here for the 32^nd Kalachakra by H.H. the 14^th Dalai Lama. It feels like they are right about that. The tent city is enormous, sectioned off into camps of different size tents, from huge dormitories to house whole monasteries to the smaller ones I’m in that fit 4-6 people comfortably. My “town” is filled with mostly smaller Tibetan and Himalayan families as well as a few European and American pilgrims sprinkled throughout. People chatter all around in other languages: Hindi, Tibetan, Bhutanese, German, French and English. Smells of cooking fill the air. The open sewers dug as trenches aren’t stinking yet (they seem to have a good system of pumping them out though).

Everyone is friendly but we all remind one another in passing to be careful. This is Bihar, one of the poorest regions in India, and sometimes poverty and lack of education lead to crime. “Never leave your passport in your tent,” one Tibetan woman (here from her home in Utah) told me at lunch yesterday. But for the most part the feeling is that we are all safe and looking out for each other.

That’s not to say that we are living in a land of rainbows. Saw lots of disturbing and heartbreaking scenes yesterday. So many people and animals suffering. Children in dirty rags begging, feral dogs covered in mange and scars, cows rooting through rotting trash, water buffaloes tied to tethers so short they couldn’t turn around. Yesterday at Mahabodhi Temple (the site where the Buddha attained enlightenment) dozens and dozens of beggars sticking their arms through the fence. “Please, please,” is all they said…

Decided to go for a walk with my friend, Nyima, this morning. Just rambled slowly down a shortcut towards the temple.

“Hey friend! Where are you from?” a young Indian man called out from his roadside shop.

“Colorado,” I said.

“Ah! America!”

He came up and followed along with us for a while. He was sporting a pass the Kalachkra teachings and was very happy the Dalai Lama was coming to Bihar. Very good for the economy, very good for the people he said.

“He just landed in Gaya you know,” he said then, “Have a great day, friend!”

We came out of the shortcut onto the main road and sure enough there was a mass of monks and nuns and tourists lining the side of it. Some were holding kata scarves and everyone was looking very excited. Nyima and I joined them. Was this actually happening? I wondered.

About fifteen minutes later sirens blared just up ahead the narrow highway. A police car led the way. Then there he was in the very next car, not four feet away, smiling his gleeful smile, waving at his people, almost more overjoyed to see us than we were to see him.

And that was it. Off he sped to get ready for the ritual that begins tomorrow. But it was so more than a passing glimpse of this great human being, one that we all love so much. I was crying. The nun next to me was crying. A big monk next to her was crying, too. They were tears of joy, tears of humility, tears of gratitude. How could we be so fortunate? We were all thinking. How blessed we are and how very, very lucky…

In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be on my way to India. I would be lying if I told you that I wasn’t at least a little bit nervous. But this nervousness is really just excitement and a truly joyous anticipation in disguise.

After all, I’m going to India! I’m going to see His Holiness the Dalai Lama! Finally, after three years, my plan is actually coming together.

My last trip in 2008 was one of the profound experiences of my life and although after nine weeks I was definitely ready to come home, I remember plotting how to get back almost as soon as I got off the plane.

You see, India is a strange and wonderful place. When I was trying to describe it in my book, I always felt so inadequate, like my words were nothing but cheap glass beads shattering on the granite walls of my memories until they were pulverized into a useless powder. It think that’s because India is too big for one set of eyes to see, too wide and vast for one heart and mind to comprehend.

India is a country of 1.2 billion people and that, in and of itself, should give anyone trying to understand her reason to take pause. She speaks hundreds of languages and prays to millions of gods. She is the mother of a refined civilization that stretches back thousands of years. She gave birth to, or at least opened her arms to, every one of the world’s major religions. She is the largest democracy in the world and is always proud to remind you of it. She sometimes bustles and moves at a frenetic pace that makes New York city seem like a sleepy backwater town, while at others she sits in supreme equipoise, unmoved by the blinding speed of the 21st century. She can be confusing, confounding and contradictory to the point of absurdity.

One thing I quickly learned last time was to not bring too many expectations to India. Leave all those at the door. Don’t expect things to happen like they do in America. Don’t worry when the trains aren’t on time or when the “Deluxe” bus breaks down on a deserted mountain road. Don’t cling too much to plans and to-do lists. Sometimes the current of the place is so swift and sure that it’s best not to fight it too much. It’s better to trust the river that knows where it’s going.

This time I’ve already been following that advice. I haven’t planned this trip out too much. I have a general notion of what I want to accomplish: to study Tibetan language, to receive teachings and blessings from the Dalai Lama, to practice meditation (at least a little more than usual) and to write. But otherwise all I have is my passport, visa, a bank card and (hopefully) my best intentions.

For the next two weeks or so I will be in Bodhgaya at the Kalachakra initiation that’s to be conferred by His Holiness. That’s going to be one crazy, beautiful, miraculous event, I’m sure. There’s estimated to be at least 100,000 people attending this year. I’ll be living in a make-shift tent city along with all those wonderful fellow pilgrims, so I’m not sure what kind of internet access I’ll have while I’m there. I’ll probably be able to check in from time to time but I don’t plan on posting till the empowerment is over on January 10th.

In the mean time, thank you all for reading. I am honored that you do. I’m looking forward to sharing again when I get back to Delhi in mid-January.

I always hesitate to say that the Dharma keeps me sober. I try not to rely on it by itself as a method for recovery. After all, there has to be more right? What about 12-step meetings? What about finding and giving support in a community of people who suffer from the same illness?

“What was it about Buddhism that helped you during that time you were first getting sober?” my sister-in-law asked the other night.

I had to take a pause and breathe for a moment. I had to take a trip back to about four years ago when I was out here in San Diego during those first days of sobriety.

I had just come out of the closet and had taken a few short steps on the path of both recovery and the Dharma. But after just one month, I was already slipping. I was on vacation and I thought: What harm is there in one or two beers? Within a week that turned into ten or twelve along with the usual supporting cast of jagermeister and tequila shots. When I got home after the end of the trip I knew that I couldn’t ever be a social drinker. It was all or nothing for me.

That was a powerful realization and though I didn’t know it at the time, I had already taken the first step: I was able to admit to myself, without shame or self-loathing, that my drinking and using were never going to be something I could control.

That was the first of many big reliefs. I didn’t have to control my addiction. I just had to accept it.

There were a lot of actions I took after that. I started to journal everyday as a way to check in with myself, a kind of authenticity-meter that kept me honest about my state of mind and my cravings. I reached out for help by going to therapy and a few 12-step meetings. I started to take care of my body through diet and exercise.

Then I completely dove into the Dharma. I mean head first. Sure I had dipped my toes in the water. I read Sogyal Rinpoche’s Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. I read Inner Revolution by Robert Thurman. I read a few biographies of the Dalai Lama. But I knew from the very first words that I was on to something. For the first time in my life, I was certain what I was hearing and reading was true. At least for me.

So what was it about the teachings that really grabbed me? What one note, if any, had rung so true?

As I thought about my sister-in-law’s question I didn’t have to look to hard for the answer. It was always, and still is, unconditional and universal love and compassion, bodhicitta as it’s called in Sanskrit, and it is the foundation of the whole Dharma.

“You are not the only person in the world,” the teachings say over an over again. “Just open your eyes and you’ll see: There are countless others out there who, just like you, want nothing more than to be happy and to be free of suffering.”

It was a profound realization then and it still is now. Even now I break down again and again when I think about it. I feel myself waking up right here, in this moment, as my eyelids crack open to let in just a sliver of light.

My old ways of thinking, thinking about me and only me, crumble and fall away to dust. Look at my suffering, I would always say. Look at my short end of the stick, my shitty hand. No one has it as bad as me! This was the broken record of my old life.

When I first became exposed to the idea that that’s a flawed way to think and live in this world, that the real joy of this life comes from helping and serving others, I totally broke down. It was such a relief! Here I was, bearing the burden of being the only person in the world who suffered, and the teachings were telling me I could put all that down. It was nothing short of revolutionary.

It was a revolution not in the least because it helped me to realize that my suffering, especially my addiction, was not unique. It didn’t make me a bad person. It didn’t make me broken. It just made me human and therefore worthy of my own love and compassion.

So again, I hesitate to say that it’s the Dharma alone that keeps me sober. But it does do a lot to keep me on the right track. Not through trumpets blaring from some high heaven. Not by some divine hand reaching down through the clouds to lift me up and out of misery. But by reminding me again and again the I am not alone in this world. There are countless others just like me and every one of them needs me as much as I need them.

This is what keeps me going.

From a Buddhist point of view most, if not all, of the fiction we consume in our culture is about samsara. Find the girl (or the boy) of your dreams. Get the money. Kill the bad guy. All of these standard plot lines revolve around motivations that are fueled by the three poisons: ignorance of our true nature, desire and anger.

The Descendants, although still firmly set in samsara, is different. Matt King (George Clooney) is a descendent of Hawaiian royalty and the sole trustee of a parcel of untouched coastal land. Just at the time he is faced with the decision to sell this land to developers, his wife is rendered comatose by a boating accident. He soon learns that the coma is irreversible and he and his two troubled daughters are forced to work through the inevitability of her death.

This is a subject that is rarely explored in American cinema. It was refreshing and it was handled with such great skill, insight and sensitivity that it resulted in two greasy, butter and tear soaked paper napkins by the end.

But the film isn’t just some Speilbergian excercise in yanking brutishly on our preprogrammed heart-strings (Fear not, Steven, I will be seeing War Horse on Christmas Day…). It is a grown-up movie that tenderly, yet fearlessly, looks into the heart of human experience with all its messiness and confusion, acknowledging the ultimate helplessness we all feel because we know in our hearts that in the end, death is going to win.

The thing that most moved me about the film was that the actors, the writers and the director were not afraid to meditate on this experience. They explored it fully and patiently as the characters went through all the emotions that most people actually do when faced with the reality of death. There was denial, resistance, anger and finally acceptance, forgiveness and maybe even illumination. It was perfect.

The Descendants gives me hope that storytelling in our culture is still a valuable tool for understanding our place in the world. It asks the real questions, the ones that matter. What are we doing here? What are these feelings of pain, sadness and joy? How can we find each other through the realization that we all suffer, that we all share a common experience?

If you haven’t seen this film yet, please do. Don’t worry, it’s not all sadness and grief. This film is about life in all its complexity and that includes laughter and joy. Just be sure to bring your wide open heart.