It’s five am and the alarm is ringing. Here in McLeod Ganj, India, no one but monks and nuns gets up this early. But today it’s Losar, the Tibetan New Year. There are no celebrations today because of the suicide-protests in Tibet but His Holiness the Dalai Lama is still rumored to be presiding over the holiday’s opening prayers.

I’ve gotten no less than three different reports on what’s supposed to happen. He’s either making a quick appearance at 7, heading up the stairs to the main temple at 8, or he might not be there at all.

In any case, I’m not taking any chances. I missed him when he appeared with Desmond Tutu a couple of weeks ago, and though I pretended to myself to take it in stride, I was really, really bummed out.

So I meet my neighbor, Liv, downstairs and we begin our walk in the dark together. She’s a college student from Sweden whose doing course work here. She has a friend, a Tibetan woman named Sangmo, who we’re going to meet and go to the temple with.

We get to her house and though Sangmo is dressed and ready, she’s scrambling around to get her seven-year old daughter out of bed. Like any good mother she can do twelve things at once and as she lovingly but firmly goads her daughter to brush her teeth, comb her hair, put on her Losar best, she also makes us tea. She even remembers to offer us sugar and milk.

I watch Sangmo with admiration and delight because I know a little of her story.  She was set up in an arranged marriage when she was sixteen or seventeen, just before her daughter was born. The man turned out to be violently abusive, so she left him. This wasn’t OK with her very traditional family. They disowned her, leaving her and her infant daughter to fend for themselves on the streets of Delhi.

She lived in shelters for years but somehow managed to get through school to become an accountant. Long story short, she found a good job with a non-profit here in McLeod Ganj and is now sending her daughter to a prestigious boarding school. In her spare time she’s planning to start a non-profit of her own that gets young girls off the streets and into school.

She is one of my new heroes.

We all head out the door to the temple. It’s just after six and still quite dark. When we arrive at the temple gates a few minutes later, there are only a few people milling about. We go in to the main temple complex, easily find a seat and wait.

More and more people stream in as the hours go by. Soon there are thousands, even though it seems to me that there’s really nothing going on.  We can hear the monks chanting a few prayers in the main temple upstairs but that’s it. There was some talk of Tibetan dancing or other performances but so far it’s just a crowd of people waiting patiently for nothing to happen at all.

I wait with them. It’s colder now even though the sun is shining brightly. The wind has picked up and it’s blowing down from the mountains. A few flakes of snow begin to fall. I pull my sweater tight around me but it’s not the cold that I’m fighting. I’m thinking that I’m going to miss him again and that I just don’t want to bear.

But then it happens. A team of security guards clears a path through the crowd. A few thousand of us sit up straight, expectant. We hold up silk offering scarves and open hearts as we move to kneel. I see an entourage of high lamas in yellow-plumed hats leading His Holiness down the stairs. It’s very informal and he scurries off from side to side when he gets to the bottom, shaking hands with the crowd and laughing.

I look around and I still can’t comprehend the reverence that I see. I can’t comprehend the reverence I feel within myself. If you had shown me a picture of this scene just a few years ago, I would have thought you were joking.

But it’s not a joke. It’s for real and it’s beautiful and amazing and it fills me with such great hope that I’m about to burst with tears. So I do. Just like I always do whenever I see him.

His Holiness passes by not even twenty feet away. The tears are gone. It was just a micro burst this time. But I’m smiling. I’m smiling from the inside all the way through, and as I look over at Sangmo and Liv and three thousand Tibetans, I think: we’re all going to be OK. Really, this time, we’re all going to be OK.

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.