Now let go of the fear that tightens the muscles in your belly, that makes you sick with despair, that makes you want to drop to your knees and hopelessly weep.

You see, there is no avoiding this fact of death. There is no postponing it until you are ready. There is no negotiating with it for a few more minutes of life so you can wrap up all of your loose ends. You can’t mark it in your day planner or include it in your retirement strategy. You have no idea when it will come. In fact, there is no guarantee that you will be here tomorrow (or even tonight). Even if you keep yourself healthy, if you run, if you eat right, if you do yoga, you still could die at any moment.

If you stop with this meditation right now, there is no doubt that you will be paralyzed with fear. You might even go a little mad. You might lock yourself and your husbands and your wives and your children in a shed in the back yard and never want to come out again.

But why is this? Why are we all taken by surprise when death comes? We all know that it’s coming. Each day that passes is a day closer to death. But we trick ourselves into believing that it’s a long way off, that it’s an unpleasant experience that we will have to face but only in some remote future. This trick of the mind even leads us to believe that maybe we and our loved ones are going to be the exceptions.

By not facing up to the reality of death we do ourselves and those around us a great, if not unintentional, harm. Of course, we’re afraid. Of course we want to protect ourselves and our loved ones from the pain of this truth. But avoiding the truth only makes it worse.

And the thing is, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Despite all the wisdom of all the world’s spiritual traditions that tell us that there is something after death, we still don’t know for certain what’s in store for us, do we? There are so many different possible outcomes.There are a bewildering array of heavens and hells and rest stops in between. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if any of them are real. But of this I am certain. When the time of death comes, we will not be greeted by a cold, dark void before being blown out like a candle in a storm. The essence of who we are, the indestructible and unbounded nature of our minds, is ever unchanged.

So hold on to that. Trust in that. Be strong. And though we can, and should, grieve when we lose someone we love, we don’t have to be afraid.

This post is dedicated to my friend Jamie Heiney and to all sentient beings. Om Mani Padme Hung Hri.

I have to confess, I’m not a yoga guy. Believe me. I’ve wanted to be. But like most people the demands on my time in this hectic culture of “doing, doing, doing” has forced me to choose between Downward Dog and my already meager meditation practice. What I didn’t know until last weekend was that I didn’t have to.

I have to admit as well, that I have a certain prejudice against the purely physical focus of what I typically perceive as being “Yoga”. The hot-core-power-yoga-for-fitness-and-a-tight-tushy craze that has swept the nation over the past few years has not been all that alluring to me. But still, I thought, yoga has to be more than that.

So when I heard that Tibetan Buddhist teacher, Anyen Rinpoche, was teaming up with yoga instructor, David Jewett, for a Yoga of Body and Mind Weekend workshop, I was more than a little curious. In fact, I was ready to dust off the old yoga mat and do the Double Pigeon with the best of them.

In the East-Meets-West subculture of spiritual practitioners there seem to be two types of people: those who do yoga and those who meditate. And never the twain shall meet, right? Wrong. What I learned over this weekend was that this need not be the case at all. In fact, the yogas of body and mind are integral components of a complete spiritual path.

Rinpoche dove right into it. Within the first ten minutes he explained that there are actually three types of Yoga: those of the body (the asanas), the speech (the breath) and the mind. Most Buddhist practitioners, myself included, focus solely on the sitting practice, the mind aspect, twisting our legs into knots with no preparation or love for our tender muscles and limbs. As a result we wind up with stabbing pains in our knees and hips instead of a calm and focused mind. After a couple of decades of this we may have developed a mean shamatha practice, but the object of our concentration can all too often be nothing more than stiff joints and chronic arthritis.

David, owner of Santosha Yoga in Ottawa, Canada, took over from there.

“What I find is that if I sit for a few minutes first thing in the morning, then get up to do some asanas, followed by another period of sitting makes for a more fluid and focused practice,” Jewett said.

He then showed us a few asanas and began to outline how we could integrate the three aspects of yoga into a single session.

“We can combine breath, movement, mantra, and mindfulness all into one fluid practice,” David said.

For the rest of the weekend we followed that program. Long slow sessions of a forgiving combination of Yin and Ashtanga yoga got us into a deep groove. We held gentle poses, worked with the breath and inwardly recited the mantra Om Mani Padme Hung until our bodies and minds were really flowing as one. The meditation periods that followed each physical session were like sitting a lake of clear glass. One student even commented that from her vantage point in the back of the hall, she had never seen so many calm, relaxed, yet perfectly poised practitioners in her twenty years of sitting.

So it’s been a week since the workshop and I’ve only missed one day of the meditation/yoga/meditation combo. I don’t know how long it will last. It’s certainly not too hard to keep up with now that I’m on sabbatical. All I know is that it is making a difference in my practice already and if there’s any way possible I can keep this up, I’m going to try my best to ride this wave for many years to come.

I just popped in to see an old friend of mine at the Tibetan imports shop in Colorado Springs. He’s from Nepal and has been practicing Buddhism his whole life. All I can say is, it shows.

The shop is slow this time of year. There are no customers and we spend a half hour catching up under the silent gaze of Buddha statues and Himalayan ritual masks. I feel like I haven’t left north India at all.

A woman comes to the door and I think “Oh good! A customer for my friend!”

But she’s not here to buy anything. She wants to return a candle holder she bought a few days ago.

“I’m sorry,” my friend says. “I told you when you bought this that we can’t accept returns, only exchanges.”

The woman goes on the attack. She’s not having any of that. The customer, after all, is always right.

I stand non-chanlantly next to a display case, pretending that I’m shopping for trinkets. I’m replaying the scenes in my mind from twelve years in the restaurant business. I imagine being in my friend’s shoes. The blood rushes to my face as I feel embarrassment for the woman making the scene and sympathy for my friend. I  remember the salty, metallic taste of biting my tongue, holding back a self-righteous stream of profanity that would put the unruly customer in her place. Then I imagine putting on my best fake smile and politely, if not unwillingly, giving her money back.

The woman is unyielding and my friend winds up doing just that. She is about to walk out, huffing with satisfaction. But then my friend leans over the counter, and without any trace of anger or indignation, gives her the Dharmic low down.

“Getting angry only hurts you,” he begins. “It doesn’t affect me at all. It only brings you unhappiness. Think about what you’re getting upset about. $6. A cup of coffee. Is this really worth all the pain you’re causing yourself?”

I’m expecting the woman to explode, to go on a rampage, to really cause a scene. Maybe it’s the Buddha statues all around us. Maybe it’s the look in my friend’s eyes and the non-threatening, loving tone in his voice. In any case, the woman doesn’t freak out. Instead she does just the opposite.

“You’re right,” she says obviously embarrassed. “You’re right and I’m sorry.” And you know what? She means it.

I am filled with awe and a kind of rejoicing bubbles up inside me at this little interaction, this one-act play that is being rehearsed to perfection day after day throughout the world.

This is truly engaged Buddhism. This is the fearless action and conduct of the bodhisattva.

I think many of us, myself included, have a misconception that being Buddhist means being passive. But this is not the case at all. Really embodying the teachings in daily life means that we have to be skillful when dealing with another’s unskillful behavior. Sometimes we have to engage others by calling them out. We can do this with kind, loving hearts without taking the situation personally, without being defensive or aggressive ourselves, without clinging desperately to our own egos.

As the woman leaves I imagine that she has a lot to think about. I know that I do and I smile at my friend, grateful for the teaching and hoping that I will be able to take it to heart as well.

But for now I am trying to rest in my room after a hot, dusty, bumpy, eight-hour bus ride across the Kangra valley and back up into the Himalayan foothills. I am almost asleep when I hear the commotion explode outside my window. It’s a puppy yelping in agony and the sound stabs me in the heart. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” I say to myself forgetting that I’m anyone, too.

When I do remember, I jump out of bed and run down the stairs onto the street. There is the taxi that ran the ten-week old pup over. The driver is wincing, holding the steering wheel tight, not wanting to move forward or backward, afraid that the cries are coming from the poor creature stuck under one of his tires. But the puppy is not under the tires. He’s in the middle of the road, his back leg extended out from his body as if he is trying to push the source of his pain as far way from him as he can.

The driver rolls forward slowly and when the puppy doesn’t stop screaming he just takes off down the narrow street of ramshackle guesthouses, dhabas, and shops. This leaves me, the puppy, and the puppy’s mother now in the middle of the road. The mother is frantic. She runs to her pup, sniffs him and whines. She looks helpless and frightened as she runs back and forth from him to me. I swear that the look in her eyes says, “Help me, please.”

So I try. The puppy is trying to walk but each time his back leg even brushes the asphalt his cries of pain only get louder. I have no idea what to do but I move forward thinking that if I can pick him up, at least I can keep him from standing on his leg. He backs away and braces himself on the injured limb. He screams one more time before scurrying off to the side of the road where he and his mother disappear into the brambles and down a trash strewn hillside.

I am left wondering if I did more harm than good. But at least they’re off the road.

I go back to my room. I feel helpless just like the mother. I am thinking now not just about her and her pup but of all the beings in this world who are suffering. They are so many! And they are all crying out: please, help me.

As Mahayana Buddhists, we aspire to be of help to everyone. But now I see just how huge that aspiration is. I see all the beings who are suffering in this world, like a snapshot in my mind’s eye. All the insects, the birds, the fish, the human beings, the puppies with broken legs spread out across the world, shoulder to shoulder. They are an endless throng and suddenly I feel so small.

The sight of all of this brings me to tears. Sobbing, cleansing, free-flowing tears. But it’s not just the realization of the quantity of pain in the world. What really brings on this flood of emotion is the awe that I now feel knowing that beings like His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, and my own precious teacher are undaunted by it. They vow, fearlessly, each and every day, to help others despite the seeming impossibility of success.

This is the risk of the open heart. It’s facing the reality of the suffering of this world and not turning away. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it’s scary. But we can cultivate the courage to do what we can. This is what our teachers are telling us.

My heart is aching softly now. But it doesn’t hurt as much as I once feared. To say yes to the world and all the beings in it, to say that I will at least try to help, even if my set of skills is still woefully incomplete, is a kind of freedom that I never expected or imagined. And as I wipe the tears away, I know that to keep trying is the only thing to do.

I start Tibetan language classes tomorrow at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. Although I’m very excited about this, I’m also kind of nervous. It means I’ve really got to get crackin’. The first draft of the novel is just about  half-finished (hooray!) but it’s going to take a lot of focus to keep to my goal of completing it before I leave here in April.

I’m not too worried though. So far this trip has been everything I’ve hoped for and more. I’ve stuck to the little index card schedule I have propped up on my desk. For the most part at least. The original draft was a little draconian so I made some adjustments. For example, I have not been getting up at 5 AM for the past two and a half months.

But still, for the most part I feel good about how I’ve spent my days. I feel so fortunate to have been able to spend my days doing all the things I’ve wanted to. I’ve really been able to spend some time getting into my meditation practice, taking my time with it, steeping myself in it. I’ve had time to write, both in my journals and the novel (150 pages as of today!). I’ve been able to actually spend an hour each day studying Buddhist texts. And another hour on Tibetan language.

Essentially, I’ve had the good fortune to be a total Buddhist geek for the past few months. And you know what? I love it!

Synopsis:

So I filled you all in on the last time I saw His Holiness the Dalai Lama. That was amazing. But just the other day, I (and about 4,000 others) got the chance to receive teachings from him once again. It was only a morning session but he seemed to lay out the entire Buddhist path for us all in that short amount of time. Emaho! (That’s Tibetan for “Wow!”)

A couple of weeks ago, I had the good fortune to go and visit one of my spiritual heroes Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo. She’s an English nun who ordained back in the 70′s, just before it was cool, and has since spent about 12 years in solitary retreat. Now that she’s out, she has devoted her life to building a nunnery here in North India that provides the finest monastic education for young women that is currently available.

Her success has been very inspiring to me a gay man as she’s never taken her “status” as a woman to be an obstacle to her goals or her practice.

Anyway, I was super-nervous on the drive out there. I had no idea what I was going to say to her. But when I walked into her office, I just breathed this great sigh of relief. She was totally relaxed and it rubbed off on me. She invited me to sit, asked me how I was doing and that started one of the most pleasant conversations about the Dharma I’ve ever had with anyone.

Essentially, our hour talk came down to this: Keep Practicing! It’s worth it!

I’m looking forward to seeing her again when she gives a weekend of teachings in April.

On the radar for the next five weeks. Besides language classes I’m also looking forward to another teaching by His Holiness at the end of this month, a road trip to a pilgrimage site called Tso Pema, and teachings by another great master named Chamtrul Rinpoche.

So, it looks like my schedule is filling up. I’ll try to get a couple of more posts up before the trip is over (no, I definitely will). In the mean time, be well, be happy, and thanks, as always, for reading!

The trees are thick with prayer flags and so I know I’m getting close. The road ends and becomes nothing more than a footpath. I follow it, my breath and blood quicken. I see the first of the meditation huts and remember the story.

This is a holy place. Meditators have been coming here for decades. They’ve built little houses out of rough cut stone by hand, just like Milarepa. There’s no electricity or running water yet some of these practitioners spend years up here. Some of them spend their lives.

There are about two dozen huts scattered through the trees. There is no movement or sound coming from any of them. I walk through the grove in silent wonder. How could it be that people choose this way of life? It seems so at odds with our usual goals of heaping things and accomplishments up like glass marbles on a playground.

But this is the meaning of renunciation. This is the fruition of what we Buddhists call the Precious Human Life.

I make a stop at the first stupa, a small monument to the path of enlightenment, up above the retreat houses. It’s not far. A short flight of stone steps and I’m there. This one holds some of the remains of Yeshe Tobden Rinpoche, a great yogi who meditated here for thirty years until his death in 1999. As he died he remained in meditative equipoise for the whole time and it’s said that he stayed in that state for many days after that.

This is the kind of thing that I’ve come to take on faith and when you stand next to a monument like this and feel it for yourself, you don’t need any more proof. You just feel it in your bones.

In our western culture of “just the facts please”, we don’t see the value in this kind of thing. We discount it as superstition or backwards thinking. But here’s what it comes down to. Just because we can’t see something or touch it or feel it, doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.

Right now the world is so confused. Confusion swirls around the globe like a dark and menacing cloud. There is so much desire, grasping and fear that it permeates even the air we breathe.

But not here. Not in this place. In this place there is sanity. In this place there is clarity. In this place there is indiscriminant compassion and love.

I make my way down to take a seat next to the second stupa. This one is dedicated to Tirjhang Rinpoche, the former tutor of the His Holiness the Dalai Lama. It’s not that I have some kind of profound experience or insight, but as I sit and just breathe, my mind becomes still. A gap opens up in my thoughts and it seems that all my petty fears and worries just evaporate into thin air.

You see, this is the energy that is being gathered here. Clarity, love, equanimity and I can almost see these qualities as they spread out across the globe, spreading out to the minds and hearts of all sentient beings.

As I get up to leave, I take a good look around. My body tingles as I think that the men and women who have chosen to live their lives this way are truly bodhisattvas, spiritual heroes. They have decided to face the real enemies of suffering and unhappiness: the delusions of the mind. This is the true act of heroism.

I feel completely fulfilled as I walk out of the grove and back to the path. I know that this moment won’t last but I also know that I will always be able to look back on it. And when I do I will find inspiration and strength just knowing that this place and these people exist.

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.

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.