My Spiritual Journey Read online

  First, we divide happiness and suffering into two main categories, mental and physical. But it is the mind that exercises the most influence over us. Unless we are seriously ill or deprived of necessities, our physical condition plays a secondary role in life. When the body is satisfied, we’re almost not aware of it. The mind, on the other hand, registers the slightest event, no matter how minor it is. So we must devote our efforts to developing peace of mind.

  According to my own experience, the highest level of inner calm comes from the development of love and compassion. The more concerned we are with the happiness of others, the more we increase our own well-being. Friendliness and warmth toward others relax mental tensions and help us to dissipate fears or insecurity so that we can overcome obstacles. That is the ultimate source of success in life.

  In this world, where we are bound to encounter difficulties, if we lose hope and become discouraged, we reduce our ability to face things. What’s more, if we remember that everyone, not just ourselves, has to experience suffering, this realistic perspective reinforces our determination and our ability to overcome difficulty. In fact, with this attitude, every new obstacle will be regarded as a good opportunity to improve our state of mind!

  That is how we can gradually strive for more compassion—by cultivating both real sympathy when faced with the suffering of others and a desire to help them free themselves of it. In this way our own serenity and inner strength will increase.

  I love the smile, unique to humans

  IF WE ARE CONTENT just to think that compassion, rationality, and patience are good, that is not actually enough to develop these qualities. Difficulties provide the occasion to put them into practice. Who can make such occasions arise? Certainly not our friends, but rather our enemies, for they are the ones who pose the most problems. So that if we truly want to progress on the path, we must regard our enemies as our best teachers.

  For whoever holds love and compassion in high esteem, the practice of tolerance is essential, and it requires an enemy. We must be grateful to our enemies, then, because they help us best engender a serene mind! Anger and hatred are the real enemies that we must confront and defeat, not the “enemies” who appear from time to time in our lives.

  Of course it is natural and right that we all want to have friends. I often say jokingly that a truly selfish person must be altruistic! You have to take care of others, of their well-being, by helping them and serving them, to have even more friends and make more smiles blossom. The result? When you yourself need help, you will find all you need! On the other hand, if you neglect others’ happiness, you will be the loser in the long run. Is friendship born of arguments, anger, jealousy, and unbridled competition? I don’t think so. Only affection produces authentic friends.

  In contemporary materialistic society, if you have money and power, you have the impression of having a lot of friends. But they aren’t your friends; they are the friends of your money and power. If you lose your wealth and influence, you will have trouble finding those people again.

  Unfortunately, so long as things are going well, we think we can get along all by ourselves. However, as our situation and health decline, we soon realize how wrong we were. That is when we understand who really helps us. To prepare ourselves for such a time, by making true friends who are useful when we need them most, we must cultivate altruism.

  As for me, I always want more friends. I love smiles, and my wish is to see more smiles, real smiles, for there are many kinds—sarcastic, artificial, or diplomatic. Some smiles don’t arouse any satisfaction, and some even engender suspicion or fear. An authentic smile, though, arouses an authentic feeling of freshness, and I think the smile belongs only to human beings. If we want those smiles, we must create the reasons that make them appear.

  2

  My Lives Without Beginning or End

  In Dharamsala, among the Tibetans in exile, we go to meet this human being, so fully human that just approaching him can change our lives. That is the experience related by the renowned psychologist Paul Ekman: as he shook the Dalai Lama’s hand, he says he had the feeling he was “touching” compassion. He discovered that kindness can be “palpable,” and his life was transformed by this experience.5 Ekman’s personal history, marked by the suffering of a difficult childhood, equipped him with feelings of anger and resentment. After meeting the Dalai Lama, he found the strength to forgive and never to give way to anger again. Having become another man, he wondered about this metamorphosis. He came to the conclusion that the Dalai Lama could make others better because in the course of his daily meditations he had so completely bathed his mind in love and compassion that he was able to transmit these qualities directly to another person.

  To meet Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, we go to the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh. Called also “the Land of the Gods,” this region in northwest India stretches to the foot of the Himalayan barrier, whose snow-covered peaks rise in stages above the Kangra plain. Kangra was once a city of maharajas and a crossroads of Indian cultures—Moghul, Sikh, then British, and finally Tibetan.

  Geographically we are in India, but spiritually we are in Tibetan territory. At regular intervals, the valley resounds with the deep call of Tibetan ritual instruments: radongs, gyalings, and kanglings. From these instruments, which used to be made from the bones of a young Brahman, the monks of the Roof of the World draw grave, haunting sounds that open the mind to the dimension of the sacred. Prayer is omnipresent, murmured by the pilgrims fingering their rosaries, engraved on the walls of houses, printed in black ink on squares of cloth dyed the colors of the four elements and tied to poles. The wind blows through the holy syllables and carries them far and wide, spreading their blessings over all beings it touches.

  The Dalai Lama’s residence is built atop a hill overlooking McLeod Ganj. This hill station, named after a Scottish governor of the Punjab, used to be the summer lodgings for officers of the British Raj; today it has become “little Lhasa.” It is home to about ten thousand people—one-quarter of them monks and nuns—who live in monasteries that are painted ochre or burgundy and stacked on the high foothills of the Dhauladhar range. Many hotels dot the area, since people from all over the world come to visit this hamlet with its steep little streets; they come for the teachings that the Dalai Lama gives during the Great Monlam, the festival of aspiration prayers that begins in Lhasa in the first month of the Tibetan year. The tradition has continued in exile, attracting not just visitors from Tibet but also Europeans, Australians, and Americans by the hundreds. They come as either followers of the Buddhist path or curious onlookers, and with them come Asians from Japan, Korea, Thailand, Vietnam, Malaysia, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. With the revival of monastic vows in Mongolia and the former Soviet republics of Kalmykia, Buriatia, and Tuva, groups from Central Asia have also come for over a dozen years now to pay homage to the Dalai Lama.

  Above a residence surrounded by oaks, spruce, and Himalayan cedars with slim, proud silhouettes, white eagles with golden beaks wheel, along with kites and other raptors. Birds soar upward in pairs, an eagle and a crow flying together, outlining quick arcs in the sky, ascending and descending at dizzying speeds.

  It is February 2008, just before the Tibetan New Year, Losar, the first day of the lunar year. Early in the morning, costumed monks perform cham, the dance ritual intended to chase away the negativities of the past year and ward off evil spirits. The Dalai Lama, in retreat, has granted only a few interviews. A group of Mongolians are crowded around his doorway in ceremonial robes woven in silk brocade with silver ornaments.

  Historically, this fierce people defended the Dalai Lamas against Manchu incursions; the Khans had vowed to protect the sovereign of the Roof of the World, whom they venerated as their spiritual leader. In Mongolia today Buddhism has been reborn, and temples that were destroyed throughout the decades of communism have been rebuilt. But only one-fifth of the population of Mongolia are Mongols—the majority are Chi
nese. This is the situation that the Dalai Lama dreads for his country. Tibet is in fact undergoing demographic aggression by Han Chinese and a forced sinicization of the culture.

  The Mongolians have taken their leave, their eyes wet with tears, after offering the spiritual leader a kata, or ceremonial scarf, this one made of blue silk and embroidered with the eight auspicious symbols. The Dalai Lama’s private secretary, Tenzin Taklha, summons me as His Holiness, with a gesture of his hand, invites me to join him without any further ado in the interview room. The large bay windows invite the sky’s infinity into the long, soberly furnished room, its walls covered in thangkas, paintings on cloth representing the great compassionate figures of Enlightenment.

  When the Dalai Lama talks about himself in private, it is with the same jovial, spontaneous simplicity as on the international stage. His infectious cheerfulness can very quickly give way to sadness when the world’s sufferings are mentioned: “Many Buddhas have come among us, and yet humanity continues to suffer. That is the reality of samsara. It is not the failure of the Buddhas, but of human beings, who have not put the teachings into practice.”

  I Rejoice at Being the Son of Simple Farmers

  My everyday life

  MY DAYS BEGIN at around three or three-thirty in the morning. When I wake up, I think of the Buddha, and I recite a prayer of salutation written by the great Indian sage Nagarjuna. I say my prayer lying down, my hands joined, half-respectful, half-asleep….

  As a practicing Buddhist monk, as soon as I wake up I pay homage to the Buddha, and I try to prepare my mind to be more altruistic, more compassionate, during the day to come so that I can be of benefit to beings. Then I do physical exercise—I walk on a treadmill.

  Around five o’clock I have breakfast; then I have a few more meditation sessions, and I recite prayers until about eight or nine. Afterward I usually read the paper, but sometimes I also go to the interview room for meetings. If I have nothing else to do, I mainly study the Buddhist scriptures that my teachers have taught me in the past, but I also read some recent books.

  Then I practice analytic meditation on altruism, which we call bodhicitta, or “enlightened mind,” in Buddhist terminology. I also meditate on emptiness. Bodhicitta and emptiness are the most important meditations in my daily practice, for they help me throughout the entire day. Whatever difficulties, sad events, or bad news may come up, these meditations allow me to stabilize my mind profoundly and support it from within.

  After lunch I go back to the interview room for other meetings. At this time [Tibetan New Year], almost every week, I receive Tibetans who have recently arrived from Tibet.

  Around five o’clock it’s time for my evening tea. As a Buddhist monk, I don’t eat dinner. If I’m hungry, I snack on a cookie, asking the Buddhas for forgiveness. Then I devote myself to more prayers and meditations….

  Around seven or eight o’clock I go to sleep—not without examining what I did during the day first! Some nights I sleep eight or even nine hours. That’s the best time! Total relaxation … (Laughs.)

  I was born on the fifth day of the fifth month …

  I WAS BORN on the fifth day of the fifth month in the Wood Pig year according to the Tibetan calendar, or July 6, 1935, in the Western calendar. I was given the name Lhamo Thondup, which means, literally, “Goddess who accomplishes all wishes.” Tibetan names for people, places, and things often sound picturesque when they’re translated. Tsangpo, for instance, the name of one of the largest rivers in Tibet—which in India becomes the powerful Brahmaputra—means “the Purifier.”

  The name of my village is Takster, or “Roaring Tiger.” When I was a child, it was a poor little commune, built on a hill overlooking a wide valley. The grazing land was used not by farmers but by nomads, because of the unpredictable weather in the region. When I was little, my family, along with about twenty others, earned a meager living from this land.

  Takster is situated in the extreme northeastern part of the country, in the province of Amdo. The house where I was born was typical of that part of Tibet—built of stone and earth, with a flat roof. The gutters, made from juniper branches hollowed out to channel rainwater, were the only unusual element of its architecture. Right in front of the house, between its two “arms” or wings, was a little courtyard with, in the center, a tall pole to which a flag printed with many prayers was attached.

  Animals were housed behind the house, which had six rooms: the kitchen, where we spent most of our time during the winter; the shrine room with a little altar, where we all gathered for the morning offerings; my parents’ bedroom; a guest room; a storage room for our provisions; and finally, a stable for the animals.

  Children didn’t have a room of their own. As a baby, I slept with my mother, and then in the kitchen, near the stove. We had neither chairs nor beds, properly speaking, but there were raised wooden platforms to sleep on in my parents’ room and in the guest bedroom. We also had a few wooden hutches, painted in bright colors.

  I can see into the humblest souls

  MY FAMILY LIVED in a very remote region. Sining, the capital of Amdo, was the closest town, but it took three hours by horse or mule to get there. Our village was very poor, and it’s only thanks to my older brother, who was recognized when he was very young as a reincarnate lama from the great monastery of Kumbum, that we had a little more than other people.

  I have always rejoiced in my modest origins. If I had been born in a rich or aristocratic family, it would have been hard for me to share the concerns of the simple people of Tibet. Those years of my early childhood in Takster had a profound effect on me. They allow me to see into the humblest souls, to sympathize with them, as I try to make their living conditions better.

  I had many brothers and sisters; my mother brought sixteen children into the world, only seven of whom survived. It was my older sister who helped my mother in childbirth when I was born, since she was already eighteen. We were very close, and there were many joys in that harsh life.

  My parents were small-scale farmers but not, strictly speaking, peasants, since they rented a plot of land and tilled it themselves. Barley and buckwheat are the main grains of Tibet. My family grew them, along with potatoes. But many times all the year’s efforts were ruined by strong hailstorms or drought.

  We also had a few animals, which were a more reliable source of income. I remember our five or six dzomos, which my mother used to milk.6 As soon as I was able to stand on my feet I would go with her to the stable. In the folds of my robe I would carry a bowl, and she would pour milk, still warm, straight into it.

  We also had a herd of about eighty head of livestock, both sheep and goats, and my father almost always had one or two horses, sometimes three, to which he was very attached. In the region, he had the reputation of knowing how to take care of horses and even curing them on occasion.

  Finally, my family raised two yaks, which are a gift of nature to mankind, since they can survive at an altitude of over ten thousand feet. We also kept hens for their eggs, which I was in charge of gathering from the chicken coop. I often amused myself by climbing up to the nest-box, where I liked to perch and cluck like a hen!

  My parents never thought I might be the Fourteenth Dalai Lama

  IT WAS MY MOTHER who reminded me of the memories of the first two years of my life. She was surprised to hear me repeating at a very early age: “I come from central Tibet. I have to go back there! I will take you all with me.” And my favorite game was packing my bags; then I would say good-bye to everyone and pretend to leave, sitting astride improvised mounts. My relatives thought they were children’s games, and no one really paid any attention to them. Only later on did my mother think that I had an intuition of the fate that lay in store for me.

  Truthfully, my parents never suspected that I might be the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. Several months before I was born, my father had suffered a strange illness, losing consciousness many times and with repeated bouts of vertigo, until he finally had to take to h
is bed and leave all the household work to my pregnant mother. Curiously, on the morning of my birth he felt cured, got up in full form, and said his prayers, as if he had never been sick. When he learned that a son had been born at dawn on this lucky day, he said to my mother that this child was probably not like the others, and that he should become a monk.

  I recognize my rosary

  I STILL WONDER TO THIS DAY how the search party for the Fourteenth Dalai Lama discovered our little village so far from everything, lost in the great grass plains of Amdo.

  In 1933 my predecessor, Thubten Gyatso, had left this world at the age of fifty-seven. His body was embalmed, according to custom, and the monks were startled to discover one morning that his head, which had been facing south, had turned to the northeast. This unusual movement was interpreted as a sure sign pointing toward the region of his next reincarnation.

  Soon after, a vision of the regent’s confirmed this sign. On the sacred water of Lhamo Lhatso, he had seen the Tibetan letters Ah, Ka, and Ma glittering. Then there had formed the image of a monastery with three floors, with a turquoise and gold roof, and then a little house appeared. It had gutters with knotted, unusual shapes. There was no doubt for the regent that the letter Ah designated the province of Amdo, toward which my late predecessor had turned his head after his death. Ka seemed logically to represent the initial of the monastery of Kumbum, with its three floors and turquoise roof. They still had to identify the little house with the strange gutters.

  When the search mission saw, in the valley, the twisting juniper branches that ran beneath the roof of the family farm, it was clear to everyone that the new Dalai Lama was living here. And when, after investigation, they learned that a boy had been born in this house, the members of the group decided to present themselves at our door and ask for hospitality for the night.