I sat beneath the gaze of the huge Buddha sculpture—amidst a cacophony of Buddhist idolatry.  Paintings of fierce-faced deities guarded ancient dorje and vajra — ceremonial tools that crouched on silk pillows.  I had removed my shoes as was tradition, sat in the temple and waited for my life to be changed—though I did not know that at the time.

There were only a few of us waiting—each deep in our private thoughts.  A few practitioners fingered the beads of their mala and counted their breaths as I studied the temple’s shinji or shrine.  Unlike my respites in Buddhist temples in Japan, there were no gongs sounding a mysterious percussion, nor were there the guttural chants of monks.  No gauze sheets of incense floated in the air—only the bright sunlight that filtered into the temple.  A handful of Buddhist monks were already seated on cushions.  Some seemed to be dozing while others stared forward, empty eyed in the cool of the temple.  It was hot and sultry outside and the cool of the temple was a welcome relief.

There was a rustling—a shuffling of feet.  I craned my neck and looked to see a bent old man make his way to the front of the temple and towards our group.  His head was shaved and bushy eyebrows sprang from his brow.  He wore a maroon-colored robe, accented with a yellow-gold cloth.  He shuffled ahead of another man who was similarly dressed, but who also wore a familiar smile.  Both monks were flanked by security personnel—two security men with Tibetan-flag, lapel pins and four members of the U.S. Secret Service.  One of the crew-cut Asian guards smiled at our small group.  The Secret Service agents remained stone-faced.

The monks sitting adjacent to me rose and faced the two men like they were welcoming a bride’s processional.  Following suit, I rose on creaking knees and could now clearly see without rubber necking.  Everyone began bowing—some extending their hands held in a prayerful attitude.  Being a long-time martial arts practitioner, bowing came natural.  I bowed….and bowed some more….tried to make my prayerful hand signs appear natural. 

The older man was bent forward on a cane, and with focused intent walked past me and on up to a side seat on a dais in front of the shrine.  The second man squinted through his glasses and his smile, and walked softly with a delicate grace . . . . all the time beaming.

The smiling monk wore flip-flops—those thin, non-western style I’ve seen worn in monasteries all over Asia.  His left wrist sported a watch that seemed to dangle rather loose, and his right wrist was adorned with two thin bracelets—no large wrist mala as I have seen worn by monks in other monasteries and temples.

The smiling, bespectacled monk kicked off his flip-flops and seated himself in a large upholstered chair that was positioned in the center of the dais at the front of the temple.  Removing the chair’s back cushion and tossing it aside, he hoisted himself into a barefoot, cross-legged sitting position, and for all the world looked like an energetic young boy who wished to tell you about his latest prank.

The older monk with the bushy eyebrows was Geshe Sopa—the founder of the temple, abbot of the monastery and a revered Buddhist scholar.  Once seated, he hastily looked for his reading glasses but could not find them.  Geshe Sopa briefly conferred with a young monk who mysteriously appeared out of no where.  They talked in whispers and the young monk hastily exited the temple.  The old Buddhist abbot began to read his introduction in broken English and without benefit of his reading glasses. 

The smiling monk seated cross-legged on the chair in the center of the dais, smiled broadly as the introduction was read.  He looked upwards as he listened and seemed to be sharing with himself a special memory.  A smallish man appeared who, despite the summer heat, wore a corduroy suit.  He took his place in a straight back chair placed to the left of the smiling monk.  He was the English translator—there for our benefit.

I continued to study the smiling monk.  He was not at all a large man.  His hands were small and the skin of his arms and bare shoulder appeared free from the ravage of wrinkles and age spots typical of his older age.  Despite a slight crookedness of his lower front teeth, the man smiled openly and often.  And he seamed to smile with his whole body.  I noticed that the smiling monk never really sat still.  His body rhythmically rocked back and forth—only slightly, but seemingly with purpose.  It reminded me of the rabbis praying at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem—with their rocking upper bodies and wagging Hassidic side locks.  It soon became part of the presence of the monk or perhaps we too were rocking to that same music of the spheres.

The young monk again appeared and handed Geshe Sopa his reading glasses.  The pace of the introduction increased dramatically.  Having done his job, the old abbot looked up from his written introduction and smiled affectionately at the smiling monk—his one-time student and old friend, Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the 14

I would be lying to say it was not at least a bit surreal—sitting not ten feet away from the religious and political leader of Tibet—the God King . . . . the Buddha of compassion.  How had it come to this? 

In my heart and mind I am never far away from my beginnings.  I remember the sour-milk smell of poor and the human faces that revealed at best only a desperate hope or, more often, an anger born of desperate choices.  I remember being aware of there being something outside of my life’s boundaries that was big and wild—mysterious and beyond telling.  As a kid born and raised in the tough neighborhoods of the Clinton-Malone district, it was that world of wonder that I needed to find.  In the Spring of 1960 and at the age of ten, I formed a covenant with myself—a pledge to find and experience the exotic of this earth.  I pledged with my mind, body and spirit to be an adventurer.

And so nearly fifty years later, there I was, the Clinton-Malone kid sitting less than ten feet away from His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  Later I would have the blessing of a personal audience and then go to sit with the Sangha—the Buddhist priesthood to listen to the teachings of His Holiness.  But there before me now—speaking his heart to me—sharing his thoughts with me was Tibet’s God King—the Buddha of compassion who claimed to be only a simple Buddhist monk.

He talked for nearly an hour to our group—focusing far and a field.  He talked of scholarship and the science of compassion.  He spoke of fear and anger and how forgiving was not forgetting, and how compassion was not a weak and silly thing.  He always talked practically—common sense—no arcane Buddhist theologies—no secret understandings.  He spoke of growing compassion within people and communities.  He spoke of the role of parents and a parent’s love in creating compassion, and how many children today do not have parents and that teaching of compassion and kindness.  And he often laughed at his own statements—self deprecating—not taking himself too serious.  Sometimes I felt he was laughing at himself and his circumstance—and how it had come to this in HIS life.

He talked about how poor of a scholar he was and how he was apprehensive, even to this day, being in the company of such brilliant minds as Geshe Sopa.  Geshe Sopa, openly laughed at these remarks, agreeing publicly that His Holiness had not been the best of students. 

Then, His Holiness sort of winked and speaking as an aside said to us, “Sometimes it is better to not be the best.” 

His conversation then turned to politics.  He discussed his feelings for China and the Chinese people.  He repeatedly stated how he respected and admired the Chinese people—respected their hard work, their intelligence, their creativity.  He sought to reach out to his Chinese brothers and sisters and share openly with them.  However, he wished to be clear that while he loved and admired the Chinese people, he did not love nor admire the totalitarian government of China. 

“Where there is totalitarianism, there can be no compassion,” he stated more than once.  But then, with a comedian’s perfect timing he paused in the serious silence and said, “The Chinese make good food, too.”  He laughed long and hard at his own joke as did we. 

He spoke of the nature of anger and its roots in fear.  He spoke of his hope to replace fear with understanding on a global basis so that compassion can find its way back into the hearts of all humankind.  He spoke of the similarities of the world’s religions and the times he worshipped with Muslims and Jews, Christians and Hindus—despite his apprehension of how the Buddhist leadership would view such practices.  He spoke of having a wide vision in order to see the true picture of our world rather than the narrow blinders promoted by some of today’s religious leadership.

As I sat there fully engaged by this simple monk, I experienced something about the man that is hidden from his TV persona.  One can readily see and even feel the peace and compassion of the man—whether watching on TV or even more so, when in his presence.  Compassion and happiness flows off the man.  Anyone and everyone can see it—in person or even on TV.  The thing one CANNOT see unless you are in his presence is the personal power of the man.  Sure, he is the kindly, smiling Buddhist monk.  But his personal power is palpable, large and made of tempered steel.  Simply, His Holiness is….a force.

After a quiet personal greeting, and sitting within a couple of feet of this simple Buddhist monk, I offered my question—knowing we had very limited time for my audience.  He thought briefly, asked me a couple of short questions and offered me an understanding on a personal issue that had haunted me for decades.  Within just a few minutes I had my answer from the Dalai Lama.  And it moved me deeply.

Some of those in the know of Buddhist protocol were savvy enough to bring a prayer shawl to offer His Holiness when personally meeting with him.  They would offer the shawl and then His Holiness would return it to their head—blessing the shawl and the adept.  I had no official prayer shawl.  However, due to the heat of the day, I did have my dojo sweat towel.  After traveling throughout Japan in the summer, studying martial arts, I learned to pack a sweat towel everywhere I went.  Years ago I was given a special training towel from an old Japanese Sensei in respect for the sweat I had left on his dojo floor.  It was that towel I offered to His Holiness.

I told His Holiness that I had only that—my dojo sweat towel.  He answered simply, “Good enough.”  He accepted the towel and gently placed it over my head and then around my neck and on my shoulders.  The dojo sweat towel was blessed—I was blessed.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out for my hand—slowly—almost in a dream-like state.  He grasped my right hand with both of his and looked into my eyes.  The skin of his hands was incredibly soft—baby-butt soft.  His hands seemed to caress mine without movement.  Then, he cupped his left hand around the back of my head, and pulled my forehead to his.  Head-to-head, still grasping my right hand with his, he offered me words that I will never forget.  And his words are mine to remember and cherish—words that will forever change my life.

Surrounded once again by security, he waved goodbye to all of us and walked out of a side door of the temple.  Caught up in my thoughts, I slowly walked out of the temple and onto the van.

Later, sitting in the coliseum where he gave his public teaching, I sat with a group of monks and listened to His Holiness speak to the thousands who had gathered to listen.  Despite he was perhaps forty feet away and despite the huge crowd, it seemed as if he were talking directly to me.  His words, again, rang clear and true.

Then, at the end of his speech he was a very small man on a very large stage.  Standing—walking toward the edge of the stage, he vigorously waved goodbye.  The small man waved and waved—smiling—alone, he walked toward the rear exit of the stage.  One last wave to the milling crowd, a prayerful gesture, and the simple Buddhist monk from Tibet was gone.