THE SNOW LION BUDDHIST NEWS & CATALOG

But back in 1979, the Dalai Lama's first trip to the United States, he traveled light. The U.S. government had not yet figured out that it had a superstar, semi-political entity on its hands who needed to be protected.

This is the short version of how it happened.

A friend who knew the tour planner brought him to see my house as one of several options in the area. The planner was a European sophisticate with impeccable manners and an appreciable amount of exhaustion. This was to be His Holiness's first U.S. trip, and he wanted everything to be perfect. But being a Buddhist and a realist, he knew that would be impossible. After a quick, discrete examination of the small, simple house, he suggested that His Holiness would like to spend a few days of rest there. Perhaps his exhaustion had worn him down; I don't know. But it was to be. I had a few months to prepare. In a way the outer sequences of events that brought the Dalai Lama to the guest room of my funky ranch house don't quite add up. The mathematics is off, doesn't seem quite sound when I look back. Why would a trip planner decide to house a world-class spiritual leader in a house like mine? It made no sense then; it makes no sense now. The facts followed the logic of myth rather than that of any kind of Western science: the miraculous manifests inexplicably out of the void into a small, unlikely structure. It seems that's just how grace works. Always did; probably always will. I began to clean my house—seriously, absurdly, endlessly. Armed with a crisp toothbrush I vigorously scrubbed all my plastic spice boxes, and then—in a fit of utter irrationality—went on to bleach the underside of the sofa. Rectangles of sponge sprawled, ready for immediate action, on windowsills in every room. Cleaning like this—actually any cleaning beyond the cursory tidying triggered by impending guests—was not my usual style: I had always been a devotee of the minimalist school of dusting. But now things had shifted: I had to scour, scrub, and disinfect, moved by something ineffable. "The Dalai Lama doesn't care about your canning jars, for God's sake," a friend said in some exasperation, as he watched me wipe two years of basement dust off them. Of course I knew that. The spiritual leader of Tibet wasn't going to march into my house and then demand a tour of my basement or ask to review my pots and pans.

The Dalai Lama at Wisdom's Goldenrod Center

Of course not. Even as I scrubbed, I suspected that I was acting out a kind of archetypal urge for inner purification, one that most often precedes a spiritual initiation. I had read many religious writings—both Eastern and Western—explaining that significant spiritual events are often marked by a symbolic outer cleansing. Baptism. Immersion in the Ganges. Sprinkling with holy water. I, however, had apparently been seized by a hapless, suburban cleansing ritual—purification by PineSol.

And then, one fall evening, he was there at the front door. There was a maroon robe, a shaved head, and a pair of very serious black oxfords. Also a high-tech watch and jaunty spectacles. A hand reached for mine and grasped it firmly. And then there were the eyes. They locked into mine briefly, knowingly. They released; the hand released. And the Dalai Lama walked past me into the living room.

Now, decades later, I still don't know how to explain what happened in that brief interchange. There was no blinding light, no profound insight into the nature of the universe, no visions of the future. But it was the single most transformative moment of my life. One moment I was a woman with a sponge, the next I was a fully ecstatic woman with a sponge.

This woman stood in shock in the doorway. Gently, a young monk who had been standing behind the Dalai Lama touched her on the elbow. "Could you show His Holiness to his room?" he prompted softly. The housewifely necessities of the moment called me back into a minimal congruence with this body, this room, this man. I managed to lead the way down the hall and swing wide the door to the compact room where the Dalai Lama would sleep. He walked in, surveyed the new orange pillows, the new creamy curtains, the new brown sheets on the bed. "Good," he said, guttural and noncommittal, and closed the door.

The young monk was tapping me on the arm again. His Holiness needs another towel, he said, and something to eat. He could see I needed prompting. "He likes bagels best," he advised, "lightly buttered."

With that mechanical oddness of people who have experienced trauma or some profound inner dislocation, I rummaged in the freezer for bagels. I had been traumatized, wonderfully, deliciously, profoundly. It was trauma stripped of its pejorative overlay. Outrageous, positive trauma. Balancing the bagels on a plate, I negotiated through the crowd of sheriffs and monks arrayed throughout the house, knocked on the door at the end of the hall, and waited.

The young monk opened the door; I could see the Dalai Lama sitting back against the cushions of the bed. "Thank you," said the monk, but I was looking beyond him into the room. From the orange cushions an arm with a high-tech watch raised into the shining air, and waved.

That night, as I lay awake in a lumpy borrowed bed, I noticed that every cell in my body seemed to be involved in some rhythmic, celebratory dance, vibrating so energetically that sleep was impossible. But I didn't care. The sense of fulfillment was so extreme that it occurred to me that I could die without regret right there and then on the broken springs. "Trite thought," I said out loud, and laughed because I did not need to forgive myself for it. Trite or not, it felt truer than almost anything else in my life. That cool, miraculous night I would have given my life for the Dalai Lama instantly, without question. I felt utterly transformed and utterly baffled. And, apparently, madly in love. What had happened to me? What had happened after I opened the door?

The next day, and the next, the ecstasy continued. Each morning I began my part in the tight scripting of the visit. I laid out the meals that had been prepared—according to schedule—by friends who brought them steaming and fragrant to the door. Chocolate cakes, cherry pies, and vast bowls of cashews and dried fruit displayed their allure shamelessly along the kitchen counter. I often observed the attendant monks succumbing eagerly and happily to the gustatory seduction. But what the Tibetan leader chose to eat—besides bagels—I don't know. This was because, after making sure that the food was where it should be, I usually left the house to give the visitors—and the Visitor—privacy.

After the meals, teams of my friends arrived in the best cars they could borrow to transport the Tibetans to the halls where His Holiness was scheduled to speak. And, in a piece of elegant choreography, other friends let themselves into my house to clean it and wash the dishes while the guests were away. It was heaven: I didn't have to hoist a broom or heft a sponge.

How homey and casual it was, despite the valiant organizing and planning. Just a group of friends, making it happen. Drawing straws for the plum jobs, such as driving His Holiness. Baking their best barley casseroles. Even doing the laundry. These monks had been traveling for a while and, of course, their robes needed a wash. There's something strangely intimate about washing someone else's clothes. And something strangely wonderful about throwing several maroon robes—including one belonging to the Dalai Lama— into your washing machine. One sentimental friend, whose machine it was, kept the lint as a memento.

These days the Dalai Lama travels with several sets of men in expensive dark suits and gun holsters. When he gets in or out of his limousine, entire city blocks are closed down; sometimes when he stays in a hotel, brand new plates and silverware are required—not because he's fussy, but because his security detail is concerned about poisoning. At my house, way back before we all knew better, we managed with home-baked pie, ancient cups, and a few stalwart sheriffs sitting uneasily in the flowerbeds at night.

Three days passed and it was time for the entourage to move on. We drove through cool sun to the small airport where a private aircraft had been hired to take the group to the next stop. Stepping out of the car, the Dalai Lama pulled his robe tight against the wind, shook each of us by the hand, and strode toward the puny plane that lay on the runway. His attendant was visibly unhappy. Only one propeller. So small. But the Tibetan leader bounded up the two steps, turned in the low doorway, waved buoyantly, and was gone.

I returned home. Returned to the clean house still laden with carrot cake and casserole. Took my collection of sponges and threw them in the garbage. Lay down on the bed with the brown sheets and orange pillows. And understood, for the first time, that from here on out, I was a Buddhist.

Christi Cox is co-editor of the Dalai Lama's book, Path to Bliss, and editor of the Snow Lion Buddhist News and Catalog.

More about the Dalai Lama . . .

For links to the Dalai Lama's worldwide schedule, on-line media teachings, his websites and more, visit the Dalai Lama's author page.

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