Why meditating affects you physically

homer simpson meditating

Meditation has so many physical benefits that even Homer Simpson would be keen to benefit from them, if only he could get off the sofa.  I’ve already blogged about some of these (http://davidmichie.com/blog/2014/07/26/what-are-the-main-physical-benefits-of-meditation/).

But why does meditation affect you physically?  How is it that, by attaching the seat of your pants to the seat of a chair, and focusing your mind on an object of meditation for ten minutes, measurable physiological changes occur?

The very fact that we might ask this question shows how deeply engrained our dualistic notion of mind and body actually is.  It was Rene Descartes, the father of modern philosophy, who in 1637 got us going on a concept which still holds sway today.

Many people hold the unspoken view that mind and body are quite separate.  They’ll say things like “He’s broken his leg and a couple of ribs – but he’s okay,” as though the fractured bones have little or no relevance to a person’s systemic wellbeing.

But a short while later, without realising any contradiction they might say, “She was really embarrassed and blushed deep red.”

Hang on a moment!  If mind and body are entirely separate, how can embarrassing thoughts cause the blood vessels in your cheeks to dilate?

The truth is that mind and body, far from being separate, form a systemic whole.  Something that affects one, affects the other.

In the West, with our externally-focused, materialist heritage, our default mode is to look first for physical solutions.  Even when we acknowledge we have a mental problem – say depression or anxiety – we readily accept the idea of the physical solution of medication to deal with it.

But instead of always looking to the physical to affect the mental, what about the other way around?  For the truth is that what happens in our mind can change our physical state, quickly and profoundly.  If you doubt this, consider sexual arousal.  Merely the desirous wish to have sex with someone can be enough to trigger a chain of complex changes in your body.  Without the wish, even the physical presence of that person will fail to trigger arousal.

Cognition creates change.  Every thought has a physical imprint.  Almost all the time this process occurs below the threshold of our awareness.  But we can take conscious charge of it, manipulating our conscious state to optimise our physical as well as our mental well-being.  This is meditation.

Rather than working at the physical end of our mind-body system, we are operating at the mental end.  Getting our mind into its most peaceful, coherent and optimised state, thereby conveying precisely the same impacts on our body.

It’s no coincidence that meditation and medication are only one letter different.  Both come from the Latin root medeor, meaning ‘to heal’ or to make whole.  For centuries the West largely forgot one half of the equation.  (To which one might say ‘Doh!’)

One of the reasons is so exciting to be alive today is to witness the rediscovery of meditation as a tool to effect holistic change.

You’ll find a lot more of this in my latest book, Why Mindfulness is Better than Chocolate (Australia).  I’m really excited that the book is to be published in USA as Mindfulness is Better than Chocolate on 27 January 2015.

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Australia, UK and Kindle edition:

Chocolate front cover


USA edition, Pre-order for 27 January 2015:


US cover




The Benefits of Mindful Safari in Africa


MS - male lion magnificent

A recent study conducted by Harvard University Psychology Department showed that 47% of the time we are not thinking about what they are doing.  Instead we are in what neuro-scientists call a ‘narrative state’ – i.e. lost in thought, as opposed to the ‘direct state,’ when we attend to our senses.

More interestingly, there is a direct correlation between thinking about what we are doing and happiness.  The study concluded that a wandering mind is an unhappy mind, but that when we think about what we are doing, we are very much happier.

The practice of mindfulness, or ‘paying attention to the present moment, deliberately and non-judgmentally’ holds a very obvious advantage in our pursuit of happiness.  Which begs the question: is there any way we can give our practice of mindfulness a head start?

Going on holiday to a new and exotic place is one obvious method.  Out of our usual rut, being exposed to vividly different sights, sounds and flavours, we can’t but attend directly to our senses more than usual.  In so doing, we are quite naturally going to be more mindful.

My own experience of holidays in distant and unfamiliar places has, however, been mixed.  Foreign travel can be a challenge if you can’t speak the language, have only vague ideas where to go, and have the stress of constantly having to decide what to do and were to eat.

Mindful Safari has been designed deliberately to deal with all the above.  Each of the six days we spend on safari is structured to provide a balance between amazing wildlife encounters, formal meditation practice and the opportunity to simply enjoy the unabashed luxury of a private game reserve.  How many of the game drives or meditation sessions you attend is, ultimately, up to you.  But apart from that you don’t have to make any decisions.  Everything else is taken care of.  You are provided with daily stimulation of encounters with lion, elephant, giraffe, hippo, buffalo, and whoever else turns up, conjoined with inner adventures which may prove equally intriguing.

The idea is to create a space in your life where you can simply be in a different way from usual.  Free from the demands of work, home and your usual world, you have time both to engage mindfully with the wonders of Africa as well as to tap into the limitless wellspring of clarity, contentment and benevolence that is your own true nature.  It is also a time of reflection, a punctuation mark in your life to consider what really matters to you and what, if anything in your world, needs to change to more authentically reflect this.

It was only after launching Mindful Safari that I discovered that ‘safari,’ a Swahili word, means ‘a long journey.’  The perfection of mindfulness is certainly that.  But I can’t think of a more wonderful support for that journey than spending time on Mindful Safari in Africa.

For more info go to: http://www.davidmichie.com/safari.html

Please note: A deposit is needed to secure your reservation.  Only 3 chalets left!

Photos – courtesy of Alistair Swartz, who lives at the reserve and would be happy to give you some wildlife photography tips!

MS - baby leopard


Try this fascinating tool to check your own subconscious beliefs

subconscious image

Here’s a fascinating exercise to try out this weekend.

I recently blogged about the challenges we face when our conscious goals are sabotaged by our subconscious minds (http://davidmichie.com/blog/2014/11/01/is-your-subconscious-mind-sabotaging-your-conscious-goals/)

Part of our dilemma, when we’re unable to follow through with an objective we have consciously set ourselves – whether it is to start to meditate; to eat more healthily; to curb an  unwanted habit, and so on – is that we don’t actually know if our subconscious mind is the problem, for the very reason that it is subconscious.

But there is a very simple way to find out if our subconscious mind is in harmony with our conscious wishes.  I first learned of it when training in hypnotherapy, and more recently was reminded about it in Bruce Lipton’s wonderful book The Honeymoon Effect.  It’s variously called ‘muscle-testing,’ ‘arm-testing,’ or ‘the muscular resistance technique.’

You’ll need someone to help, so it may be an idea for you to take it in turns to act as subject, and assistant, to help each other muscle-test ideas.

The instructions are as follows:

Hold your arm out from the side of your body at shoulder height.

Assistant applies some force to try to push your arm down.  You resist the downward pressure.  This is not an arm wrestling match.  You are trying to find a balance where you can comfortably resist your assistant’s pressure with reasonable effort.

You now test a concept which your subconscious mind is highly likely to support.  For most of us, this is as simple as saying your name.  While keeping your arm out, and while your assistant continues the downward pressure, says ‘My name is ….’

The balance between downward pressure and the your resistance will remain the same.

Now test a concept with which your subconscious mind will not be in harmony.  Maintaining the same pressure, say, ‘My name is Barack Obama.’  (If you are reading this, Mr President, may I suggest you try ‘My name is George Bush.’)

At this point, your muscular resistance will weaken, and your arm will slump down.  This is because the statement conflicts with your subconscious programming.  You can repeat the exercise with another incorrect name or fact – the same thing will happen.

Having established the method, you can now move onto more revealing concepts to test.  Concepts like ‘I accept myself the way I am,’ ‘I am fully open to giving and receiving love,’   ‘I deserve to be financially successful,’ and so on.

This is a powerful way to find out the degree of subconscious harmony with what you consciously wish for.

How do we reprogram our subconscious mind to get it on the same page as our conscious mind?  Mindfulness, hypnotherapy, habit formation, repetition and energy psychology techniques are some of the answers, which you’ll find more fully explained in The Honeymoon Effect, and which I will write about more in future months.

I’ll be sharing more on this fascinating subject.  If you would like to receive future blogs, please click the ‘Follow’ button on the bottom right hand of your screen now!

And please let me know how you get on with the test!

(Image source: http://angelofguitar.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/stardome.jpg?w=520)





Is your subconscious mind sabotaging your conscious goals?

iceberg image

Have you ever wondered why you can’t seem to follow through with certain goals you set yourself?  Some goals may come easily, but there may be others that, no matter how keen your intentions, you just can’t seem to deliver on them?

As a meditation coach, I’m acutely aware that many newcomers experience the same, very simple challenge: they just can’t seem to get into the habit of meditating.

You may be convinced by the benefits of meditating (some of which I’ve outlined in http://davidmichie.com/blog/2014/07/26/what-are-the-main-physical-benefits-of-meditation/  and http://davidmichie.com/blog/2014/08/02/the-12-psychological-benefits-of-meditation/ ).  You may dearly wish to enjoy more calm, creativity and coherence in your daily life.  But whenever you make an effort to get into the routine of meditating, something gets in the way.

That something may be your subconscious mind.

When we are not consciously mindful – that is, paying attention to the present moment, we slip onto the auto-pilot of our subconscious programming.  In his intriguing book, The Honeymoon Effect, cell biologist Bruce Lipton Ph.D. describes how the subconscious mind is largely programmed when we are very young children.  ‘None of the programming you received before the age of six came from your wishes, desires and aspirations.  It came from observing your parents and your community …’

Bruce explains how, when we embark on romantic relationships, at first we are very mindful in the company of our new companion.  As we get used to one other, and this level of mindfulness drops,  we revert to auto-pilot, and our behaviour may be quite different.  We are no longer the version of ourselves we consciously strive to be.  We are, instead, the product of the subconscious programming we downloaded, in most cases largely from parents.  The behaviour that ‘leaks out,’ whether in the form of gestures, expressions, or automatic responses, may be far from attractive.  It may also not accord at all with how we consciously wish to be.

I would highly recommend The Honeymoon Effect, and not only for its clear articulation of the subconscious mind.  The book presents a lucid, science-based and at the same time contagiously joyful explanation of who we are and how we can improve our relationships.

Both interesting as well as useful is the list of suggested ways in which we can reprogram our subconscious mind to bring it into line with our conscious goals.  As Bruce points out, the subconscious mind works to a different set of rules from the conscious one.  Appeals to reason and emotion don’t work here.  What does work are hypnosis and the power of suggestion (see: http://davidmichie.com/blog/2014/10/11/is-meditation-the-same-as-hypnosis/), repetition and habit formation, new techniques in the field of energy psychology, and plenty of practice and patience.

While going through these, I was struck by how many of them are the same tools used by Tibetan Buddhists to transform our experience of reality.   Concepts such as ‘purifying karma’ may seem like religious terminology to outsiders.  In reality they refer to letting go of all the unwanted programming, the deluded thinking and habitual negativity which most of us carry around in the form of unwanted baggage.

When I decided to start meditating in 1994, I decided to see a hypnotherapist to help me get out of bed 10 minutes earlier every morning.  Living in London at the time, I found waking up a real struggle.   I also knew how powerful hypnosis can be in assisting new habit formation.  The hypnotherapist informed my subconscious mind that, when my alarm went off, I would get out of bed feeling bright, fresh and eager to meditate.  The result was to create a life-enhancing habit which continues every day.

Should meditation teachers be offering hypnotherapy at the end of their introductory sessions so that students can align their subconscious minds with their conscious wishes?  It worked for me!

To buy Bruce Lipton’s The Honeymoon Effect, go to:


The Honeymoon Effect cover


I will be blogging more on the subconscious mind in the next few weeks.  To receive future blogs, please click the ‘Follow’ button on the bottom right hand of your screen now!

(Photo source: blog.gustavkaser.com.au/iceberg/)

Read the Prologue and Chapter One of The Magician of Lhasa

Magician cover



Tenzin Dorje (pronounced Ten-zin Door-jay)          

Zheng-po Monastery, Tibet

March 1959


I am alone in the sacred stillness of the temple, lighting butter lamps at the Buddha’s feet, when I first realize that something is very wrong.

“Tenzin Dorje!” Startled, I turn to glimpse the spare frame of my teacher, silhouetted briefly at the far door. “My room. Immediately!”

For a moment I am faced with a dilemma. Making offerings to the Buddha is considered a special privilege, and as a sixteen-year-old novice monk I take this duty seriously. Not only is there a particular order in which the candles must be lit, each new flame should be visualized as representing a precious gift—such as incense, music and flowers—to be offered for the sake of all living beings.

I know that nothing should prevent me from completing this important rite, but is obedience to my kind and holy teacher not more important? Besides, I can’t remember the last time that Lama Tsering used the word “immediately.” Nor can I remember a time when anyone shouted an order in the temple. Especially not Zheng-po’s highest-ranking lama.

Even though I am only half-way through lighting the candles, I quickly snuff out the taper. Bowing briefly to the Buddha, I hurry outside.

In the twilight, disruption is spreading through Zheng-po monastery like ripples from a stone thrown into a tranquil lake. Monks are knocking loudly on each other’s doors. People are rushing across the courtyard with unusual haste. Villagers have gathered outside the abbot’s office and are talking in alarmed voices and gesturing down the valley.

Slipping into my sandals, I gather my robe above my knees and, abandoning the usual monastic code, break into a run.

Lama Tsering’s room is at the furthermost end, across the courtyard and past almost all the monks’ rooms, in the very last building. Even though his status would accord him a spacious and comfortable room directly overlooking the courtyard, he insists on living next to his novices in a small cell on the edge of Zheng-po.

When I get to the room, his door is thrown open and his floor, usually swept clean, is scattered with ropes and packages I’ve never seen. His lamp is turned to full flame, making him look even taller and more disproportionate than ever as his shadow leaps about the walls and ceiling with unfamiliar urgency.

I’ve no sooner got there than I turn to find Paldon Wangpo hurrying towards me. The pair of us are Lama Tsering’s two novices but we have an even stronger karmic connection: Paldon Wangpo is my brother, two years older than I.

We knock on our teacher’s door.

Lama Tsering beckons us inside, telling us to close the door behind us. Although the whole of Zheng-po is in turmoil, his face shows no sign of panic. But there is no disguising the gravity of his expression.

“This is the day we have feared ever since the Year of the Metal Tiger,” he looks from one to the other of us with a seriousness we only usually see before an important examination. “Messengers have just arrived at the village with news that the Red Army has marched on Lhasa. His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, has been forced into exile. A division of the Red Army is traveling here, to Jangtang province. At this moment they are only half a day’s travel from Zheng-po.”

Paldon Wangpo and I can’t resist exchanging glances. In just a few sentences, Lama Tsering has told us that everything about our world has been turned upside down. If His Holiness has been forced to flee from the PotalaPalace, what hope is there for the rest of Tibet?

“We must assume that the Red Army is coming directly towards Zheng-po,” Lama Tsering continues quickly. From outside we hear one of the women villagers wailing. “If they travel through the night, they could arrive by tomorrow morning. Definitely, they could get here within a day.  In other parts of our country, the army is destroying monasteries, looting their treasures, burning their sacred texts, torturing and murdering the monks. There’s little doubt they have the same intentions for Zheng-po. For this reason, the abbot is asking us to evacuate.”

“Evacuate?” I can’t contain myself. “Why don’t we stay and resist?”

“Tenzin Dorje, I have shown you the map of our neighbor China,” he explains. “For every soldier they have sent to Tibet, there are ten thousand more soldiers ready to take their place. Even if we wanted to, this is not a struggle we can win.”


Paldon Wangpo reaches out, putting his hand over my mouth.

“Fortunately, our abbot and the senior lamas have been preparing for this possibility. Each of the monks has a choice. You can return to your village and continue to practice the Dharma in secret. Or you can join the senior lamas in exile.”

He holds up his hand, gesturing we shouldn’t yet reply. “Before you say you want to join us in exile, you must realize this is not some great adventure. Traveling to the border will be dangerous—the Red Army will shoot dead any monks trying to leave. Then we must try to cross the mountains on foot. For three weeks we will have to travel very long distances, living only off the food we can carry. We will have to endure much hardship and pain. Even if we finally arrive in India, we don’t know if the government will allow us to stay, or send us back over the border.”

“But if we return to our villages and continue to wear our robes,” interjects Paldon Wangpo, “the Chinese will find us anyway, and punish our families for keeping us.”

Lama Tsering nods briefly.

“If we disrobe, we would be breaking our vows.” Paldon Wangpo has always been a sharp debater. “Either way, we would lose you as our teacher.”

“What you say is true,” Lama Tsering agrees. “This is a difficult decision even for a lama, and you are novice monks. But it is important that you choose, and do so quickly. Whatever decision you make,” he regards each of us in turn, “you will have my blessing.”

From outside comes the pounding of feet as people hurry past. There can be no doubting the crisis we’re facing.

“I am getting older,” Lama Tsering tells us, kneeling down to continue packing a leather bag, which is lying on the floor. “If I had only myself to think about, I might go into hiding and take my chances with the Chinese—”

“No, Lama!” I exclaim.

Next to me, Paldon Wangpo looks sheepish. He has always been embarrassed by my impetuousness.

“But the abbot has asked me to play an important part in the evacuation.”

“I want to come with you!” I can’t hold back any longer, no matter what Paldon Wangpo thinks.

“Perhaps you like me as a teacher,” Lama Tsering is cautioning. “But as a fellow traveler it will be very different. You are young and strong, but I may become a liability. What happens if I fall and hurt myself?”

“Then we will carry you across the mountains,” I declare.

Beside me Paldon Wangpo is nodding.

Lama Tsering looks up at us, an intensity in his dark eyes I have seen only on rare occasions.

“Very well,” he tells us finally. “You can come. But there is one very important condition I have to tell you about.”

Moments later we are leaving his room for our own, having promised to return very quickly. As I make my way through the turmoil in the corridor outside I can hardly believe the condition that Lama Tsering has just related. This is, without question, the worst day in the existence of Zheng-po, but paradoxically for me it is the day I have found my true purpose. My vocation. The reason I have been drawn to the Dharma.

Opening my door, I look around the small room that has been my world for the past ten years: the wooden meditation box, three feet square; the straw mattress on the baked-earth floor; my change of robes and toiletry bag, the two belongings monks are allowed at Zheng-po.

It is hard to believe that I will never again sit in this meditation box, never again sleep on this bed. It is even more incredible that I, Tenzin Dorje, a humble novice monk from the village of Ling, have been accorded one of the rarest privileges of Zheng-po and of our entire lineage. For together with Paldon Wangpo, and under the guidance of my kind and holy teacher, we are to undertake the highest and most sacred mission of the evacuation. It means that our flight from Tibet will be much more critical, and more dangerous.

But for the first time ever, at sixteen years of age, I feel in my heart that I have a special part to play.

My time has come.




Chapter One


Matt Lester

Imperial Science Institute, London

April 2007

I’m sitting in the cramped cubby-hole that passes for my office, late on an overcast Friday afternoon, when my whole world changes.

“Harry wants to see you in his office,” Pauline Drake, tall, angular and not-to-be-messed with, appears around the door frame two feet away. She looks pointedly at the telephone, which I’ve taken off its cradle, before meeting my eyes with a look of droll disapproval. “Right away.”

I glance over the paperwork strewn across my desk. It’s the last Friday of the month, which means that all timesheets have to be in by five. As research manager for Nanobot, it’s my job to collate team activities, and I take pride in the fact that I’ve never missed a deadline.

But it’s unusual for Harry to dispatch his formidable secretary down from the third floor. Something must be up.

A short while later I’m getting out from behind my desk. It’s not a straightforward maneuver. You have to rise from the chair at forty-five degrees to avoid hitting the shelves directly above, before squeezing, one leg at a time, through the narrow gap between desk and filing cabinet. Then there’s the walk through a rabbit’s warren of corridors and up four flights of a narrow, wooden staircase with its unyielding aroma of industrial disinfectant and wet dog hair.

As I make my way across the open plan section of the third floor, I’m aware of people staring and talking under their breath. When I make eye contact with a couple of the HR people they glance away, embarrassed.

Something’s definitely up.

To get to the corner office, I first have to pass through the anteroom where Pauline has returned to work noiselessly at her computer. She nods towards Harry’s door. Unusually, it is closed. Even more unusually, an unfamiliar hush has descended on his office, instead of the usual orchestral blast.

When I arrive, it’s to find Harry standing, staring out the window at his less-than-impressive view over the tangled gray sprawl of railway lines converging on King’s Cross station. Arms folded and strangely withdrawn, I get the impression he’s been waiting especially for me.

As I appear he gestures, silently, to a chair across from his desk.

Harry Saddler is the very model of the mad professor, with a few non-standard eccentricities thrown in for good measure. Mid-fifties, bespectacled, with a shock of spiky, gray hair, in his time he’s been an award-winning researcher. More recent circumstances have also forced him to become an expert in the area of public-private partnerships. It was he who saved the centuries-old institute, and all our jobs, by completing a deal with Acellerate, a Los Angeles-based biotech incubator, just over a year ago.

“A short while ago I had a call from L.A. with the news I’ve been half-expecting for the past twelve months,” he tells me, his expression unusually serious. “Acellerate has finished their review of our research projects. They like Nanobot,” he brushes fallen cigarette ash off his lapel. “They really like Nanobot. So much that they want to move the whole kit and caboodle to California. And as the program originator and research manager, they want you there, too.”

The news takes me completely by surprise. Sure, there’ve been visitors from the States during the past year and earnest talk of information exchange, but I never expected the deal with Acellerate to have such direct, personal impact. Or to be so sudden.

“They’re moving very quickly on this,” continues Harry. “They want you there in six weeks ideally. Definitely eight. Blakely is taking a personal interest in the program.”

“Eight weeks?” I’m finding this overwhelming. “Why do I have to move to California at all? Can’t they invest in what we’re doing over here?”

Harry shakes his head in weary resignation. “You’ve seen the new shareholder structure,” he says. “As much as Acellerate talks about respecting our independence, the reality is that they hold a controlling interest. They call the shots. They can strip what they like out of the institute and there’s really not a lot we can do to stop them.”

I’m not thinking about Acellerate. I’m thinking about my fiancée, Isabella.

Harry mistakes the cause of my concern. “If you look at what’s happened to the other research programs Acellerate has taken to L.A.,” he reassures me, “they’ve gone stratospheric.” Pausing, he regards me more closely for a long while before querying in a low voice, “Isabella?”


“She’ll go with you!”

“It’s not that simple. She’s only just been promoted. And you know how close she is to her family.” I glance away from him to the where a commuter train is chugging slowly into the station.

Harry and I go way back and he knows a lot about Isabella and me—he’s been there since the beginning. But the main problem with Isabella leaving London is something that’s only happened very recently. Something I haven’t told him about. The truth is, Isabella and I are still getting to grips with the enormity of the news ourselves.

“A girl like her,” Harry has met her at institute functions over the years, “she’ll get a job like that in Los Angeles,” he snaps his fingers. “And you’ll be giving her family a good excuse to visit Disneyland.”

As always, Harry is trying to focus on the positive. I understand, and I’m all the more appreciative because I know how hard this must be for him. Nanobot has always been one of his favorites. It was Harry who brought me into the institute when he discovered the subject of my master’s thesis. Harry nurtured the program through its early stages. He and I enjoy a close relationship—more than my boss, he’s also my mentor and confidant. Now, just as the program’s starting to get interesting, he’s having it taken off him. What’s more, who’s to say it will end with Nanobot? It seems that Acellerate can cherry-pick whatever they like from the institute and leave Harry with all the leftovers. Small wonder he’s in no mood for the Three Tenors.

“Try to see this as the opportunity that it is,” he tells me. “With Acellerate behind you, you can ramp up the program way beyond what we can afford here. You could get to prototype stage in two to three years instead of seven or eight. The sky really is the limit.”

I’m watching the fingers of his right hand rapping the desk.

“You’ll be working at the heart of nanotech development for one of the best-funded scientific institutes on earth. Plus you can catch a suntan.”

I look up, eyebrows raised. Tanning is not a subject in which I’ve ever had an interest. As Harry well knows.

“Think of it as a great adventure!”

His phone rings, and we hear Pauline answering it outside. Evidently Harry has told her we aren’t to be disturbed—something he’s never done before.

There’s another pause before I finally say, “I guess whatever way you package it, I don’t have much choice do I? I mean, Acellerate isn’t going to leave the program in London just because of Isabella and me.”

Harry regards me significantly, “Of all the programs we’re running, yours is the most likely to make the most revolutionary impact. You’re the first cab off the rank, Matt. It’s flattering that Acellerate is so keen to take you off us.”

“It’s a bit sudden, that’s all,” I’m nodding. “I mean, ten minutes ago, my main concern was getting the time sheets in.”

Harry regards me with a look of benevolent expectation.

“I’ll have to get used to the idea.”


And speak to Isabella.”

“Of course.” Harry reaches into a desk drawer, takes out a large white envelope which he hands me across the desk.

“Before you make up your mind, you might like to study the terms and conditions,” he says.


A short while later I’m heading back to my office in a daze. Not only is Harry’s announcement life-changing, the conditions of my appointment are way beyond anything I could have imagined. Almost too much to believe.

As I return through HR, I’m so preoccupied I don’t notice anyone. Even the reek of the stairs passes me by. I’m trying to get my head around the paradox that this is terrible news for the Imperial Science Institute, but an amazing opportunity for me. It’s even more confounding that Isabella is about to be upset by what is an opportunity for me beyond my wildest dreams.

I have to speak to Isabella.
The Magician of Lhasa can be ordered through your local bookstore and is available from major online retailers.


David at Tiger's Nest

I will be blogging about some of the themes from the book in future weeks.  To get blogs, please press the yellow Follow button on the bottom right hand of your screen now!


Mindfulness at Work Seminar: Perth, 12 December 2014

meditating at work

Challenges At Work

The challenges we face at work are unprecedented and multiplying.  They include technological advancements demanding immediate, round-the-clock responsiveness; increasingly onerous regulation, tougher performance measurements; unprecedented volatility in our external environments and the constant need to do more with less.

These challenges are not insurmountable.  But they do require a new approach. Sustained stress is enough reason to explore new ways of working.  But its impact can be a lot greater than on ourselves alone.  When we suffer from stress, our behaviour cascades through the workplace. Culturally stressed organisations promote fear-driven, risk-averse behaviour that limits corporate performance.

By contrast, when we’re able to access sustainable ways to self-regulate, and operate at an optimal mental level, we promote very different dynamics.  We are at the top of our game, benefiting from high level critical thinking and innovation, objectivity and perspective, greater empathy and the promotion of happier relationships and teams. Research shows that more mindful workplaces are also more productive, engaged – and profitable.

How You And Your Organisation Benefit From Mindfulness At Work

Just as physical training delivers quantifiable performance improvements, neuro-scientific research shows that mindfulness training can deliver dramatically enhanced working capabilities.  These may be categorised under the four pillars of mindfulness:

Self Awareness

  • Greater self-awareness, including of your own strengths and weaknesses and how your behaviours impact on others
  • Enhanced clarity supporting more objectivity and the ability to mindfully respond rather than automatically react
  • The capacity to recognise habitual thinking patterns – avoiding those that don’t serve you well, and promoting those that are helpful
  • Understanding the nature of your own mind, and how to tap into your underlying qualities of tranquillity and well-being


  • Increased capacity to see thoughts merely as thoughts – not facts or truths
  • Diminished engagement in negative self-talk and destructive self-criticism
  • Improved ability to experience situations and encounters without judgement, especially self-judgement
  • Enhanced self-acceptance and willingness to ‘be yourself’ without the need for role-playing
  • Greater connection to those values important to you


  • Keeping calmer under pressure, enhancing decision-making and supporting greater output
  • Stronger resilience to stress and emotional upset, making you less vulnerable to distraction
  • Enhanced feeling of purpose and ability to prioritise
  • Creating space in your schedule by changing  not what you do, but how you do it
  • Greater innovation and creativity arising from a more relaxed, playful state of mind
  • Ultimately, developing a more coherent sense of the meaning you find in your work


  • Improved ability to pay attention to others when engaging with them
  • Techniques to improve your meetings and conversations
  • Cultivating greater self-compassion arising from greater objectivity
  • Deepening your relationships with others
  • Helping create a culture of compassion rather than ultimatums

When:      12 December, 2014, 9.30 am – 4 pm

Where:     Heathcote – Murray House, 58-60 Duncraig Road, Applecross

Cost:        $985 (plus GST)

Contact:   Email: info@organisationalmindfulness.com

Who will coach you?

Mindfulness at Work has been developed over several years by two of Australia’s most experienced corporate mindfulness trainers, Clare Goodman and David Michie.

Clare Goodman pic

Clare Goodman works exclusively with CEOs and executives to achieve business growth by enhancing their skills and abilities to unify, engage and lead their people. Her focus is to build the strength of the organisation via the development of strong leadership capability. She has held a series of senior leadership roles in Australia and Europe and has also established and grown successful consultancy practices in the UK and Australia. Her advice and insight is based on significant commercial experience as well as academic rigour.

Using a range of interactive and communicative approaches, she engages individuals, understands their motivations and resolves conflicts. By delivering intense and comprehensive feedback to each participating individual, a strong and enduring platform is built that ensures their reflection, learning and development as leaders.

David Michie is the internationally best-selling author of a number of books on mindfulness and meditation, including Why Mindfulness is Better than Chocolate, Hurry Up and Meditate, Buddhism for Busy People and the much-loved Dalai Lama’s Cat series of novels.  His books have been translated into over 20 different languages and are available in over 30 countries.

Living in Perth, David regularly teaches mindfulness and meditation seminars to a variety of audiences through the AIMWA-UWA Business School Executive Education as well as to a wide range of corporate, non-for-profit and other groups. He is a regular speaker at leading Australian forums such as the Happiness & Its Causes conference series.  Having spent most of his life working in corporate public relations, David has a passion for sharing the practice of meditation and mindfulness training from which he has personally benefited so greatly, and which he believes are more important than ever before to busy, working people.

Is meditation the same as hypnosis?


This question sometimes comes up at seminars and is one that interests me having trained as a hypnotherapist before I came to meditation.  Since I was a boy I was fascinated by the way that hypnosis provides direct access to the subconscious mind.  And so, some years ago while living in London, I learned a few of the techniques in the hypnotherapy/NLP toolbox.  I never intended to make this my career, but what I learned has been useful in my personal and professional life.

The reason that people think there may be a connection between hypnosis and meditation is usually the idea of being in a deeply relaxed state.  My view used to be that the two practices were quite different.  For example:

  • When you meditate, you must exercise some level of forcible attention to keep focused on the object of meditation.  When you are being hypnotised, no forcible attention is required.  In fact, if you slip into a dreamy state or even fall asleep, this may help, rather than hinder, whatever you are aiming to get out of the session.
  • When you meditate, you are in full control of the session – at least, you’re aiming to be!  When you are being hypnotised, you voluntarily hand control over to the hypnotist.  (That said, it’s important to note that people can’t be persuaded to do something they wouldn’t do while fully conscious, particularly if it doesn’t accord with their ethical framework).
  • There are certain biological markers which are typical of a meditative state – slower breathing, slower heart rate, lowered blood pressure, specific brain activity, and so on.  But there are no ‘typical’ markers associated with being hypnotised.  True, most hypnotherapy happens after inducing a relaxed state in a person, which could be similar to those of a meditator.  But you could also suggest to a subject that he has just finished running a marathon, and his physical state would soon become very different from what you find in most meditation studios!

These are just a few of the more obvious differences.  So when I read the observation of a revered meditation yogi along the lines that all meditation is a form of self-hypnosis, that idea made me think again.  As I did I considered the following similarities:

  • In both cases, each session usually begins with some form of induced relaxation.  This typically involves the use of words or images or even the posture itself which we come to associate with a relaxed state (in NLP parlance, an ‘anchor’ to a particular mental state).
  • Guided visualisations are common to both, in particular the reference to archetypal symbols and colours.  These are known to have a profound impact on subconscious mind, in hypnotherapy terminology, or the subtle consciousness as yogis may describe it.
  • Repetition often plays a key role, whether in the form of mantra recitation while meditating or working through a particular sequence of events in hypnotherapy.

Hypnosis and meditation are generally used for quite different purposes.  Hypnotherapy is especially powerful at ridding us of phobias, helping us make or break habits, and stopping the subconscious mind from sabotaging what we (consciously) wish to achieve.  Meditation can be used for anything from stress management, to part of holistic health treatment, pain management – and ultimately, to access states of consciousness which go beyond conception.

Is meditation the same as hypnosis?  My answer these days is more along the lines: it depends!

I will be blogging more about the subconscious mind in the future.  To get my posts, please click the ‘Follow’ button, on the bottom right hand of your screen, now.

What can we learn from Near Death Experiences?

 tunnel of light

Near Death Experiences, or NDEs, have always been with us, but in the past 30 years as resuscitation techniques have become much more effective – especially after heart attacks – reports of NDEs have become more widespread.  The sheer volume of cases has given rise to significant research by eminent medical specialists and researchers such as Raymond Moody, Kenneth Ring, Michael Sabom and Bruce Greyson.  Their key findings are very helpfully summarised by Pim van Lommel, M.D, in his illuminating book ‘Consciousness Beyond Life.’

Understanding the death process is of critical importance in Tibetan Buddhism, and I’m always interested to learn what well-informed researchers outside the tradition have to say on this subject.

One vital qualification is that the Western definition of death – broadly, the termination of all physical functioning – is not the same as the Tibetan Buddhist definition, which holds that subtle consciousness continues to be present in the body, though in most cases for just a short time after physical functioning ends.  It is only once this subtle consciousness is no longer present that a person is considered to have died.

There are interesting parallels between NDE reports of recent decades, and the Tibetan Buddhist understanding of the death process.  To use just one example, in his book ‘Peaceful Death, Joyful Rebirth,’ Tulku Thondup says ‘It is very important to know that not all dying people have the same experiences or have them in the same sequence.’ (Page 51)

Pim van Lommel similarly observes, ‘In summary, there is no such thing as a classic near-death experience or a classic way of dealing with it.’ (Page 69)

The purpose of this blog is not to explore NDEs themselves, so much as the effect that having a Near Death Experience has on a person.  What can we learn from this?  Pim van Lommel notes: ‘Irrespective of the immediate cause of a near-death experience, its survivors display permanent and fundamental change in their outlook on life, religious beliefs, values and behaviour.’

A study comparing the life changes of 86 cardiac arrest survivors who had had a NDE, with a control sample who hadn’t, two years after their heart attack, provides some startling trends.  Fear of death had declined by 47% among those experiencing a NDE, compared to a decline of 16% among those who hadn’t.  An appreciation of money and possessions similarly declined by 47% among the NDE sample, compared with a 25% decline among the control sample.  Understanding the purpose of life increased by 52% for the NDE people compared to 25% for the control panel.  And wanting to help others increased by 26% for NDErs, compared to 8% for non-NDErs.

People who have a NDE show a markedly increased interest in spirituality.  Looking at figures eight years after their heart attack, NDErs interest in spirituality had increased by 42%, compared to a decrease of 41% for non-NDErs.  Significantly, as Westerners who have experienced a NDE, they  did not pursue this interest within their church – NDErs’ church attendance declined by 42% eight years on, compared to  an increase of 25% in church attendance among those who hadn’t experienced a NDE.

These are just a few headline statistics arising from one single, if important, study.  What they show is that for most people, having a near-death experience is transformative.  Having a direct, undeniable, first-hand experience of consciousness continuing after the Western definition of death, profoundly changes the way we view life.  Our priorities shift.  Material concerns become of less importance than interacting positively with others, and living with greater compassion for those around us.  In the words of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, author of the ground-breaking On Death and Dying (1969), we discover that ‘Spiritual growth is the sole purpose of our life here on earth.’

For more on the Buddhist understanding of death and dying, check out my book Buddhism for Busy People:

BBP US cover


To receive future blogs, please click the ‘Follow’ button on the bottom right hand on your screen now!

Read the first chapter of The Dalai Lama’s Cat!




I am thrilled by how many people have started following my work in the past year. But some of them may have missed out on the Prologue and first chapter of The Dalai Lama’s Cat.  If you are one of those people, I’m pleased to be providing the opening chapters below.

(  )~ prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr



The idea came about one sunny Himalaya morning.  There I was, lying in my usual spot on the broad, first floor windowsill, the perfect vantage from which to maintain maximum surveillance with minimum effort, as His Holiness was bringing a private audience to a close. 

I’m far too discreet to mention who the audience was with, except to say that she’s a very famous Hollywood actress … you know the one married to the equally famous actor, who played husband and wife undercover agents in that thriller a few years ago?  The actress who does the refugee charity work  – yes, her!

It was as she was turning to leave the room that she glanced out the window, with its magnificent view towards the snow-capped mountains, and noticed me for the first time.

‘Oh!  How adorable!’ she stepped over to stroke my neck, which I acknowledged with a wide yawn and tremulous stretch of the front paws.  ‘I didn’t know you had a cat!’ she exclaimed.

I am always surprised how many people make this observation – though not all are as bold as the American actress in giving voice to their astonishment.  Why should His Holiness not have a cat – if, indeed, ‘having a cat’ is a correct understanding of the relationship, a subject to which we will return later.  It is not as if people are required to tell everyone they meet about the companions with whom they share their lives.  How many people do you pass in the street wearing the lapel badge ‘Cat haver?’


Besides, those with particularly acute observation would know of the feline presence in His Holiness’s life by the stray hairs and occasional whisker I make it my business to leave on his person.  Should you ever have the privilege of getting very close to the Dalai Lama, and scrutinise his robes in detail, you will almost certainly discover the finest wisp of white fur, confirming that, far from living alone, he shares his inner sanctum with a feline of impeccable – if undocumented – breeding.

It was exactly this discovery to which the Queen’s corgis reacted with such vigour when he visited BuckinghamPalace – an incident to which the World Media were strangely oblivious.

But I digress.

Having stroked my neck, the American actress, asked, ‘Does she have a name?’

‘Oh yes!  Many names,’ His Holiness smiled enigmatically.

What the Dalai Lama said was true.  Like many domestic cats I have acquired a variety of names, some of them used frequently, others less so.  One of them, in particular, is a name I don’t much care for.  Known among His Holiness’s staff as my ordination name, it isn’t a name the Dalai Lama himself has ever used – not the full version, at least.  Nor is it a name I will disclose so long as I live.  Not in this book at least.

Well … definitely not in this chapter.

‘If only she could speak,’ continued the actress, ‘I’m sure she’d have such wisdom to share.’

And so the seed was planted.

In the months that followed I watched His Holiness working on a new book, the many hours he spent making sure texts were correctly interpreted, the great time and care he took to ensure that every word he wrote conveyed the greatest possible meaning and benefit.  More and more I began to think that perhaps the time had come for me to turn my paws to a book of my own – a book that would convey some of the wisdom I’ve learned sitting not at the feet, but even closer, on the very lap of the Dalai Lama.  One that tells my own tale – not so much one of rags to riches as trash to temple.  How I was rescued from a fate too grisly to contemplate, to become constant companion to a man who is not only one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders and a Nobel Peace Prize laureate, but who is also a dab hand with the can opener.

Often in the late afternoon, after I feel His Holiness has already spent too many hours at his desk, I will hop off the wooden sill and pad over to where he is working, rubbing my furry body about his legs.  If this doesn’t get his attention I sink my teeth, politely but precisely, into the tender flesh of his ankles.  That always does it.

With a sigh, the Dalai Lama will push back his chair, scoop me up into his arms, and walk over to the window.  Looking into my big, blue eyes, the expression in his own is one of such immense love that it never ceases to fill me with happiness.

‘My little bodhicattva,’ he will sometimes say playfully, calling me by one of my many names.  In the Tibetan Buddhist path, ‘bodhisattva’ refers to an enlightened being.

Together we gaze out at the panoramic vista that sweeps as far as the eye can see down the KangraValley.  Through the open windows a gentle breeze carries fragrances of pine, Himalayan oak and rhododendron, giving the air its pristine, almost magical quality.  Held in the warm embrace of the Dalai Lama, it as though all distinctions dissolve away completely – between the observers and the observed, between cat and lama, between the stillness of twilight and the bountiful appreciation of my deep-throated purr.

It in those moments that I feel profoundly grateful to be the Dalai Lama’s cat.


Chapter One

I have a defecating bullock to thank for the event that was to change my very young life – and without which, dear reader, you would not be holding this book. 

Picture a typical monsoonal afternoon in New Delhi.  The Dalai Lama is on his way home from a teaching trip to the USA.  Having recently arrived at IndiraGandhiAirport his car is making its way through the outskirts of the city when traffic is brought to a halt by a bullock that has ambled into the centre of the highway where it proceeds to dump copiously on the tarmac.

Several cars back from the fray and unable to see the cause of the traffic jam, unlike many of those in the vehicles around him, His Holiness did not join in the chorus of raised voices and angry gesticulations, but took the opportunity to abide calmly in the present moment.  As he did, his attention was drawn to the drama being played out at the side of the road.

Among the usual seething clamour of pedestrians and bicyclers, of food-stall holders and beggars, two ragged street urchins were anxious to bring their day’s trading to an end.  Earlier that morning, they had come across a litter of kittens, concealed behind a pile of hessian sacks in a back alley.  Scrutinising their discovery closely, they soon realised that they had fallen upon something of value.  For the kittens were no common or garden variety moggies, but a rather superior kind altogether.  The young boys were unfamiliar with the Himalayan breed, but they recognised in the handsome colouring, the sapphire eyes and the lavish pelt, a tradeable commodity.

Rough handing us from the nest in which our mother had tended to us, they thrust my siblings and I into the terrifying commotion of the street.  Within moments, my two eldest sisters, who were much the larger and most developed of us, had been exchanged for rupees – an event of such excitement that I was dropped, fell painfully onto the ground and only narrowly avoiding being killed by a deafening scooter.

The boys had had much more trouble selling us two younger kittens, our features being less developed, our eyes barely open.  For several hours they trudged the streets, shoving us vigorously at the windows of passing cars.  Much too young to be taken from our mother, my small body was simply unable to cope.  Failing fast for lack of milk, and still in pain from tumbling to the ground, I was barely conscious when the boys sparked the interest of an elderly passer by, who had been thinking about a kitten for his grand-daughter.

Gesturing to put us two remaining kittens on the ground, he squatted on his haunches and inspected us closely.  My older brother padded across the corrugated dirt at the side of the road, mewing imploringly for milk.  When I was prodded from behind to induce some movement, I managed only a single, lurching step forward before collapsing painfully into a puddle of mud.

It was exactly this scene that His Holiness witnessed.

And the one that followed.

A sale price agreed, my brother was handed over to the toothless old man.  I, meantime, was left mired in the filth while the two boys debated what to do with me, one of them shoving me roughly with his big toe.  They decided I was unsaleable.  Fate sealed, they grabbed a week old Sports page of the India Times that had blown into a nearby gutter, and wrapped me like a piece of rotten meat to be discarded in the nearest rubbish heap.

As I began to suffocate inside the newspaper, the light of life inside me flickered low.  Every breath became a struggle.  I was about to be snuffed out.

Except that His Holiness despatched his attendant first.  Having just got off the plane from America, the Dalai Lama’s attendant happened to have two, single dollar notes secured within his robes.  He handed these over to the boys who scampered away, speculating with great excitement about how much the dollar bills would fetch when converted into rupees.

Don’t lose sight of those two ragamuffins as they dance away through the puddles, for we will meet them later – in rather different circumstances.

Unwrapped from the ignominy of the Sports pages (‘Bangalore Crush Rajasthan By 9 Wickets’), a short while later I was resting in comfort in the back of the Dalai Lama’s car with milk being dripped into my mouth as His Holiness willed life back into my limp form.

I remember none of the details of my rescue, but the story has been recounted so many times that I know it by heart.  What I do remember is waking up in a sanctuary of such infinite warmth that for the first time in my young life I wanted to see all that I could.  As I did, I found myself looking directly into the eyes of the Dalai Lama.

How do I describe the first moment that you find yourself in the presence of His Holiness?

It is as much a feeling, as a thought.  An intuitive understanding, deeply heart-warming and profound, that all is well.  It is as though for the first time you become aware that your own true nature is one of boundless love and compassion.  It has been there all along, but the Dalai Lama sees it and reflects it back to you.  He perceives your Buddha nature, and this extraordinary revelation often moves people to tears.

In my own case, swaddled in a piece of maroon-coloured fleece on a chair in his office, I was also aware of another important fact.  A fact that is of the greatest importance to all cats and for which we all have an awareness that comes as a standard feature of our in-built cat nav; I was in the home of a Cat Lover.

As strongly as I sensed this, I was also aware of another, less sympathetic presence across the coffee table.  Back in Dharamsala, His Holiness had resumed his schedule of audiences immediately, and was fulfilling a long standing commitment to be interviewed by a visiting history professor from Britain.  I couldn’t possibly tell you who, exactly, just to say that he came from one of England’s two main ivy league universities, you know the ones that take part in that boat race every year, the team flying the dark blue colours.  Yes – them

The professor was penning a tome on Indo-Tibetan history and seemed irked to find he was not the exclusive focus of the Dalai Lama’s attention.

‘A stray?’ he exclaimed after His Holiness briefly explained the reason why I was occupying the seat between them.

‘Yes,’ confirmed the Dalai Lama, before responding not so much to what the visitor had said, as to the tone of voice in which he’d said it.  Regarding the history professor with a kindly smile, he spoke in that rich, warm baritone with which I was to become so familiar,

‘You know, professor, this stray kitten and you have one very important thing in common.’

‘I can’t imagine,’ responded the other, coolly.

‘Your life is the most important thing in the world to you,’ said His Holiness.  ‘Same for this kitten.’

From the pause that followed, it was evident that for all his erudition, it was the first time the professor had ever been presented with such a startling idea.

‘Surely you’re not saying that the life of a human and an animal are of the same value?’

‘As humans we have much greater potential for development, of course.  But the way in which we all want so very much to stay alive, the way we cling to our particular experience of consciousness – in this respect human and animal are equal.’

‘Well, perhaps some of the more complex mammals …’ the professor was battling against this troubling thought, ‘but not all animals.  I mean, for instance, not cockroaches.’

‘Including cockroaches,’ His Holiness was undeterred.  ‘Any being that has consciousness-‘

‘But they carry filth and disease.  We have to spray them.’

His Holiness rose and, walking over to his desk, lifted up a large match box.  ‘Our cockroach carrier,’ he said.  ‘Much better than spraying.  I am sure,’ he delivered his trademark chuckle, ‘you wouldn’t want to be chased by a giant, who sprays you with toxic gas.’

The professor received the truth of this self-evident, but uncommon wisdom, in silence.

‘For all of us who have consciousness-’ the Dalai Lama returned to his seat, ‘-our life is very precious.  For this reason we need to protect all sentient beings as much as possible.  Also, we should recognise that we share the same two basic wishes: the wish to enjoy happiness, and the wish to avoid suffering.’

They were themes I have heard the Dalai Lama repeat often when he meets people, and in limitless ways.  Yet every time he speaks with such vivid clarity and impact it is as though he is saying them for the first time.

‘We not only share these wishes.  Even the way we seek out happiness and try to avoid discomfort is identical.  Who among us does not enjoy a delicious meal?  Who does not wish to sleep in a safe, comfortable bed?  Stray kitten, author or monk – we are all equal in that regard.’

Across the coffee table, the history professor shifted in his seat.

‘Most of all,’ the Dalai Lama leaned over me and stroked me with his index finger, ‘all of us just want to be loved.’

By the time the professor left, later that afternoon, he had a lot more to think about than his tape-recording of the Dalai Lama’s views on Indo-Tibetan history.  His Holiness’s message was challenging.  Confronting, even.  But it wasn’t one that could be easily dismissed … as we were to discover.


In the days that followed I became quickly familiar with my new surroundings.  The cosy nest His Holiness created for me out of an old, fleece robe.  The changing light in his rooms as the sun rose, passed over us, and set each day.  The tenderness with which he fed me warm milk until I was strong enough to begin eating solid food.

I also began exploring.  First, the Dalai Lama’s own suite.  Then out beyond it, to an office shared by his two Executive Assistants.  One of them, the young, roly-poly one closest the door with the smiling face and soft hands was a monk called Chogyal who helped His Holiness with all monastic affairs.  The older, tall one, who sat opposite, always in a dapper suit, and whose hands always had the clean, tang of carbolic soap was a trained diplomat called Tenzin.  He assisted on secular matters.

That first day I wobbled round the corner into their office, there was an abrupt halt in the conversation.

‘Who is this?’ Tenzin wanted to know.

Chogyal chuckled as he lifted me up and put me on his desk, where my eye was immediately caught by the bright blue top of a Bic.  ‘The Dalai Lama rescued her while driving out of Delhi,’ Chogyal repeated the attendant’s story as I flicked the Bic top across his desk.

‘Why does she walk so strangely?’ the other wanted to know.

‘Apparently she was dropped on her back.’

‘Hmm,’ Tenzin sounded doubtful as he leaned forward, scrutinising me closely.  ‘Perhaps she was malnourished, being the smallest kitten.  Does she have a name?’

‘No.’   Then after a short period flicking the pastic pen top to and fro, ‘We’ll have to give her one!’ he was enthusiastic about the challenge.  ‘An ordination name.  What do you think – Tibetan or English?’

In Tibetan Buddhism, when someone becomes a monk or nun they are given an ordination name to mark their new identity.

Chogyal began suggesting different possibilities before Tenzin suggested, ‘It’s better not to force these things.  I’m sure something will present itself as we get to know her better.’

As usual, Tenzin’s advice was both wise and prophetic – unfortunately for me, as things turned out.  Chasing the biro top, I progressed from Chogyal’s desk half way across Tenzin’s before the older man seized my small, fluffy form and put me down on a runner.

‘You’d better go down,’ he said.  ‘I have a letter here from His Holiness to The Pope and we don’t want paw prints all over it.’

Chogyal laughed, ‘Signed on his behalf by His Holiness’s Cat.’

‘HHC,’ Tenzin gave the abbreviated version.  In official correspondence, His Holiness is frequently referred to as HHDL.  ‘That can be her provisional title until we find a suitable name.’

Beyond the office of his personal assistants was a corridor that led past further offices towards a door that was carefully closed behind anyone who arrived or left.  I knew that door led to many places including Downstairs, Outside, The Temple and even Overseas.  It was the door through which all His Holiness’s visitors came and went.  It led to a whole new world.  But in those early days, as a very small kitten, I was perfectly content to remain on this side of it.


Having spent my first days on earth in a back alley, I had no understanding of human life – and to begin with, nor did I have any idea how unusual my new circumstances were.  I watched the way that visitors always presented His Holiness with a white scarf or katag (pronounced ‘carter’) and how he returned it to them with a blessing.  Was that not the way that humans usually behaved when they met?

When he got out of bed at 3 am every morning to meditate for five hours, I would follow him, curling in a tight knot beside him, glowing in his warmth and energy.  Was this not the way that most people started each day?  I was also aware that many people who visited him had travelled very long distances to do so – that all seemed perfectly normal to me too.

Until one day Chogyal picked me up in his arms and tickled my neck.  ‘Who are all these people?’ he followed my gaze to the many framed photographs on the wall.  ‘They are the past eight Presidents of the United States meeting His Holiness.  He is a very special person, you know.’

I did know.  He always made sure my milk was warm, but not too hot, before giving it to me.

‘He is one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders.  We believe he is a living Buddha.  You obviously have a very close karmic connection to him.  It would be most interesting to know what that is.’

A few days afterwards, I found my way down the corridor to the small kitchen and sitting area, about half way down the corridor, where the Dalai Lama’s staff would relax, have their lunch and make tea.  Several monks were sitting on a sofa, watching a recorded news item on his recent visit to USA.  By now they all knew who I was  – in fact I had become the office mascot.  Hopping up on the lap of one of them, I allowed him to stroke me as I watched TV.

All I could see, initially, was a vast crowd of people with a tiny red dot in the centre, while His Holiness’s voice could be heard quite clearly.  But as the news item progressed I realised that the red dot was His Holiness, in the centre of a vast, indoor sporting arena.  It was a scene that was replayed in every city he visited from New York to San Francisco.  The newsreader commented how the huge crowds of people that came out to see him in every city showed that he was more popular than many rock stars.

Little by little I began to realise just how extraordinary the Dalai Lama was, and how highly regarded he was by human beings.  By extension, it seemed to me that I must be rather special too. It was me, after all, who he had rescued from the gutters of New Delhi.  Had he recognised in me a kindred spirit – a sentient being on the same spiritual wave length as him?

When I heard him tell visitors about the importance of loving kindness, I would purr contentedly, certain in the knowledge that this was exactly what I thought too.  When he opened my evening can of Snappy Tom’s, it seemed as obvious to me, as it was to him, that all sentient beings wanted to fulfil the same basic needs.  And as he stroked by bulging tummy afterwards, it seemed equally clear that each of us just wanted to be loved.

There had been some talk around this time about what would happen when His Holiness left on a three week trip to Australia and New Zealand.  With this, and many subsequent travels planned, should I remain in the Dalai Lama’s quarters or would it be better if I was found a new home.

New home?  The very idea of it was crazy!  I was HHC, with an established position in the establishment.  You might say I had become part of the smooth running of the place.  Had not Tenzin himself said that the Dalai Lama and I had a close karmic connection?


Then one day it happened.  His Holiness was over at the temple, and The Door was left open.  By then I had grown into an adventurous kitten, no longer content to spend all her time cosseted in fleece.  Prowling along the corridor in search of excitement, the moment I saw the door ajar, I knew I had to go through it, to explore the many places to which it led.

Downstairs.  Outside.  Overseas.

Somehow I made my shaky way down two flights of stairs, grateful for the carpeting as my descent accelerated out of control and I landed in an undignified bundle.  Picking myself up, I continued across a short hallway and outside.

It was the first time I’d been outdoors since being mired in the gutters of New Delhi – there was a bustle, an energy, with people walking in every direction.  I hadn’t got very far before I heard a chorus of high pitched squealing and the commotion of many feet on the pavement.  A tour group of Japanese school girls caught sight of me and took pursuit.

I panicked.  Racing as fast as my unsteady hind legs would take me, I lurched away from the shrieking hoard.  I could hear them gaining ground.   There was no way I could out-run them.   The leather of their shoes on the pavement became a thunder!

Then I spotted the small gap.  It was between bricks that led under the building.   A tight squeeze.   And very little time.  Plus I had no idea where it led.

But as I bolted inside, the pandemonium came to an end.  I found myself in a large, low space between the ground and the wooden boards of a veranda floor.  It was dark and dusty and there was a constant, dull drumming traffic of feet above.  But at least I felt safe.  I wondered how long I would need to stay there until the schoolgirls had gone away.  Brushing a cobweb from my face, I didn’t want to risk another such  ordeal.

As my eyes and ears adjusted to this new place, I became aware of a scratching noise.  Sporadic, but insistent bursts of gnawing.  I paused, nostrils flared as I searched the air.

Yes!  The aroma was unmistakeable.  Along with the sound of incisors came a pungent whiff that set my whiskers tingling.  The reaction was instant, powerful, and instinctive:  the scent of mouse!

I moved, stealthily, in the direction from which it was coming.  Downwind of the creature, my approach was concealed beneath the constant sound of footfall.

Even though I had never seen a mouse in my life before, I recognised what it was immediately.  Holding onto a vertical foundation strut, its head was half buried in a wooden beam which it was hollowing out with its large front teeth.

Instinct took over.

With a single swipe of my front paw I swept the rodent off balance and onto the ground where it lay stunned.  Reaching down I sank my teeth into its neck.  The body went limp.

I knew exactly what I must do next.  Prey secured, I padded back to the gap in the wall, checked the pavement traffic outside.  Finding no Japanese schoolchildren, I hurried back into the building.  Across the hallway.  Up the stairs.  To The Door – which was firmly closed.

I had to remain there for quite some time until one of His Holiness’s staff arrived.  Recognising me, but without noticing the trophy in my mouth, he let me in.  I padded down the corridor and around the corner.

Because the Dalai Lama was still at the temple, I made my way directly into the office of his Executive Assistants, announcing my arrival with a meow of all due urgency and importance.

Responding to the unfamiliar tone, Chogyal and Tenzin both turned, looking at me in surprise as I strutted proudly into their office and deposited the mouse on the carpet.

Their reaction was nothing like I had expected.  Exchanging a sharp glance, they both instantly moved from their chairs, Chogyal lifting me up and Tenzin kneeling down over the motionless mouse.

‘Still breathing,’ he said.  ‘Probably in shock.’

The printer box,’ Chogyal directed him to an empty cardboard box from which he’d just removed a fresh cartridge.

Using an old envelope as a brush, Tenzin soon had the mouse in the empty container.  He regarded it closely.  ‘Where do you think-?’

‘This one has cobwebs on its whiskers,’ observed Chogyal.

This one? 


At that moment, the Dalai Lama’s driver arrived in the office.  Tenzin handed over the box with instructions that the mouse was to be observed and, if it recovered, released in the forest nearby.

‘HHC must have got out,’ observed the driver meeting my blue-eyed gaze.

Chogyal was still holding me, not in his usual affectionate embrace, but as though restraining a savage beast.

‘HHC.  I’m not sure about that title anymore,’ he said.

‘It was only a provisional title,’ concurred Tenzin, returning to his desk.  ‘But His Holiness’s Mouser doesn’t seem appropriate.’

Chogyal put me back on the carpet.

‘What about just ‘Mouser’ for an ordination name?’ suggested the driver – but because of his strong, Tibetan accent, it came out ‘Mousie.’

All three men were now looking at me intently.  The conversation had taken a dangerous turn which I have come to regret ever since.

‘You can’t have just ‘Mousie,’ said Chogyal.  ‘It has to be Something Mousie or Mousie Something.’

‘Mousie Monster?’ contributed Tenzin.

‘Mousie Slayer?’ suggested Chogyal.

It was a pause before the driver came out with it.  What was to become my ordination name.  The name that is my deepest regret.  The name that dare not be spoken.

‘What about Mousie-Tung?’ he suggested.

All three men burst out laughing as they looked down at my small, fluffy form.

Tenzin turned mock-serious as he regarded me directly, ‘Compassion is all very well.  But do you think His Holiness should be sharing his quarters with Mousie-Tung?’

‘Or leaving Mousie-Tung in charge for three weeks when he visits Australia?’ mused Chogyal.

Getting up, I stalked from the room, ears pressed back firmly and tail slashing.


In the hours that followed, as I sat in the tranquil sunlight of His Holiness’s window, I began to realise the full enormity of what I’d done.  For almost all of my young life I had sat listening to the Dalai Lama talk about how the lives of all sentient beings are as important to them as our own life is to us.

But how much attention had I paid to that on the one and only occasion I was in the real world?

His Holiness often repeated the truth that all beings wish for happiness and to avoid suffering.  A thought that hadn’t crossed my mind when I’d stalked the mouse.  Not for one moment had I considered my actions from the mouse’s point of view.

I was beginning to realise that just because an idea is very simple, doesn’t make it easy to follow.  Also, that purring in agreement with high sounding principles actually means nothing if you don’t actually live by them.

I wondered if His Holiness would be told the new ‘ordination name’ – the grim reminder of the greatest failing of my young life.  Even worse, would he be so horrified when he heard what had happened that he would banish me from this beautiful haven forever?


Fortunately for me, the mouse recovered and was released into the forest.  And when His Holiness returned, he was immediately caught up in a series of meetings.

It wasn’t until late in the evening that he mentioned the subject.  He had been sitting up in bed reading, before closing his book, removing his glasses, and placing both on a bedside table.

‘They told me about what happened,’ he murmured, reaching over to where I was dozing nearby.  ‘Sometimes our instinct, our negative conditioning can be over-powering.  Later we come to regret what we have done.  But that is no reason to give up on yourself – the Buddhas haven’t given up on you.  Instead, learn from your mistake and move on.’

He turned out the bedside light, and as we both lay there in the darkness, I purred gently in appreciation.

‘Tomorrow we start again,’ he said.


The next day, His Holiness was going through those fortunate few pieces of mail that his Executive Assistants selected for his attention from sackfuls that arrived every morning.

‘This is very nice,’ he turned to Chogyal, holding up a letter and accompanying book that had been sent as a gift by the professor of history from England.

‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Chogyal studied the glossy cover of the book.

‘Not so much the book,’ said His Holiness, ‘as the letter.’


‘After thinking about our conversation, the professor says he has stopped using snail bait on his roses.  Instead, he now releases the snails over the garden wall.’

‘Very good!’ smiled Chogyal.

‘We liked meeting him, didn’t we?’ he glanced up at me directly.

I remembered how, at the time, I’d thought how deeply unenlightened the professor had seemed.  But after what had happened the day before, I could hardly judge.

‘Just shows that we all have the capacity to change,’ the Dalai Lama twinkled.  ‘Doesn’t it, Mousie?’


DLC cover pic


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Come home to yourself on Mindful Safari

male and female lion cuddling cropped


Being born in Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia), both the landscapes and animals of Africa were normal, even ordinary to me when I was growing up.   We didn’t have herds of elephants wandering through the garden.  But nor did we have to drive very far out of town to see them, along with the other ‘Big Five’ game animals – lion, leopard, rhino and buffalo.

In my twenties what I yearned for was the excitement of the big city.  Which was one of the reasons I found myself moving to London – and staying there for ten years.  It was just the kind of place for someone with my passions for writing and music, as well as my fascination for out-of-the-box people and intriguing ideas.  I have always earned my living in corporate public relations, and on a global scale there were – and still are – few cities as vibrant with opportunity, and larger than life personalities in that sector, as London.

I still vividly remember my first trip home to Africa.  It was after about three years away, during which I had gradually acclimatised to the backdrop of perpetually grey weather and a gritty urban landscape.

Suddenly I was back in the sun and wide open spaces.  Back, in particular, to the smells of the bush and wildlife which I now saw through very different eyes:  what an unbelievable diversity of the most extraordinary creatures!  How amazing was this continent, with its unique colours and extravagantly relaxed way of life.  Not to mention the ordinary people who, no matter how constrained by poverty and misfortune, had an enviable capacity to live vibrantly in the moment, their laughter and music a constant soundtrack to daily life.

The tug at my heart caught me quite by surprise.

Subsequent visits to Africa over the decades only deepened the recognition that, along with my more metropolitan interests, there was also a part of me that found a joy in the natural world of my childhood.  I also came to witness, many times, how even people who had never visited Africa before, discovered a hitherto unsuspected feeling of connection.  It is as though, when returning to the place from which human life first emerged, we feel an innate and abiding sense of belonging.  It is said that once the dust of Africa touches your feet, it will never leave your heart. 

One of the reasons I am so looking forward to leading the Mindful Safari to Africa next year is because I love to share this sense of connection.  The strapline I chose  - ‘Discover Africa.  Come home to yourself.’ – has different layers of meaning.  Among them is the knowledge that if you already know Africa, it will be the most heart-warming of home-comings.  And if you don’t, the experience will, quite simply, be one you will never forget.

I will be blogging more about the Mindful Safari, as well as other aspects of mindfulness, meditation, Buddhism and my writing in the months ahead.  To get the blogs, please click the ‘Follow’ button at the bottom right hand of your screen now.

For more information on the Mindful Safari next year, go to: http://www.davidmichie.com/safari.html


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