The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow by David Michie

and they’ve read a ton of books, and they’re very knowledgeable about the teachings and can explain them well. And they’ll say, ‘I feel I’m just going around and around in circles, never making any progress,’ and the problem is almost always that they don’t meditate. That’s because their understanding is only skin-deep.”
    Having allowed the tea to brew, Tenzin picked up a battered silver teapot in a knitted salmon-pink tea cozy and, after reverentially rocking it three times to the right and then three times to the left, began pouring out three cups through a strainer.
    Accepting a cup from Tenzin, Serena said, “I will tell Mum what you said about Christians meditating, Oliver. I’m sure she’ll be reassured.”
    Oliver nodded. “I remember meditating in a Benedictine monastery when I was young. And at a Quaker meeting. Dad took me along—part of reaching out to other faiths.”
    â€œYour father was a Buddhist?” asked Tenzin.
    â€œOh no!” Oliver chuckled. “A vicar. Still is. I was brought up very Church of England.”
    â€œIntriguing!” Serena raised her eyebrows.
    â€œServices three times every Sunday. High days and holy days. Bible verses to learn by rote. When I was growing up, everyone thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps.”
    â€œAnd instead . . . ?” prompted Tenzin.
    â€œInstead I studied languages, including Sanskrit, and found myself drawn to Buddhism.”
    â€œHow did your parents react?” asked Tenzin.
    â€œIt was a gradual thing. They had plenty of time to get used to the idea. The paradox is that I go home and find half my Buddhist books in Dad’s study—he goes through them to pinch ideas for his sermons.”
    As the three of them laughed, I decided to find out if there might be an afternoon refreshment in the office for me. I stepped into the room and behind Chogyal’s old chair, currently occupied by Oliver.
    â€œIs there anything that you miss?” asked Serena.
    â€œAbout the Church of England?” asked Oliver. “Not anymore. In my very early days as a Buddhist, I used to miss the music. All that glorious orchestral work. And the sacred choral pieces—especially from the baroque period. Even some of the hymns, which form part of my earliest memories. Music is incredibly powerful, almost magical in the way it marries consciousness to energy. Different music carries different vibrational qualities, and just listening to it can change one’s own energy and mood—it’s like alchemy.
    â€œWhen I first began practicing the Dharma, I felt I’d turned away from all that, but then my understanding of Buddhism deepened and I came back to sacred music with a fresh appreciation. What is it, if not an attempt to express the inexpressible?”
    The late-afternoon sun, sliding toward the horizon, reflected from a window opposite and filled the office in a glow of ethereal light. It seemed obvious now why the Dalai Lama had chosen Oliver as his new interpreter. Not only for his understanding of Tibetan, English, and a half dozen other languages. It was also for his radiant intelligence—one that seemed, quite comfortably, to straddle East and West, Buddhism and Christianity, outer and inner realities. Oliver was not only a translator of words. He was also spiritually multilingual.
    â€œSo I no longer miss the music,” he continued. “It has returned to my life as a source of great joy.”
    Serena and Tenzin had been listening intently as I hopped from the floor to the desk and approached the tea tray. I leaned over it, nostrils twitching, to confirm that more than a smidgen of milk remained in the jug. Then, sitting purposefully, I looked directly at Serena and meowed softly.
    The three humans seemed to find this amusing.
    â€œOh, HHC, would you also like something to drink?” Serena asked unnecessarily, glancing