Dear Subscribers,

I have been so deeply moved by the beautiful responses to my weekend post, the latest installment of Mary Magdalene’s Cat! I am really glad how powerfully it is resonating with some of you.

I don’t usually repeat posts. But the subject of this one is so powerful and timeless, and the nature of the Dharma can be so subtle, that certain subjects bear repetition. Plus, I am feeling a strong impulse to share it today.

I hope you find it helpful!

Most of us would probably like this lifetime to be our last round on the samsara carousel. I certainly am one! The idea of having to do it all over again, even if in more auspicious circumstances, isn’t an enticing prospect.

But what happens if we’re not quite there yet? If our efforts to accumulate limitless virtue and purify negativities aren’t enough to get us over the line?

What then?

Advanced meditators confirm what the Abhidharmakośa and subsequent texts say: that when we reach the final moment of the death process, the experience of clear light, whatever karma arises at that time sets up the framework for our next lifetime. It is an extraordinarily important point of transition. Which is one reason why Buddhists place such great emphasis on helping people have a peaceful death.

The experience of clear light is one that arises after all gross physical and mental systems have shut down. Our physical body is no longer functioning, nor are our senses or our brain. All that remains is very subtle mind and very subtle energy indicated by a slight warmth at the heart.

We are not experiencing anything like a normal wakened state and not capable of conscious decision making. That kind of ‘executive functioning’ is no longer possible. What arises is more at a level of habit and propensity.

With countless karmic seeds planted throughout our lives, which one will determine our next rebirth?

Four factors decide which karma takes precedence at the time of death. Understanding these offers not only insight into the workings of rebirth but also guidance on how to live in the here and now.

1. The weightiest karma

The first factor to decide what karma takes precedence is the heaviness or gravity of our actions. Some karmas are far more powerful than others because of such factors as the intensity and state of mind behind them or the object involved.

A single act of great compassion, performed with pure intention, can outweigh many smaller positive deeds. Likewise, an act of serious harm — such as taking a life or causing deep suffering through hatred or deceit — can overshadow many lighter misdeeds.

Our strongest actions leave the deepest imprint on the mind stream. At death, these heavy karmas rise first, like the most prominent stones in a riverbed revealed when the water runs low.

Reflection: The most powerful moments of our life — whether of kindness or cruelty — have enduring consequences. Each day offers us a chance to shape that legacy.

2. The karma most prominent at the time of death

If no weighty karma stands out, then the determining factor becomes what is present in the mind at the moment of death.

Whatever arises most vividly in our final moments — a memory, emotion, or mental habit — will direct the flow of consciousness, just as a breeze directs a feather.

If we ever find ourselves with someone who is dying, the most precious gift we can offer them is calm. If they are religious, reflect back to them whatever their tradition finds uplifting – for example, that God, or their loved ones, are waiting for them. If they are not religious, remind them of all they have done to help others, or all the happiness and love they have shared. In the case of pets or other animals, a calm, loving voice and perhaps the recitation of a favourite mantra may be helpful.

What we want to avoid is fear, anger, or grasping. That can only set up negative consequences.

Reflection: Training the mind now for our own time of death is the most reliable preparation for that moment.

3. The habitual karma

If no strong or death-proximate karma predominates, then the next deciding factor is habitual karma — the tendencies we’ve cultivated repeatedly through thought, speech, and action.

Each time we respond with patience instead of anger, generosity instead of self-centredness, we strengthen positive mental patterns. Over years, these become grooves — our mind’s ingrained, habitual routes.

When the stability of the body falls away at death, the mind naturally follows its most familiar patterns. We are propelled by subtle currents arising from our mental routines, our tendencies, our own personal ‘normal.’ A person for whom kindness or some other virtue has become a habit, will find that it arises spontaneously. Likewise, the opposite.

Reflection: Our rebirth arises from the mental habits we create. Every time we resist the urge to vent angrily at what seems outrageous, every time we focus compassionate support on those who we can help, we are not only benefiting in the here and now. We are creating the framework in which we will experience reality in our next life.

4. The first-created karma

Finally, when all else is equal — no karma is especially weighty, none arises vividly, none has become habitual — the karma that was created first among those of equal strength will ripen first.

This is a subtle point, sometimes called the priority of first-created karma. It underpins the continuity of cause and effect, just as the first seed planted among equals sprouts first when conditions are right.

Although this principle seldom decides our rebirth on its own, it reflects the precision of karmic principles: nothing is random. Even the order in which we act carries meaning.

Reflection: Every choice, even our earliest ones, leaves a karmic imprint. Nothing is lost or forgotten.

The Deeper Message

Together, these four factors reveal how every rebirth arises not by chance, but by mind and intention.

Karma is not fate, nor punishment. It’s not being done to us or happening ‘out there.’ It is is the natural unfolding of causes we ourselves set in motion. And because karma is created moment by moment, it can be transformed moment by moment. In particular we can take powerful and deliberate action to purify whatever negative karma we have accumulated and to cultivate extraordinary virtue and merit. I write frequently about just these practices.

At the time of death, our very subtle minds reach instinctively for what is familiar, strong, and emotionally charged. If we have spent a lifetime nurturing love, patience, and insight, those will be the companions that guide us on our journey through the bardo – necessarily a different experience for each one of us – and propel us into our next lifetime.

If agitation, resentment, or fear dominate our days, these too are likely to appear when everything else slips away.

This teaching invites us to live as if death matters now — not morbidly, but with luminous awareness that every thought and deed is the seed of future experience. Perhaps even a very important seed.

A Contemplation

We may pause for a quiet reflection:

If I were to die tonight, what mental state would most likely arise in me?
Which habits have I strengthened through daily repetition?
What weightiest actions might colour my final moments?

Such questions are not meant to cause anxiety but to awaken wisdom — the understanding that we are creating our future even as we read these words.

Living with Awareness

In the end, this teaching is profoundly hopeful. Each of us carries within our mind stream countless seeds — some bright, some shadowed — but we can choose which to water. With determination, we can let go of the negatives and cultivate the most extraordinary virtue and merit: why not? Where’s the downside?

We can try practicing gratitude when we wake: - ‘how lucky are we?’ - patience in traffic, generosity in our relationships, mindfulness as we fall asleep. Each one of these subtly shifts our consciousness and empowers a stronger momentum in who we are now and how our future unfolds.

It’s a time-honoured adage in the East that only when we face death do we truly know how to live. The time to prepare for our death is not in the hours, days or weeks before.

It is now.

Each moment of kindness, clarity, and wisdom is not only a source of joy in the moment. These are also the greatest gifts we can bestow on the future self who will inherit them.

If my posts resonate with you, and you would like to support some of the most vulnerable people and animals in Africa, please subscribe:

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Dear Paying Subscriber,

I am pleased to be sharing this next chapter from my evolving novel, Mary Magdalene’s Cat. As always, it’s a little longer than my regular posts, so you may like to set aside some uninterrupted time to settle in and enjoy it.

This also means I can’t include an update from one of our supported nonprofits without going over the email…

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Photo: A typically Zimbabwean way of moving things from A to B. Don’t worry, those JoJo tanks aren’t heavy - only cumbersome!

Hi Everyone,

I am delighted to share the following message and images from Charlie Hewat at Greenline Africa’s Zambezi Water Initiative.

Dear David, and all who generously donated to the Zambezi Water Initiative,

We were overjoyed to receive US$5,500 from the GDG/Michie Foundation in support of our water project. What an extraordinary gift!

This funding will fully support four water tanks, and we are now only US$500 away from installing a fifth tank.

Water changes everything. By placing tanks close to people’s homesteads, families no longer need to walk long distances carrying heavy buckets on their heads, often losing precious water along the way. Instead, villagers can collect water right near their homes. It is truly life-changing.

Photo: With Charlie, Koala and the head lady responsible for ensuring both tanks are kept running for the local community. The commissioning of one of the tanks was arranged especially for our visit!

One community that lives a little further away showed such wonderful commitment to the project: they sent their donkeys and cart to collect their water tank. Because the tanks are so light, the donkeys were easily able to carry it to the site where it will provide water for the community. We have attached a photograph to share this special moment with you.

When David, Koala, and the Mindful Safari team recently visited Zimbabwe, we were able to visit one of the completed tanks and witness the water going into the tank for the community. It was a powerful reminder of what your generosity makes possible.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for helping to change lives in our rural communities.

If you are able to help us reach the final US$500 for the fifth tank—or to contribute toward further tanks—we would be deeply grateful. Every donation, whatever its size, brings reliable water closer to another family. Please also feel free to share this appeal with anyone who may wish to support the project.

With love and heartfelt thanks from all of us at Greenline Africa – and a special thank you on behalf of all the communities here in Jembwe,

Charlene and Veronica

Zambezi Water Initiative

Greenline Africa

I am very pleased to let you know that, thanks to the great generosity of several subscribers, we have more than paid for that fifth tank, as requested by Charlie on behalf of the Jembwe community.

Let me leave you with this one thought: whatever challenges we may be facing in our own lives right now, there are people and animals in Africa whose lives we have immeasurably benefitted today - and who will keep on benefitting.

How lucky are we to be able to help others?

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Earlier this week I posted an appeal from Sarah Carter at Twala Trust Animal Sanctuary for help with the new cattery. Not only have you, my paying subscribers, already funded a whole new extension of it. As a result of this week’s appeal, Sarah will be able to renovate the existing cattery and make it so much safer, co…

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A family of rural cats in the new cattery extension

Dear Subscribers,

I am pleased to be sharing this letter from Sarah Carter, at Twala Trust Animal Sanctuary, following our wonderful visit there last week.

Over to Sarah!

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Dear Subscribers,

Before we begin today’s post, I want to say a heartfelt thank you for the wonderfully generous response to last weekend’s article, The Snack Box Realisation. What a beautiful collection of thoughtful, heartfelt messages you sent me. I wish I could have replied to each and every one.

As it happens, I…

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I am writing this week’s post from Harare, Zimbabwe, having just returned from another wonderful Mindful Safari at Victoria Falls. I’ll be sharing an update on that experience in the coming weeks. I’ll also be telling you about an exciting new development: from 2027, Koala and I are adding Mindful Matopos to our time here, taking advantage of the extraordinary vistas, ancient rock art and remarkable spiritual energy of the Matobo Hills, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Interestingly, in the past week two different people have asked me: “Do you still do Mindful Safaris? I never see them advertised.”

Yes, we certainly do! And I guess the reason we don’t promote them more widely is that there are only ten rooms available, and they tend to book out quickly with people on our Priority List.

If you’d like to have your name added to the Priority List and be among the first to hear about the 2027 Mindful Safari season — including Mindful Matopos — please email Koala at safari@davidmichie.com. She will be in touch with you in early September, when we’re back in Australia.

On the 50-minute Fastjet flight from Victoria Falls to Harare, every passenger receives the same mid-afternoon refreshment: a bottle of water and a little cardboard Snack Box. Inside is fruit juice, a few savoury nibbles and a thick, rather dense biscuit.

I’m guessing most passengers have only recently finished lunch. Yet almost everyone accepts the Snack Box. By the time we land, very few have been opened. Instead, they’re slipped into carry-on bags. And not to eat later.

Just beyond the airport terminal is a city full of people who would be genuinely delighted to receive it.

I’m not sure where all the Snack Boxes ended up after our flight, which was full of employees from a Harare accountancy firm returning from a corporate weekend in Victoria Falls. But before I even reached our Airbnb, my own box had found a new owner: a young boy begging at the traffic lights on Enterprise Road.

“God bless you,” he said, with a relief that felt disproportionate to the value of what I’d just given him.

In Buddhism, we often speak about realisations. A realisation isn’t simply understanding an idea. It’s when an insight becomes so vivid that it changes how we naturally behave. Much of the Buddhist path isn’t about accumulating knowledge. It’s about allowing truths to sink deeply enough into our hearts to transform us.

Meditation retreats help create the conditions for such moments. But they are not the only way. Sometimes I think one of the quickest paths to certain realisations is to spend time in Africa.

One of the earliest contemplations on the Buddhist path is recognising the extraordinary privilege of having what is called leisure and fortune. Leisure means the freedom to devote some of our lives to inner development. Fortune means possessing the inclination to do so – specifically to the Dharma.

When you live in Australia, Europe or North America, this realisation can remain quite distant. Almost everyone around us appears to have leisure. People spend hours watching television, scrolling social media or pursuing hobbies. Disposable time doesn’t feel especially remarkable because most people seem to have at least some of it. Many have a lot.

Zimbabwe gently dismantles the illusion that a life of leisure is in any way normal. On the way from the airport, you may well discover that the driver who collects you also has a job installing solar panels and inverters. He trades mung beans on the side. On Saturdays he helps his wife run a market stall. Every spare moment is spent trying to create another income stream.

He has to. With unemployment estimated at around 90%, Zimbabwe has become a vast gig economy. There is little in the way of unemployment support or public healthcare. Even highly capable, well-educated people can find themselves begging at traffic lights should something in their precarious existence go awry.

And Zimbabwe is far from unique. For much of humanity, this is simply life.

Statistics can tell us that the wealthiest 1% own roughly half the world’s wealth while the poorest half of humanity share only a tiny fraction of it. Those numbers are easy to skim over. Far harder to ignore is sitting at a set of traffic lights looking into the eyes of someone for whom a Fastjet Snack Box is a meaningful gift.

But what unsettles me most isn’t so much the poverty. It’s the joy.

While every individual is different, and we can never presume to know another person’s heart, it is difficult not to notice the warmth, humour and resilience that is woven into everyday life here. There is laughter. Singing. Dancing. A remarkable capacity to celebrate life despite circumstances that many of us would find overwhelming.

It makes me wonder. What is the point of being rich if we never really feel rich? What is the point of having leisure if we experience only stress, busyness and exhaustion?

Coming to Zimbabwe gives me the kind of insight I can’t imagine having any other way. It reminds me—not intellectually but viscerally—how extraordinarily fortunate I am. Not fortunate only because I have more stuff. Fortunate because I have choices. Time. Agency.

Curiously, I seem to lose sight of that abundance when I return to the developed world. Surrounded by people with similar lives, my own good fortune fades into the background. Until I come back.

Then there is that other curious paradox. While greed and selfishness are certainly on conspicuous display here, so too is generosity.

The African idea of ubuntu—I am because we are—isn’t merely a philosophy. It is something you repeatedly glimpse in everyday life. Adult children endure enormous hardship working in distant countries so they can send money home to ageing parents. Unexpected windfalls are shared. Families absorb neighbours. Communities carry one another. All in line with the Dharma idea of interconnectedness.

Which makes me wonder about those untouched Snack Boxes. I suspect a large percentage will never be eaten by the passengers who accepted them. Instead, they’ll find their way into the hands of people who will probably never, in their entire lives, set foot inside an airport, much less an aeroplane.

Among the deepest realisations we can make are those that don’t necessarily happen on a meditation cushion. Nor those that reveal some amazing new inner capacity. But the ones that reveal what has been there all along. A full fridge. Time to read. Time to meditate. The capacity to change, quite dramatically, the lives of others, with relatively little sacrifice or even effort.

These are such ordinary blessings that we scarcely notice them—until something helps us see them afresh. Including when that ‘something’ is a 50-minute flight in the middle of Africa, and a small cardboard box waiting to be opened.

AN UPDATE FROM TWALA TRUST ANIMAL SANCTUARY

During our visit to Harare, Koala and I had the chance to visit Twala Trust. I’ll be sharing much more in the coming weeks, but today I’d like to let you know about one of the dogs who has most engaged readers in the time she has been here - Juno.

Photos: Juno when she first arrived last November in such pitiful condition that many people thought the kindness thing for her would be to put her to sleep.

Photos: Juno today, nine months later - the proud owner of her own kennel and winter coat! Her eyes and skin have healed, mammary tumours have been removed, she is well fed, receives much love and attention and is such a gentle being. A testament, more than anything, to the power of love.

Photo: Coaxing Juno from her kennel

Video: meeting Juno. Such a special moment!

May all beings have happiness and the true causes of happiness!

May all beings be free from suffering and the true causes of suffering!

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It is a while since I posted a broad overview of the death process from the perspective of Tibetan Buddhism. But this is a process we are encouraged to review often and become thoroughly acquainted with.

I hope you find what follows engaging and helpful.

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Dear Paying Subscriber,

The time has come once again for me to share a new chapter from my evolving novel, Mary Magdalene’s Cat. As always, it’s a little longer than my regular posts, so you may like to set aside some uninterrupted time to enjoy it.

This also means I can’t include a photographic update from one of our supported nonprofits without exceedin…

Read more

Human beings are curious creatures. I’ve never met anyone who wakes up in the morning intending to believe something untrue. Yet sincere, intelligent and compassionate people can look at the same evidence and arrive at entirely different conclusions.

For a long time I have been intrigued by how we come to believe what we do. According to cognitive psychologists, our beliefs shape our values, which shape our attitudes, which in turn shape our actions. Put differently, belief lies at the heart of all that we think, feel and do.

Given how profoundly our beliefs influence our lives, isn’t it extraordinary how little time we spend examining how we came to hold them in the first place? We devote endless energy to defending our beliefs, debating them and acting on them. Yet we much more rarely stop to examine how we came to hold them in the first place.

I am fascinated, for example, that some Christians see all forms of same-sex unions as an abomination while others, equally sincere in their devotion, welcome gay and lesbian congregants with open arms. That some Buddhists would never countenance eating meat, while others, whose attainments are beyond question, will tuck into T-bone steaks with gusto. And why some atheists scarcely give God a second thought, while others devote enormous time and fervour to arguing against a being they are convinced does not exist.

Some people sincerely believe they hold no views that go beyond what has been conclusively proven. They assume that if there is insufficient evidence for something, they simply suspend judgement. Yet we all make assumptions. For example, some people are convinced that consciousness cannot continue after death because it depends entirely on brain function. But the proposition that consciousness arises solely from neural activity is a scientific hypothesis - not an established fact. An assumption made because of incomplete evidence.

To what extent are our beliefs simply an accident of birth? Had we been born into a Hindu family in Delhi, a Catholic family in Lima or a Zoroastrian family in Tehran, would we believe something quite different today? How often do we adopt beliefs because they make life feel safer or more comfortable? Or because questioning them would require us to rethink assumptions we have carried for years—or even to acknowledge inconvenient truths about ourselves?

One of the great blessings of living today is that, for many of us, we have an unprecedented freedom to explore. Never before has it been so easy to learn about different insights and ways of understanding the world. With a few keystrokes we can read passages from the Bhagavad Gita, the Tao Te Ching, and a great variety of philosophical and scientific leaders. We can watch and listen online to mystics, scholars and sceptics from around the world.

But how many of us actually do? We may spend weeks researching our next car, comparing fuel consumption, resale value and going on test drives. How often do we spend any meaningful amount of time exploring a different inner path? Might we, perhaps, even feel awkward or guilty in so doing?

The beliefs that interest me most of all - and you too, I expect - are those that operate at the meta level. Our beliefs about the nature of reality. That seems a logical place to begin. And it is here that the Buddha firmly places responsibility in our own hands.

By way of context, northern India in the Buddha’s day was alive with spiritual exploration. Wandering yogis, ascetics and philosophers travelled from town to town, each proclaiming that they alone had discovered the path to truth. Every teacher praised his own philosophy while dismissing the teachings of his rivals. It must have been an exhilarating time to be alive - but also an exhausting one.

The people of Kesaputta, home of the Kālāmas, had heard them all. By the time the Buddha arrived, they were understandably weary. They greeted him with a refreshingly honest question: “Every teacher who comes here tells us that his teaching is true and everyone else’s is false. How are we supposed to know whom to believe?”

The Buddha’s reply is one of the reasons I find him such an extraordinary teacher. He didn’t ask them to believe him because he claimed special insight. He didn’t appeal to his reputation or invite them to take his words on faith. Instead, he explained how to choose one’s beliefs in the first place.

More than two and a half thousand years later, his advice seems every bit as relevant as it did to those bewildered townsfolk. This is what he said:

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumoured by many. Do not believe anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.” (The Kalama Sutta)

For those of us brought up in Christian homes, this advice can be quite confronting. Where I grew up, teachers, elders, history and tradition were all regarded as very powerful reasons to accept certain beliefs. If the Reverend Granville Morgan believed this, then who was a pip-squeak like me to question it? That would have been the unspoken assumption.

“Not so fast,” the Buddha might have replied. “Never underestimate a pip-squeak with a legitimate question. We were all pip-squeaks once!”

Only much later in life did I discover that the Bible has a rich and complex history. Modern scholarship has shown that its books were written over many centuries by different authors with different theological emphases; that the four Gospels were originally anonymous and only later came to bear the names Matthew, Mark, Luke and John; that they preserve different accounts of the same events; and that Christians themselves have never entirely agreed on which books belong in the biblical canon. Beyond the canon lie other early Christian writings—such as the Gnostic gospels—placing the emphasis not on correct belief but on inner awakening and direct spiritual insight. These offer strikingly different perspectives on some of Jesus’ central teachings - as Mary Magdalene’s Cat could tell you!

Far from diminishing my respect for the Bible, these discoveries only reinforced the wisdom of the Buddha’s advice: to examine our beliefs carefully, rather than accepting them simply because they have been handed down to us.

The Buddha didn’t only leave the Kālāmas with an instruction. He left them with an image they would never forget.

In taking up the Buddha’s advice, our own teachers also encourage us to regard our beliefs as a goldsmith regards gold. Not, paradoxically, because gold is assumed to be genuine, but because it is too precious not to be tested.

Before accepting a piece of gold as authentic, a skilled goldsmith doesn’t simply admire its appearance or rely on the seller’s assurances. He rubs it against a touchstone. He cuts into it to examine what lies beneath the surface. If necessary, he even places it in the fire. Only after surviving every test is it recognised as the real thing.

We are invited to treat our beliefs in exactly the same way. Don’t reject them out of hand. But don’t accept them uncritically either. Rub them against your own experience. Cut into them with careful enquiry. Place them in the fire of reason, compassion and lived experience. If, after all that, they continue to reveal wisdom, kindness and truth, then hold them with confidence—not because someone else told you they were true, but because you have discovered for yourself that they are.

Perhaps that was one of the Buddha’s greatest gifts: not a new set of beliefs to replace the ones we already have, but a way of relating to whatever beliefs we hold, irrespective of their origins, with wisdom, humility and courage.

In a world full of people eager to tell us what to believe, perhaps wisdom begins by learning how to choose our beliefs well.

And finally—my novelist’s imagination getting the better of me—I couldn’t resist wondering how the Buddha might express the Kalama Sutta if he were speaking to us today:

“Do not believe in anything simply because you saw it online. Do not believe in anything because it has gone viral or is repeated by hundreds of thousands of people. Do not believe anything simply because AI tells you, or because it appears at the top of your search results. Do not believe in anything merely because it is endorsed by influencers, reality TV stars or politicians. Do not believe something simply because it has become part of your culture or because everyone around you accepts it as true. But after careful observation and thoughtful examination, when you find that something accords with reason, compassion and the welfare of all, then accept it—and live by it.”

UPDATE FROM ROKPA SUPPORT NETWORK

Before we finish, I’m delighted to share a heartwarming update from ROKPA following our wheelchair appeal earlier this year. Thanks to your extraordinary generosity, three more wheelchairs have now reached people whose lives will be transformed by them. Every one is a reminder that compassion, when translated into action, can make a profound difference.

Over to Vivienne Kernohan from ROKPA:

More new Wheelchairs!

“All three families have expressed deep gratitude for your gift of wheelchairs, which has significantly improved their daily lives.

Photo: Tinashe and his mother in the new wheelchair at ROKPA Support Network in Chitungwiza

Tinashe’s previous wheelchair had deteriorated to the point of being a safety hazard, making it nearly impossible to manoeuvre. Due to his spastic muscles, wheelchairs tend to wear out quickly, and his mother explained that, ideally, he would need a replacement every three to four years, along with six-monthly servicing, costs that remain far beyond the family’s means.

The new wheelchair has brought transformative change. Tinashe is now able to accompany his mother to her vending stall, where he actively helps her sell fruits and vegetables, bringing joy to both of them.

Photo: Shamma and Shein, whose mothers no longer have to carry them on their backs

Shamma and Shein’s mothers are equally relieved. Previously, they had to carry their children on their backs, but this had become increasingly physically demanding as the children grow.

The wheelchairs have eased the strain on the mothers, while also giving Shamma and Shein a meaningful degree of independence. they can now join in and play alongside other children while comfortably seated.”

May all beings have happiness and its true causes!

May all beings be free from suffering and its true causes!

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Photo: Sunset in Zimbabwe on Mindful Safari

Dear Subscribers,

Just a quick update on a couple of things.

Fundraising

I’m so pleased to let you know that more of you have made direct donations towards water tanks for Greenline Africa. As a result, instead of raising funds for five tanks, we have now sponsored almost six.

Together, our little community has dramatically improved the daily lives of somewhere between thirty and sixty families.

Koala and I are visiting Charlie, Veronica and the Greenline team later this month. I will keep you posted on how things are progressing on the ground. Suffice it to say, everyone there is thrilled. Charlie messaged that she “jumped for joy” when she heard that five tanks would be made available to the local community. More soon.

Photo: the new tanks will make a dramatic difference on households in the local community

Stepping back for a moment, our fundraising total for the first six months of the year now stands at US$58,110.

Half of that came from subscription income that I donate. The other half came directly from many of you via The Michie Foundation/GDG portal.

If you’re new to our group, Global Development Group (GDG) is an Australian-based organisation that works with the tax authorities in Australia, the United States, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands and New Zealand, enabling donations from residents of those countries to be tax deductible.

When Koala and I established The Michie Foundation, we never imagined that our subscribers would match our own giving dollar for dollar. Yet that’s exactly what you continue to do.

This newsletter has always been about compassion in action. Knowing that, together, we’re helping some of the most vulnerable people and animals in Zimbabwe brings us a sense of purpose and quiet happiness that’s difficult to put into words. Every paid subscription contributes to that work, and every direct donation extends it further. Seeing the difference together, during our annual visits to these projects, is one of the greatest privileges of our lives.

Thank you for making it possible.

Mindful Safari

This weekend we fly to Zimbabwe to prepare for this year’s Mindful Safari, which begins later this month.

Beforehand, we’ll be exploring the Matobo Hills as a possible venue for an additional Mindful Safari in the future. Famous for its extraordinary granite landscapes, balancing rocks and ancient rock art, the Matobo Hills possesses a remarkable energetic presence that many visitors feel the moment they arrive. What better place to meditate at dawn and dusk than atop a granite kopje, looking out across the vast African veld?

I’ll let you know what we discover during our recce.

After that, we’ll be welcoming this year’s guests to another wonderful Mindful Safari at Masuwe Lodge, Victoria Falls—that other abundant source of prana, extraordinary wildlife and warm African hospitality.

I can’t wait!

While we’re away, please be patient with me if I’m not able to respond to all your comments as I usually do when I’m at home. I’ll catch up with you again as soon as I can.

Photo: evenings often end with stories around the fire on Mindful Safari

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Find out more about MIndful Safari 2027

This week I am sharing a short story with you—one about a devoted cat lover called Mavis Davis. I have a feeling that some of you will identify with her!

I’ve always loved the short story form, especially those that end with an unexpected twist. As a teenager, I devoured the stories of Somerset Maugham, and ever since then I’ve been on the lookout for writers who have mastered this wonderful art. All suggestions welcomed! Sadly, short stories are much less popular than they once were. Collections rarely sell as well as novels, so publishers tend to shy away from them - and, inevitably, many writers do too.

Which is a pity, because a good short story, just like a novel, can linger in the heart long after you’ve finished reading it.

Those of you who have read my collection The Astral Traveller’s Handbook & Other Tales may remember this one. I revisited it myself this week and, to my surprise, found I was reading it almost as though for the first time.

If it’s new to you, I hope you enjoy it. And if you’re returning to it, I hope you discover something fresh.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there lived a cat lover named Mavis Davis. Like most members of this species, Mavis wore her love of all things feline as a badge of pride.

The coffee mug on her desk at work was emblazoned with the words ‘Crazy Cat Lady’ in pink, capital letters. Visitors to her home would discover a door knocker in the image of a cartoon-like cat with an entirely unnatural grin. So many of her possessions bore the image of a cat that it would have been easier to catalogue those items that were entirely cat-free.

Cats had been part of Mavis’s life since she was a girl. But it was only after she and Hank got divorced, and their daughter, Daisy, had left home, that the volume of her ailurophilia - to give it its proper name - ramped right up.

Mavis Davis wasn’t some lonely, old crone who had no one on whom to lavish her considerable affection other than her three cats. On the contrary, she lived life to the brim! Her radio alarm would wake her up before six every morning in time for Zumba class at the local gym. She’d return home, charged with adrenalin, chattering volubly to her three fur babies as she bustled from shower to bedroom and from wardrobe to kitchen, where she’d catch the early morning news on TV while she and all three cats devoured their respective breakfasts with lip-smacking gusto.

Her job, as the head of accounting for a busy advertising agency, kept her more than occupied during the working day. And those evenings she wasn’t out at an agency do, or enjoying a meal with Daisy or one of the girls from the gym, or dating – yes she had an online profile and had enjoyed some quite delightful dalliances – she spent at home with her cats. Typically, this involved a ready-made meal on a tray in front of the TV, a glass of Merlot, and her phone – those vital components of a pleasant evening home alone. Her phone was a necessary instrument not only for the myriad social media apps she had open at any one time – Mavis thought of herself as the consummate multi-tasker – but also in case one of the cats struck a particularly adorable pose, which she would capture, caption, and blast out to the world so that all could share in her fulsome appreciation.

Anyone acquainted with Mavis soon also became acquainted with Methuselah, an ancient, tabby, and her first rescue cat from the local haven. The vet had estimated him to be at least 12 when she had adopted him 5 years earlier. Methuselah may be a senior, but of all three cats he was also the most generous with his affections, hopping on her lap, as soon as she removed the dinner tray, and responding to her chatter and caresses by appreciatively revving up his outboard motor to full throttle.

She’d found Shrek, an off-white cat, starving and bedraggled in an alley behind work. While Shrek had soon bounced back to rude, good health under Mavis’s doting ministrations, she suffered from a chronic skin condition that mystified the vet. She lost fur constantly, sometimes in great chunks, especially around her face. At times she’d have so little fur on her head, or the fur that she had was so wispy, that she’d look like she was bald. ‘So ugly, that she’s cute!’ Mavis would show colleagues photos of the alien-like being on her phone. No doubt some of her co-workers didn’t think that Shrek was quite that ugly, but they indulged Mavis by keeping their own counsel on the subject.

Despite taking her in and giving her the most loving of homes, Mavis’s affections seemed rarely reciprocated by Shrek. In mornings and evenings, as soon as she had eaten, she would vanish into thin air, in the way that cats do. So low was her profile and so rarely seen, that Mavis even gave her the nickname Shrek The Invisible.

Mavis tried her best not to feel disappointed by the cat’s seeming lack of interest. Instead, she’d take solace from those random moments, usually in the middle of the night, when she’d become aware of the mostly-bald form who had crept up onto the bed beside her and who, on becoming aware that she was no longer asleep, would softly purr.

Ninja, a young, formerly male ginger, brought up Mavis’s trio of little darlings. His full name, Ginger Ninja, gave an inkling into his particular character trait, which was to leap out, unexpectedly, from behind doors and on top of cupboards, and, having startled his prey, scamper away at full speed. Like Methuselah, he was a rescue cat whom Mavis had brought home after she’d fallen in love with him during a visit to the local cat haven - as spontaneous as one of Ninja’s own attacks. Opening the door to his rescue centre condo, the moment she had encountered Ninja, he had walked towards her and, with the utmost gentleness, headbutted her in the heart.

It was a habit that had continued ever since. She’d be sitting at the kitchen bench when Ninja would appear at her side. No matter what she was doing – checking through the mail, drinking a coffee, even eating a meal, he would slip between her and whatever engaged her attention, purring and smooching at her heart. Mavis thought this utterly delightful! Pushing away her mail, or coffee or plate of food, she’d caress her little Ninja and tell him how much she loved him, and adored having him in her life and was so pleased she had found her way to him on that spur of the moment trip to the rescue centre.

There were times, in Mavis’s helter-skelter life, when she’d sometimes reflect how she wished she could somehow bridge the human-feline divide. As besotted as she was with her three precious friends, and as much as she showered them with her affections, there was no escaping the feeling that even though they shared the same house, and even the same bed, they lived in different worlds.

In the mornings, she’d sometimes come home from Zumba, bursting with energy and eager to share details of the class, and the day ahead, and what was going on at work with her little darlings, to find all three cats lined up, backs towards her, staring silently out the French doors to the patio. It almost seemed as if they were deliberately blanking her. Many evenings it was just Methuselah and her in front of the TV. What was it about her favourite sit coms and dramas that Shrek and Ninja found so deeply off-putting?

Perversely, the only time that all three cats seemed actively to seek her out was the one moment that she sought complete privacy: in the bathroom. Soon learning to leave the bathroom door ajar, rather than closed – that would only provoke scratching – as she sat in silence, communing with nature, all three of them would form a procession to the opposite side of the room, where they’d sit, staring at her with sphynx-like inscrutability.

‘If only they could talk!’ she’d often say to friends, as she showed them a sample from the gazillions of cat pics she had on her phone.

‘If only they could talk!’ she’d conclude, after telling colleagues about Shrek’s most recent hair loss episode. Or Ninja’s disturbing new habit of not so much gently head-butting her chest, as running full tilt into it like a steam train.

‘I’m sure they’d have such interesting things to say.’

Mavis never speculated on what these interesting things might be. On what subjects might one expect a cat to have a fresh and distinctive perspective? The rise of do it yourself terrorism? The implications of global warming? The impact of CPI on consumables? Come to think of it, there are a few.

But as most people understood, the subjects Mavis would really have liked to have conversed to her cats about were of a more personal nature. Like the way they really felt about one another, feline quirks and eccentricities aside. Like what they really would have liked her to do for them. Even what they may have liked to do for her.

If only they could talk.

Mavis may very well have spent the rest of her life speculating on this very question, were it not for an entirely unexpected turn of events: one day, she dropped dead.

Well, slid dead, to be precise.

There she was one minute, attending a weekly agency meeting. And the very next, she experienced two violent spasms in the chest, before slumping against her chair and sliding to the floor. Dead as a doornail.

The colleagues who knew, and for the most part were very fond of Mavis, observed this in a state of benumbed horror. Their disbelief at what they were witnessing seemed to prevent them from moving. Chief Executive Officer, Darius Drake, explaining the benefits of a new invoicing system, was mid-sentence when he saw Mavis flailing. Everyone followed his gaze. And collectively watched her die before their very eyes.

As it happened, an intern named Luke who had joined the agency staff just a few weeks earlier, watched the middle aged woman collapse in front of him without a scintilla of emotion to cloud his reactions. Getting up immediately, he went to the door, opened it, and yelled out, ‘Kathy! Meeting Room Three. Now!’

So imperative was his tone, that within seconds, the agency’s First Aid Officer was hurrying to join them.

Although having a heart attack may not strike you, on any level, as being lucky, there were several lucky things about Mavis’s. To begin with, where she had it. If she’d been home alone, no matter how well intentioned her cats, she would have been beyond immediate help.

It was also lucky that Luke just happened to be in the staff kitchen two days earlier when Kathy had been telling colleagues about the First Aid refresher course she had just attended. In particular, the very handsome doctor from whom, she had quipped, she wouldn’t have minded receiving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Luke had been privately disgusted. Kathy couldn’t have been a day under forty! The idea that a woman of such an age could still harbour such instincts, much less express them, was something that made him recoil. It had certainly stuck in his mind. Which was why he had no doubt about who to summon when the subject of resuscitation returned to the agenda with unexpected suddenness.

Kathy administered CPR. The Managing Director, unfrozen, summoned an ambulance. Within half an hour, Mavis was at the city hospital, hooked up to an array of impressive technology, her every metabolic moment being monitored in multi-dimensional detail.

It wasn’t until the following day that the whole story emerged. How Mavis had been suffering from high blood pressure without realising it. How it ran in the family. How the swift response to her situation meant she would suffer no major heart damage. How she would, nevertheless, need to make some lifestyle changes.

‘We’ll soon have you back to work, and the gym,’ Mavis’s cardiologist had reassured her, on his ward round. ‘The beta blockers will work their wonders. But we need to find a way for you to better manage stress.’

Sitting up in bed in the pyjamas Daisy had brought from home, Mavis had felt almost fraudulent being in hospital. And at the same time, terrified. She felt no different from the way she usually did, and was bursting with impatience to be discharged. But on the other hand, an unknown and devastating vulnerability had been exposed. One she was frightened could arise unexpectedly at any moment. There was little she wouldn’t have considered to ensure she didn’t suffer a repeat of it.

‘What do you recommend?’ she asked the cardiologist.

‘Well, you’re not overweight. You’ve already got a good exercise regime. Your diet could probably do with a bit of tweaking – but it’s not that bad either,’ the cardiologist went through his checklist, before studying her closely over the top of his spectacles. ‘I believe that calming practices like meditation can be helpful. Is that something you would consider?’

‘I’d consider anything.’

Feeling in the pocket of his white coat, he produced a card which he handed her.

‘“Integrated Wellness Centre”’ Mavis read aloud.

‘They run six week meditation courses for beginners, among other things. You may like to give one a try.’

From the very first morning Mavis began practising meditation at home, she noticed a difference. In a way she had never expected.

She felt self-conscious and slightly foolish sitting on her new meditation cushion in the spare room, gazing unfocused at the carpet and trying to count her breaths in cycles of ten, the way Hannah at Integrated Wellness had shown the class. She’d keep losing count of her breath, long before reaching ten. Thoughts would bubble up in her mind. Before she even realised it, she’d be deeply engaged in some subject that was far, far away from breath-counting. Then she’d suddenly realise that she was no longer focused on her breath. For the first time she discovered how little control she had over her own mind.

For all that, something else went on that was unusual in the most delightful way. Within moments of sitting on her cushion, Methuselah appeared in the spare room. She tried to ignore the movement at the door – she was supposed to be focused single-pointedly on her breath – but she couldn’t help stealing a glance to where he sat, neat as a pin, staring at her intently.

A few moments passed, and she became aware of another movement. Ninja! He joined Methuselah, sitting upright and staring at his human with the same clear-eyed inscrutability.

Before her first session had ended, Shrek made her appearance too. Standing behind the other two cats and taking in the proceedings, as the three of them looked on, from a distance, Mavis realised what was happening that morning was, quite simply, unprecedented. Apart from her visits to the bathroom, never had all three of her cats presented themselves, voluntarily, while she was wide awake.

She wondered if it was the novelty of it. There’s nothing more intriguing to a cat than a slight change to a familiar situation. A piece of furniture moved to a new room. A favourite blanket that has found its way to a different location. A cupboard door, left ajar, that has never been open before. After a few days of meditating, she wondered, would the cats have lost interest?

Next morning, she sat to meditate with an enthusiasm that was only partly to do with the anticipation of oceanic calm. Within moments, Methuselah had not only appeared at the door, but come half way across the room towards her and settled on the carpet. Ninja and Shrek had soon followed suit, coming quite close to her before sitting, then lying on the carpet. Not wanting to jinx what was happening, Mavis did her best to keep her mind focused on her breath. Her reward, after a few moments, was to hear Methuselah begin to purr.

Mavis arrived at work that day on a high! She shared with colleagues her tale of the unprecedented feline attention she was getting at home. Such was her enthusiasm for the new meditation practice that over the lunch hour she downloaded a Zen chime to her mobile phone to replace the more imperative alarm she’d been using to end her fifteen minute sessions.

And things got only better. The next day, as soon as she was settled on her cushion, Methuselah walked up and helped himself to her lap. Not to be outdone, Ninja came to her side and lay, leaning again her left thigh. Shrek followed, lying directly on the carpet in front of her, at one point even rolling over and stretching out the curved baldness of her tummy.

Mavis had never known such intimacy with her beloved felines. As she sat, trying her very best to keep her mind focused on her breath, she was helped along by the soundtrack of at least two cats, gently purring.

Something was changing in a subtle, but significant way between her cats and her. Something that couldn’t easily be put into words. But there was a new closeness, of which physical proximity was the most obvious, but not only, manifestation. For the first time in her life, she experienced the uplifting, and yet completely natural sensation that she and her cats were somehow in sync.

Next week at the Integrated Wellness Centre she couldn’t wait for Hannah to invite questions.

‘A kind of weird thing has been happening when I meditate,’ she told Hannah and her fellow novices. ‘My cats are coming into the room to join me. A couple of them are usually stand-off-ish. What’s all that about?’

Hannah hadn’t seemed a bit surprised. ‘It’s by no means unusual,’ she responded. ‘My dog waits to join me every morning as well. When we meditate, we deliberately change our mental state. Our body is relaxed but we are focusing our mind on just one thing. This is very different from our usual state of being. You could say that we create a shift in presence, in energy. Research shows how dramatically we change our whole psycho-physical state when we meditate. We produce endorphins instead of cortisol. Our brain waves move to far greater coherence. This is not just touchy-feely stuff – its scientifically measurable. And because animals are more sensitive to non-verbal changes than we are, they instantly pick up on what’s happening. Sometimes they are drawn to us.’

Mavis swallowed, humbled by the perceptiveness shown by her beloved cats. ‘I feel like I’m somehow on the same page as them. Almost as if they might speak.’

Hannah regarded her closely for a few moments before saying, ‘Animals use sound to communicate, but they routinely use more subtle signals. What we might call knowingness, intuition, telepathy. People who live close to nature do this too. My personal belief is that all humans once used to communicate like this, but our minds have become so busy that, for the most part, we’re incapable of picking up subtle signals any longer. We have so much noise in our lives – TV. Radio. Social media. It’s very interesting what happens when we step away from all that and learn to let go of cognitive chatter and simply be with our pets. Once the barriers go, communication flows.’

‘You’re saying-’ prompted another class member, ‘we can communicate with animals this way?’

‘Not verbally,’ replied Hannah. ‘But when we quiet our minds and open up to what they may be trying to tell us through their actions, perhaps even through symbols, it’s amazing what we discover. A lot of pet lovers say that they’re always talking to their animals, but the reality is that it’s mostly one way traffic,’ she smiled. ‘Talking to our pets is one thing. But do we ever stop to listen?’

Mavis left her second meditation lesson in a state of deep unease. She was exactly the kind of pet lover that Hannah had been describing. All these years it had been one way traffic! Her chattering to the cats about her day at the office. Her dominating the soundwaves with TV and online videos and noise without end. But the moment she had offered her beloved felines some peace and quiet, they had responded to it with unprecedented appreciation.

How could she have got it so very wrong for so many years?

She, a cat lover of all people?!

That night, for the first time ever, she didn’t switch on the TV when she got home. Instead, she and the cats enjoyed their dinner in silence. And, was she imagining things, or did Ninja and Shrek hang around for longer before they did their usual vanishing act?

In the days that followed, Mavis tried to put her relationship with her cats onto a new footing. Their morning meditation sessions now an assumed part of their daily routine, Mavis added a short, session of contemplative silence before turning out the light each night – and the result was a full complement of cats on the duvet beside her. She made an effort to reduce the noise levels at home, investing in a set of headphones so she could watch TV without filling the place with sound. She was rewarded, very quickly, when Ninja and even Shrek proved to be less elusive.

But, as important as any of this, she began to listen. To pay attention. To ask her cats if there was anything they wished to tell her, and then to simply wait, patiently, to see what turned up.

Her first discovery was both shocking and embarrassing. And it wasn’t even an intentional act of communication, as far as she could tell. One evening, she called each one of the cats by name. Ninja and Shrek turned around the moment they heard her. Methuselah, further away, didn’t react at all.

That got her thinking - and setting up a few tests which quickly confirmed her gathering suspicions: Methuselah was profoundly deaf. He could hardly hear a thing, unless the sound was right beside him.

Mavis mused about all those evenings on the sofa, just her and Methuselah. Was the reason he had joined her because he, alone among the cats, was inured to the sound of canned laughter, TV drama sirens and the incessant, bellowing retail advertising? How long had he been as deaf as this? And what did it say about the kind of attention she paid him, that she had missed it?

A trip to the vet established that the cause of his deafness wasn’t purely on account of his old age. A judicious de-waxing of the ears helped him regain some of his hearing.

A week or two later, Mavis was sitting at the kitchen bench, eating dinner, when Ninja hopped onto the counter, strode over towards her, rubbing his face affectionately against her arm.

‘That’s very nice, little Ninj,’ Mavis stroked him. ‘I love you too.’

After more head rubbing and gentle purring, he hopped down onto a stool and began to wash his face.

More sensitive to her cat’s behaviour, and free of other distractions, Mavis watched him for a while before saying, ‘It’s a while since you head-butted me. Not since hospital, in fact. Before I went in, you always used to …’

Which is when it suddenly struck. Only recently had she read about the ability of some animals to detect symptoms of illness among humans. Cats had prodded the abdomens of owners who had stomach cancer. Dogs alerted their diabetic owners to plummeting sugar levels. Horses were able to help veterans suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – all without a word being spoken.

Mavis remembered her visit to the cat haven. How Ninja’s first act had been to headbutt her heart. Gently. How he’d continued doing so, with increasing vigour. But, because she hadn’t been listening, his warnings had been to no avail. If she had listened, and taken herself off for a simple blood pressure check, was it possible she could have avoided the heart attack altogether?!

The idea that Ninja had been patiently persisting for all these years, to give her a message about her own physical wellbeing, a message that had been in her own, imperative self-interest, and that she had been so utterly self-absorbed that she’d been impervious to it, shook her to the core.

There was also transformation in the life of Shrek, albeit of a slower growing variety. After Mavis cut down the noise levels when she was home, Shrek became a more constant presence. Yes, she had been fleeing TV! She was not only physically present, but in a way Mavis couldn’t put into words, more emotionally available too. There were encounters, purrs, glances that confirmed things were somehow different.

There was fur, too. At first so few wisps that Mavis didn’t dare hope too much. But as the wisps burgeoned into tufts, and tufts started joining together, there could be no further room for doubt.

After exhaustive tests, the vet had once told her that Shrek’s baldness may be a stress reaction, but to exactly what he couldn’t say. As Shrek became a gorgeously fluffy white cat, with a full head of hair, there was no question in Mavis’s mind about the cause of her hair loss. She was a sensitive cat. And a quiet one. Not for her the hyper-stimulation of twenty first century life. Offered the simple things in life – nourishing food; a safe, quiet home; the love of a crazy cat lady – and she flourished.

How frustrating, Mavis began to think, to be a pet. To try telling people things when their capacity to listen was so limited. To suffer, right in front of the eyes of those who loved you, because they were oblivious to your even basic needs. To try drawing attention of those you cared for to something that threatened their very existence, but despite your repeated efforts, to do so in vain.

One day, Mavis emerged from her shower to find the cats lined up at the French door, back towards her, staring into the patio. Their meaning, she recognised now, could hardly be plainer.

She opened the door to the courtyard, and all four of them stepped into a spring morning. Usually, she meditated in the spare room, but that morning she brought a chair outside, and sat in her bathrobe, and was simply present to her senses.

It was one of those delightful, pristine moments when the world felt as though it had been freshly minted. A morning breeze carried with it scents of crocuses and freesias. Birds trilled mellifluously from trees in the park nearby. The sun felt warm in Mavis’s face as she sat, simply being here and now.

Methuselah didn’t sit on her lap that morning, but rather perched on a small step, bathed in the sunlight. Beside her on the pavers, Shrek sprawled out, getting maximum exposure to the warmth along the full stretch of her white, furry tummy. Ninja prowled through the small flower bed nearby, like a jungle beast.

It didn’t matter where they all were that morning, physically. In a more important way, they were all exactly where they wanted to be, and in those peaceful moments of radiant wellbeing, they had never felt closer.

All of it, the cats’ idea.

A few weeks later, a colleague of Mavis’s in the graphic design team approached her in the lunch room to show her images of the moggies she had just adopted from her local rescue centre. Like everyone else in the office, Cathy knew that Mavis was a cat tragic, as Darius Drake ironically termed it.

A group of colleagues were soon clustered round Cathy’s phone as she flicked through images of the two kitties she had just adopted. The cats were already displaying markedly different personalities as well as enigmatic quirks, such as a lust for buttered toast.

‘If only they could talk,’ said a woman from accounts, to murmurs of agreement. ‘Isn’t that what you always say, Mavis?’

‘Used to,’ Mavis nodded. ‘But, you know, I’ve completely changed my mind about that. Cat’s do talk. They are communicating with us the whole time. The more important question is, do we ever listen?’

That night, as Mavis lay in bed waiting for sleep, she recalled her conversation with Cathy. She thought of all the years, while claiming to be besotted with her cats, she had unwittingly ignored them, being deaf to their pleas for peace, their wish for contact with nature. She had been closed off to the possibility of the silent, but profound communion she had only just begun to experience, but which had already transformed things between them.

She thought of all the other pets around the world whose lives were similarly constrained by the tragic unawareness of their owners. All those missed opportunities for the freedom and the profound well-being she had only recently discovered. For the experience of wordless acceptance, and of love. And as she reflected, a rush of such deep sadness welled up inside her that she let out an involuntary sob.

Lying on her side, she wondered how things could ever be changed? How was it possible to share with every pet lover the full significance of the relationships they could enjoy with their companions, if only they could quieten their minds?

As she lay there, she sensed a stirring on the bed, and the shadow of a once-bald, but now luxuriantly fluffy cat fall over her. And, in the next moment, the sandpapery quality of a small, pink tongue licking her cheek.

If you enjoyed the story, you’ll find others in my first ‘Bedtime Buddha' book of short stories entitled ‘The Astral Traveler’s Handbook & Other Tales.’

Click on any of the following links for more: Amazon US Amazon UK Amazon AU Other formats: Apple/Nook/Kobo etc

UPDATE FROM TWALA TRUST ANIMAL SANCTUARY

On the subject of listening to animals - welcome back to Twala, Kathy! Returning volunteers fit straight back in to life at The Twala Trust Animal Sanctuary and it is always touching to see how happy the animals are to see their friends again.

Photos, clockwise from top right: A familiar scene at Twala - you are never short of company - or eager petitioners - on the veranda at breakfast; Kathy with the Chief Pest Controller of the organic garden; barn owlets who need feeding three times a day; one of the highlights of each day - the morning walk!

To help some of the most vulnerable animals - and people - with whom we share our world, and to support my work, please consider a paying subscription. I donate 50% of my earnings to our supported nonprofits. It is hard to communicate how much every dollar really does help in changing the lives of these sentient beings …

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Photo: Moreblessing recovering at her aunt’s home

In late May, I received the following urgent message from Vivienne Kernohan at ROKPA Support Network:

“Over the last two years, life has dealt Moreblessing a rough hand. First, her husband deserted her, taking with him the stability she had built for their two young children. She moved back to her parents’ home but, that same year, her mother – the person she most leaned on – died.

Her father, Cloudias, a peasant farmer, scraped together what he could to send her to Lake Kariba, hundreds of kilometres away, to buy fish for resale. It was a small beginning and she was finding her footing, but just as she was about to start earning enough to care for and educate her children, another tragedy struck.

In March this year, Moreblessing went to the lake’s edge to fetch water and was attacked by a crocodile. Somehow, she survived but with severe injuries. She lost her right arm below the elbow and her right thigh bone was broken, along with significant flesh damage to that leg. She is now immobile in hospital and in considerable pain.

The medical road ahead is long; to repair her broken thigh she needs a metal implant, but these are not available on the government health service. Her father has been quoted USD 600 by a private supplier – an impossible sum under the circumstances. She also needs daily medication for pain and to prevent blood clots while she is bedridden, costing around USD 7 a day. Skin grafting procedures are still to come.

Photo: Moreblessing in hospital soon after the crocodile attack

In his search for help, a stranger at the hospital told Cloudias about ROKPA’s Drop-in Centre. He came to us with very little hope, having already exhausted everything — his own savings and those of friends and extended family. There was nowhere else to turn. So far, RSN has supported with various medicines, a first orthopaedic implant and food packs.

Meanwhile, Moreblessing’s two children wait; they need food and their school fees are due. At just 29 years old, Moreblessing has fought — literally — to survive. Now she needs your support to get through the many medical procedures that lie ahead. Financial support for both her own treatment and the immediate care of her children will relieve her of worry about them and allow her to focus on her recovery.

The family’s most pressing needs are:

• USD 600 for the second surgical implant to repair her broken thigh.

• Ongoing daily medication and dressings (approximately USD 500 for the next two months)

• Food and school fees for her children during her recovery (approximately USD 200 up to the end of the year)

Photo: Moreblessings’ children

Anything you can offer will go directly towards Moreblessing’s treatment and her children’s care. In this case, a little truly does go a long way.”

When I got this message I responded immediately with a pledge to meet these modest needs. Within days, US$2,000 was deposited in ROKPA’s account in Zimbabwe.

Just last week, Vivienne sent me this update:

“Moreblessing was discharged from hospital on Wednesday 24 June, though without having her fractured thigh fixed, as this can only be done once her other wounds have healed.

The doctors felt she would recuperate better out of hospital and that wound dressing could be done at home. Her father’s initial response was distress, as he was not ready to take her home to Kwekwe rural area where he stays, and where Moreblessing’s children are. He has to travel the 200km back there regularly to check on the children, and on his home.

He called us, stranded, saying the doctors were cruel. We counselled him and suggested that in the meantime, his sister, who lives on the outskirts of Harare, could accommodate Moreblessing. Fortunately, she agreed, and we visited her there on Thursday.

We found Moreblessing happy to be out of hospital and looking comfortable and well taken care of. Her aunt, who doesn’t own much, has made the space smart and comfortable for her. Her father expressed his appreciation to RSN for covering all her medication, which costs at least USD60 every week and which the family could not have managed themselves. A friend has provided USD50 for a nurse aid to come daily to dress Moreblessing’s wounds at a cost of USD23 a week and when this sum is finished, RSN will cover this essential care.

While she still has a lot of pain in the fractured leg and cannot sit up because of the pain, Moreblessing is healing well. With your help, we have already paid for the orthopaedic implant, and the surgery will be done as soon as her wounds close.

Thank you all for your generous support of Moreblessing and her family through what seemed insurmountable challenges. We wish her a speedy recovery.”

Emergency medical care is just one of the ways we support the ROKPA Support Network. Moreblessing’s story—like Vengye’s, who lost his leg last year—is almost beyond comprehension for those of us fortunate enough to take basic healthcare and a social safety net for granted.

If you’re a paying subscriber, you are part of these stories. Your support helps make it possible to reach people at the moment they need it most. It is a quiet act of compassion whose effects ripple far beyond what any of us can see.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your kindness, your generosity, and for giving more of what you most wish to see in the world.

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To my friends in the United States, happy Independence Day! Wherever you're celebrating today, I hope it's a joyful occasion, shared with those you love. Thank you for being such a wonderful part of this community.

Now … let’s begin today’s post.

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Dear Paying Subscribers,

The time has come once again for me to share a chapter from my evolving new novel, Mary Magdalene’s Cat. As always, it’s a little longer than my regular posts, so you may like to set aside some uninterrupted time to enjoy it.

It also means I can’t include a photographic update from one of our supported nonprofits without exceeding…

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Thank you so much for all the stories you shared, in response to my post ten days ago, about how symbols, images and, in one case, even a home ‘found’ you, before you knew about them!

Given the enthusiasm for this subject, I will definitely be writing more about the power of symbols of all kinds in the coming months.

If we apply the principle of “Occam’s razor"- the principle that the simplest explanation is usually the right one - it seems kind of obvious to me that that powerful attractions we feel arise from past lives. When we have had no exposure to a specific idea, symbol, image or mantra in this life, where else might such unexpected and powerful feelings come from?

Because I shared so many images in my symbols post, I wasn’t able to include the very short video below. I am doing so now because it combines both my attractions to Green Tara and Ganesha.

All those years ago in London, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that I’d be chanting Tara mantras to a herd of orphaned elephants back in my homeland of Zimbabwe. Nor that one male bull, in particular, would have shown such a curious affinity to it.

From hanging around in the back, Kura came right up close to experience the mantras as closely as possible.

My heartfelt thanks to Roxy, Cath, and the elephant carers at Wild is Life/Zimbabwe Elephant Nursery in Harare, for this very precious opportunity to be with the elie herd.

Recognition of the mutual kind is an important theme in my next post, this coming Saturday, when I’ll be sharing the next chapter of my unfolding novel Mary Magdalane’s Cat with paying subscribers. In the chapter, Mary tells Te’oma - Rabboni’s youngest sister - how she came to know Rabboni.

A small excerpt to whet your appetite! We open this passage with Mary saying:

“He changed my life. You might say-” she adds, with a small, self-knowing smile. “-he cast out my demons. Not the demons my father and his parents spoke of. Those were never mine.” She shakes her head. “My burden was of another kind. From my earliest years, with such cruel words spoken over me, and spoken again, they had taken root within me. I came to feel unloved - and worse, beyond all loving.”

Her gaze settles, as though following something far away. “I thought myself ugly, without and within. I hardened my heart against my grandparents and shed no tears when even my parents were taken from me. But I longed,” she pauses. “I craved the warmth of an embrace, for the touch of one who loves. And because of this longing, and also the bitterness that lived beside it, I believed there was something twisted in me, something not as it should be.”

She is quiet for a moment.

Theon did much for me. He gave me learning, a fine house, and a measure of freedom. I will always be grateful to him. But none of it touched what lay here-” she rests her hand lightly against her chest, “nor changed how I saw myself.”

“But Rabboni did?” Te’oma asks, with the ease of one who may ask anything.

“He saved me,” Mary says softly.

“How?” she asks again.

Mary meets her gaze.

“By showing me who I truly am. What I truly am. Not the one I had taken myself to be -not the one shaped by what was said to me, or done to me, or left undone. All that I had gathered and called ‘myself’ - he showed me it was not fixed, nor whole, nor even truly mine.

“What I had taken to be myself could fall away - and yet what I truly am remained. Because at the centre of my being,” she touches her heart, “there is a point of light and love that belongs entirely to the Good.”

She is quiet a moment.

“This is what I am in truth. And it can be no more tainted by sin or illusion than the sky is shadowed by the most foreboding clouds.”

I look forward to sharing the full installment this weekend!

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Photo by Christopher Michel

Bob Thurman died at home in Woodstock this week at the age of 84. Known variously as “the Dalai Lama’s man in America” and “the Godfather of Buddhism in the West,” Bob was a force of nature. His boundless energy, infectious enthusiasm, intellectual brilliance and tireless efforts to share the Dharma touched countless lives—directly for those fortunate enough to know him, and indirectly for many millions more.

I had planned a different post for this week. Yet, in light of Bob’s passing and his extraordinary contribution to the flourishing of Buddhism in the West, it feels fitting instead to pause for a moment of gratitude and reflection. Few individuals have done more to foster understanding, credibility and appreciation of the Dharma among such a wide range of people. And few friendships have done more to build a bridge between East and West than his lifelong connection with His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

The New York Times has published an excellent article summarising some of the key milestones in Bob’s remarkable life:

New York Times article on Bob Thurman

For a taste of Bob’s teachings, I am sharing two videos where he shares his luminous intelligence, quirky humour and understanding of Dharma teachings. First, a TED talk on expanding our circle of compassion:

This longer presentation on shunyata and compassion is one of many videos of Bob on the Science and Nonduality website:

You can find many more resources on his website, here

Among the many things Bob taught, one observation has always stayed with me: "Compassion makes you happy. The first person who is happy when you get great compassion is yourself."

What I love about this is that it distils the essence of the Dharma into something immediately recognisable. Here was a man of extraordinary learning, one of the foremost interpreters of Tibetan Buddhism in the modern world, yet he continually returned to truths that anyone could test in their own experience. We do not need a doctorate, years of meditation retreat, or a deep understanding of Buddhist philosophy to discover whether compassion brings greater happiness. We only need to test it out for ourselves. In many ways, Bob's genius lay not only in his scholarship, but in his ability to illuminate profound wisdom in a way that spoke to the human heart.

NONPROFIT UPDATE

On the subject of compassion making us happy, I’d like to thank all of you who generously donated to our Greenline appeal for water tanks last week. Over forty subscribers offered direct donations via the Michie Foundation/GDG. As a result it looks like we’ll be able to provide three tanks, or possibly four - depending on the final total.

This will, of course, have a massive impact on the many families whose daily quest for water has been such a time-consuming preoccupation. It is, in fact, hard for most of us to imagine what a huge difference this will make given that we mostly take it for granted that when we turn a tap, water comes out. And we all have taps!

Also, I wanted to let you know that I have recovered completely from surgery, and the scar on my neck is healing quickly. This week I went for my first, post-melanoma skin check, and was relieved that my skin doctor found nothing sinister. I will continue checks every three months. Even if a new melanoma is found again, like the last one, early detection should make for an easy fix.

Koala and I are starting to get excited about this year’s Mindful Safari. We head off to Africa in mid July, spending time in Zimbabwe ahead of safari starting on the 27th. Caissias, our lodge manager, is already sending through images of elephants at the watering hole and salt licks …can’t wait to go home!

UPDATE FROM TWALA TRUST ANIMAL SANCTUARY

On the subject of compassion making us happy, I am delighted to share a few snippets of news from Sarah and the team at Twala:

Photo: Hissy the secretive Guardian of the Solar Panels

Most of our volunteers will know Shadow and Hissy, the workshop cats. They came with us when we first came to Twala and are legendary characters. Shadow and his glorious whiskers are very involved in the meetings and paperwork side of running the workshop. Hissy, his sister, guards our solar power bank, sleeping under the panels on the roof.

In January, Hissy disappeared. We searched everywhere for her, but there was no sign of her and we were heartbroken.

Then volunteer Jennifer arrived in April, an avowed Cat person (soon to be swayed to being a Dog Person as well by the irresistible Waggley Tail Club). She posted a picture of herself on the volunteer chat with 2 gigantic black cats. Shadow...and Hissy!

Apparently Hissy just sauntered nonchalantly out of the shed where we store all our crates. She’s as sleek and fabulous as ever, so she’s obviously been eating, but how did she evade 20 people for 4 months? And why? We will never know. Cats are good at keeping secrets. But we are so happy she is back, if indeed she ever left!

Photo: Jennifer with Shadow and Hissy

Photo: Sisayo

This darling old girl has just been surrendered. Sisayo is so bewildered to be in a new environment, without the people she has loved and protected for so many years.

Although her life as a member of the Waggley Tail Club will be one of comfort and care, she doesn’t understand why her owner has left her, but we are glad they brought her to us instead of abandoning her as so many people do with old dogs. She will settle in time, and will be so loved.

Photo: All the 60+ dogs at Twala are taken for daily walks. The surrounding countryside is lush at the end of the green season. And you never know who you might bump into!

Photo: No dog is left behind

Photo: And even those creatures who must stay are cared for!

PS Thanks to each one of you who shared those wonderful stories of being drawn to images/symbols/animals/homes in response to my post last week about symbols. I have a sense that the subject really connects with you as it does with me. I will definitely be writing more about it over the coming months, as part of the overall writing mix.

How lucky are we to be part of this virtual community of kindred spirits!

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Image: Green Tara, the mother of all Buddhas

Have you ever walked into a room and found your eyes drawn irresistibly to a particular image, object or photograph? Something that seemed to call to you for reasons you couldn’t quite explain? The question is: what drew you to it?

In my late twenties, I was living near Clapham Common in London. At weekends, I would often wander around the park or browse the quirky independent shops nearby, escaping for a few hours from the confines of my tiny one-bedroom flat.

One afternoon, I found myself in an art and framing shop, idly spinning through a carousel of large square prints. Most barely registered. But two images stopped me in my tracks.

Both looked Indian. I recognised one immediately as Ganesh, the elephant-headed deity. The other depicted a rather mystical and intriguing green figure seated against an intricate background of dazzling colours. I had no idea who she was.

What surprised me was the strength of my reaction. I wasn’t looking to buy artwork. But I found myself returning to them again and again, as though they possessed some significance that I could sense but not yet understand.

I bought both prints and asked the framer to give them the full treatment: antique gold frames, generous double mounts in deep red, and a gold fillet for added drama. When they were finally hung on the crowded walls of my flat, I admired them often, despite knowing almost nothing about who - or what - they represented.

Life, however, has a way of carrying us onwards. After I married my wife, Koala, our belongings were carefully packed into crates and shipped halfway around the world to Australia. Among them were the two framed images from that little London shop.

For years they remained packed away, wrapped in old pages of the Evening Standard, as one home gave way to another and new chapters of life unfolded. By the time we settled into a place of our own in Perth, much had changed. The décor that had suited a small London flat didn’t work in sunny Western Australia. Besides, over the years we had accumulated more pictures than wall space.

While I never parted with those two framed prints, they remained in a storage crate, as if patiently waiting for their moment.

It was in Perth that I found my extraordinary Dharma teacher, Les Sheehy, and began attending classes regularly. It was here that I came to understand one of Buddhism’s most enduring tools is the power of symbols. So effective is this visual language that many Buddhist emblems have remained in continuous use for more than two thousand years, communicating across languages and cultures.

Explaining where that power comes from is rather like describing an iceberg. The part we can see and understand consciously represents only a small fraction of the whole. Symbols seem to speak to us on several levels at once: intellectually, emotionally and, perhaps, somewhere even deeper still.

To see how this works, let’s return to the mysterious green figure that first caught my attention in that London shop. Buddha Tara is perhaps the most beloved of all yidams, or meditational deities in Tibetan Buddhism. At first glance, she appears simply serene and radiant. Yet every aspect of her depiction carries meaning.

She is shown seated in meditation, symbolising her embodiment of the enlightened mind. And from where does that arise? The answer may be found in the image itself, through three symbols shown—or implied—beneath her.

At the base is the lotus flower, symbolising renunciation: the decision to turn away from suffering. Just as a lotus grows from mud, our spiritual journey often begins in difficulty. Loss, disappointment, illness, uncertainty and change can all become the catalyst for deeper questioning. Recognising “no mud, no lotus” helps us reframe life’s adversities, seeing them not simply as obstacles but as opportunities for growth.

Resting upon the lotus is a white moon disc. Cool, luminous and serene, it symbolises bodhichitta: the wish to attain enlightenment for the benefit of all living beings. While renunciation begins with recognising our own suffering; bodhichitta arises when we recognise that every other being suffers too. Even if I am somehow able to free myself from suffering, what of my loved ones, my family - including my pets! - and my closest friends? And why stop there when all beings suffer?

Bodhichitta is the heartfelt resolve to attain enlightenment to help others as well as ourselves. Perfecting such boundless compassion is said to be among the greatest challenges - and greatest attainments - of our spiritual path.

Above the moon disc rests the gold sun disc, usually implied rather than explicitly depicted. It symbolises shunyata, the ultimate nature of reality. As readers of this newsletter know, this is a subject I return to often: the recognition that all phenomena arise dependently and lack any independent existence.

When our understanding of this reality deepens, it changes the way that we experience the world. We may inhabit the same physical environment as before, but we perceive it differently. Life feels lighter, more fluid, less burdened by the solidity with which we ordinarily invest our problems and concerns.

All Buddhas - all awakened minds - arise from renunciation, bodhichitta and shunyata. Whenever we encounter a Buddha image, we are seeing not only a representation of enlightenment itself, but also a visual reminder of the path leading to it.

As for the depiction of Tara herself, she is more than simply a beautiful work of art.

Her green colour represents compassion not merely as a feeling, but as a force in motion. She is compassion in action.

Her right foot extended from the meditation posture, reinforces this message. While remaining perfectly centred in wisdom and compassion, she is already stepping forward to help those in need.

The utpala flower, or blue water lily, held beside her shoulder symbolises wisdom—particularly the wisdom of shunyata, the direct understanding of reality’s true nature.

Her youthful appearance points to another quality of the enlightened mind. Far from being solemn or remote, enlightenment is fresh, vibrant and full of energy. For this reason, male and female yidams are often depicted at around sixteen years of age, in the prime of youth.

We may see images like Tara’s as reflecting latent qualities that we, ourselves, posses. As we become more familiar with them, the qualities they embody start to feel increasingly natural. Not only has an image conveyed information – it may help us towards transformation, encouraging us to embody those same awakened qualities ourselves.

Such experiences seem to bypass the analytical mind altogether. They open the heart directly, taking us into a state of being that no amount of conceptual understanding can yield. Sometimes, with astonishing speed.

I will never forget walking into a temple in Bumthang Valley, Bhutan, and finding myself standing before the most beautiful Tara I had ever encountered. She was only a modest statue, perhaps three feet high, yet to call her merely a statue feels strangely inadequate. She possessed the most extraordinary presence – as if Tara herself were really there. Even now, years later, the memory of that encounter sends a shiver through me.

Only a week earlier I had been in Patan, in Kathmandu Valley, famous for its master sculptors. I had spent days admiring countless images of Tara, many of them exquisite. But this one was different. Why? Was it some subtle detail in the way her face had been shaped? The angle of her gaze? The positioning of her hands? Or was something else at work?

I have no answer. I only know that standing before her, I felt as though I were in the presence of something immeasurably greater than bronze, pigment and artistic skill.

Which brings us to perhaps the most intriguing aspect of symbolism: the way it operates at a deep, intuitive level. Carl Jung suggested that certain images possess archetypal power, resonating with structures already present within the psyche. Buddhism offers a complementary explanation in the form of karmic imprints. Certain images seem to affect us in ways that go beyond our conscious understanding.

I expect you have experienced this yourself. Perhaps in a painting, a landscape, a piece of music, a sacred image, or even a person. Have you ever had the experience of something powerfully speaking to you, long before you understood why?

In my own case, the story leads back to those two supposedly “Indian” images I bought in that London framing shop more than thirty years ago.

For decades, I gave them little thought. Then, late last year, I found myself in Africa with Zasep Tulku Rinpoche on our special Tara Safari. Elephants are a constant presence where we stay at Masuwe Lodge, and naturally our conversations sometimes turned to Ganesh. As often happens when speaking with Rinpoche, I learned something unexpected. Ganesha - or Ganapati, as he is often known - is revered not only in Hinduism. It turned out he is also a Dharma Protector in Buddhism.

Associated with prosperity and the removal of obstacles, the aspect of Ganesha that most captured my imagination is lila. In Sanskrit, lila means “play”, and Ganesha is often associated with the joyful, creative expression of the divine. The idea resonates strongly with me. Much of my own life is spent imagining stories through which readers might encounter compassion, wisdom and the possibility of inner transformation. If there is such a thing as divine play, I found myself wondering whether writing Dharma stories might represent a small participation in it.

Rinpoche suggested that I undertake the practice of Twelve-Armed Ganesha, a particularly striking form of the deity. In Buddhist iconography, multiple arms symbolise the capacity to help beings in many ways simultaneously. A fitting image for anyone attempting to communicate Dharma through stories.

It was this conversation that unexpectedly prompted me to unpack those two framed images from London and take a fresh look at them.

When I returned home to Perth, I dug out the image of Ganesha that I remembered from all those years ago in London. What I discovered really startled me. The image that had captivated me as a young man turned out not to be any old Ganesha - but Twelve-Armed Ganapati. The very form that Rinpoche had recently recommended I practise.

As for the other image, the mysterious green figure who had captivated me in the same shop all those years ago, she was none other than Green Tara. The very yidam into whose practice I have long since received initiation, and whose beautiful mantra I still recite whenever I encounter birds, animals and other living beings.

Who would have thought? Certainly not the young man standing in that London shop all those years ago.

What was happening, as I stood, flicking through all those images? Was it a foreshadowing of what was to come? The stirring of karmic connections? Pure coincidence?

Whatever the answer, I find it hard not to wonder. A young man wandering into a framing shop near Clapham Common. Two unexplained attractions. A journey to Australia. A Dharma teacher. Decades of practice. A Tibetan Rinpoche. Herds of elephants in Africa. A conversation about lila …

And, ultimately, this moment: me sitting here writing these words, and you sitting there reading them. Perhaps that, too, is part of the mystery of symbols. Long before we understand their meaning, they seem to understand something about us. They connect to us in a way we find hard to fathom.

Photo: Those images of Twelve Armed Ganesha and Green Tara that stopped me in my tracks all those years ago. I had to photograph them in dim conditions to avoid the reflective glass, so they appear less vivid than in real life. But, I hope, enough to give you an idea!

And what about you, my subscribers? Have you ever been drawn to an image, a symbol, a place or a person for reasons you couldn’t explain at the time - only to discover a connection later in your life? If so, please share your story in the Comment box. Perhaps together we can explore a little more of what lies beneath the surface of the iceberg.

Update from ROKPA Support Network

Photo: Part of ROKPA Support Network’s activites in Chitungwiza is to offer the pre-school siblings of disabled children a chance to learn

In this brightly-lit classroom, with visual aids and toys the staff have managed to source from all manner of different places, the enthusiasm of both teacher and her pupils is self-evident. Coming from some of the most disadvantaged homes, the discipline of the small kids is quite extraordinary. Eager to learn - which they understand, from an early age, can be a way out of poverty - they take nothing for granted.

Photo: lunch time for the pres-schoolers - including those with disabilities who need constant support

Overseeing the multiple activities of the network, from supporting disabled children, their mothers and siblings, to helping those who need prosthetics, wheelchairs, urgent medical attention and educational support, is the ROKPA staff team.

Photo: ROKPA Support Network staff team meeting

My heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who pays to subscribe to my work - thereby helping some of the most vulnerable people in Africa. Every minute of every day, whatever else is going on in our lives we are making a life-changing difference by embodying Green Taras’s compassion-in-action.

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Photo: Amai Chipo and her children carrying water

High above the mighty Zambezi River, perched on the steep escarpment overlooking its waters, lies Jembwe Village.

For generations, the people of Jembwe have lived with a constant challenge: water. Despite one of Africa’s great rivers flowing below them, families have depended almost entirely on seasonal ra…

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I’d like to share a few thoughts today on the idea of training our minds to wish for the happiness of all living beings … including those we dislike.

At first glance, this may seem an impossibly ambitious undertaking. After all, it’s sometimes a struggle even to maintain warm feelings for the people we encounter before breakfast.

But in developing equanimity, our task is to abandon our usual assumption that people fall into three broad groups: friends, enemies and strangers. Instead, we gradually retrain ourselves to recognise what unites us. Every sentient being, without exception, wishes to experience happiness and avoid suffering – just like me.

Why does this recognition matter? Firstly, because it is true. Beneath our differing appearances, beliefs, cultures and personalities we share the same aspirations.

Secondly, cultivating a more tolerant, open-minded, live-and-let-live attitude enhances our own wellbeing. The less energy we spend judging, resenting and dividing the world into camps, the more peaceful our own state of heart.

Thirdly, every time we widen the circle of our concern, we loosen the grip of self-cherishing, the habit of placing ourselves at the centre of our personal universe. In so doing, we chip away at one of the deepest causes of our own suffering and move a little closer towards a more transcendent perspective.

The Four Immeasurables, which I often repeat at the end of these posts, gives voice to exactly these intentions:

May all beings have happiness and the true causes of happiness.

May all beings be free from suffering and the true causes of suffering.

May all beings never be parted from the happiness that is beyond suffering.

May all beings abide in peace and equanimity, their minds free from attachment and anger, and free from ignorance.

Daily life provides no shortage of challenges to these noble ideals. Driving down the road in the afterglow of a peaceful meditation session, we might get cut off by a driver in a spectacular display of selfishness. Or be treated rudely by a shop assistant. Or encounter someone whose opinions strike us as ignorant, misguided or downright offensive.

Among fellow practitioners, we sometimes joke about this. With suitably saintly expressions and palms pressed reverently to our hearts, we solemnly recite, “May all living beings have happiness... except for that xxxx over there!”

The joke can take the sting out of the moment. And honest recognition of our feelings is healthier than pretending they don’t exist. Acknowledging frustration is, in fact, often the first step towards transforming it.

But what about truly evil people?

This is where our practice becomes genuinely challenging. We’re not talking here about those who are merely thoughtless, insensitive or having a bad day. What about the people who deliberately inflict pain on others? The ruthless tyrants, sadists and psychopaths who seem entirely indifferent to the misery they cause, so long as they get what they want. How can we possibly wish for their happiness?

As a young Buddhist practitioner, I wrestled with exactly this question in relation to Robert Mugabe, then president of my homeland of Zimbabwe. His obsession with power and extraordinary corruption inflicted immense suffering on millions of people, and devastated a once-promising economy. Every instinct in me rebelled against the idea of wishing him well. How could I authentically want him to be happy?

The answer came when I got clearer about the kind of happiness I might want for him.

From his actions, Mugabe appeared to believe that happiness is to be found in unchallenged power, unquestioning adulation and vast personal wealth. But none of these things are genuine causes of happiness. At best they offer temporary pleasure; at worst, they may fuel even greater dissatisfaction.

Was it really surprising that Mugabe appeared increasingly isolated, suspicious and embittered as every year passed? The more desperately he pursued the things he believed would make him happy, the further genuine happiness receded from his grasp.

The happiness we wish for others is not, therefore, the kind they mistakenly seek for themselves. We are not wishing them greater success in pursuing greed, hatred or delusion. We are not cheering them deeper into the wilderness.

Rather, we wish for their true happiness. We wish for them to discover the genuine causes of wellbeing. Happiness is not something we seize for ourselves. Paradoxically, it flourishes most readily when our attention shifts from our own wants and worries to the welfare of others.

Each of us has particular skills or passions through which we may contribute to the wellbeing of those around us. Finding ways to express them is one of life’s great opportunities. It is in giving rather than grasping, that we are most likely to encounter the fulfilment we seek.

As president of a nation, especially one wielding almost unbridled power, Mugabe occupied perhaps the ultimate position of Chief Happiness Officer. What an extraordinary opportunity he had! Imagine waking every morning with a single guiding question: “How can I make life better for the people I serve today?”

Imagine if that aspiration formed the foundation of every policy, every appointment, every decision. What a remarkable source of fulfilment that could have been. And what an extraordinary difference it would have made to millions of lives, reverberating throughout the whole country, and perhaps even the continent!

It didn’t take long for my feelings about Mugabe to change. I began to see him less as a sinister and hateful dictator and more as a deeply tragic figure - someone who had squandered the opportunity of a lifetime. Probably, a great many lifetimes.

This was not to minimise the suffering he caused, nor to absolve him of responsibility for it. Rather, it was to see that behind the corruption, cruelty and lust for power was a human being who was profoundly confused about where happiness is to be found.

I once toyed with the idea of writing a story: The Tale of the Sad Dictator. The more I reflected on it, the more I recognised a pattern hardly unique to Mugabe. Through history we repeatedly encounter leaders who seek fulfilment through power, wealth, and control, only to become increasingly isolated, paranoid and embittered.

The details, personalities and ideologies differ. Yet the underlying tragedy is often the same. These are not the lives of people who have discovered happiness. They are people desperately looking for it in all the wrong places.

Far from wishing for the happiness of all beings except Mugabe, I gradually found myself wishing for the happiness of all beings - especially Mugabe. After all, who was more in need of genuine happiness than someone causing such suffering to others? And that was before even considering the tsunami of negative karma he was creating for himself.

So, dear reader, next time you reflect on someone who arouses anger or resentment in your heart, it may help to remember this distinction: the happiness we wish for them is not the fleeting satisfaction of getting their own way. It is the happiness that arises from a genuine concern for others.

We are not approving of their harmful behaviour, turning a blind eye to injustice or abandoning common sense. We are, rather, resisting the impulse to let our hearts become as narrow as theirs.

The practice of wishing happiness for all beings is actually much less about them than about us. Every time we include one more difficult person within the circle of our compassion, we take another step towards freedom ourselves.

Perhaps that is why the Four Immeasurables begin with such a radical aspiration:

May all beings have happiness and the true causes of happiness.

Especially those ones!

Update from Wild is Life/Zimbabwe Elephant Orphanage

Turning to beings for whom it is very easy to have feelings of love and compassion …

Photos: Most great animal photos require you to press the shutter at exactly the right moment. Which in turn requires you to spend a lot of time with the animals … and make a lot of shutter presses before you get the one!

Isn’t this ‘Elephants as art’ photo simply wonderful? For me it embodies the connection between the elephants and the earth in the most fundamental way. Everything about the colours, light and composition seems perfect! Kudos to Elephant Carer Paridzai Mutize for capturing the moment!

“Two of our dear Panda Masuie babies are on the way to being all grown up. Once both little orphans, tiny Thunder the baby buffalo and Nala the baby zebra are blossoming into magnificent young adults.

It’s been our pleasure to raise them from little and to guide them gently back to their life in the wild when the time comes.”

And the following video clip was just too enchanting not to share with you. In the wonderful place that is Wild is Life just outside Harare, you never know quite who you may bump into … including the occasional kudu bull who takes it upon himself to be the office sentry.

May all beings have happiness, and the true causes of happiness!

If the messages in these posts resonate with you, please join our virtual, global circle of like-minded individuals who are turning words into actions!

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