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The Dalai Lama at Stanford “A truly great man... I consider him one of my closest spiritual brothers.” — The Dalai Lama, on Anthony Damiani (1922-1984) in Larson Publications 1994 Catalog 1 I show Mom the quote in the book catalog that arrives in the mail the day before Dalai Lama's lecture, because she had disparaged my first spiritual teacher back in Ithaca '68, since he didn't graduate from college and worked as a toll-collector at the Seneca Falls Thruway. But I had never met anyone so passionate about philosophy than Anthony, and a group of Cornell students met at his bookstore weekly as he shared freely the wisdom of the sages. 2 Mom has dislocated her shoulder. For the last month, I'm home instead of the computer lab, feel like Cinderella, cooking and cleaning, mopping floors, watering chives in the garden. Still she chides me that my work no matter how spiritual my intent, will not get me a ticket to see the Dalai Lama. Dad gives me his Hoover Library card, tells me to get to Stanford by dawn for unclaimed tickets that students and faculty won in the lottery. 3 I'm up all night clipping & throwing away newspapers for the morning's trash collection. After four hours sleep, I arrive to overflowing crowds at Tressider Union just before noon, many here since 7 am. I sign on a yellow pad behind some hundred students and wait an hour to receive my ticket for Dalai Lama's 5:30 lecture at Memorial Church. At Type & Design, I assemble fourteen of my poems and hand them to some official as gift for His Holiness since the audience was requested to remain seated. |
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4 The Dalai Lama speaks in his self-described “broken English,” hands folded to his chest, but more often he chops & gestures for emphasis, movements learned in debates when young. Sunlight from a stained glass showing Christ's Ascension pours in when he points to his heart and then to the audience: 5 After his lecture, the Dalai Lama heads for the center aisle instead of the back door. I'm three rows back holding his book The Nobel Peace Prize & the Dalai Lama and hear someone say “No autographs!” so I call out the magic word— not Om Mani Padme Hum the sacred Tibetan mantra of Jewel in the Lotus, nor Milarepa or Nagarjuna, those great Buddhist sages, but say simply “Anthony Damiani” His Holiness turns my way and I hand him my pen & book saying— “Anthony was my teacher.” I touch his hand for blessings and marvel at those swirling seven strokes of his name— 
a raked rock garden, a flint of fire, a soaring crane, a waterfall pouring gently into the great wisdom ocean without beginning nor end Peter Y. Chou Palo Alto * 4-19-1994 |
