My first encounter with Tibet, in this lifetime, was when I was about eleven years old.  I knew absolutely nothing about Tibet, about Buddhism, or even about meditation.  At that age, I saw a Doctor Who episode in which giant spiders jumped on people’s backs and controlled them.  The same episode included at least one scene in which a bunch of white guys (this was filmed in England in the 70s) sat cross-legged in a basement and chanted, “Om mani padme hum.”  “Om mani padme hum” means the Jewel in the Lotus; the Jewel is the mind, and the Lotus is the heart, and the combination of the two refers to compassion and loving-kindness.  Apparently the chanting controlled the spiders, though what the jewel in the lotus has to do with hypnotizing giant spiders to attack people, I don’t know; it certainly doesn’t sound especially compassionate.

That night, I had a strange and vivid dream.  It was set in a very dimly lit room with a long dark wooden cabinet against a wall.  Above the cabinet, a man sat cross-legged, and he was dressed in bright yellow robes and wore a strange bright yellow pointed hat.  He had a round face with a blissful little smile.  He floated a few inches above the cabinet.

I woke up thinking that was a very strange dream, and that the funny man in yellow was either a genie or an elf.  Approximately twenty years later, when I had become fascinated by Tibetan culture, I remembered that dream and realized that the so-called genie was a Tibetan monk wearing a hat just like the one the Dalai Lama and other Tibetan monks or lamas sometimes wear in ceremonies.  Perhaps hearing the chant “Om mani padme hum” had triggered a past life memory in my subconscious.  But if so, I’m inclined to dismiss the monk’s levitation, because I’m rather skeptical about that.  I should perhaps add that I am not one of those Shangri-la people who see Tibet through rose-colored glasses.  Still, what I dreamed is what I dreamed.