Walking up Jogibara Road this morning after breakfast on the rooftop of the Carpe Diem restaurant (which offers good cheer and the best muesli in town), I was enjoying the usual schoolday parade of parents bringing their youngest children downhill to the Tibetan Children's Village (TCV) preschool. Since I first arrived here in March, I've loved this heartening sight: the dozens of wide-eyed children, each dressed neatly in a school uniform and sheparded by one or both parents, or sometimes an older brother. During rainstorms, the children perch on their mothers' or fathers' shoulders, sheltered by umbrellas. Meanwhile, on both sides of the road, Indian and Tibetan stallowners and shopkeepers set up for their day. Yesterday, I noticed an Indian stallkeeper silently praying, his forehead pressed against the wall--his way of beginning his business day.

Today, without warning, came a disruption to this usual order. All the Tibetans began sprinting for the small gap on the downhill side of the main chorten, through which pedestrians can squeeze to get to Temple Road, which leads up from the main temple and His Holiness' residence. For a split second, I was startled. But then I realized what must be happening, and I began to sprint for the gap, too, just behind a panting elderly woman with her cane. The sound of a police siren confirmed my guess: His Holiness was traveling up Temple Road from his residence to the main TCV school, off the Naddi Road above town, where he was scheduled to begin two days of teachings. Everyone, including me, hoped for a glimpse of him as he passed by.

We were too late, though, and the crowd slowed to a stop. "Too late!" someone commented to me, smiling, and an elderly man grinned at me, as we all turned back.

Several minutes later, as I continued my walk up the steep Dharamkot Road to Tushita Meditation Centre and the morning meditation session there, I heard the siren again from the opposite hillside, which the Naddi Road crosses. I stopped and watched the line of cars, led by a police vehicle, moving slowly in the direction of the TCV school. By now, I've learned how to tell which car would be carrying His Holiness. I watched quietly, tears coming to my eyes, until the cars passed around the corner and out of view. I'd seen this same procession pass by me four or five times as I walked up from the Tibetan Library, where I'd been taking classes. On one rainy April day, I'd been alone on a stretch of road as the cars passed by, and His Holiness had bowed, smiled, and met my eyes as I bowed back. One doesn't forget such an experience.

When teaching my English class, I sometimes collected short news articles from around the world to discuss with my students. The challenge in doing this project is that most reported news is grim. I sometimes managed to depress myself as I searched for a few articles that were not about war, violence, greed, anger, or other forms of destruction. Hope returned as I watched His Holiness make his way to the TCV school. I knew that he was scheduled to introduce the children to the fundamental Buddhist principles of compassion and interdependence. Watching the cars move across the hillside, I was reminded that on any day, all over the world, countless people of goodwill are quietly doing the work of peacemaking, though very few of them ever make the news. And if one shares the belief of Tibetan Buddhists--or is willing to entertain the possibility--among them could be Chenresig, the Buddha of Compassion, considered to be embodied these days as the 14th Dalai Lama.