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My first attempt to visit Tibet was in the spring of 2008. I was working on my master’s degree in the history of Buddhism and Judaism and my Buddhism advisor recommended I study Tibet’s Kham dialect in Sichuan as he had done decades before. The recommendation was made off-handedly, a quick conversation shared between classes in the ill-lit hallways of our aging department. I was intrigued. I was tickled he thought it was even possible. Studying Tibetan seemed like an amazing adventure. The fact that it was in Western China was even more amazing. 

 

I didn’t realize, however, what would be involved. As with many things in my graduate studies, I launched into it blindly. I began preparations to turn my aspirations into something former secretary of state Donald Rumsfeld might onerously describe as “actionable” and as I did, I started having nightmares. The most disturbing one was of a narrow city street. The street was strewn with piles of cars and debris. It was as if I was at the scene of a disaster. Shortly thereafter, I had a dream of the Buddhist teacher, Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche. I was in a dark green valley and there were two of him, like twins. One wore the normal red and yellow robes while the other sported black. Both Sakyongs stood watching me sternly and wrathfully, one up close and the other at a distance. Both dreams rattled me and I called off my plans. Within a month or so, Sichuan was hit with a massive earthquake. Tens of thousands of people died and had I gone, I would have been in the middle of it.