I could see, in his angular face, something like the expression I’d seen on the features of the nun at Notre Dame, something like the emotion I’d felt in myself during the first few conversations with my traveling pal. Rinpoche’s way of being—his personality or his voice or his face—brought out a kind of terror that lurked inside people like us, thought-full people. The terror had been sleeping peacefully until he showed up with his bald head and maroon robe, his calm demeanor.
