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I’d expected to see a family snap from our last holiday. Instead, I was greeted by the smiling face of a Buddhist monk. Actually, the Buddhist monk. The one we’d met years earlier when he’d been passing through Melbourne. At the time, word had gone out to our yoga group that a Sri Lankan monk wanted somewhere to give a meditation class. All he needed was a room that could hold twenty people who’d bring their own cushions to sit on the floor. A small ask. I volunteered.
    Irene’s net curtains had seizures the day his car pulled up outside our place. It was as if Queen Elizabeth and Father Christmas had rolled into a single entity and bestowed us with his presence. With a swoop of maroon robes and a pair of shaven-headed nuns in his wake, the monk sailed through our front gate.
    In his knitted cap, gold rimmed spectacles and flowing gown, he was reminiscent of Yoda from Star Wars , except his ears were smaller and his sentence construction better. Radiating charisma, he accepted clumsy bows from Western admirers, most of them wives and mothers who’d spent a large part of their lives caring for others. Some were seeking inner calm; others were looking for the nurture they’d given away as if it had cost them nothing. Or enrichment. The few men who showed up in beads and Indian tops were too self-absorbed to be approachable.
    I’d smiled obsequiously and bowed along with the rest of them. I didn’t know a thing about monks or Buddhism, but I wanted people to feel comfortable.
    We pushed the sofas back while they arranged their cushions and blankets on the floor. It was a squeeze. Those who were able to sat cross-legged and started drifting into meditative states to show the rest of us they were way past spiritual kindergarten. A comfortable chair was placed at the front of the room, along with a small table and a glass of water. Plus a vase of lilies. The monk liked flowers.
    Once everyone was settled, I found a space near the back of the room, a couple of cushions along from Lydia. I was surprised she was even interested. Being eighteen, she had plenty of excuses to shut herself away in her room. But she sat effortlessly cross-legged, her eyes round with curiosity.
    Expectant silence hung over the room as the monk eased himself into the chair and flicked his robe into elegant folds. He sniffed loudly and cast a benevolent gaze over us. I couldn’t help giggling inwardly. No Christian priest, politician or doctor could hope for this level of reverence. His audience was enthralled, not necessarily because they understood what he had to offer, but because of his otherness. The world had made us hard-minded and cynical about most things, but we still craved mystery.
    The monk’s voice was high pitched and sweet, but there was toughness at its core. Honey pouring over stone. He turned out to be an excellent meditation teacher. For the next hour we observed our breath, tamed our monkey minds, counted backwards and breathed through different nostrils while trying to pretend our legs weren’t giving us hell. We ended the session wishing ourselves and all sentient beings health and happiness.
    As people stood to bow and leave their donations, the monk announced that the nuns would be delighted to bless our house. Philip watched perplexed while the two tiny women chanted and sprinkled holy water in the corners of every room. He wasn’t over the moon about them sprinkling holy water on the television, but I assured him it wasn’t every day that people were offered a house blessing. I followed one of the nuns into our bedroom while she christened our bed cover. Her eyes were so deep they seemed to go beyond the back of her head. There was kindness in them, hardship too.
    Once nearly everyone had gone, we stood with a few hardcore fans on the footpath outside the house to bid the monk and his entourage farewell. As he was about to climb into the back seat of the car, he flashed a