Monday, February 21, 2011

Mosquitoes, Murder and Monasteries: The Return to India

"As you embark on the practice, and as you stay with the practice, it's best to think of it as a voyage of discovery.  After all the Buddha says, the goal is to see what you've never seen before, to realize what you've never realized before, to attain what you've never attained before.  So you are going into the unknown.  This means that we are going to have to deal with risk and uncertainty, which requires an interesting mix of attitudes...on the one hand you need confidence and on the other hand you need humility.  The confidence is...in your ability to deal with unknown factors as they arise.  The humility means that you can't expect everything to fall into your preconceived notions...that the path is going to stretch your imagination and ask more out of you that you might originally be prepared to give.  So on the one hand you need the confidence that yes you can do this and that yes this is a good place to go...and the humility to realize that you don't know beforehand what its going to be like...
...and there's going to a period of discomfort, there's going to be sometimes a sense of frustration when things are not quite working out the way you wanted them to.  And you need the maturity to learn how to deal with that.  This is not a path for immature people.  This is a path for people who know they're in a very precarious situation already, and that their ideas and their assumptions are precarious.  That they are the ideas and presumptions of a materialistic world view, which is what we're brought up in...[and that these views] have a very limited range, or that they offer a very limited range of happiness.  Whereas the Dharma offers a lot more.  And it is up to us to decide whether we're willing to make the sacrifices and take the risk to see if what the Buddha had to say is true." 

-Thanissaro Bikkhu
Dharma Talk entitled "A Sense of Adventure"

Where were we...

12/2/11

I get onto a 7pm bus from Kathmandu to the Birganj (Nepali side) - Raxaul (Indian side) border crossing.  I have been told numerous times by numerous people that, unless its necessary, I shouldn't cross there...Prassana told me it was like going to the worst place in India...but it is, geographically speaking, the most direct way to get down into Bihar (the region of India that contains Nalanda, Rajgir and Bodh Gaya and the remainder of my pilgrimage proper) and going all the way back up to Sonauli (the border crossing near Lumbini where I crossed into Nepal) would add half a day at least onto my journey...or so I thought.  The bus starts moving around 7:30 and we're off...we are supposed to arrive in Birganj around 5am.

13/2/11

The ride is uncomfortable but I get a ten minute nap here and there.  We stop so that the drivers can get some tea around 2:30 or so.  I'm woken up at 3 or so by a poke poke at my arm just after dozing off...the driver tells me that, since there are only three or so of us that are going to Birganj...he doesn't really feel like going all the way.  So he tells me that the bus behind ours will take us the rest of the way.  So I grab my stuff and make my way to the other bus.  I end up sitting on a small stool in the aisle for a half the journey or so...not comfy but it could be worse...(it does get worse haha).  We arrive at Birganj around 4:20 am...its dark...and this place is a dinge pot...I hire a cycle rickshaw to take me to the border.  We launch down the mile-long straight away...and about half way there the power goes off and the whole town is black.  Its misty and cold and a little creepy, but I lean as far back as I can with the backpack and look up at the stars and feel a little better.  We get to the border and I start to walk across.  I make it to the Nepali guards who tell me that I have to wait for the office to open so they can stamp me out.  The office opens at 6 am.  I am a little tired but in no big hurry, and am pretty contented to be on the road again, excited to for my second round with India.  I sit off to the side next to a little old guard shack...then I hear the buzzing...I forgot about the mosquitoes.  I don't know if Nepal has some sort of bilateral agreement with the mosquitoes not to enter their territory, but they seriously wait for you at the border...I wonder what Nepal promised the little blood suckers to keep em out.  I eat my remaining bananas and play my guitar for a few minutes...the guards are pretty fascinated.  And then I take a look inside the guard shack...clearly not used anymore...dusty, small, filled with spiders and the like...but the wooden planks were looking like a pretty comfy bed at this point...so I bring my things inside and take a nap for maybe 20 minutes or so until the guard comes in to tell me the office is open.
I am stamped out and, with a big smile on my face, say goodbye to Nepal and head across the bridge to India.  (aside: I remember when I was little I used to like it when my uncle came over...he was always pretty animated and entertaining...but...I knew that when he came over...he was going to pull me up by my head and shake me about...I don't know why he did it, but he did it all the time...he just liked to lift children by the head.  I didn't really like this tradition...but its something I had to go through if I was going to spend time with him...like a rough handshake or a just-too-much pat on the back from an old friend...and then the rest is easy...I share this memory with you because it's a little what it felt like to be reunited with India after our two month separation.)  Well...I walk through the cloud of mosquitoes and the gag on the smell of whatever is down below the bridge...I didn't see a sewer per se...or any animal corpses through the mist...but woah man!  I make it to the "welcome to India" guy...I meet an interesting young American inside who is just coming from Bodh Gaya.  We talk for a minute, wish each other a pleasant journey and then are on our separate ways.  I warn him that if he can hold his breath for extended periods to do so on the way across the bridge.
The next step is to get to Patna, a decent size city which acts as a travel hub for the region.  I am pointed in the direction of the bus...pay my ticket and sit in the back most row of a pretty dilapidated bus around 7am...and we're on the way.  The window is stuck open and it is a cold and misty Indian morning.  I was told that the trip to Patna is about five or six hours (the American said..."yeah, but it'll take a lot longer dude") and that the first two or so hours is the bumpiest road around. The road did indeed cause me to lift up out of my seat quite a few times.  After three plus hours of driving through the rural landscape...we get on the highway and the flying up out of my seat stops.
...Then we stop...I am told (though in very broken English...which is a lot more than anyone else has tried on me since I got passed the guy who stamped me in) after quite some time that there was a murder on the road a couple kilometers up ahead and the villagers have blocked the highway...when will we be back on the road?...who knows, that's when.  There are vendors popping up all over the road selling peanuts and grapes and the like.  I wander about the road in a shaky daze for a while...I feel the exhaustion of the last 28 hours starting to take hold...but I manage to be present with the anxiety and, because there is no resistance, it loses its strength.  I get back on the bus and try to curl up on the back row with my bags to take a nap.  I think I got about a half hour but its hard to tell.  It got hot while I slept...and now we're on an open highway with no shade and the temperature is climbing.  After some time, I see some men grabbing their things and heading off the bus over to another bus...one of the men tells me that that bus "going Patna."  I take him to mean that the other bus will, for whatever reason, be heading out before this one so I grab my things and am given a seat behind a door, which forces me in a 3x3x8' compartment with all my luggage...it wouldn't have been so bad if we were moving, but the bus becomes an oven and no one gives any sign that we will be moving any time soon.  I try to nap...not happening.  I read for a bit, but the concern, which hasn't even occurred to me until now, that I don't have very much water left and that its only getting hotter and I'm still on this evil chemotherapeutic medication which declares war on my tummy...and I'm getting pretty hungry...and so on starts to get to me.  I recognize this as an interesting opportunity, meditationally speaking...due to being tired and not having slept really, I can't remember whether it's a samadhi (meditative concentration) day or a viriya (energy/strength) day...but then I realize it doesn't matter, because today, in this situation, right effort and a right use of my energy is to practice deep concentration and reserve the strength I have.
Long story short...after 5 hours and with two sips of rationed water left...we start to move...I don't know if the wind on my face has ever felt so good.  Aniccia aniccia aniccia.  We get to Muzaffarpur (another city, not quite the size of Patna) after 3 or so hours...I think its Patna cause, sans the time stopped on the highway, it has been 6 hours...I don't care about that though...I care that there is a guy selling eggs and toast just outside the bus...I eat two and feel like a living human being again.
It would have been two more hours to Patna but there is a traffic jam a couple k from the bus station...finally we are there...its dark now.  I don't know anything about the city, didn't invest much time researching since I was planning on being in Rajgir by now (and because I asked one teacher if I should see it and he told me it was a "shit hole").  I hire a rickshaw after the usual fuss and hub hub at the bus station...make my way to a not in my budget hotel, since I really need a decent bed for one night after all this craziness (and I was hoping for a decent shower, but....).  I order some Veg Kofta in the room...man I almost forgot how amazing Indian food is!...and out.

14/2/11

Today is the day that I realize that I am in love with India...I don't really know how to explain it...there wasn't one moment where it hit me.  I know I said that I had mixed feelings about returning when I was in Kathmandu...and I don't know if its because it's the country I've dreamed about visiting for so long, or because of the pilgrimage, or the food, or the smells, or what lay ahead, or if I am on a high of being on my own schedule again or all of it or none of it...but despite (or because of) the dirt and the craziness and the delays and the noise and the bargaining and the complications...I find lately that where I am challenged, my Love seems to follow.  I don't mean to belittle my time in Nepal...it was a meaningful and valuable set of experiences from which I learned much...I don't think I shall ever forget it...and I would like to go back and visit and continue to help in the region...but much of the time there I felt far from home (it is not lost on me that while staying with a family in a home environment, spending time with many who are in an established network of social relationships...it is perhaps easier to recognize the absence of one's own established network of freinds, family, etc.)...I was caught up in thoughts constantly...I did not have as much strength as I have here (I'm not sure of the exact nature of the causal relationship between that psycho-emotional weakness and my body's sickness while in Nepal...it seems likely that they played off of each other in both directions)...and its not that I feel "at home" in India exactly...but I don't feel far from home...if that makes sense.  I said I didn't know how to explain it...but I am so happy to be back.

...anyways...

I wake up at a reasonable hour so that I can get a few things done.  I talk to my Dad on his birthday and get to say hello to my grandma which is nice.  The guy at the desk gives me a Valentine's day discount on my room, which although small, is appreciated.   or I make my way over to the bus station and hop on a bus to Bihar Shariff since there are no direct buses to Rajgir.  It is another six to seven hours before I arrive in Rajgir...glad I didn't try it the night before.  I'm there after 36 hours on one of six buses.  I make my way to the Burmese monastery to inquire about a room...the head honcho tells me that they are mostly full with Burmese pilgrims but that he has something for me.  I see the accommodations and smile...(I remember when I was having a pre-trip meeting with one of my teachers at his home in LA and he asked me, "How are you at sleeping on tables?"...I told him that I didn't know especially, but figured probably not very good since I can't sleep on my back...the first time I slept in one of the Therevada monasteries...I understood what he meant.)  The light doesn't work.  There is no bathroom inside.  And the beds are literally tables with a thin mat and a blanket on them (and when I wake up the next morning I feel like I have been beaten up in my sleep...but the familiar minor bruising is welcomed...it makes me feel stronger in the end.), but I am back on the pilgrimage route.  I make a phone call to my Valentine which brings much joy and then to bed.

15/2/11 (Rajgir)

Shortly after shaving off his hair and doning the earth-colored mendicant's robe for the first time, Siddhattha walked 600 kilometers from Kapilavatthu to Rajagaha (Rajgir), hoping to find a teacher amongst the numerous ascetics that congregated in the forests and mountains surrounding the city.  One morning, King Bimbisara saw Siddhatta walking through the town slowly on his alms round, dignified as a lion passing through a jungle.  The king was immediately attracted by Siddhattha's nobility and followed him to his cave...
After a few minutes of pleasant conversation, the king learned that Siddhattha came from a royal family, and offered him a high position in his court.  "Recluse, your hands seem fit to grasp the reigns of an empire, not a begging bowl.  Come join me in ruling the country.  Despise not wealth and power, but enjoy them with wisdom and discretion,"  said the king to Siddhattha.  The Bodhisattva looked into the king's eyes and politely replied,
"Thank you for your generosity and prudent words, but i have severed all ties to search for deliverance--the highest treasure of all.  Just as a rabbit rescued from the serpent's mouth would not jump back into it to be devoured, I cannot return to the world of illusion.  If you really do feel affection toward me, then please do not try to entangle me with new duties and responsibilities."
The king was disappointed, but understood Siddhattha's refusal.  "May you find what you seek, and after finding it, come back and show me the way," the king said to the mendicant.  Siddhattha replied, "I promise your highness, thank you."

(Seven years later, after his Enlightenment he returns to Rajagaha to fulfill his promise to King Bimbisara to teach the Dhamma) 

...King Bimbisara requested the Buddha to give them a teaching.  The Buddha was glad to see his old friend again and to have the opportunity to fulfill his promise by sharing what he had discovered under the Bodhi Tree.  The Buddha then taught the king and his ministers the progressive instructions on:  (i) the benefits of charity, (ii) ethics as the foundation for liberation, (iii) the harmfulness of overindulging in sense pleasures, (iv) the futility of conceit, (v) the bliss of renunciation, and (vi) the Four Noble Truths.
The eyes of the listeners grew brighter by the moment as they absorbed the Buddha's...words.  Feeling their hearts open and their doubts vanish, the entire audience entered the stream of liberation.  "Most glorious is the Dhamma taught by the Tathagata!" the king cried out.  "He sets up what has been turned over; he reveals what has been hidden; he points out the way to the lost wanderer; he lights a lamp in the dark so that those with eyes may see."  The elated king then invited the entire Sangha to the royal courtyard for the next day's meal, where he offered his pleasure park, the Bamboo Grove (Veluvana), to the Sangha.  The Buddha accepted the donation and it became the tradition's first monastery.  From that point onwards bikkhus (monks) were allowed to dwell in permanent monasteries.

-from Along the Path

Other teachings from Rajgir:

It is not life, wealth, or power that enslaves a man, but the clinging to them...You must be like the lotus flower growing in the mud, but at the same time, unsmeared by it.

(Spoken by a monk when asked "Who is your teacher and what is his philosophy?") 
In short, the Great Monk has shown the cause of all causally-arisen things, and what brings their cessation.


Abstain from immorality
Cultivate honesty,
Purify the mind.
This is the teaching of the Buddhas.

One possessing forgiveness,
Remaining calm under criticism, abuse and punishment,
And developing patience as one's army--
This person I call a Brahmin.

Rajgir is the home of the first monastery of the Buddhist Sangha, and is therefore the site of the first monastery in known history (if Robert Thurman's claim that the Buddha is the founder of monasticism as we know it).  It is also the place where Ananda and Sariputta attained arahant-hood (arhat/arahant: lit. "one who is worthy;" conqueror, used by the Buddha to designate one who has conquered the impurities and afflictions within; a liberated person) and where the first council after the Buddha's death to organize his teachings was held.
On my first full day in Rajgir, I end up with a horse cart driver who takes me out to the giant Shanti ("Peace") Stupa, almost identical to the one in Lumbini (which makes sense since it was built by the same Japanese Mahayana sect), on top of a hill a couple kilometers down the road.  They actually have a chair lift that takes you up to it.  The Indians have a little bit of trouble with it...I don't think they do a lot of skiing round these parts.  The view, the stupa and the temple are all lovely.  My "meditator's guidebook" tells me that the cave in which Ananda became an arahant before the first council is just down the hill a ways so I walk on down...the heat has given me a pretty severe headache (some leftovers from my encounter with the bus/oven from the border) and the fall out from the meds and the sickness is manifesting in some rather painful sensations in my stomach, but I make my way over to Vulture's peak, a neighboring mountain from which the Buddha used to teach, and Ananda's cave.  After some walking about beneath the prayer flags and looking around I see the cave...though there is no sign designating it as Ananda's cave, it matches the description in the book and the candles and gold stickies all over it say this is the place.
I brought my meditation seat/sleeping bag and supplies so I take a seat inside the little nook. I sit for difficult half hour and was going to get up, but I decided to push myself a little farther today...I know that if I always give in when I hit that wall of discomfort, I break through nothing; I develop no equanimity with the discomfort in body and mind and am therefore training myself further in the art of giving into cravings and reacting to my negative emotions.  I push on a little bit longer and am happy that I did so in the end.  I was pleasantly surprised during the sit to find that very few tourists and pilgrims came into the cave...though it is just off the walkway, I guess many don't bother with the slight detour...but at some point during my sit (I don't remember whether it was during the first or second section) a group of pilgrims came to the mouth of the cave with a guide. I continued to watch the breath and the body but a little bit of my mind was caught up in their presence.  They spoke a SE language but I couldn't place it...not Thai, not Vietnamese...wasn't sure.  The guide had come into the cave ahead of the group...saw me off to the side and immediately went back to tell the group in a whisper that I was there meditating (there are certain words that are similar in all the languages in the region due to their source in sanskrit [vis. dhayn is still "meditation" in hindi and nepali and other some other asian languages])...I heard the guide tell them about Ananda's awakening.  They did not stay for long but I got a couple of flashes in the face from cameras before they left.  They were not a bother and I was happy they had come in...(aside: I have learned that during meditation...an outside "distraction" is really a gift...it gives me a point of reference for my present state...if I are deep in the present moment, aware of all that is happening in the mind, in the body, then the presence of a new sound does not disturb [since the main disturbance is that of surprise...of being pulled back into the present moment from wherever you were in past, future or fantasy], and if I am somewhere else then I thank the "distraction" for showing me that I should come back...interesting that a "distraction" actually becomes its opposite with only a slight shift in the point of veiw.).  When I finally get up and put my things away, my stomach pain is gone and I feel much less dehydrated.  I take a steady walk down the hill with new eyes and grab a couple of samosas...(let me say again how much I missed Indian food).
Alright...this is going on a little bit and I want to go wander the temple grounds...so here's the summary of the rest.
After the horse cart and I make our way to the Bamboo Park, the site of the Sangha's first monastery, which is lovely but is a little cluttered by tents and what not for a Dharma gathering or festival or something that was to begin a couple days later.  Skipping ahead...Back at the Burmese Vihar I am reading and charging my electronics in the hallway of the monastery since there are outlets that work there...when I meet George.  I can see immediately that George is awesome...he is a 74 year old Burmese refugee with crazy salt and pepper hair and a cool laugh who lives in D.C. and has devoted his life to making people aware of the plight of his country and the cruelty of the military regime that rules it.  He gives me a lesson on the history of Burma (the country's independence from British rule, the brutal repression of the protests by the military regime, and then the Saffron Revolution in 2007 where the government shot numerous monks who were demonstrating peacefully)...some of which I had heard before, though most of it was new to me.  George introduces me to some of the others in his pilgrimage group...Burmese that have moved to America, Australia and the Netherlands.  They are all very kind and introduce me to one of the monks that is guiding them around, a native of Bodh Gaya.  We all talk for a little bit about my desire to visit and do a long term meditation retreat in Burma, other travels, etc...and the girl with whom I am speaking tells me that her father organizes such things for people...we trade information...then the monk asks the girl with whom I am speaking a question in Burmese and they both look at me...and then she asks if I was the one meditating in Ananda's cave earlier that day.  I laugh and nodded...it was just perfect.  Apparently the language I wasn't able to place earlier was Burmese and apparently the world is very small.  She told me that the monk was very proud of me and that they were too...it filled me with joy.  They offered to take me to Bodh Gaya the next day on their tour bus and I told them that I was planning to spend the day in Nalanda the next day and then to Gaya afterward...but I changed my plans, the situation being what it was and the universe giving me a pretty clear sign.


16/2/11

I wake up early since I had an appointment with my horse cart driver to go and see Nalanda, pack in advance since the group is leaving at noon...I inform the driver of the change of plan and so we decide to tour the Jain temples in the area (since Rajgir is also a major pilgrimage site for Jains).  I enjoy the tour of the temples and sites (one of the newer ones in the Svetambara [white clad] tradition was filled with convex mirrors and created a really interesting environment visually speaking).  Then I told him I wanted to see the cave which housed the 500 arahants during the First Great Council and he points the way...its a long hill and a hot day...I pass many little Jain temples along the way and eventually make it to the temple having stripped off most of my clothes and sweating a ton...I missed the Indian heat...(how much things have changed in the past few years).  The cave is attended by a group of pilgrims and a few chanting monks.  Some corrupt cops lead me into the pitch black cave and then ask me for money...typical India.  I like the environment and the view off the cliff but I can't imagine more than 20 people fitting in that cave...and even that wouldn't be too comfy.  I make it back to Vihar after the walk down the hill and the ride back in time to hitch a ride with my new Burmese companions.  They introduce me to the head monk and he approves and we're off.
We stop at a couple of sites on the way out.  Hahaha...sorry I still can't think of this without laughing...the first site at which we stopped, we took some pictures...and then George grabbed a monkey's tail...I mean he just grabbed its tail...the monkey screeches, turns in a circle and shoves George as if to say, "What the hell is wrong with you?  How would you like it if I grabbed your ass?"  George just laughs and says..."fast reflexes huh?"  One of the monks gets out his camera and calls me over smiling...he shows me a picture of myself meditating in the cave...it didn't surprise me at all that he was one of the ones that took a picture...I think of all the people that have taken shots of me sitting...more than half have been SE Asian monks).  Then we stop at another site where we chant as a group...the Burmese pronunciation of Pali throws me off and I just decide to sit and listen mindfully.  After one more stop we are on the way to Bodh Gaya...they offer me so much food on the way...I find out that Burmese food is awesome as well.  I appreciate the lift they gave me since it was through Bihar (the poorest region in India and the only one I have been consistently warned about...though I am of the opinion, upon further research, that these warnings are based on outdated information...either way, I probably won't be traveling much through Bihar at night), but the whole Pilgrimage by Tour bus thing...it ain't for me...you miss too much...so now then... 

I am arrived in Bodhgaya...where Buddha became Buddha

Present Time:

It is a Sati day...

Tomorrow, I will be starting a retreat at the International Meditation Center for a week or so...I would like to take some time to soak it in before I write about this place. 

"Maybe I will tell you all about it when
I'm in the mood to lose my way with words."
-John Mayer

Being here now...I would not change the way the pilgrimage was structured at all...this needed to be the last of the four.  Thank you to all of those people who have helped me to get here and who have sent words of support...to those who have kept up with my travels even though they have busy schedules and lives of their own...it makes more of an impact than you know.  I send you all goodness and Peace and Metta and the Samadhi power and my deepest Gratitude...

"Breathe, you are alive."

Friday, February 11, 2011

Some Reading, A Little Deja Vu, and the Next Step

Because I was alone however, even the mundane seemed charged with meaning...And my emotions were similarly amplified:  The highs were higher, the periods of despair were deeper and darkerTo a self possessed young man inebriated with the unfolding drama of his own life, all of this held enormous appeal.

-Jon Krakauer



20/1/11

Sick day again.  Read a little in the morning, went for a short walk to the platform down the hill just now...watched the little dances at the village down in the valley, reminds me of Israeli dancing.  All tribal dance leaves so much space for expression...the joy of the harvest, the sorrow of the famine, the humility before Nature, the worship of the great spirit...it was nice to watch.  Some brief taiji and qigong to get the blood moving before fatigue sent me back up to the house.  I tried to pull some strength up from the Earth on my walk back but my concentration is inconsistent and the thick fog dampens my spirit....

The Deja Vu:

It was the most severe episode I've had since Dr. Powell's class my sophomore year.  Sitting cross-legged on my bed wrapped in my jacket, the children screaming outside, the cold, the view, the book in my hand...slits of light coming in through the uneven wooden windows, my sick feeling throat, thoughts of her in the back of my mind...I've been here before...between a dream and a memory, a memory of a dream...reading page 28 of Red Earth & Pouring Rain is what triggered it:

'My life has been a dream,' Benoit de Boigne was often heard to say in Parisian drawing rooms as his life drew to a close, and was understood by the fashionable, secretly contemptuous inhabitants of those rooms to mean that his adventures in the faraway, unreal land of Hindustan now seemed fantastical and fictional.  But when de Boigne, wiping his face and passing a hand over his eyes, muttered, 'My life has been a dream,' he meant that he had encountered, in that faraway, unreal land called Hindustan, the unbearably real sensations and colour of a dream, had felt unknown forces moving him as if around a chessboard, had felt the touch of mysteries impelling him from one town to the next, from one field to another.

I am glad it happened...it is always disorienting but I believe that it means I am exactly where I am supposed to be...it has stripped away some of the fear.  I don't know exactly whence this faith has come, but I have learned its importance.

25/1/11

Lost seven pages seven or eight pages of the Kathmandu entry yesterday (yes, if you can believe it, it was even longer before) due to computer problems...wasn't my happiest but I am not as upset as I thought I'd be...a willingness to accept the signs of my environment, perhaps.  Today is the sickest I've been so far and so I've been a little emotional...wanted to call, but the fear won out.  Today is the first day I have been able to see Charikot, three hills away, in a week.  The wind has blown that ugly fog out of the valley and now the sun shines warmly and the breeze initiates a smooth dance in the stalks and the leaves of the bamboo and sugarcane...even the stiff pines lean and sway to the rhythm.  The terraces grow greener and the sky bluer.

26/1/11 Katannu Day

Finally getting better...thoughts on light and darkness.  An overabundance of light and its total absence both blind,  conceal...but while darkness obscures form, light dissolves boundaries.  Another perspective--blackness accepts all and rejects none (greed or non-discriminatory wisdom?), light reflects everything back and keeps only an emptiness.
Thoughts on writing--writing is not a problem per se.  The problem is writing instead of doing, instead of living...let logos inspire ergon.
.
30/1/11

Graveyard day with Suren...galaxies from the health post rooftop.  Happy as a child.

6/2/11

It is my last afternoon in Mirge.  Surendra and I walked up to the top of a hill on the border of Mirge and the village with the graveyard and looked out onto the terraces and spoke of family and future among other things.  I have learned that there is a rhythm to listening as well as talking...I hope that this experience and my relationships out here will translate into the great wealth I can only imagine: paying attention to another without agenda.  I said goodbye to his parents who, though they don't speak a word of English, have been very kind and our communication, since it is limited to handing me a straw mat to sit on and some roti to eat, has not felt as though it is lacking anything due to the language barrier.  There is a soft springtime gloss on the place today...We walked back toward the school and stopped at the village for tea...in the tea house I ended up writing the English response to an email for a villager who is trying to get a job set up in Germany (one of numerous times I was asked either to explain something, help with homework or write a letter by people I had never met before).  One of Surendra's friends told him something in Nepali, he looked a little surprised and quite serious.  I asked what was said.  Surendra told me that a young man, younger than myself, "expired" in an accident earlier that day...that a tree fell on him.  The bittersweet shine of early spring is echoed in marriage celebrations and young death.
--

My favorite book is The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.  It is the only book I brought with me that I haven't shed.  Though it is a short book (only 96 pages with large type and only a small part of the page taken up by words), and though I have read it a number of times, I started it again when I left on this trip and only finished it on my last afternoon in Mirge.  I sat on the roof of the health post and read:

People of Orphalese, the wind bids me leave you.
Less hasty am I then the wind, yet I must go.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, 
begin no day where we have ended another day; 
and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel.
We are the seeds of a tenacious plant, 
and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart 
that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
...
I go with the wind, people of Orphalese,
but not down into emptiness;
And if this day is not a fulfillment of your needs and my love, 
then let it be a promise till another day.
Man's needs change, but not his love, 
nor his desire that his love should satisfy his needs
...
Wise men have come to you to give you of their wisdom.
I came to take of your wisdom:
And behold I have found that which is greater than wisdom.
It is a flame spirit in you ever gathering more of itself,
While you, heedless of its expansion, bewail the withering of your days.
It is life in quest of life in bodies that fear the grave.

There are no graves here.  
These mountains and plains are a cradle 
and a stepping-stone.

Whenever you pass by the field where you have laid 
your ancestors look well there-upon, and you shall see yourselves
and your children dancing hand in hand.
Verily you often make merry without knowing.

Others have come to you to whom for golden promises
made unto your faith you have given but riches and 
power and glory.
Less than a promise have I given, and yet
more generous have you been to me.
You have given me my deeper thirsting after life.
Surely there is no greater gift to a man than that 
which turns all his aims into parching lips and all 
life into a fountain.
And in this lies my honour and my reward,--
That whenever I come to the fountain to drink 
I find the living water itself thirsty; 
And it drinks me while I drink it.
...
If these be vague words, then seek not to clear them.
Vague and nebulous is the beginning of all things,
but not their end,
And I fain would have you remember me  as a beginning.
Life, and all that lives, is conceived in the mist 
and not in the crystal.
And who knows but a crystal is mist in decay?
...
That which seems most feeble and bewildered in you
is the strongest and most determined.
Is it not the breath that has erected and hardened 
the structure of your bones?
And is it not a dream which none of you
remember having dreamt, that builded your city
and fashioned all there is in it?
Could you but see the tides of that breath 
you would cease to see all else,
And if you could hear the whispering of the dream
you would hear no other sound.
...
After saying these things he looked about him, 
and he saw the pilot of his ship standing by the 
helm and gazing now at the full sails and now at the distance.
...
Fare you well, people of Orphalese.
This day has ended. 
It is closing upon us even as the waterlily 
upon its own tomorrow.
What was given us here we shall keep,
And if it suffices not, then again must we
come together and together stretch our hands unto the giver.

---

Present Time from Kathmandu:

I've been at a place for the past couple of days where I could either sit in my hotel room and feel sick or I could write and feel a little bit better so I decided to include a little bit from my readings and writings above...hope you don't mind.  I am feeling better now...though it really depends on when you catch me...the medication is some rather unpleasant stuff...but its better than I was feeling before.  I have spent an absurd amount of money between the hospital, the post office, and food that is tummy friendly in restaurants that I feel are safe.  I am trying to let go of some of the self-imposed pressure about getting back into India.  I had considered joining a retreat in Bodh Gaya that was to begin on the 14th after a day or two in Nalanda and Rajgir but it looks as though that plan is a goner...so be it.  Maybe I can serve a few days there at least...though I feel that one should be in a solid, positive place to serve meditators and, though I am feeling better, there are many fluctuations.  (As an aside, I was told some time ago that the position of cook in a Zen temple was once reserved for great masters as it was considered to be one of, if not the most important position due to the effect that would be felt, however subtly by all of the other monks upon taking the food he prepared.)  I would like to be in Bodh Gaya for the full moon a few days later though...I imagine that to be a pretty special experience, but will accept the dictates of my stomach.
I have mixed feelings about going back into India.  I remember crossing the border into Nepal and noticing almost immediately, certain changes...and the next day in Lumbini, the change in general demeanor was significant...smiling...Nepali people smile.  When you say "Namaste" they say "Namaste."  They were, on the whole, much much kinder and more helpful people...I feel like Lumbini brings that out in people though.  Their little mannerisms were a welcomed change...but I feel ready to head back into it...ready once again to experience the unbearably real sensations and colour of a dream...to be given to the wind.  I have concerns about my stomach...I have already stayed in Kathmandu two days longer than I had planned and will probably stay for a third to give myself some time to recover...hopefully this is the final phase of more than two months under the weather.  Send some healthy vibes for insurance haha.  I have tried to recognize the humility training, the push toward developing shelter in a non physical realm, the inconstancy of the health of the body and the lessons therein, acceptance of aniccia (at least with respect to a single manifestation)...I feel sometimes like I am failing all the way around my wrist...but I remember that even if its only a moments glance at a word on the lotus and a mental shift toward its meaning, a single breath in concentration, a brief step back...its more than was before...and it will continue to grow.
Trying to be patient with myself...doing battle with the mind, doing battle with the body...sitting again and am less afraid to feel what is actually going on.  I think in the deepest of the deeps, the loneliest of the lonelies, the saddest of the sads, angriest of the angries, the most scattered of mental states and most broken of hearts, the obnoxious noises and the harsh silences...what has gotten me through most notably, is this:  I have gotten through this before.  This knowledge is a great force.  And so here I am...and the journey will go on.

That being said...I miss you very much.  I hope you are all happy and healthy.

Today is an Upekkha day...Equanimity...and there is work to be done.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Galaxies, Graveyards and Goodbye-for-nows

"Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things you do"

-Coldplay

There are so many events and happenings and thought constructs that, at the time, seem to warrant whole pages and detailed descriptions, theories that branch out into sister theories and what ifs...but time passes and they become bullet points or footnotes due to this or that unfolding of time.  I left Mirge the morning before last...I would have written sooner but due to computers crashing (and taking with it a decent chunk of the work I had done on the final exams for the kids), 14 hour power outages and poor health, it has taken a little longer.  I am still pretty out of it so forgive the rambling, weak writing and poor excuses for transitions...for there will be much I am sure. This may come out in the form of an interesting spatter pattern to be organized and analyzed at some later date.

My last few weeks in Mirge were difficult and satisfying...full of miscommunication, little celebrations, illness and hidden tears (some happy and some sad), new discoveries, painful realizations, arts and crafts, and music...there were very few, if any, moments where one clear emotion held sway...everything seems to have been painted with swift and passionate brushstrokes...where the bristles had not been washed clean of the previous three colors...a piece of art that seems, even now, the work of another, though the brush was always in my hand.  The sickness in my body has been felt in the mind, and the pain in the mind has taken its toll on the body.  With as much vigilance as I can muster up, I await a clear sign to guide me to the breaking of this vicious cycle.

Surendra took me to a "Love marriage" (as opposed to an arranged marriage) in Mirge the other week.  (There must have been a wedding every other day...January and February is wedding season in rural Nepal.)  I would have liked to see the ceremony but I only really caught the party end of it...people passing by the seated bride and groom who had the grueling task of sitting for hours in the sun while hundreds of people threw rice at them and tried to stick it to their forehead (a symbol of future prosperity).  Four or five generations sitting on straw mats in a field, eating Dal Baht, the older men playing a native drum made of animal skin and wood, the younger men dancing to modern Nepali music...the token drunk, jumping about the circle to some disoriented beat all his own.  I told Surendra that it was only the second wedding I had ever been to...he looked pretty surprised.  I ended up getting followed around by three young boys for a while until I had had enough of that and told them I'd be back later and went wandering off on my own for a bit. 

I discovered two of my favorite things to do in Mirge in the last ten days there...which I could have been frustrated by since I might have found out about them a lot sooner if I had been able to wander about on my own a bit more, but I was glad to have found them, since they were both pretty magical.  I was mostly referring to these two activities when I made my earlier reference to events that warrant pages, etc...but these few lines will have to do for now.  The first of the two is what I have come to call "The galaxy on the hillside."  One of the things I have missed most about the LA (I know, missing LA, who'd a thunk?...but along with the physical sickness and exhaustion has come some homesickness as well, though I am not saying that the former is the necessary condition of the latter) is sitting in the Planetarium at the Griffith Observatory or the IMAX theater at the Science Museum...leaning back in my seat and taking a  ride through the stars...experiencing the vastness, the infinity of the universe, which mirrors and is one with the infinity in our own minds.  I discovered that Mirge had its own version which required no fancy machinery or calculations...only mountains, light bulbs and a starry sky overhead.  You see, in the planetarium...you only have a half-sphere to look at...and even if you are out in the desert, you have to lie on your back or crane your neck upwards...but in Mirge...it is dark enough to see the starry sky overhead...and in addition to this...all of the opposing hillsides are smattered with little villages and houses and markets, each structure across the valley with a single light bulb out in front, each one a star for him with just a little imagination...and so I had a starry sky and a starry hillside, Coldplay in my ears, and the constellations were mine for the naming...there were a pair of fallen soldiers, Sagarmatha (Mt. Everest), various little animals and abstract shapes for which I could invent no story or name but was satisfied just to observe...I'm sure someone with a more vivid imagination than my own would have come up with much more.  When the power went out, I just lay back on the roof of the health post and looked up and that too was satisfying. 

The second of the favorite things was going to a local graveyard with Surendra the weekend before last, and then again the day before I left, when we took Pramod as well.  It was a thirty minute walk or so from the school, across the village and up a little hill...it over looked valleys and hillsides terraced up for hundreds of feet, you could hear a small river down below.  A lama's house stood adjacent to the grounds and scattered all around on different steps were stone structures marking the cremation sites of the last however many generations, decorated with Om Mani Padme Hum and other mantras carved on slabs.  There were tall stalks of bamboo (which were climbed adventurously by the four young boys we met on our second trip there, with whom we shared our sugar cane plant and bananas) and grass growing out from between the bricks on the little stupa-esque constructions.  There was a ruined school beside the yard which added significantly to the feel of the place, which could be described as "Gothic," though it would have to be a very different Gothic than that described in the west...in fact, most of the defining characteristics of the Gothic style: the emphasis of the natural in the man-made, the allowance for light and space, the relationship between personal and divine and on...seem far better suited to what I saw in that graveyard, and in most of rural Nepali society...it is effortless for them whereas, we as a "civilized society" have to strain to remind ourselves and each other that we are part of nature...we seem to think that its some kind of an artistic statement or hippy sentiment to be one with the earth, it borders on a "white man's burden" mentality toward the planet ...but when you look out at the way that they farm and build and live...when we farm we flatten everything, turn the soil with our enormous gas guzzling machines until it turns to clay, and then we call in Monsanto with their cancer causing GMO's...when we bury our dead we do it in big gaudy caskets that could double as bomb shelters trying at all costs to prevent our participation in the richness of the soil, denying source...but they accept the shape of the earth, the quality of the soil...they work with her, all the way up the mountainside...they know the temporary nature of the body, and though they may weep for a time when it separates from mind or soul or spirit or whatever you want to call it...they give their ashes back to the soil and mark the would-be graves with words of compassion and happiness...no names, no dates...for these are forgotten, the only real legacy we can leave, it seems to me, is how far we traveled toward and brought about peace in our lives and in the lives of others.  I spent some time alone there both times...to read and to sit.  Adding to the surrealness of the experience was reading a section of Red Earth & Pouring Rain while sitting among the old rocks, death and new life...it begins with a conversation between Sanjay (our main character) and Yama (the god of death):

'You again,' Sanjay said.  'Yama, I despise you still.'
'I am your friend.'
'You are nobody's friend.' 
'I am your's.'
'I don't need you.'
'But we meet again and again.' 
'Yes,' Sanjay said.  'I know I will be reborn, that there is no escape from you.  I know my life well and I know that I have not found liberation.  I will have to come back to you.  But remember when I die, I do not give up to you, I renounce this world.  This world in which nothing is clear, where there is horror at every turn, I am sick of it. I know I will be reborn into it. Since you say you are my friend, I will ask you a question.  Does it get better?'
'The world is the world.  It is you that makes the horror.'

...

They walked on, and now they were among mountains, among steep black cliffs of rock, and there was a river ahead, a stream that was swelled by the rains into a roaring current.
'I leave you now,' Yama said.  'We will meet again.'
'I have no doubt of it,' Sanjay said.  

When he looked back all he could see were thick banks of mist, and so he walked on alone; he followed the sound of the river until he found a flat rock poised above the gorge, and there was a tree that grew over the rock, its branches hanging in space.  Sanjay sat there, crosslegged, and the rain fell on him, the water fell on him from the leaves above, and as he took breath in and out the sound of the water grew so loud in his ears that it receded into a kind of silence, and in this pool of silence he gazed until he saw his childhood, his friends, his parents, and then he saw his youth, how he knew passion, and he saw all this and then he gave it up, he let it go, and he felt it leave like a spart from the top of his head;  and then he thought about his enemies, the ones he hated, and how he despised them, and he gave that up too and it flew away from him; he remembered his crimes...and his offences clung to hm but finally with a sigh he let it all go; and one by one all the things that tied him to life dissolved and vanished and he felt his soul floating unfettered and close to the white frontier of death, but still there was something, it held him back like a thin chain; and suddenly he remembered the student's face from London, the thin boy whose name he had asked, and he cried into the water, you children of the future, you young men and women who will set us free, may you be happy, may you be faultless, may you be soft as a rose petal, and hard as thunder, may you be fearless, may you be forgiving, may you be clever and may you have unmoved faith...may you be neither this nor that, may you be better tan us, I bless you, may you be happy; and then he felt the last cord break, the last spark of desire leaving him, it was the hardest, but the bond of pride then vanished and he was free.
The pale body under the tree leaned forward, and then it slipped to the side and toppled down the slope into the spray of the river, and the water took it speedily down the curving course, and it turned over once, and then it was gone.

There is so much more there but it will have to wait.

On our way back toward the school (where we actually stopped at a second graveyard, very much like the first but in a valley instead of on a hilltop) we passed a group of slender trees for which Surendra couldn't remember the name in English but said that they were called "Uti" in Nepali...he said that they were always found at the site of landslides for some reason, though he didn't know why...and then he told me a little native story (to which I have added a detail or two since there were tiny gaps due to the language barrier).  Once upon a time, in the winter, Uti's father told him that it was time to marry and that he should go ask for Rhododendron's hand in marriage.  Uti did has his father said and went to Rhododendron...but as it was winter, she had not bloomed and at the sight of her simple and undecorated form, Uti said that he was not interested and went home.  A few months later he was told that he must try again, that if he did not, he would be cut off and that would be the end of him...so he sulked over to Rhododendron again...but now it was Spring and she shown bright and beautiful and full of life...he fell for her right then and there.  He asked for her hand, but she had not forgotten the insult from the winter, she did not forgive Uti's shortsightedness and shallow interests...and she denied him.  In his despair, Uti jumped from the cliff.  I guess this is how Nepalis explain the appearance of this kind of tree wherever there is a landslide...reminds me of many of the old Greek myths.  I liked it...it might have just seemed special and magical due to the day. 

Moving on.  Grades three, four and five gave their concert and did me proud...they were a little nervous but they sang it out and did their little hand motions (I never thought I would put hand motions to Blackbird but they are ten so cut me some slack...plus it was cute) and every one seemed to like lyrics to the new Laligurash song...and here they are:

We all love our school Laligurash
It sits beautifully on the hillside
We all love our school Laligurash
We will carry our knowledge far and wide

A place for learning
A place for growing
A place for playing
To exercise our bodies and minds

We are the happy students of Laligurash
Where the teachers are so sweet and kind
We are the happy students of Laligurash
Where we come to fill our hearts and minds

A place for learning
A place for growing
A place for playing
To exercise our bodies and minds

We all love our school Laligurash
It sits beautifully on the hillside
We all love our school Laligurash
We will carry our knowledge far and wide

I took video so if my phone makes it back in one piece or if I learn how to get a video up on facebook you will be able to see it.  There are many many pictures from the past couple months which I hope to start putting up when I cross the border back into India soon...but I will not be traveling until I feel better...I had wanted to be in Bodh Gaya by the 14th of February after spending a couple of days in Nalanda and Rajgir each but there are priorities.  The trip from Mirge to Kathmandu would have been almost unthinkable if it hadn't been for Surendra's support on the busride.

Here is the link to the website that Mahesh and Dot and Lynn have set up for Mirge volunteering if anyone is interested...plus there's a picture of me on my first day with some of my fourth graders putting garlands around my neck.

http://www.volunteerruralnepal.org/

I have added "The Land of Rhododendrons" and "The Fall" to my repertoire of original songs...along with "The Laligurash Song" (but all credit there really goes to the fourth graders of Laligurash Bright Future Enlgish Boarding School).  There are a million snap shots and sounds that dance around in my mind still...endless hours of ping pong with Nikesh, Surendra, Pramod and all the other teachers, the first time that fourth grader who never knows the answer underlined the auxiliary verb and did his homework (seriously had to choke back tears on that one), when the third graders remembered how to define a preposition...and when we were singing Blackbird and a blackbird landed on the tree next to the classroom, when I took the kids outside on the afternoon when it hailed and we talked about meteorology, the Indiana Jones bus ride down the mountain, the endless noodle soup, all the colorful clothing and the women who carry huge loads by way of a strap around their foreheads, the little "dirt children" (as my sister Rachel would call them) who followed me around and said "Namaste, what is your name?" over and over again...so many others...there is so much more...

I meant to write a bit about my health situation and about some of what has been going on in the past 48 hours but maybe I will get to that tomorrow...and I can let you know where I am at with regard to my travels then as well...not sure about Sri Lanka yet...silly visa nonsense with India.  Oh, bought a plane ticket back to the states too...a bit strange...a bit soon...but there is much time in which to learn and journey as well.  I have been in a difficult place but I feel better now...for the first time since arriving in Kathmandu...so thank you for reading and supporting in your own way. 

May you be happy.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Love, Anger, Doubt and Mirrors: Fragments from a week in and around Kathmandu

The only dream I have is to dream no more
To be satisfied, every moment is an open door...

--

Mantra for Sadness

The present moment is the only Reality
Every moment of Honesty with myself is a step toward Peace
When I have passed through this phase of my life, the lessons will be Clear
Until then, I must be Patient and do good Work

--

In the valley of a valley, I stand on the roof of a run down three storey apartment building with one bathroom per floor.  It is a late afternoon in late December and the cold bites my fingers and toes.  Below and to the left are women in colorful clothing watering patches of rice, greens and what I expect are potatoes, cauliflower and eggplant.  The children run and yelp across the unused segments next to the modest plantation.  About fifty yards to the East of them are the construction workers, building some sort of two story brick structure.  They are young men.  They are already working by the time I leave the house in the morning at 7 and change a.m. and they are still working when I return to the power outage around   In the middle of the dirt field between the female farmers and the manual laborers, there sits a small Nepali man in basketball shorts (the kind Dr. J wore in the 60’s…the ones that cut off above the mid thigh) and a thin long sleeve shirt, on a straw mat in the dirt.  He is carefully performing some task, some measurement, some repair (it’s hard to tell from this distance) with a piece of what looks like drift wood, some small metal parts, and some kind of long handled wrench.  Is it something for himself?  For another?  Is it a hobby?  His livelihood?  In my imagination, it is a task that would be mundane for anyone else…but for him, cross-legged on the earth, focused and patient, it is sacred…
(Related idea) I suppose building another man’s home, doesn’t hold the same…I would say “magic” or “value,” but those don’t seem right…reality, perhaps, as building one’s own shelter.  But isn’t that the goal (maybe “a goal” would be better)?  To see all acts as sacred because they participate in an interdependent, all-as-a-keystone reality…where there is no weak link, where there is no excess or waste, where there are no accidents or coincidences…where what is is exactly what there needs to be. 

--

Perhaps every love must first be a friendship…even if it is only in silence and for a few moments…and then distilled, concentrated, refined…not so that it is any truer or better…for what is truer or better than a real friendship?…it is not even an intentional or conscious act...rather, it is an organic evolution to a more capable vehicle.

--

I sit reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, eating falafel and drinking mint tea in a café, the name of which translates to light from the Hebrew.  I meet a Swiss-born Parisian whose name means sunlight in Bengali.  At sunset, we look over the Kathmandu valley from our perch next to the Swayanbunath stupa and watch a woman light candles around the base of the monument.  In hindsight, it was an afternoon filled with light. 

--

Some love with a love that is only skin deep…and when that thin veneer changes or is absent, so the love shifts to match. 
Some love with a love like a phantom that materializes only when the sickness of dependency and the profound ache of loneliness arise as sufficient conditions.  It reaches out and clings to anyone familiar within reach--clamps like a vice, convincing both beings that there is substance.  But when the conditions which supported the materialization fade, the apparition disintegrates as suddenly as it manifested…and what remains is a very real pain, a distinctly physical longing…for a phantom event.  Be mindful of where you break ground.   
Some love with a love that seeks another half, seeking shelter in the self-destruction that is doubting one’s own wholeness.  Collapse is inevitable when one asks another to be something they cannot be: a third half. 
Some love with a love like an explosion, consuming self and other, leaving no trace.  (I had in mind Father Lawrence’s warning to Romeo and Juliet at their wedding…powder and flame “which as they kiss consume…honey loathsome in its own deliciousness…therefore love moderately…”)
Some love with a love that is present Monday through Thursday but takes a vacation Friday through Sunday. 
Some love with a love that seeks a change or worse, denies its inevitability…they say, “I will change him just a little, and then he’ll be perfect” or “Oh, may she never change, she is perfect just as she is.”  They are both fools who have condemned their love before it has stretched its wings for the first time…they would keep all Nature in a cage and call her pet…but when the harpee is freed, she spares no one. 

I feel that I have been victim and perpetrator of all these misshapen variations on love, which, it seems to me, are not love at all…and though it would be naïve to expect that I shall never again come into contact with at least one of them, I have learned some things and, though it seems I don’t know much about this all-pervasive, infinitely elusive, hyper-relative abstraction, I can and will attempt to view Love through the lens of interconnectivity, in a way that brings benefit to myself and others…though, to be honest, I don’t know exactly what that means yet.  When do we stand our ground?  And when do we lay it all down?  Could I lay it all down? 

--

I was taken to the Swayanbhu (lit. “self made”) Buddha Park today.  I think it was the first time I felt connected in a real way to any of the sights of Kathmandu.  I have been to numerous small towns on the periphery of the city smattered with temples and stupas…I have even been to Bouddhanath Stupa…but the ritual and commercialism, the manufactured vibrations drowned out the other…or maybe it was in my head. 
As we walked through the gate to the park on the major boulevard I looked up to see three giant gold, white, green, and red painted statues, very new looking, seated side by side. Avalokitesvara (“The one who looks down and weeps”), the Boddhisattva of compassion, speaker of the Heart Sutra, was on the left, delicately holding the stems of two lotus flowers.  Padmasambhava, (“the lotus born”), the crazy scholar/sage/wizard who it is said is responsible for bringing the Dharma to Tibet, converting nature demons to protectors of the teaching, and writing the Bardo Thodol (a.k.a. The Tibetan Book of the Dead), and much more, was on the right in a dynamic posture, moustache, sword and all.  Between these two, slightly elevated, reaching down gently to touch the earth with his right hand was Siddhartha Gautama, the historical Buddha. 
I begin circumambulations with slow steps.  After the first tour I put my forehead to a stone lotus on the corner of the Padmasambhava’s platform, I seek the vibration of the warrior spirit…of strength, of courage informed by wisdom, I feel it enter from my third eye and shiver down my body, through my center and my limbs to my roots, into the ground.  The second round I do the same to a lotus on the platform of Avalokita…I seek the vibration of compassion, of empathy and proper understanding.  For a moment I forget about the suffocating air in Kathmandu, the illnesses in my body, the sound of the traffic, the city itself.  On my last round I seek to be infused by the spirit of Awakening…bodhicitta…I place my forehead to the platform of Siddhartha and breathe…and there is no doubt. Clarity.  I don’t try, I just feel.  I bow three fold asking that I may go forth with the mind, body and speech of a Noble One.
I walk down the stairs away from the park…I light some candles in a little hut near the exit.  I have these seeds in me…but as the illusion comes charging in…and as the thoughts rage on…the knowledge of how to water and care for them seems to slip away, caught in my small little world again…but the seeds are there and so is the knowledge of how to care for them.

--

“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world.  The unreasonable man adapts the world to himself.  Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”  -George Bernard Shaw

I sit by candlelight reading the accounts of men who have, instead of writing books about some fictional possibility they might have accomplished, lived their dreams, because they could not be satisfied by anything less…reading about these men, who repeatedly overwhelmed and alone, weeping furiously into the wind and then overcoming…or not…the point is that they did it, they took a leap…they created and participated in light…and everything else is a shadow dance. 

--

Who among us has not tried to make ourselves seem more than we are?  Who has never slipped in the exaggeration, the sarcasm, the twist…or any of the other species of lie that we call cleverness or “good fun”…those bits we, consciously or subconsciously, introduce into conversations, both internal and external, to preemptively defend ourselves against the opinions of others…the ones we imagine that they have of us.  But of course, this is the great joke:  Who we actually are is infinitely greater than what we tried to project…it would be foolish to even compare the two.  Would you compare the warmth of a yellow crayon drawing of the sun to the heat of the great ball of fire that burns in the sky at high noon?  Would you seek to quench your thirst with the memory of a stream you once visited when you were a child? 
…Many of those that have come into my life as brothers, friends and lovers have initially thought more of me than I am for one reason or another, and the ensuing disappointment and hurtful, sometimes explosive, departures of those people who had once said “I love you” so often as if to demonstrate that by frequency of use they might expel the sickeningly sweet taste from their mouths and minds, has left some part of my psyche in a wounded, self-absorbed state whereby there is a constant subtle push to keep everyone at arms length…though this always fails due to my seemingly stronger romantic longing for imposed unity as opposed to effortless connection, for concretized affection as opposed to faith in the possibility of the meeting of pure spirits, for approval as opposed to the seeking of truth, for craving and clinging as opposed to allowing what is, to be and pass as it will…all this opposition…illusory and more real than anything else at times.  And even though the contradictions pile up before my increasingly aware mind my efforts to undercut this artificial need to project something more, something bigger, something closer to that plastic version of perfection with which we’ve been beaten in the heart for what seems like forever, are to no avail…that quasi-instinctual need for approval that seems to only be achievable in a life lived in contradiction with Truth and a full renunciation of illusion bears down with such force…and I feel torn in twain between a tempting mirage and a truth riddled with doubts, between a Love I know next to nothing about and a freedom I have yet to achieve.

--

As I walk through Tamil there is a sign above that reads “Discourage Beggars.”  I think to myself…yes, of course…I must go find one who is impoverished, one whose life is so unfortunate that he must beg to eat and, after he solicits me for some small change, inform him, “Sir, haven’t you heard that capitalism is a greatness?  You are a hero serving humanity by filling the role of the necessary have-nots.  I, in all sincerity, thank you for leaving me the space to be upper middle class so that I may travel the world and have my life-changing experiences while you are cold, hungry, tired and humiliated…greatly appreciated…now, please move.”

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“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”  J. Krishnamurti

There is a sickness I feel at the thought of a career, at the thought of spending eighty percent of the sunlit hours in a box...at the thought of committing to something, not because I feel that it is the right thing to do, but because “its what everyone else is doing”…because if I don’t people will call me a disappointment and a failure--and my foundation in the Truth is not yet strong enough to move through this onslaught with my sanity.  But maybe sanity, that normal state of things so relative and vague that it becomes meaningless and without practical application, must be shed in the common sense in order to arrive at something substantial…though that substantiality is substanceless, essenceless…the Void overflowing with Reality.  After all, it is not reckless adventure I’m after…it is not rebellion for rebellion’s sake or knowledge for knowledge’s sake, it is not beauty or fairness, it is not a new philosophy, it is not glory or fame, it is not control, it is not an ideal, and it is certainly not money...what I seek is without fabricated qualities, without causes or conditions, it is beyond being but it does not exclude even the most minute of existences…it is just Reality that I seek…nothing more, but nothing less…and I fear that I will clutch at it with all my might, and that it will slip through my fingers with more rapidity than water, with greater grace than air.

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The desire to harm another is tremendously painful.  It is one of the many facts of human existence that makes the idea of punishment so profoundly stupid.  A violent act is its own punishment.  Punishment imposed by a person or institution, is never a balancing, but a continuation of the original violent act which it claims to counter.

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It is no great feat to find a thousand logical sounding reasons for a feeling of aversion to an object, substance, activity, etc, but logic does not override conditioning.  Do I feel aversion because I have heard these arguments and understand them…because I have dwelled in the truth of them?  Or is it the aversion that came first, then followed by the justificatory search for excuses and validation? This is not to say that the reasons one may have discovered aren’t true, per se…it is merely to point out that if they are not the primary source of your choice to abstain or be weary of the subject, then they simply cover up the deeper issue.  (In fact, the aversion itself may be a sign that reason is not the driving force…for if one has reason, does one require aversion?…or is it a secondary defense?)  They are either your theories or someone else’s arguments…its not that they’re not true…its that they are not true for you, at least not yet…they are not in your personal experience and therefore they can only serve as sign posts, they are guides to action.  They are not action themselves.  Think, feel, dwell…and then dwell further.

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“There is beauty in the breakdown”  -Frou Frou


New Year’s Eve 2011, it is a Metta day

I have just ordered dinner in my favorite restaurant in Tamil, the tourist district of Kathmandu.  There is a strange atmosphere in my mind tonight.  There is fatigue from a day of stress and lack of kindness (for to withhold our goodness from the world is a cause of exhaustion), hurt from the lack of response and attention (however petty it may seem or, in fact, be, it is where I am at right now and there must first be acceptance before there can be proper work or change) from someone I care about very much, there is anticipation of the wonderful salad I just ordered (a safe salad has been the rarest of delicacies on this journey), loneliness and a touch of bitterness at spending this holiday, enjoyed by so many, alone, and a whimsy sense of satisfaction and spiritual elitism at that same fact (holidays have somewhat highlighted the solitude and asceticism of this journey and pilgrimage section of the path…and while I see that there is nothing wrong with taking some joy in the renunciation of solitude at times, I also recognize that the elitism, spiritual or other, like all brands of arrogance and conceit I am familiar with, is based in little more than self doubt…pride is a hollow affair).  I feel so weak and depressed at times…so elated at others…and no matter how many times it shifts back and forth, I still manage to fall into that trap of thinking “this is how is always was…how it always will be,” failing to observe the constant death and rebirth occurring every singe moment, and the infinite possibility therein.  It is hard not to get frustrated with myself, but I know that without forgiveness of my own weaknesses and shortcomings, progress can never be made…and that is what New Year’s is supposed to be about isn’t it?  Well, that’s what I’m making it about. 
…There is also a strange, ethereal sort of longing and melancholy emanating from my readings of Krakauer’s adventure literature…barren landscapes and misguided will, freezing in the night, laborious breathing, solitary adventure, catharsis, loneliness and fear…these characters…much more than characters, they are people…long so profoundly for liberation, but are always seeking it outside themselves…always running from something.  Is the drive to seek always linked to the desire for escape?  It throws me as I adapt…but I think it will ultimately make me stronger.  I can’t just hide from literature and images and temptations…but at the same time, I can’t do battle with everything all at once either.  I feel like I have to treat my own mind like a great fish on the end of a hook…drag, reel, release…drag, reel, release (interesting analogy for a vegetarian and a poor fisherman).  Seek not to be a fisherman or fish…or of men…seek instead to be a fisherman of happiness, of awakening, of goodness in the world…

Later…

I juggle back and forth in my mind between continuing to read in my room or going out and dancing for a little bit (sleeping is not an option due to the noise…that and the anxiety)…celebrating in some way at one of the little tourist spots with a live band or a DJ.  I can’t tell which, if any reasons, are more right or whatever…it starts to rain, hard…this is the first rain since I’ve been in Nepal…there is an unpleasant sort of satisfaction, sympathy from the clouds. 

The Walk

…When the rain softens…I head out for a walk around the busy, loud neighborhood filled with neon and wires to look for somewhere to hang out for a little bit, cheer through the countdown with some people who might speak my language if they were sober enough to do so.  I have about an hour and a half before the drop.  Despite my attempts to stay present, be mindful…to respond to those that get in my face for one reason or another with some semblance of patience…I slip away into some series of intricate negative thought patterns…ill will, resentment, jealousy, arrogance…I manage to come back once every aeon it seems…and even then, there is frustration. See a couple places…hear some electronic beats through the wall…a place near my hotel says “Dance” on it…I inquire…the creepy security guard escorts me back to take a look… “No, really I just wanted to know if there’s a cover…what kind of music inside”… “Just looking, just looking, no problem,” he says…he opens the door…I realize it’s not a place where you dance…it’s a place where the ladies dance and you sit and watch…it hadn’t even occurred to me that they had places like that in Nepal, still a little green obviously.  A woman comes at me eagerly with a menu and an excited expression… “Woah, Sorry.  No” I manage to get out over the heavy music…and I flip a 180 and am down the hall with quick steps before the security guard can catch up to me so that he can convince me back and get his commission.  I’ve had enough of the repetitive techno, the sorry live bands, the street dealers whispering their obnoxious mantras of poison in my ear…most of all I’ve had enough of my own mind and thoughts. 

Back to my room for the next hour and change…read…breathe…it is ten or fifteen minutes to .  I decide that I will walk around the streets…I will do everything I can to muster up some Metta and send it out…maybe it will generate something in me, I think… “Act is if ye have faith, and it shall be given.”  I walk slowly in the drizzle, winding through the smattered tourists and Nepalis…some more sober than others…I am singing “Om Mani Padme Hum” (Om Jewel in the Lotus Hum) softly in the melody I learned at the Compassion practice of the Tibetan Nyingma Temple I practiced at in Santa Barbara...I come back over and over again…there is a peaceful sort of confusion with the chant vibrating through the din of the streets…but it feels like biting glass sometimes…moving between waves of what borders on rage and the ebb of in-breath. 

It occurs to me:
I resent the vendors because they held a mirror to the part of me that feels hollow without buying their ever so clever but totally unnecessary merchandise.
I resented the drug dealers because they held a mirror to the part of me that still wants their poison.
I resented the drunks yelling like idiots because they held a mirror to the part of me that sometimes thinks that the grass is greener over there, to the part of me that envies the fool his oblivion.
I resented the people on their phones because they held a mirror to the part of me that is still waiting for a call that won’t come.
I resent the happy couples because they held a mirror to the part of me that missed…that misses affection…the part that longs to feel special in someone’s eyes and arms.
I hated them for not allowing me to ignore, to stay isolated from all that in me I’d like to expel but haven’t yet.
I hated them for the temptation and weakness they represented and highlighted respectively. 
I hated them because they were being teachers to me and my grand ego says “No! I will teach you!”  I am the one who stands superior, on my pilgrimage, with my insight, my my my…my poor ego, an ignorant and misguided friend trying to fulfill its evolutionary purpose by keeping me seperated, independent...raging against reality, declaring war on peace itself.
I resented them all because I thought they were pulling me from my practice and suffocating my efforts…but it was only my hatred that was the problem…as always, there is no external problem, no external enemy…no internal enemy…there is only perception…

The countdown, started by some guy next to me with a group of friends, catches me by surprise.  I break a smile and listen to them count down…a sloppy sort of metronome for the mantra on my lips.  I wish I could tell you it all washed away…that I felt clean after my walk in the rain with the words of Compassion sounding out…but there is aching still.  And that will have to be ok for now.  Happy New Year.

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“I’m not really like this.  Probably plight-less.”  -Bon Iver

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“There is no where to go.  There is nothing to do.  There is no one to be.” –Zen Saying