The only dream I have is to dream no more
To be satisfied, every moment is an open door...
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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I was taken to the Swayanbhu (lit. “self made”) Buddha Park 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
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.
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“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.
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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.
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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
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