The date in my journal reads October 31, 2010. It was on this day that I intended to carry myself to the internet cafe and post an entry reflecting upon my time lived at the ashram. But my thoughts arrived only as far as a pocket-sized, spiral-bound notebook. Words fill the college-ruled lines to the brim: splattering over the edge like childhood's spiral-paint creations. Red morning, blue wind, green rice fields and orange marigolds vie for recognition as the days pass with pages left uncrinkled. A quiet afternoon leads cold winter hands to finger the pen-and-ink moments left to simmer on the shelf. Too little time has passed for the gathering of dust; just enough time gone for words to marinate in the flavor of homecoming's gratitude. Grateful for journeying out; grateful for arriving home; grateful for the opportunity to share soft moments of reflection.
October 31, 2010
I kneel at the edge of the reflecting pool and dare to look into glass water. My eyes, two green-as-grass luminous orbs cradled in blue. My lips, a watermelon crescent-moon that personifies happiness. My cheek bones, sure and steady and sharp like an eagle's laser-vision and a ballerina's poise. My hairline, the ocean shore reaching out and up like dawn's light on morning waves.
I see myself alive and blooming as tender grass, watermelon juice, the dawn-tide and a jubilant pirouette. I am always new and evolving, yet closer to my nature -- the essence born of my mother's womb. The path of yoga helps one learn the importance of cultivating a positive and compassionate relationship with self. By learning to fan the flames of one's inner light, she is able to share the cartwheeling sparks and fireflies with the world. So goes the saying: "one must love oneself before she is able to love anyone else." Perhaps I did not understand this as a zealous youth determined to be a martyr in order to show my worth. Now, in the quiet of morning meditation, understanding rises up from the depths of my soul like the gentle laughter of a mountain spring. "So glad you finally noticed me," my soul giggles.
And so, love flows from a vessel that receives rain and sunlight with open arms and sings cascades of plenty over its edges and out into the world. How to share of a cup that is empty? Love not from the shallow-depths of insecurity and fear or from the scraping sound of emptiness; share love from overflow and abundance and light-spilling over the soft contours of the soul.
The teachings of Yogi Vishvketu-ji are characterized by joy and bliss. During the practice, we are mindful to always be aware of the breath - the life-force energy that moves gracefully in and out through the nostrils, feeding our lungs and blood and vital organs with nourishment from the Ganges winds. Healing energy is everywhere and always available to us -- nurturing oxygen, sound, light, relationships, stillness, flowing movement, beauty. We must allow our minds to expand as endless as the ocean so that we might re-think of food not only as fruits and grains and tastes that touch the tongue. What about tastes that touch the soul? The heart? The nerves from toes to crown? We feed through our five sense and through what is beyond sensory perception -- our connection to the Ocean of Consciousness. The Ocean of Divinity. The Ocean of Life-force energy that reverberates in each and every one of us. The macrocosm in every microcosm (the entire universe in a single grain of sand). The microcosm in the macrocosm (I am a part of all that I see).
"Respect yourself," says Yogi Vishvaji. "Smile to yourself as you inhale one deep breath of gratitude. Yoga is Being who you Are. Union. Ceasing to swim against the current; ceasing to doubt the rocks that seem to obstruct the river's flow. Obstacles only come into existence when we grant obstructions the power to dissolve our confidence. We are born with an inner resilience and goodness that wants to shine forth. Yet, so many times, we run from the light, because darkness is more anonymous and easier, perhaps. Yoga is opening to inner goodness and with dedication, cultivating that goodness in each moment of every day: thought, word and deed."
I realize it is quite impossible for me to recount a story of the past month in the ashram without delving into the spirals and swirls of the internal journey. The dance of blood cell and tissues reconfiguring; the spark of new synapses forming. The past month has been about dedication, faith, energy, courage (fearlessness), support, growth, friendship, new experiences, and embracing each new day as it comes. I feel honored to learn in the presence of a teacher who embodies the yogic teachings in his every word, thought, action, smile. Moving into Bliss with Yoga is the title that Vishvaji chooses for the trainings he offers. The perfect title for the course. Through breathing and stillness, stretching and deepening, expanding and contracting, strengthening and surrendering, flowing and cultivating subtle awareness, laughing and crying - through experiencing Union in myriad ways, we move into Bliss with Yoga.
At the beginning of the course, the training group sat down together and wrote out our intentions. Intention-setting, or Sankalpa shakti, is an integral part to the practice of Yoga. What do we hope to receive from the time at Anand Prakash Ashram? What do we hope to offer? I wrote:
I open myself to learning a wholesome combination of tools -- the practicality of anatomy and class-sequencing and the spirituality of mediation and philosophy -- that will allow me to share the teachings with courage and humility.
I open-heartedly offer enthusiasm, joy, playfulness and smiles.
I smile as I re-read the worlds I wrote one month ago. As if fingering the beanstalk's magic beans -- seeds sown in fertile soil and encouraged heavenward by light and water. The seeds are sprouting beautifully, with strong roots and wing-like leaves spreading wide and happy. Open-hearted and fearless, emerging through earth's surface with great enthusiasm: a trumpet's song, honeysuckle's sweetness, a bumblebee's generosity. Even if there is a troll waiting in the heavens at the top of the beanstalk ladder, my heart will not shy away from the challenge. One breath at a time, one smile at a time, one openhearted ounce of faith at a time, we learn to see challenges as blessings.
I have learned both practical and spiritual tools that will help me to begin the journey of sharing the yogic teachings with courage and humility. This is the beauty of Yoga: it is a spiritual practice and a lifestyle; it is not a religion based on particular names of gods and holy places. Yoga is not an exclusive path that says "this way to heaven," all other roads to the flames. One Truth, Many Paths. What is that Truth? Love. Union. Kindness. Connection. Yoga is a science of living. And by science, I mean art as well. Art and science are interchangeable in this context. Both are words that imply craftsmanship, care, diligence, dedication and an ounce of belief-yolk, an ounce of faith. (How can we be dedicated if we do not have faith?) A practitioner of any religion can embrace the practice of yoga -- pragmatic tools for cultivating awareness, balance, strength and peace through the integration of body, mind and spirit. Through the recognition of Oneness with all and the dedication of seeing the Divine in all living things. Or ... if the word "Divine" is uncomfortable because it is too similar to "God," we could simply say: feeling reverence and love for all. Recognizing the macrocosm in the microcosm: To see the whole world in a single grain of sand ...
Under the guidance of Yogi Vishvketu-ji, my practice has deepened and expanded awesomely. Through breathwork, physical postures, chanting, meditation, concentration and the study of philosophy (and, moreover, the application and practice of the teachings in day to day life), the seeds of goodness and possibility in me are watered daily with the most nourishing foods. Moreover, the dedication, joy, enthusiasm and inspiration I feel cartwheel and dance and affirm each moment anew that I am committed to being who I am and sharing the best of me with the world generously and fearlessly. Practically, the experience of myriad practices and approaches to purifying mind, body and spirit encourages growth and awareness and offers tools for sharing the teachings with all who wish to learn. (Many paths, one Truth.) Spiritually -- dedication, faith, energy, enthusiasm, joy, a teacher who guides me with love and encourages me to look inside, listen to the inner voice and discover the glow that has been there all along.
I express my abundant gratitude for the life-changing experience of waking before dawn on the banks of the Ganges during a month of inspiring and transformational practice. I celebrate the enthusiasm I feel for what is to come: consciously sowing fertile seeds, weaving colorful threads into vibrant tapestries, and approaching each moment of life with a craftsman's attention and care. Now is a marked moment. The beginning of the rest of my life. I am committed to the yogic path: fully embracing the practice as a guide to discovering my best self and learning how to share the sparks and glow with the whole world. Each and every moment (each thought, word and action), is powerful. I am now a certified yoga teacher and able to begin the lifetime journey of teaching and learning and growing. I am dedicated to the yoga family; I am dedicated to embodying hope and hard work in a journey inspired by an intention of multiplying goodness and well-being everywhere. I am full of love and full of zeal. We are the one's we've been waiting for. We are the ones who are delivering ourselves from the complexities we have created; step by step, we are becoming the change we wish to see in the world.
This is what I have been doing for the last month. Not just simple, vegetarian meals and pre-dawn yoga classes. I will be digesting the course and continuing to learn for months to come. I express my deepest gratitude for the blessings the journey through India (and through my soul) has bestowed upon my life. For not a single moment will I forget the gift of continual opportunities for growth and expansion.
Om shanti, shanti, shanti
Peace everywhere and all around
Friday, December 3, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Haridwar: First Glimpse of the Ganges
On the banks of the Ganges, I sit. A river made holy by the myriad believers who, for centuries, have gathered at her banks to wash, to pray, to sit in stillness and watch her water flow. The steps leading down to the swift brown current, fast and full with the recent rain, are covered in leaves, trash, dung, peanut shells and floral offerings. A child bathes happily under the sweet gaze of his young mother, beginning the day with a thick soap lather and a shivering giggle. Sadhus cloaked in orange gather together under the shade of the riverside Bodhi trees. Women use hand mirrors to apply make-up and bindis before stepping riverside for a morning ceremony. The riverside is alive with chatter: temple bells and singing bowls mapping the sun's journey over the horizon.
Just minutes after I arrive on the ghats, I am approached by a semi-official man with a semi-official book of receipts who asks me to make a donation to the maintenance of the riverside community. "Free feeding for poors-beggars, old sages and for all who wants," he says with a salesman's cheer, his eyes just inches from my own and leaning closer. "And for ceremonies, too," he adds. I smile and hand over a hundred rupee note, still slightly skeptical but encouraged by the enthusiasm of the twenty eyes staring at me from all sides. "100 rupees very little contribution," says the officer. He flips through his companion book and finds a few words of English with amounts of 2000 rupees and beyond. "I am a student," I respond, keeping my reasoning simple. "Please accept what I offer." The riverside women, hand -mirrors held close, darken their lashes and eyes before smearing themselves with whitening cream. No rain in the sky today and still I am soaked by India' unfailing sensory overload from sun-up til sun down and into midnight's shadows.
I sit on the steps with my shawl veiling face and eyes, hoping to dissolve into the hypnotic Ganges flow and evade the curious eyes of the riverbank dwellers for just a moment. And as a single moment dawns and faces, like a firefly, a larva, an aphid born and laid to rest in the same instant, Mona Lisa is by my side. Mona Lisa, the spirited young woman who speaks with confidence in broken but practiced English explains to me that I should come with her to Calcutta. "Two single women traveling alone can become friends traveling together," she smiles. In another time and place, I might say yes, impressed by her sweet persistence, which includes stories of her paramedical training, her life as a classical Indian singer and a thorough explanation of her identification card. She pulls out a handwritten and carefully preserved business card that in another hand could be easily mistaken for a laundry-drenched pastime. "And look here," she adds, showing me an immaculate florescent print out of Ram Dev and his wife with bloody-mouthed Kali and Tara in a totem-pole like arrangement. Mona Lisa sings to me and waves her henna-laced hand like a Bollywood star. "God bless you," she says as she makes a tentative gesture in the shape of a cross. "And God bless you, Mona Lisa," I reply with my hands folded in Namaste. "Good luck in Calcutta."
I continue walking. The sun rises high. I miss the breakfast hour completely, hunger dispelled by the buzz of morning activity. A happily naked toddler looks up, her eyes thickly defined with black powder, shielding her young pupils from the sun and subsequently making her look like a princess. Her mother smiles, six or seven months pregnant with the next. This is who I would give the hundred rupees pocketed by the riverside official. We hold our gaze for a long moment and continue walking our separate ways.
The banks of the Ganges are bursting with color. Hundreds of locals and Indian tourists flood the water's edge with marigold and bugambilia offerings and bathe happily or not so happily by the bucketful. One of the not so happy bathers is a toddler on holiday with his young parents. He is adorned with blessing necklaces and a thin string around his waist, nothing more. Dad drags him to the water as Mom tries to focus the camera. The young boy screams in protest as he is dunked into the current. I step away, embarrassed to maintain my sideways glance any longer. I make my way up river where children and women are squatting on small mud and rubbish islands, fingering through the trash in search of something. Fresh water mussels? Snails? Discarded jewels? Coin offerings? I sit down, feeling comfortably anonymous with my veil. But not two breaths do I take before I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Namaskar, madame."
I turn around to see two orange-clad sadhus gazing at me. White beards, black umbrellas and neutral business-like expressions.
"Namaskar," I reply, knowing they've got me cornered.
"Country, please," continues the alpha of the pair.
"U.S.A." I say with a smile.
"It is not money we want," the leader continues. "Rice, flour, vegetables: this we want. Come."
I follow willingly, knowing the rule that once sadhus have you you are to respect their request, if at all reasonable.
"10kg of rice, good," states the sadhu, sure that I will continue to comply as easily as I have thus far.
"100 rupees of rice," I say. "100 rupees is what I offer."
The sadhu shakes his head in disappointment, but I know my offering is appropriate and stand my ground with ease. I hand him the money, snap a photo, receive his blessing with folded hands and bowed head and slip quietly from the shop and back to the clamorous street. A plump woman whose heavy eyes witnessed the transaction is quick on my heels.
"50 rupees, sister. Chapatti, rice."
"No, sister," I reply, not slackening my pace. She persists thirty meters more and gives up.
I duck out of the river boardwalk and onto the busy alley-way streets, bursting at the seams with vendors on bikes and surplus cheap merchandise: bangles, plastics, blankets, incense, metal-ware, spices and balls of dough deep-fried in oil. I dissolve into the noise and chaos just as I dissolved into the Ganges flow of morning. I walk with a playful confidence and smile: the kind of confidence that comes from deep humility and a willingness to put judgment aside and just be.
Just minutes after I arrive on the ghats, I am approached by a semi-official man with a semi-official book of receipts who asks me to make a donation to the maintenance of the riverside community. "Free feeding for poors-beggars, old sages and for all who wants," he says with a salesman's cheer, his eyes just inches from my own and leaning closer. "And for ceremonies, too," he adds. I smile and hand over a hundred rupee note, still slightly skeptical but encouraged by the enthusiasm of the twenty eyes staring at me from all sides. "100 rupees very little contribution," says the officer. He flips through his companion book and finds a few words of English with amounts of 2000 rupees and beyond. "I am a student," I respond, keeping my reasoning simple. "Please accept what I offer." The riverside women, hand -mirrors held close, darken their lashes and eyes before smearing themselves with whitening cream. No rain in the sky today and still I am soaked by India' unfailing sensory overload from sun-up til sun down and into midnight's shadows.
I sit on the steps with my shawl veiling face and eyes, hoping to dissolve into the hypnotic Ganges flow and evade the curious eyes of the riverbank dwellers for just a moment. And as a single moment dawns and faces, like a firefly, a larva, an aphid born and laid to rest in the same instant, Mona Lisa is by my side. Mona Lisa, the spirited young woman who speaks with confidence in broken but practiced English explains to me that I should come with her to Calcutta. "Two single women traveling alone can become friends traveling together," she smiles. In another time and place, I might say yes, impressed by her sweet persistence, which includes stories of her paramedical training, her life as a classical Indian singer and a thorough explanation of her identification card. She pulls out a handwritten and carefully preserved business card that in another hand could be easily mistaken for a laundry-drenched pastime. "And look here," she adds, showing me an immaculate florescent print out of Ram Dev and his wife with bloody-mouthed Kali and Tara in a totem-pole like arrangement. Mona Lisa sings to me and waves her henna-laced hand like a Bollywood star. "God bless you," she says as she makes a tentative gesture in the shape of a cross. "And God bless you, Mona Lisa," I reply with my hands folded in Namaste. "Good luck in Calcutta."
I continue walking. The sun rises high. I miss the breakfast hour completely, hunger dispelled by the buzz of morning activity. A happily naked toddler looks up, her eyes thickly defined with black powder, shielding her young pupils from the sun and subsequently making her look like a princess. Her mother smiles, six or seven months pregnant with the next. This is who I would give the hundred rupees pocketed by the riverside official. We hold our gaze for a long moment and continue walking our separate ways.
The banks of the Ganges are bursting with color. Hundreds of locals and Indian tourists flood the water's edge with marigold and bugambilia offerings and bathe happily or not so happily by the bucketful. One of the not so happy bathers is a toddler on holiday with his young parents. He is adorned with blessing necklaces and a thin string around his waist, nothing more. Dad drags him to the water as Mom tries to focus the camera. The young boy screams in protest as he is dunked into the current. I step away, embarrassed to maintain my sideways glance any longer. I make my way up river where children and women are squatting on small mud and rubbish islands, fingering through the trash in search of something. Fresh water mussels? Snails? Discarded jewels? Coin offerings? I sit down, feeling comfortably anonymous with my veil. But not two breaths do I take before I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Namaskar, madame."
I turn around to see two orange-clad sadhus gazing at me. White beards, black umbrellas and neutral business-like expressions.
"Namaskar," I reply, knowing they've got me cornered.
"Country, please," continues the alpha of the pair.
"U.S.A." I say with a smile.
"It is not money we want," the leader continues. "Rice, flour, vegetables: this we want. Come."
I follow willingly, knowing the rule that once sadhus have you you are to respect their request, if at all reasonable.
"10kg of rice, good," states the sadhu, sure that I will continue to comply as easily as I have thus far.
"100 rupees of rice," I say. "100 rupees is what I offer."
The sadhu shakes his head in disappointment, but I know my offering is appropriate and stand my ground with ease. I hand him the money, snap a photo, receive his blessing with folded hands and bowed head and slip quietly from the shop and back to the clamorous street. A plump woman whose heavy eyes witnessed the transaction is quick on my heels.
"50 rupees, sister. Chapatti, rice."
"No, sister," I reply, not slackening my pace. She persists thirty meters more and gives up.
I duck out of the river boardwalk and onto the busy alley-way streets, bursting at the seams with vendors on bikes and surplus cheap merchandise: bangles, plastics, blankets, incense, metal-ware, spices and balls of dough deep-fried in oil. I dissolve into the noise and chaos just as I dissolved into the Ganges flow of morning. I walk with a playful confidence and smile: the kind of confidence that comes from deep humility and a willingness to put judgment aside and just be.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Train
I chose the 54 hour train-ride south because I knew the journey would be like nothing else I've experienced thus far. I chose the 54 hour train-ride north because I knew I could weather the railway with grace. Four and a half days of life in a rail coach watching the world rush by through open windows, hypnotized by the endless green expanse: an endless green thickly embroidered with skyscraper garbage heaps and anonymous cows feasting on the stench.
How to re-create the whirlwind inundation of rail-side existence? The eternal matchbox-city slums putt-putt by, frame by frame, as the train reaches the outskirts of the city; haphazard yet carefully mended roofs of burlap, tarpaulin and broken metal flash sunlight and burning garbage direct to eye-level; a child swings from a rope hung in the single tree outside a broken line of plaster-colored shacks; two egrets pose lovingly on the staunch backbone of a long-horned cow; trash sits; children play; more trash burns; hammers tap-tap; the smell of fresh piss hisses and a line of bare bums squat on the railway before going home to their huts on the edge of midnight's train whistle. How to share the sensory overload of the whirlwind journey of boxcar eyes that stare out the train's barred-windows as the world rushes by? I feel like a spinning druid: flashes of color, words and song; sparks and fireworks exploding.
Apart from the endless garbage that lines the rivers, railways, mountainsides, cities and villages, the breadth of India between Delhi and Kerala is green farmland. Potatoes, Corn, Rice and Squash for endless miles. Banana trees and coconut palms joining the patchwork fields as the train moves south. Entire families work the harvest together. Big sister cares for baby under the make-shift shade of a broken umbrella. Mom's sure hands sow new rice seedlings ankle-deep in mud. Dad and brother man the two-mule plow and ready the next field for planting. Children harvest with agility and grace, making time for a quick game of tag or an approximation of cricket before the sun sets.
I think I would love India if I took the time to learn Hindi. In fact, I feel my love growing even with my stapled tongue. I love the kind faces and enthusiasm: a happy outburst at every hello. I love the attention to detail: blessing scarves at the source of water, the florescent-colored face flowers hanging in every doorway just over the fresh embers of burning incense. What we might call tacky in the states is gorgeous in India because everyone believes in everyday celebration. Celebration that merely begins by blessing doorways with garlands of flowers and throwing rice and spending extra rupees on special incense to make the living statues of Krishna and Lakshmi happy. India: the land of constant celebration, eternal fireworks, explosions of the heart and symphonies of chaos. All of this crazy color bounces off the walls of a rail-car packed with happy sardine-packed passengers and still I grapple with the filth and stench and the everywhere-is-a-dumping-ground philosophy. Any which way one turns, paper teacups and plates and foil packets filled with remnant curries fly from the window. Bags of chips and biscuits and plastic soda bottles by the hundreds carelessly launched to join the rubbish fields. Impossible to get over the shock. Still, I attempt to dispel the trash-drowning helplessness I feel, I focus my senses on the musical quality of my surroundings. A composure would faint from a musical overload on the aisles of the Indian Rail. Each passing vendor delivers a perfectly-pitched jingle with unparalleled stamina (hour after hour on repeat) and each beggar stares with eyes deep enough to silence the brass buzz. Children play a wooden-spoon symphony and sing with a sweetness that smiles when a shower of coins meet the tin of hand-held cup. Tap-tapping canes. The swish of brooms and outstretched hands, May I shine your shoes, madame? I mumble and tumble because I am too overwhelmed to try and make sense of the two-day chug-a-choo on the Indian Rail: two days intensified by the heat of juxtaposed polarities. The most beautiful beside the most wretched; a barefoot bangle-clad woman peering through the sheer veil of an orange sari to focus her eyes on the reeking hillside of human-waste in search of a coin, a discarded scrap, anything hinting at worth. Over and over again.
The paradox of India: we love her even as we hold our breath to keep from getting sick. A druid spins dizzy and exhausted--overcome by love and anguish--and surrenders to chaos, because that is the way of India. Parades and color and tears. Surviving with a blood-orange vivaciousness made of sweat, frying butter, gentle laughter and a warrior capacity to persist, one cup of tea at a time.
How to re-create the whirlwind inundation of rail-side existence? The eternal matchbox-city slums putt-putt by, frame by frame, as the train reaches the outskirts of the city; haphazard yet carefully mended roofs of burlap, tarpaulin and broken metal flash sunlight and burning garbage direct to eye-level; a child swings from a rope hung in the single tree outside a broken line of plaster-colored shacks; two egrets pose lovingly on the staunch backbone of a long-horned cow; trash sits; children play; more trash burns; hammers tap-tap; the smell of fresh piss hisses and a line of bare bums squat on the railway before going home to their huts on the edge of midnight's train whistle. How to share the sensory overload of the whirlwind journey of boxcar eyes that stare out the train's barred-windows as the world rushes by? I feel like a spinning druid: flashes of color, words and song; sparks and fireworks exploding.
Apart from the endless garbage that lines the rivers, railways, mountainsides, cities and villages, the breadth of India between Delhi and Kerala is green farmland. Potatoes, Corn, Rice and Squash for endless miles. Banana trees and coconut palms joining the patchwork fields as the train moves south. Entire families work the harvest together. Big sister cares for baby under the make-shift shade of a broken umbrella. Mom's sure hands sow new rice seedlings ankle-deep in mud. Dad and brother man the two-mule plow and ready the next field for planting. Children harvest with agility and grace, making time for a quick game of tag or an approximation of cricket before the sun sets.
I think I would love India if I took the time to learn Hindi. In fact, I feel my love growing even with my stapled tongue. I love the kind faces and enthusiasm: a happy outburst at every hello. I love the attention to detail: blessing scarves at the source of water, the florescent-colored face flowers hanging in every doorway just over the fresh embers of burning incense. What we might call tacky in the states is gorgeous in India because everyone believes in everyday celebration. Celebration that merely begins by blessing doorways with garlands of flowers and throwing rice and spending extra rupees on special incense to make the living statues of Krishna and Lakshmi happy. India: the land of constant celebration, eternal fireworks, explosions of the heart and symphonies of chaos. All of this crazy color bounces off the walls of a rail-car packed with happy sardine-packed passengers and still I grapple with the filth and stench and the everywhere-is-a-dumping-ground philosophy. Any which way one turns, paper teacups and plates and foil packets filled with remnant curries fly from the window. Bags of chips and biscuits and plastic soda bottles by the hundreds carelessly launched to join the rubbish fields. Impossible to get over the shock. Still, I attempt to dispel the trash-drowning helplessness I feel, I focus my senses on the musical quality of my surroundings. A composure would faint from a musical overload on the aisles of the Indian Rail. Each passing vendor delivers a perfectly-pitched jingle with unparalleled stamina (hour after hour on repeat) and each beggar stares with eyes deep enough to silence the brass buzz. Children play a wooden-spoon symphony and sing with a sweetness that smiles when a shower of coins meet the tin of hand-held cup. Tap-tapping canes. The swish of brooms and outstretched hands, May I shine your shoes, madame? I mumble and tumble because I am too overwhelmed to try and make sense of the two-day chug-a-choo on the Indian Rail: two days intensified by the heat of juxtaposed polarities. The most beautiful beside the most wretched; a barefoot bangle-clad woman peering through the sheer veil of an orange sari to focus her eyes on the reeking hillside of human-waste in search of a coin, a discarded scrap, anything hinting at worth. Over and over again.
The paradox of India: we love her even as we hold our breath to keep from getting sick. A druid spins dizzy and exhausted--overcome by love and anguish--and surrenders to chaos, because that is the way of India. Parades and color and tears. Surviving with a blood-orange vivaciousness made of sweat, frying butter, gentle laughter and a warrior capacity to persist, one cup of tea at a time.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Munnar
My happily cartwheeling thoughts put on their finest British accent as I stroll through the tea estate: an ocean of endless green rows, so perfectly planted, so perfectly manicured. The hills are alive with the sound of music and the sweet kiss of soft rain. Every angle of the green expanse is a postcard. Just to the west, a perfectly symmetrical pyramid of green-plaited rows rises regal from the mist. Like something one expects to see on an elite garden tour where pruning sheers are paintbrushes and working hands the color of sunshine are descendants of Monet and Van Gogh. Nature would not craft the hills in this way - as predictable as the sound of a typewriter's clicking keys, but the green-striped ocean of tea is beautiful.
What is most remarkable is the brilliant quality of color amidst the dancing glow of drizzle and sunshine. A thousand shades of green: young tea leaves with a sun-glaze shine; old tea leaves on the edge of a purple storm; young tea leaves in the soft shadow of morning rain; old tea leaves smiling at noon's sunbath sweat. And decorating the hills like candy or Christmas ornaments are the tea estate houses, where hundreds of fieldhands live with their families. The modest concrete buildings are painted the most brilliant shade of indigo -- a blend of the brightest sky-blue and a newly bloomed violet. Indigo bright walls with red tin roofs, turquoise doors, florescent yellow dahlias growing in the garden and a clothesline showcasing the whole color-spectrum of breezy laundry. I snap photo after photo to capture the radiance of the color explosion: an impossible task. Camera can capture the gateway-moment to memories but cannot sing the sweet buzz of life happening in such a swirl of vibrant color.
Men and women painted ebony by the sun walk barefoot through the steep green ocean rows and prune the tea plants over musical chit-chat. Men work with a machete like knife to clear the beautiful lantanta and morning-glory weeds that encroach upon the neat seams of the tea slopes. Women work with special pruning sheers that have an attached bag for gathering the tea leaves. In an instant of clip-clipping, the ebony handed smile fills the small bag and in one smooth motion delivers the green harvest to a large bag worn on her waist. Generation after generation the same: all day planting, tending and harvesting tea. Like mother and father; like grandmother and grandfather. Since the British came and saw green fortune in these hills. It's surprising how beautiful deforestation can look when so carefully groomed and green.
I am glad to meet these tea-estate hills, where the land-locked ocean is manicured-green and the houses are colored indigo and smell of woodsmoke and spice. I am glad to meet the hospitality of barefoot fieldhand generations and feel silenced by the calm, steady rain. I am glad to chance upon this friendly tea-estate town where school girls wear fresh flowers in their braids and smile bright-eyed into the softness of morning: their pink bows reflecting lantana light. Munnar: high up in the Kerala clouds, a green tea-estate ocean blooms its way into high-noon cups and saucers across the world.
What is most remarkable is the brilliant quality of color amidst the dancing glow of drizzle and sunshine. A thousand shades of green: young tea leaves with a sun-glaze shine; old tea leaves on the edge of a purple storm; young tea leaves in the soft shadow of morning rain; old tea leaves smiling at noon's sunbath sweat. And decorating the hills like candy or Christmas ornaments are the tea estate houses, where hundreds of fieldhands live with their families. The modest concrete buildings are painted the most brilliant shade of indigo -- a blend of the brightest sky-blue and a newly bloomed violet. Indigo bright walls with red tin roofs, turquoise doors, florescent yellow dahlias growing in the garden and a clothesline showcasing the whole color-spectrum of breezy laundry. I snap photo after photo to capture the radiance of the color explosion: an impossible task. Camera can capture the gateway-moment to memories but cannot sing the sweet buzz of life happening in such a swirl of vibrant color.
Men and women painted ebony by the sun walk barefoot through the steep green ocean rows and prune the tea plants over musical chit-chat. Men work with a machete like knife to clear the beautiful lantanta and morning-glory weeds that encroach upon the neat seams of the tea slopes. Women work with special pruning sheers that have an attached bag for gathering the tea leaves. In an instant of clip-clipping, the ebony handed smile fills the small bag and in one smooth motion delivers the green harvest to a large bag worn on her waist. Generation after generation the same: all day planting, tending and harvesting tea. Like mother and father; like grandmother and grandfather. Since the British came and saw green fortune in these hills. It's surprising how beautiful deforestation can look when so carefully groomed and green.
I am glad to meet these tea-estate hills, where the land-locked ocean is manicured-green and the houses are colored indigo and smell of woodsmoke and spice. I am glad to meet the hospitality of barefoot fieldhand generations and feel silenced by the calm, steady rain. I am glad to chance upon this friendly tea-estate town where school girls wear fresh flowers in their braids and smile bright-eyed into the softness of morning: their pink bows reflecting lantana light. Munnar: high up in the Kerala clouds, a green tea-estate ocean blooms its way into high-noon cups and saucers across the world.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sitting on a bus in Delhi
As the afternoon drizzle of rain kisses Munnar's tea-fields green and gold, I take a moment to glance through the pages of my haphazard journal. The black and white composition notebook offers a sweet familiarity; I have been writing in such journals for a decade: pasting pictures, etching crayon-happy drawings, scribbling short cafe-napkin thoughts and writing longer discourses on anything from the beauty of spring crocuses to the shame of jet-sprayed soybean fields that poison happy cows, well-meaning earthworms and uninformed people. The India journal is particularly haphazard: a conglomeration of train station data, inspired chapter outlines of the yogic texts I have been assigned for the upcoming Yoga Teacher Training, and momentary gusts of inspiration that spiral their way into essays and commentaries much like those I post on the blog. As I finger through the soft-lined pages, I come upon an entry I wrote while in Agra, the rough industrial city that draws hundreds of thousands of tourists to see the breathtaking dawn beauty of the Taj Mahal. The Agra entry communicates the laughable chaos that describes travel in India: so many faces, fragrances, possibilities and impossibilities. And so, I choose to look over my shoulder at the month past and share the following entry.
_______________________________________________
Sitting on a bus in Delhi, I think about the crow of madness . This phrase is used by Jane to describe life in Nepal and India: sunshine is beaming one minute and the next, storm clouds bring chaos and inexplicable lack of reason.
First, there is the famous head-wiggle: the same side-to-side gesture with the half-tilt of a lopsided metronome can mean "yes," "no," and "maybe." Does this bus go to Agra? (Head-wiggle and mumble.) Leaving at 11am? (Head-wiggle and wave.) The bus might get to Agra eventually, taking more than 5 hours to go 200 kilometers. And the bus could start its engine at 11am and move to leave around noon. Maybe there will be a 10 minute lunch stop that is really an hour. And you might order butter nan for 30 rupees and pay 50 because today the manager is changing the menu. And the bus might have air-conditioning that feels like someone is trying to cool you with his breath or with the air from a deflated balloon. The journey could be great and maybe the bus corresponds to the ticket you bought from the travel agent who pocketed more than the price of the ticket in commission. And maybe you eat lunch in the Delhi slum and arrive for dinner in an upper-class Agra marble-floored apartment. And maybe you feel more comfortable sitting on broken cement with the flies than you do being served lemon-soda in a crystal glass by a 12 year-old family servant. Both images of India. Both wings of the mad crow. The script of this film is being written as we speak and there is no one being paid to make it all make sense. So: let us choose good-humor to set the scene and live out the chaos with a generous smile and an enthusiastic head-wiggle that means "yes," "no" and "Of course I'll fall into the flow of this wild-ride that colors India's everyday with sweet unpredictability."
_______________________________________________
Sitting on a bus in Delhi, I think about the crow of madness . This phrase is used by Jane to describe life in Nepal and India: sunshine is beaming one minute and the next, storm clouds bring chaos and inexplicable lack of reason.
First, there is the famous head-wiggle: the same side-to-side gesture with the half-tilt of a lopsided metronome can mean "yes," "no," and "maybe." Does this bus go to Agra? (Head-wiggle and mumble.) Leaving at 11am? (Head-wiggle and wave.) The bus might get to Agra eventually, taking more than 5 hours to go 200 kilometers. And the bus could start its engine at 11am and move to leave around noon. Maybe there will be a 10 minute lunch stop that is really an hour. And you might order butter nan for 30 rupees and pay 50 because today the manager is changing the menu. And the bus might have air-conditioning that feels like someone is trying to cool you with his breath or with the air from a deflated balloon. The journey could be great and maybe the bus corresponds to the ticket you bought from the travel agent who pocketed more than the price of the ticket in commission. And maybe you eat lunch in the Delhi slum and arrive for dinner in an upper-class Agra marble-floored apartment. And maybe you feel more comfortable sitting on broken cement with the flies than you do being served lemon-soda in a crystal glass by a 12 year-old family servant. Both images of India. Both wings of the mad crow. The script of this film is being written as we speak and there is no one being paid to make it all make sense. So: let us choose good-humor to set the scene and live out the chaos with a generous smile and an enthusiastic head-wiggle that means "yes," "no" and "Of course I'll fall into the flow of this wild-ride that colors India's everyday with sweet unpredictability."
Monday, September 13, 2010
Let go, sister
Varkala Beach, Kerala
Coffee cup in hand, his baritone voice steals the breath of morning as he spirals into a disordered rant of feeling conflicted, confused, maybe a bit angry amidst the postcard beauty of the turquoise tide of Varkala Beach in south India. That swallows the plastic, paper and putrid rubbish generated by this billboard happy tourist paradise. I do not feel alarmed. The calm of morning meditation and a barefoot walk in the first-light stillness rises up easy as cloud-vapor and fills my lungs with patience. Yesterday it was me who was tumbling off the edge as Madonna's Greatest Hits on loudspeaker repeat induced a wrestling match with my conscience and we we battled our way through fabricated beach paradise in search of the real India. A patient ear to listen is all a friend can offer. The rage will subside, as all feelings do, once the heavy heart pauses long enough to recognize the futility of its dizzying angst.
I want to get out of here. (When hard rain falls, we all go chasing the sun. Grass must be greener over there.) I want to go to the real India. (It does feel strange to lounge on the manicured boardwalk crammed with restaurants and textile shops and cafe lattes.) Where is the stench of urine and rubbish that was becoming so familiar? (But whose to say what the real India might look like? To ask the street-sweeper who lives in Shadipur slum? Or the CEO of Barclay's Bank? Or the French ex-pat who makes a living pushing drugs North to South and beyond? Which way to the real India?)
Maybe this is not the right question. Maybe feeling uncomfortable in the seaside tourist hub, complete with mood music and Continental Breakfast, only takes a traveler further into the blindness of unsatisfied eyes.
"What is it you want to see!?" screams an anonymous voice as the broken leg beggar who walks like a two-legged spider makes his daily rounds. "He is holding his hand out -- there: right in front of your big blue eyes! Real enough for you, sister? Or must you join the trash-pickers on their daily hunt for savory scraps in the rubbish heaps by the river?"
"I didn't mean to be so arrogant," I try in my meekest voice. "It is wrong of me to arrive here with eyes glazed by expectation and folklore. How to un-stitch the seams that make my mind so thin-lipped? I just thought, you know, marigolds and smiling sadhus; bangles and bright-eyes; poverty turned to plenty by the strength of the human spirit: the immortal bass-drum heartbeat of the human will to survive. I just thought...temple bells and bindis and a spiritual strength unparalleled and...God, I must sound so ignorant. Spiraling downward like a hawk's last flight.
Sideways head-nod. The tailor looks up from his foot-powered sewing machine, acknowledges my feigned attempt at redemtion and offers a soft smile anyway. "You understand, sister. India not possible without a smile. Without at love. So many people. So much poor. Sun rise again today. Foot still working the sew machine. No heavy heart. India no easy. Ask that man. Selling postcards all time but not selling. Just smile him when he ask you again and again. So many eyes only looking downward. Heart weary. Smile like a small coin in the cup."
Real? Not Real? Authentic? Fake? I have invented these concepts on the basis of my expectations. On the colorful illustrations that arise from storybooks and films and daydreams. Of romanticized jungles and rivers and sadhus and snake-people and bodhi trees and prayer-beads; imagination fixed on classical tabla, orange marigolds, turquoise saris and ash-covered ascetics, eyes as bright as the flames of morning pujas on The Ganges. Kingfisher beer and Madonna's Greatest Hits did not make it into the picture; nor did rubbish-covered cliffs and espresso coffee. How arrogant of me that by seeking the real India I am seeking my own preconceptions as if life should have frozen when I first heard the sitar or read Siddhartha or saw footage of the ghats at Varanasi. Frozen in time just for me: waiting for my arrival. Can I do anything but laugh at myself and feel the earth beneath my feet? Wave at the jovial fisherman who have enough sense not to be concerned by what is real and unreal and instead allow their bare feet to adjust from sandy shores to pavement with ease. The very act of "looking for something" is dust in the eyes of what is. Blinding. Itchy. Disappointing.
"Let go, sister. Beauty here. Maybe no business, but sunshines and jokes and tea. Real or not real? What is this? Today is. Tomorrow, not yet. Fishermen fish. Tailors sew. Mother feed child. Father smoke cigar. Bird play on wind. Same, same but different.
Chuckle. Foot-pedal starts drumming; fish nets are cast; babies are tied to shady trees in safe bed-sheet cocoons; restaurant hosts sing the same hopeful jingle to each light-eyed passerby. Would it be better if I were jumping rope in the slum with the beggar children whose smiles make me laugh and weep? Would I be better? The question is un-useful and self-centered. Why ask it? Where I am is here. Who I am is me: a tiny grain of sand on the shore of the Arabian Sea, no better and no worse for touring slums or vacations destinations. Just me. A young woman not fit to decide what is Real or Unreal. Whose days are better lived barefoot and quiet, listening to the steady ease of the tailor's foot-pedal machine stitch-stitching the familiar patterns that make up the beautiful fabric of a humble, seaside life.
Coffee cup in hand, his baritone voice steals the breath of morning as he spirals into a disordered rant of feeling conflicted, confused, maybe a bit angry amidst the postcard beauty of the turquoise tide of Varkala Beach in south India. That swallows the plastic, paper and putrid rubbish generated by this billboard happy tourist paradise. I do not feel alarmed. The calm of morning meditation and a barefoot walk in the first-light stillness rises up easy as cloud-vapor and fills my lungs with patience. Yesterday it was me who was tumbling off the edge as Madonna's Greatest Hits on loudspeaker repeat induced a wrestling match with my conscience and we we battled our way through fabricated beach paradise in search of the real India. A patient ear to listen is all a friend can offer. The rage will subside, as all feelings do, once the heavy heart pauses long enough to recognize the futility of its dizzying angst.
I want to get out of here. (When hard rain falls, we all go chasing the sun. Grass must be greener over there.) I want to go to the real India. (It does feel strange to lounge on the manicured boardwalk crammed with restaurants and textile shops and cafe lattes.) Where is the stench of urine and rubbish that was becoming so familiar? (But whose to say what the real India might look like? To ask the street-sweeper who lives in Shadipur slum? Or the CEO of Barclay's Bank? Or the French ex-pat who makes a living pushing drugs North to South and beyond? Which way to the real India?)
Maybe this is not the right question. Maybe feeling uncomfortable in the seaside tourist hub, complete with mood music and Continental Breakfast, only takes a traveler further into the blindness of unsatisfied eyes.
"What is it you want to see!?" screams an anonymous voice as the broken leg beggar who walks like a two-legged spider makes his daily rounds. "He is holding his hand out -- there: right in front of your big blue eyes! Real enough for you, sister? Or must you join the trash-pickers on their daily hunt for savory scraps in the rubbish heaps by the river?"
"I didn't mean to be so arrogant," I try in my meekest voice. "It is wrong of me to arrive here with eyes glazed by expectation and folklore. How to un-stitch the seams that make my mind so thin-lipped? I just thought, you know, marigolds and smiling sadhus; bangles and bright-eyes; poverty turned to plenty by the strength of the human spirit: the immortal bass-drum heartbeat of the human will to survive. I just thought...temple bells and bindis and a spiritual strength unparalleled and...God, I must sound so ignorant. Spiraling downward like a hawk's last flight.
Sideways head-nod. The tailor looks up from his foot-powered sewing machine, acknowledges my feigned attempt at redemtion and offers a soft smile anyway. "You understand, sister. India not possible without a smile. Without at love. So many people. So much poor. Sun rise again today. Foot still working the sew machine. No heavy heart. India no easy. Ask that man. Selling postcards all time but not selling. Just smile him when he ask you again and again. So many eyes only looking downward. Heart weary. Smile like a small coin in the cup."
Real? Not Real? Authentic? Fake? I have invented these concepts on the basis of my expectations. On the colorful illustrations that arise from storybooks and films and daydreams. Of romanticized jungles and rivers and sadhus and snake-people and bodhi trees and prayer-beads; imagination fixed on classical tabla, orange marigolds, turquoise saris and ash-covered ascetics, eyes as bright as the flames of morning pujas on The Ganges. Kingfisher beer and Madonna's Greatest Hits did not make it into the picture; nor did rubbish-covered cliffs and espresso coffee. How arrogant of me that by seeking the real India I am seeking my own preconceptions as if life should have frozen when I first heard the sitar or read Siddhartha or saw footage of the ghats at Varanasi. Frozen in time just for me: waiting for my arrival. Can I do anything but laugh at myself and feel the earth beneath my feet? Wave at the jovial fisherman who have enough sense not to be concerned by what is real and unreal and instead allow their bare feet to adjust from sandy shores to pavement with ease. The very act of "looking for something" is dust in the eyes of what is. Blinding. Itchy. Disappointing.
"Let go, sister. Beauty here. Maybe no business, but sunshines and jokes and tea. Real or not real? What is this? Today is. Tomorrow, not yet. Fishermen fish. Tailors sew. Mother feed child. Father smoke cigar. Bird play on wind. Same, same but different.
Chuckle. Foot-pedal starts drumming; fish nets are cast; babies are tied to shady trees in safe bed-sheet cocoons; restaurant hosts sing the same hopeful jingle to each light-eyed passerby. Would it be better if I were jumping rope in the slum with the beggar children whose smiles make me laugh and weep? Would I be better? The question is un-useful and self-centered. Why ask it? Where I am is here. Who I am is me: a tiny grain of sand on the shore of the Arabian Sea, no better and no worse for touring slums or vacations destinations. Just me. A young woman not fit to decide what is Real or Unreal. Whose days are better lived barefoot and quiet, listening to the steady ease of the tailor's foot-pedal machine stitch-stitching the familiar patterns that make up the beautiful fabric of a humble, seaside life.
Circus Swim
Day at the circus, night in the slum, this is the title of the upcoming chapter in A Fine Balance and a fitting description for walking through the flooded streets of New Delhi. The constant chatter of street vendors, car-horns, power-drills, oily-hungry bicycle wheels, peaceful-easy cows and squealing dogs is not unlike a buoyant circus anthem. Different color: Delhi is not a red and yellow circus tent; but the tap-dancing optimism of the Big Top is strangely present amidst the clamor and filth of these crowded streets.
The streets of Pahar Ganj are crowded not only by people, pushcarts, bicycles, sledge-hammer demolition and an endless line of tea-stalls but also by water: flooded. Flooded by the monsoon rain that creates slop pools of mud and garbage on the drain-less streets. Flooded by people scurrying through the puddle-playground as they dodge rickshaws and motorcycles on their way to wherever they are going. Flooded by overwhelming olfactory stimulation: the stench of piss and shit and bloody meat hanging in the window, waiting for the next eager customer. One does not walk through the streets of Delhi but swimsthe rushing waves, taking care to come up for air every now and again.
Today we walk away from the tourist gauntlet of Pahar Ganj and into the Muslim neighborhood across the bridge: on the other side of the train-tracks. We allowed ourselves to get lost on the narrow medieval streets that zig and zag their way under a web of withered electrical wires,florescent laundry and decrepit buildings. I take a deep breath, feeling more anonymous here. No one tries to sell me anything but just stares with harmless, curious eyes, observing my white skin as a part of the grand circus. Like the bearded-lady, perhaps: "Step right up and see the strangest of the strange: a green eyed girl whose skin knows not the brown kiss of the sun!" I look out at the world so busy buzzing around me and marketplace eyes stare back, wondering at the strange creature who has entered the familiar web of their existence. Which one of us is the museum display? Which one of us peers out from behind the glass display? Neither. The rain falls upon us both.
When we pause a moment under the weary barber-shop awning, I see her. The shopping bag hides her small frame but her black onyx eyes cut through shadow and stench and find my smile. Beauty shines forth in unexpected places: a young girl in a white dress walking so easy through the circus-strange mess of shit and marigolds and blood and bananas and temple bells. The rickshaw wheels and pushcarts interrupt her feather-light steps with the jarring staccato of sweaty effort, but onyx-eyed girl does not miss a beat. She carries on her way with a sweet nonchalance as if the mud-happy motorcycles, irritated taxi horns and three-legged dog gangs are the most ordinary of characters. But for me, a nameless witness, I stand amazed at the resilience of this child's ease and confidence amidst the chaos and circus-strange intensity of the flooded Delhi streets. The corner of my smile perks up with a sweet breath of gratitude: children are among the best teachers of perseverance and grace.
The streets of Pahar Ganj are crowded not only by people, pushcarts, bicycles, sledge-hammer demolition and an endless line of tea-stalls but also by water: flooded. Flooded by the monsoon rain that creates slop pools of mud and garbage on the drain-less streets. Flooded by people scurrying through the puddle-playground as they dodge rickshaws and motorcycles on their way to wherever they are going. Flooded by overwhelming olfactory stimulation: the stench of piss and shit and bloody meat hanging in the window, waiting for the next eager customer. One does not walk through the streets of Delhi but swimsthe rushing waves, taking care to come up for air every now and again.
Today we walk away from the tourist gauntlet of Pahar Ganj and into the Muslim neighborhood across the bridge: on the other side of the train-tracks. We allowed ourselves to get lost on the narrow medieval streets that zig and zag their way under a web of withered electrical wires,florescent laundry and decrepit buildings. I take a deep breath, feeling more anonymous here. No one tries to sell me anything but just stares with harmless, curious eyes, observing my white skin as a part of the grand circus. Like the bearded-lady, perhaps: "Step right up and see the strangest of the strange: a green eyed girl whose skin knows not the brown kiss of the sun!" I look out at the world so busy buzzing around me and marketplace eyes stare back, wondering at the strange creature who has entered the familiar web of their existence. Which one of us is the museum display? Which one of us peers out from behind the glass display? Neither. The rain falls upon us both.
When we pause a moment under the weary barber-shop awning, I see her. The shopping bag hides her small frame but her black onyx eyes cut through shadow and stench and find my smile. Beauty shines forth in unexpected places: a young girl in a white dress walking so easy through the circus-strange mess of shit and marigolds and blood and bananas and temple bells. The rickshaw wheels and pushcarts interrupt her feather-light steps with the jarring staccato of sweaty effort, but onyx-eyed girl does not miss a beat. She carries on her way with a sweet nonchalance as if the mud-happy motorcycles, irritated taxi horns and three-legged dog gangs are the most ordinary of characters. But for me, a nameless witness, I stand amazed at the resilience of this child's ease and confidence amidst the chaos and circus-strange intensity of the flooded Delhi streets. The corner of my smile perks up with a sweet breath of gratitude: children are among the best teachers of perseverance and grace.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
And
Rewalsar Lake is a toxic kelly-green. Prolific algal growth due to an over abundance of organic material forms a thick layer of slime on the surface of the water. The few resident ducks hesitate at the water's edge, "to enter or not to enter." What would t heir ancestors think: their great-grandparents who swam so freely and enjoyed tasty fish without the green-algae gravy. The lake sits at the bottom of incredibly steep pine-forest slopes; the rain washes everything straight into the water. There is no one to pick up the trash that litters the street and mountain paths; nor is there anyone to clean up cow dung and dog doo. And, with no water treatment plant to be found, where does human waste go when you flush the loo? Down, down, down to the green-slime lake. Yes, the lake is sacred. People honor this place with such devotion that Belief, if nothing else, affirms what is Holy. My pulse rate drops to a snail's easy crawl and my breath, am I still breathing? Walking here feels more like floating and my mind is quiet and joyful. But the lake is green and smelly; the monkeys are fierce and Backstreet Boys are still on the top-10 chart. This is Rewalsar Lake. Kelly-green toxic and Sacred.
Sweetness and Laughter
The soundtrack of India makes me laugh joyfully. The moment that is NOW is hilarious: may it sweep me away into invisible vapor and carry me to golden edges of your smile.
On the edge of one of the holiest lakes in Northern India is an espresso shop run by one of the Buddhist monasteries. EMAHO, it is called: means WONDERFUL. And as I let the hazy sunshine carry my smile into the trees with birdsong and vicious monkey screeches, I celebrate the appropriateness of the shop name: Wonderful, indeed.
Track One: "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys plays its catchy adolescent heartstrings as Amit makes a shot of espresso. We sing and dance our way through the middle-school chart-topper and I cannot help but laugh at the sweet irony: espresso and boy-band sing-a-long with a Buddhist monk wearing his red robe and Nike tennis-shoes. For the past two days, Amit has inquired about Yoga poses for getting rid of his belly. "Now remember, " he says, "I'm lazy. So these poses must be ones I can do while sitting down and relaxing." I laugh and tell him to turn the music up and keep dancing: "Dance your big belly away!"
Many Buddhist Monks enter the monastic life at 5 or 6 years-old. Traditionally, the second son in a Tibetan family enters the monastery -- a practical way of carrying on the lineage of the Great Masters. And so, not all monks take vows because they feel called to do so; often time, young boys take vows because it is their duty to do so or because their poor family knows that the monastery will be able to feed and care for their child better than they. Five year-old boys grow into young adolescents who love Michael Jackson and World Cup Soccer. Pop-culture zeal does not mean they are any less devoted to their practice; it just means they are human and go through the same developmental stages that we all do. Amit could likely be one of the brother monks who entered the monastery as a toddler: would he choose his vows if given the chance? Maybe; maybe not.
And so, at the risk of being immodest and furthering the stereotype that all western women are flirtatious and easy, I show the coffee-shop monks a few Michael Jackson moves. What can I say? They love to dance. It's hard for me to put on a stone-cold face when I, too, cannot help but feel the beat in my pulsing feet.
Track two: One of the theme songs from The World Cup, South Africa. How ironic that, should I have spent the last few months in Virginia, where my media use is limited, I probably would not have learned the uplifting tune so well. But, in the remote mountains of Western Nepal, thanks to the Nepali porters' mp3 players and enthusiasm and on the shores of Lake Rewalsar in Himachal Pradesh, India, thanks to monks who dream of being hip-hop dancers, I am kept up to date on the latest hits. This is the world we live in -- a universal access to a new global culture that is arriving even to the most remote villages in the world. In Himachal Pradesh, traveling 150 km still takes 8 hours in a bus, but cyber connections to the other side of the world: instantaneous! I do not think I will ever stop regarding our futuristic technology as a strange sort of magic: a connection that seems so unlikely at the touch of a button?
And there goes the sweet old man whose glasses are bigger than his sun-wrinkled face. He walks with an umbrella, rain or shine, and, like Don Quixote and the Windmills, battles the lakeside monkeys with the same knightly zeal. Of course, he is not all there, but this village holds a place for him. The monkeys are fierce, the people are sweet, the energy of the low clouds is peaceful and subdued. Even the bicycle tires relax and the kids learn to ride the sand-paper sound of deflated tread. I say hello to Don Quixote and offer a friendly smile. He greets me with an enthusiastic whack of his umbrella and I laugh, feeling honored to be knighted by his imaginary sword. No, this is not a circus act or a simulated comedy show. This is NOW: morning at Rewalsar Lake -- a lost town in the hills of Himachal Pradesh where thousands of pilgrims come to lower their humble heads in prayer.
On the edge of one of the holiest lakes in Northern India is an espresso shop run by one of the Buddhist monasteries. EMAHO, it is called: means WONDERFUL. And as I let the hazy sunshine carry my smile into the trees with birdsong and vicious monkey screeches, I celebrate the appropriateness of the shop name: Wonderful, indeed.
Track One: "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys plays its catchy adolescent heartstrings as Amit makes a shot of espresso. We sing and dance our way through the middle-school chart-topper and I cannot help but laugh at the sweet irony: espresso and boy-band sing-a-long with a Buddhist monk wearing his red robe and Nike tennis-shoes. For the past two days, Amit has inquired about Yoga poses for getting rid of his belly. "Now remember, " he says, "I'm lazy. So these poses must be ones I can do while sitting down and relaxing." I laugh and tell him to turn the music up and keep dancing: "Dance your big belly away!"
Many Buddhist Monks enter the monastic life at 5 or 6 years-old. Traditionally, the second son in a Tibetan family enters the monastery -- a practical way of carrying on the lineage of the Great Masters. And so, not all monks take vows because they feel called to do so; often time, young boys take vows because it is their duty to do so or because their poor family knows that the monastery will be able to feed and care for their child better than they. Five year-old boys grow into young adolescents who love Michael Jackson and World Cup Soccer. Pop-culture zeal does not mean they are any less devoted to their practice; it just means they are human and go through the same developmental stages that we all do. Amit could likely be one of the brother monks who entered the monastery as a toddler: would he choose his vows if given the chance? Maybe; maybe not.
And so, at the risk of being immodest and furthering the stereotype that all western women are flirtatious and easy, I show the coffee-shop monks a few Michael Jackson moves. What can I say? They love to dance. It's hard for me to put on a stone-cold face when I, too, cannot help but feel the beat in my pulsing feet.
Track two: One of the theme songs from The World Cup, South Africa. How ironic that, should I have spent the last few months in Virginia, where my media use is limited, I probably would not have learned the uplifting tune so well. But, in the remote mountains of Western Nepal, thanks to the Nepali porters' mp3 players and enthusiasm and on the shores of Lake Rewalsar in Himachal Pradesh, India, thanks to monks who dream of being hip-hop dancers, I am kept up to date on the latest hits. This is the world we live in -- a universal access to a new global culture that is arriving even to the most remote villages in the world. In Himachal Pradesh, traveling 150 km still takes 8 hours in a bus, but cyber connections to the other side of the world: instantaneous! I do not think I will ever stop regarding our futuristic technology as a strange sort of magic: a connection that seems so unlikely at the touch of a button?
And there goes the sweet old man whose glasses are bigger than his sun-wrinkled face. He walks with an umbrella, rain or shine, and, like Don Quixote and the Windmills, battles the lakeside monkeys with the same knightly zeal. Of course, he is not all there, but this village holds a place for him. The monkeys are fierce, the people are sweet, the energy of the low clouds is peaceful and subdued. Even the bicycle tires relax and the kids learn to ride the sand-paper sound of deflated tread. I say hello to Don Quixote and offer a friendly smile. He greets me with an enthusiastic whack of his umbrella and I laugh, feeling honored to be knighted by his imaginary sword. No, this is not a circus act or a simulated comedy show. This is NOW: morning at Rewalsar Lake -- a lost town in the hills of Himachal Pradesh where thousands of pilgrims come to lower their humble heads in prayer.
Morning at Rewalsar Lake
I dissolve into the peaceful morning on the misty shores of Rewalsar Lake. Incense drifts like birds spiraling upwards and Hari Om tabla sings from the radio as a bright-eyed busboy does the dishes of the early morning breakfast crowd. Men and women walk the Kora around the lake and bless the day with their devotion.
The peace of this place is undeniable: the smile of a beautiful stranger who allows the limping street worker to kiss her hand as he mumbles his unceasing monologue, like the sound of running water, but sadder and more scattered. I sense the shrapnel and firework interruption that causes him to shake and I understand why he has come to this place. Rewalsar Lake, called Tso Pema by Tibetans: a power-place for Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs alike; pilgrims arrive on the mountain lake shore to walk and pray and celebrate the qualities of the great beings who have come before; celebrate and try to cultivate those qualities in their own hearts.
The village is quiet apart from sunrise bell-ringing puja, street-dog chatter and terrifying monkey play. I open my window for morning meditation as if I am opening the delicate pages of a fairy-tale, complete with dawn's foggy mystery and the lake's subtle reflection of first light.
A magnificent statue of Padmasambhava, the revered being who brought Buddhism to Tibet, sits high on the hill above the still water. Padmasambahava is stunning in gold with his wild eyes and sweetly determined smile. His towering peaceful presence affirms the eternal meditation of this mountain-top and all who gather here -- gather in the pine forest, dew fed and joyful green. There is a softness here not unlike that of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia -- the spirit is old in Appalachia, too. Wise spirit of rivers and canyons and the first squash planted and the fiddle. I feel simultaneously grateful for where I am and for where I come from -- each day one step closer to Appalachia and the depth of sweetness that arises when one knows the just-so dance of light on the fields at dawn, dusk and noon-time.
The peace of this place is undeniable: the smile of a beautiful stranger who allows the limping street worker to kiss her hand as he mumbles his unceasing monologue, like the sound of running water, but sadder and more scattered. I sense the shrapnel and firework interruption that causes him to shake and I understand why he has come to this place. Rewalsar Lake, called Tso Pema by Tibetans: a power-place for Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs alike; pilgrims arrive on the mountain lake shore to walk and pray and celebrate the qualities of the great beings who have come before; celebrate and try to cultivate those qualities in their own hearts.
The village is quiet apart from sunrise bell-ringing puja, street-dog chatter and terrifying monkey play. I open my window for morning meditation as if I am opening the delicate pages of a fairy-tale, complete with dawn's foggy mystery and the lake's subtle reflection of first light.
A magnificent statue of Padmasambhava, the revered being who brought Buddhism to Tibet, sits high on the hill above the still water. Padmasambahava is stunning in gold with his wild eyes and sweetly determined smile. His towering peaceful presence affirms the eternal meditation of this mountain-top and all who gather here -- gather in the pine forest, dew fed and joyful green. There is a softness here not unlike that of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia -- the spirit is old in Appalachia, too. Wise spirit of rivers and canyons and the first squash planted and the fiddle. I feel simultaneously grateful for where I am and for where I come from -- each day one step closer to Appalachia and the depth of sweetness that arises when one knows the just-so dance of light on the fields at dawn, dusk and noon-time.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Babies
It is good I left the Baby Care Center when I did. Otherwise, I might decide to stay forever and watch how the vibrant, rose-colored children bloom and grow. In just two weeks time, Pema and Pasang are walking with playful confidence; Kunchok grows more courageous and determined in lifting his butter-ball body on two feet; Norzum laughs more often as she learns the feel of the floor below her stiff-feet: walking is still a long way off, but she sees what is possible. How babies capture the heart: wide-eyed and joyful. Even with tears shed and messes made, smiles and softness close the day with grace. And Curiosity! Always alive and well and spreading her wings and fairy-dust inspiration. I was not allowed to take pictures of the children; it is important to protect the privacy of each family. How I would have loved to share their cherub faces and laughing eyes; their tiny exploring hands and hearts at play. But, with no photos to show, I try and recreate the faces and feelings of the Baby Care Center through haiku. Each haiku is named after one of the children: specifically the youngest of the bunch, who are just learning to walk and talk and welcome you to be a part of the adventure. Especially for those people who know the wonder of working with children, I think you will be able to gather a sense of the baby personalities in the following lines. I hope so: hope you read with joy and a smile.
Kunchok
Roly-poly boy,
Eyes honeydew and laughter.
Stand up, fall down: Bliss
Norzum
Fragile frame sweetness.
Pigeon-toed stiff exhaustion.
Smile; learning to walk.
Pema
Hands reach, eyes open.
Cradle her close, breath softens.
One step more each day.
Jamyang
Pure maple sweetness,
Slow-moving like still water.
Children gather near.
Pasang
Strong and stable smile.
'I see the world in my hand!'
Sweet eyes turn, 'Do you?'
Lungre
I laugh at myself.
At laugh at the sweet chaos.
Three years-old: life's sweet.
I express my gratitude for the privilege of sharing two growthful weeks with such hopeful children.
Kunchok
Roly-poly boy,
Eyes honeydew and laughter.
Stand up, fall down: Bliss
Norzum
Fragile frame sweetness.
Pigeon-toed stiff exhaustion.
Smile; learning to walk.
Pema
Hands reach, eyes open.
Cradle her close, breath softens.
One step more each day.
Jamyang
Pure maple sweetness,
Slow-moving like still water.
Children gather near.
Pasang
Strong and stable smile.
'I see the world in my hand!'
Sweet eyes turn, 'Do you?'
Lungre
I laugh at myself.
At laugh at the sweet chaos.
Three years-old: life's sweet.
I express my gratitude for the privilege of sharing two growthful weeks with such hopeful children.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Faces of India
I just began reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. This highly acclaimed novel set in India has been said to break hearts and move readers to tears on every other page: the pain of exposing a harsh reality. The epigraph reads as follows:
Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insenstivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true. - Honore de Balzac
"Page after page, sad chapter after sad chapter, you hope for a light at the end of the tunnel," Mom says. "A light that never appears."
I open the book and begin. Reading such a momumental novel about India while in India is a potentially lifechanging opportunity not to be missed.
And so, I sit in a cafe in this rainy mountain town and order a pot of tea from the menu that advertises Italian, Thai and Continental favorites. "Penny Lane" plays in the background; The Beatles came here, I think, way back when. And their music? It's on the i-pods of the Tibetan, Nepalese and Indian men and women who make this international little town their home. Every other peson I see walking by is a tourist from Israel, France, Spain, England and a handful from the states: their eyes squint all the way up the road as they windowshop their way to the next teastand. I can identify the newest tourist arrivals by their shell-shocked faces: overwhelmed by the thousand and one yoga course flyers and advertisements for massage, cooking class, English conversation, movie nights and more. All the visual bombardment while baby stepping their way up the hill behind two enormous cows who slowly find their way through the traffic and sneakily stop to eat at the vegetable stands while leaving their stink business in a pile at the shoe-shiner's feet.
Twist and Shout dances from the sound system next and I think about Dina, a young woman from the novel, who lost her husband in an instant to a hit-and-run drunk driver and consequently lost the vitality of her life. A kick in the stomach that knocks the wind from her sails, the possibliity from her youthful dreams. Life as a widow in India: surviving does not get any harder.
I know there are widows here in Dharamsala: young women who face the world alone, or with a child or two. Surely the Tibetan women would never let on to their personal tragedy. Tragedy is not personal for the Tibetan refugees who live in Dharamsala; tragedy is collective: what one suffers as part of a culture of people banished from their homeland and ancient traditions. The Tibetan women will be tight-lipped about their suffering: hands busy working, trying to keep their home and honor afloat. From sun-up til sun-down, they work trying to catch the eye of passing tourists who might just be the winning ticket towards this month's rent or at least tomorrow's bread.
The streets of Mcleod Ganj are lined with hotel after hotel, restaurant after restaurant: pizza, spaghetti, omelette. Dozens of craftshops offer the same assortment of pashmina shawls, jewelry and traditional Tibetan souveniers. If it weren't for the rainy season stench, the cows sauntering by and the endless train of Indian tourists who stop my white-skin every 5 meters to take "just one photo," this town could be mistaken for a hamlet in Europe or most likely Israel: complete with street signs in Hebrew.
I come to India because it is the birthplace of Yoga, of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, of an ancient tradition of leaving the world to find the Self, of cutting through ignorance by cutting through ego. And what do I find? Thousands of other light-eyed seekers who come here for similar or different reasons. Native Indians are not to be found in Yoga Classes, nor Tibetans or Nepalese immigrants who come to India for work. The Yoga teachers are the classic bone and sinew yogis from the stories and centerfold photos: as unbelievably strong and flexible as on imagined and with the capacity to hold a steady stream of breath singing OM for an eternity. The students are you and I: the light-eyed seekers who've dreamed of India since hearing sitar for the first time.
Rishikesh, where I will complete a 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training, will be the same. World travelers arrive on the banks of The Ganges to know Her history and the ancient secrets to enlightened living that She whispers to pilgrims who listen. Many such travelers stay for years or forever and open espresso shops and vegetarian cafes that serve bagels and hummus. Maybe such travelers learn to speak Hindi; more likely they learn English and stop there. Good people. Excellent people. But where is India?
So goes the phrase: Truth is stranger than fiction. Dharamsala is like this: a bubble of peace in the cloudswhere monks meditate aroudn the clock and The Dalai Lama breathes a sigh of homecoming from time to time. It is the chanting and concentration of the many devoted monks and nuns that sustains the calm and steadiness of the slick streets. But still, within the quiet peace the overtakes the blaring carhorns is the irony of westernization. No trash pick up, no sewage treatment, but Cafe Italiano and Espresso Corner and Falafel and Muesli any day of the week.
I do not feel critical of where I am, just observant. At this point, it is possible for a European traveler to arrive in India with all her creature comforts at her fingertips. She will still be surprised by the smells, the pasture animals walking the streets, the footless beggars adn crying children with distended stomachs. She will feel that guilty corkscrew in her heart as she passes the one-legged man with hands outstretched while on her way to breakfast. Maybe she will remember his face while she sips her cup of coffee or maybe she'll just listen to The Beatles and forget.
Hello, India. Just getting to know a few of your many faces.
Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insenstivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true. - Honore de Balzac
"Page after page, sad chapter after sad chapter, you hope for a light at the end of the tunnel," Mom says. "A light that never appears."
I open the book and begin. Reading such a momumental novel about India while in India is a potentially lifechanging opportunity not to be missed.
And so, I sit in a cafe in this rainy mountain town and order a pot of tea from the menu that advertises Italian, Thai and Continental favorites. "Penny Lane" plays in the background; The Beatles came here, I think, way back when. And their music? It's on the i-pods of the Tibetan, Nepalese and Indian men and women who make this international little town their home. Every other peson I see walking by is a tourist from Israel, France, Spain, England and a handful from the states: their eyes squint all the way up the road as they windowshop their way to the next teastand. I can identify the newest tourist arrivals by their shell-shocked faces: overwhelmed by the thousand and one yoga course flyers and advertisements for massage, cooking class, English conversation, movie nights and more. All the visual bombardment while baby stepping their way up the hill behind two enormous cows who slowly find their way through the traffic and sneakily stop to eat at the vegetable stands while leaving their stink business in a pile at the shoe-shiner's feet.
Twist and Shout dances from the sound system next and I think about Dina, a young woman from the novel, who lost her husband in an instant to a hit-and-run drunk driver and consequently lost the vitality of her life. A kick in the stomach that knocks the wind from her sails, the possibliity from her youthful dreams. Life as a widow in India: surviving does not get any harder.
I know there are widows here in Dharamsala: young women who face the world alone, or with a child or two. Surely the Tibetan women would never let on to their personal tragedy. Tragedy is not personal for the Tibetan refugees who live in Dharamsala; tragedy is collective: what one suffers as part of a culture of people banished from their homeland and ancient traditions. The Tibetan women will be tight-lipped about their suffering: hands busy working, trying to keep their home and honor afloat. From sun-up til sun-down, they work trying to catch the eye of passing tourists who might just be the winning ticket towards this month's rent or at least tomorrow's bread.
The streets of Mcleod Ganj are lined with hotel after hotel, restaurant after restaurant: pizza, spaghetti, omelette. Dozens of craftshops offer the same assortment of pashmina shawls, jewelry and traditional Tibetan souveniers. If it weren't for the rainy season stench, the cows sauntering by and the endless train of Indian tourists who stop my white-skin every 5 meters to take "just one photo," this town could be mistaken for a hamlet in Europe or most likely Israel: complete with street signs in Hebrew.
I come to India because it is the birthplace of Yoga, of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, of an ancient tradition of leaving the world to find the Self, of cutting through ignorance by cutting through ego. And what do I find? Thousands of other light-eyed seekers who come here for similar or different reasons. Native Indians are not to be found in Yoga Classes, nor Tibetans or Nepalese immigrants who come to India for work. The Yoga teachers are the classic bone and sinew yogis from the stories and centerfold photos: as unbelievably strong and flexible as on imagined and with the capacity to hold a steady stream of breath singing OM for an eternity. The students are you and I: the light-eyed seekers who've dreamed of India since hearing sitar for the first time.
Rishikesh, where I will complete a 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training, will be the same. World travelers arrive on the banks of The Ganges to know Her history and the ancient secrets to enlightened living that She whispers to pilgrims who listen. Many such travelers stay for years or forever and open espresso shops and vegetarian cafes that serve bagels and hummus. Maybe such travelers learn to speak Hindi; more likely they learn English and stop there. Good people. Excellent people. But where is India?
So goes the phrase: Truth is stranger than fiction. Dharamsala is like this: a bubble of peace in the cloudswhere monks meditate aroudn the clock and The Dalai Lama breathes a sigh of homecoming from time to time. It is the chanting and concentration of the many devoted monks and nuns that sustains the calm and steadiness of the slick streets. But still, within the quiet peace the overtakes the blaring carhorns is the irony of westernization. No trash pick up, no sewage treatment, but Cafe Italiano and Espresso Corner and Falafel and Muesli any day of the week.
I do not feel critical of where I am, just observant. At this point, it is possible for a European traveler to arrive in India with all her creature comforts at her fingertips. She will still be surprised by the smells, the pasture animals walking the streets, the footless beggars adn crying children with distended stomachs. She will feel that guilty corkscrew in her heart as she passes the one-legged man with hands outstretched while on her way to breakfast. Maybe she will remember his face while she sips her cup of coffee or maybe she'll just listen to The Beatles and forget.
Hello, India. Just getting to know a few of your many faces.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 15th
I think of Truman Capote, the ultimate conversationalist, and feel grateful for the opportunity to access my artist's palette on this rainy afternoon in the simplicity of open-hearted conversation.
Shahem begins the conversation:
"Today is India's Independence Day. 15th of August."
"Oh, right."I say. "I nearly forgot. Not much celebration?"
"Sunday is dry day."he says. "No wine shops open." His
unmoved expression implies a firm No to the question of celebration without boos.
"India is still corrupt, you know." he begins again.
"Just like the rest of the world,"I say.
"Yea, but India especially. More than 50 years since independence and not much has changed."
"I understand your point of view, Shahem." I say calmly. "But don't you think it is especially easy for us to be critical of our own countries. We see clearly the inequities, the challenges, the disgusting bureaucracy and the day to day circumstances that frustrate us most."
We sit and talk a long while as the rain pours and pours. The man selling roasted corn on the street is the only valiant vendor who remains.
"This man works hard."says Shahem. "All day he is there."
All day standing in the rain shucking corn, grilling and selling. Each and every day the same.
In the midst of our conversation we speak about the fine line between responsible traveling and destructive tourism. "I must refine my intentions daily,"I say. "and remind myself why I am here and how I want to be in the world: not selfish, not self-centered, but aware of the vital need for reciprocity, exchange and right relationship. The vacuum cleaner approach to travel - take, take, take - leaves nothing but terror and misunderstanding. Shahem nods his head. He is the manager of a sweet restaurant just a block from the temple; he spends long days and nights meeting people from all across the world: tourists whose demeanor, behavior and intention for travel varies greatly. "I grow weary of this work sometimes,"he says. "And sometimes I like it. Just trying to make the best of what we're given."
As we speak, I admit that some days a single woman traveling alone can feel lost in the thought of "What am I doing?" That it has taken me a few days in Dharamsala to understand that my time here is for cultivating concentration and discipline through the practice of yoga. A time for fortifying health and vitality and in the meantime trying to find a balance of give and take -- like volunteering at the Rogpa Childcare Center. "I am privileged to be here."I say. "And it is important to me that I remember to express my gratitude through my actions: showing the thanks I feel for the opportunities for learning that each day brings, even on the days that feel more confusing and cloudy: especially on those days. Travel is an irreplaceable teacher - people, landscapes, customs so different (and surprisingly similar) than one's own. Conversations such as this one."
Shahem smiles softly, gazes out at the rain and orders more chai.
Shahem begins the conversation:
"Today is India's Independence Day. 15th of August."
"Oh, right."I say. "I nearly forgot. Not much celebration?"
"Sunday is dry day."he says. "No wine shops open." His
unmoved expression implies a firm No to the question of celebration without boos.
"India is still corrupt, you know." he begins again.
"Just like the rest of the world,"I say.
"Yea, but India especially. More than 50 years since independence and not much has changed."
"I understand your point of view, Shahem." I say calmly. "But don't you think it is especially easy for us to be critical of our own countries. We see clearly the inequities, the challenges, the disgusting bureaucracy and the day to day circumstances that frustrate us most."
We sit and talk a long while as the rain pours and pours. The man selling roasted corn on the street is the only valiant vendor who remains.
"This man works hard."says Shahem. "All day he is there."
All day standing in the rain shucking corn, grilling and selling. Each and every day the same.
In the midst of our conversation we speak about the fine line between responsible traveling and destructive tourism. "I must refine my intentions daily,"I say. "and remind myself why I am here and how I want to be in the world: not selfish, not self-centered, but aware of the vital need for reciprocity, exchange and right relationship. The vacuum cleaner approach to travel - take, take, take - leaves nothing but terror and misunderstanding. Shahem nods his head. He is the manager of a sweet restaurant just a block from the temple; he spends long days and nights meeting people from all across the world: tourists whose demeanor, behavior and intention for travel varies greatly. "I grow weary of this work sometimes,"he says. "And sometimes I like it. Just trying to make the best of what we're given."
As we speak, I admit that some days a single woman traveling alone can feel lost in the thought of "What am I doing?" That it has taken me a few days in Dharamsala to understand that my time here is for cultivating concentration and discipline through the practice of yoga. A time for fortifying health and vitality and in the meantime trying to find a balance of give and take -- like volunteering at the Rogpa Childcare Center. "I am privileged to be here."I say. "And it is important to me that I remember to express my gratitude through my actions: showing the thanks I feel for the opportunities for learning that each day brings, even on the days that feel more confusing and cloudy: especially on those days. Travel is an irreplaceable teacher - people, landscapes, customs so different (and surprisingly similar) than one's own. Conversations such as this one."
Shahem smiles softly, gazes out at the rain and orders more chai.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
First Afternoon at Rogpa Childcare Center
The manager of Rogpa Childcare Center seems stressed and hungry for a moment of peace when I knock on her door: interrupting, but not meaning to interrupt. I do not want to be late for my first day volunteering. The manager's lack of cheer and sweet-tea hospitality does not shake me; traveling makes one aware of her own cultural socialization and hopefully makes one mindful to understand distinct cultural norms with humility wherever she goes.
And so, I enter the Child Care Center with a quiet smile and immediately feel at ease amongst the sleeping children. Sleeping children, all in a row, like an Anne Gedde photo or a can of stuffed-animal sardines: babies snoozing sweetly and dreaming of who knows what as their little limbs jolt and quiver.
First order of business: apron on, hair tied back, hands washed. Then, to wait for the sweet sleepers to wake up for potty time and diaper change. The Child Care staff and parents are resourceful, choosing to reuse disposable diapers by lining the inside of the plastic shell with a cloth. One disposable diaper may be used a hundred times before the tabs finally break.
Resourcefulness is a choice and also a survival tactic. The Rogpa Child Care Center provides free childcare for Tibetan families who come to Mcleod Ganj as refugees. The hope is, by providing childcare free of cost, the young mothers and fathers will be able to work and begin a new life here in the mountains of northern India.
After diaper change is free play. The children, between 8 months and 3 years, have ultimate playtime freedom. The staff conducts the afternoon in 15 minute intervals, cycling the toy sets often in order to keep the children interested and to stimulate different types of play. It has been a while since I have been part of creating a structured learning environment for children under 3. Structured feels like an oxymoron. My first observations are positive: a young, energetic staff who clearly love what they do, and a gorgeous, rambunctious and blooming group of 35 toddlers who feel safe to explore in this space.
As the afternoon unfolds, from one 15 minute play-set to the next, I find myself wondering what kind of structured play might work with these toddlers. Songs in a circle with motions and scarves? Or are these toddlers so tiny that even circle time would be hard to come by? So many different ages, so many different developmental stages. At less than three years old, each day is practically a new developmental stage.
The background music is playful but loud. In my experience, the heavy drumbeats feel over-stimulating and make the children hyper and more ready to slide-tackle their neighbor. Just this one afternoon of play makes me realize how much I have to learn about the first years of life. Birth to 3 years-old is fundamentally different than 4 and 5 years. Luckily, I have got the diaper change down. And even when the diaper change means an atomic blowout that soils two layers of clothing, I change the sweet, unassuming children without a grimace.
I look forward to spending two weeks with the children at Rogpa. I open myself to all the learning, even on the hundredth diaper change.
_______________________________
Basic Tibetan Vocabulary given to me by the staff members at Rogpa.
Hello - Tashi delek
Stand up - Ya lang
Sit down - Ma Dei
Open your mouth - Kha Dang or Aa chi
Don't - Ma Chi
Count 1,2,3 - Chig, Nyi, Sum
Come here - Dei sho
Thank you - Thuk je Chey
And so, I enter the Child Care Center with a quiet smile and immediately feel at ease amongst the sleeping children. Sleeping children, all in a row, like an Anne Gedde photo or a can of stuffed-animal sardines: babies snoozing sweetly and dreaming of who knows what as their little limbs jolt and quiver.
First order of business: apron on, hair tied back, hands washed. Then, to wait for the sweet sleepers to wake up for potty time and diaper change. The Child Care staff and parents are resourceful, choosing to reuse disposable diapers by lining the inside of the plastic shell with a cloth. One disposable diaper may be used a hundred times before the tabs finally break.
Resourcefulness is a choice and also a survival tactic. The Rogpa Child Care Center provides free childcare for Tibetan families who come to Mcleod Ganj as refugees. The hope is, by providing childcare free of cost, the young mothers and fathers will be able to work and begin a new life here in the mountains of northern India.
After diaper change is free play. The children, between 8 months and 3 years, have ultimate playtime freedom. The staff conducts the afternoon in 15 minute intervals, cycling the toy sets often in order to keep the children interested and to stimulate different types of play. It has been a while since I have been part of creating a structured learning environment for children under 3. Structured feels like an oxymoron. My first observations are positive: a young, energetic staff who clearly love what they do, and a gorgeous, rambunctious and blooming group of 35 toddlers who feel safe to explore in this space.
As the afternoon unfolds, from one 15 minute play-set to the next, I find myself wondering what kind of structured play might work with these toddlers. Songs in a circle with motions and scarves? Or are these toddlers so tiny that even circle time would be hard to come by? So many different ages, so many different developmental stages. At less than three years old, each day is practically a new developmental stage.
The background music is playful but loud. In my experience, the heavy drumbeats feel over-stimulating and make the children hyper and more ready to slide-tackle their neighbor. Just this one afternoon of play makes me realize how much I have to learn about the first years of life. Birth to 3 years-old is fundamentally different than 4 and 5 years. Luckily, I have got the diaper change down. And even when the diaper change means an atomic blowout that soils two layers of clothing, I change the sweet, unassuming children without a grimace.
I look forward to spending two weeks with the children at Rogpa. I open myself to all the learning, even on the hundredth diaper change.
_______________________________
Basic Tibetan Vocabulary given to me by the staff members at Rogpa.
Hello - Tashi delek
Stand up - Ya lang
Sit down - Ma Dei
Open your mouth - Kha Dang or Aa chi
Don't - Ma Chi
Count 1,2,3 - Chig, Nyi, Sum
Come here - Dei sho
Thank you - Thuk je Chey
Friday, August 13, 2010
Unexpected Morning
The streets are alive with chatter. What is the news? "His Holiness will give a teaching tomorrow at the temple!" shares a smiling stranger.
And so I rise with a smile of anticipation and make the misty morning walk to the temple. It is only 6:30, but many people gather at the gate. When we are permitted to enter, monks and nuns help us set out mats and take a seat with a view of the immaculate gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, whose soft face smiles with a gentleness that allows even us pilgrims from faraway lands to feel at peace in his gaze.
I sit in quiet meditation as the temple fills to the brim with people: the countless rows of cushions happily splitting at the seams to accommodate monks, nuns, Tibetan refugees, Indian tourists and other travelers from all over the world. I feel at ease and extraordinarily grateful for my good fortune of sitting in the presence of His Holiness for even a short while. It is more rare than one might expect for His Holiness to offer a teaching at his home in Mcleod Ganj. The Dalai Lama travels quite often, these days, and many pilgrims come to the temple at Mcleod Ganj three or four times before being able to receive a teaching. And so, I smile and feel the expanding warmth of my grateful and calm breath: quietly awaiting the entrance of His Holiness.
All at once, the nuns sitting a few rows in front of me rise and hold their hands in prayer at heart-center. We travelers follow their lead and do the same, bowing our heads slightly and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of His Holiness through the tight ring of helpers that guide him where he goes. In an unexpected moment, my heart leaps from my chest and hangs on my smile when I catch the smallest glimpse of the Dalai Lama's glasses and the soft shine of his slightly bowed forehead. From the wrinkles that decorate the corner of his eyes, I can tell he is smiling. I am surprised at how overcome I feel already, my heart fluttering on overdrive but at the same time peaceful and moved to something between tears and silent laughter. His Holiness enters the temple and takes his seat for meditation. From where I sit, I can only see the very top of his head; his body is veiled by what looks like a silken white altar that, from my perspective, could be seen as the gateway to His Holiness's sacred seat. The meditation begins.
Monks and nuns pass out booklets of this morning's teaching. The teaching will be conducted in Tibetan only and so I do not take a booklet, though gazing upon the subtle beauty of Sanskrit Letters is a gorgeous meditation in and of itself. I prefer to listen. His Holiness wears a microphone and so the baritone depth of his prayers are clear to all of us seated near and far. Tibetan chanting is something unlike anything I have ever heard; it is nearly impossible to believe the extent to which highly trained monks can use their breath in one steady stream to create such a range of sounds: never gasping, hardly inhaling, just flowing breath, deep and wide. I let myself dissolve into the sound. The teaching lasts for nearly two hours all together; Tibetan men and women chant along in a breathtaking chorus. Though the temple is open, I could be water sitting in a brass bowl that is being struck with a soft mallet: reverberating incantation throughout and through-in. I smile a seamless chain of smiles; like the water droplets on a morning spiderweb, I smile.
When it is time for His Holiness to rise and exit the temple, once again, we all stand and show our deepest respect. This time, I see his face, his smile, his kind way of stopping and offering blessings to a few pilgrims on the edge of the path. We are all overcome: seeing His Holiness is like jumping at dawn into frigid water and feeling every nerve alive and open-mouthed with reverence.
I did not know how I would react to this chance occasion; I could not anticipate what it would be like to see His Holiness walking joyfully just 10 meters from where I stand. I can say, now, that this morning is one I will not forget: just being in the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who calls himself but a simple monk , is a blessing that will continue to bloom in me for many moments to come. The chanting, the smiles, the peaceful gathering of hundreds of pilgrims from all over the world, the sweetness of the first glimpse of glasses and smile-line wrinkles: I feel joyfully silent, abundantly grateful and happily peaceful. May all the world be well and peaceful in this moment and receive a breath of blessing from this unexpected morning. Om Shanthi
And so I rise with a smile of anticipation and make the misty morning walk to the temple. It is only 6:30, but many people gather at the gate. When we are permitted to enter, monks and nuns help us set out mats and take a seat with a view of the immaculate gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, whose soft face smiles with a gentleness that allows even us pilgrims from faraway lands to feel at peace in his gaze.
I sit in quiet meditation as the temple fills to the brim with people: the countless rows of cushions happily splitting at the seams to accommodate monks, nuns, Tibetan refugees, Indian tourists and other travelers from all over the world. I feel at ease and extraordinarily grateful for my good fortune of sitting in the presence of His Holiness for even a short while. It is more rare than one might expect for His Holiness to offer a teaching at his home in Mcleod Ganj. The Dalai Lama travels quite often, these days, and many pilgrims come to the temple at Mcleod Ganj three or four times before being able to receive a teaching. And so, I smile and feel the expanding warmth of my grateful and calm breath: quietly awaiting the entrance of His Holiness.
All at once, the nuns sitting a few rows in front of me rise and hold their hands in prayer at heart-center. We travelers follow their lead and do the same, bowing our heads slightly and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of His Holiness through the tight ring of helpers that guide him where he goes. In an unexpected moment, my heart leaps from my chest and hangs on my smile when I catch the smallest glimpse of the Dalai Lama's glasses and the soft shine of his slightly bowed forehead. From the wrinkles that decorate the corner of his eyes, I can tell he is smiling. I am surprised at how overcome I feel already, my heart fluttering on overdrive but at the same time peaceful and moved to something between tears and silent laughter. His Holiness enters the temple and takes his seat for meditation. From where I sit, I can only see the very top of his head; his body is veiled by what looks like a silken white altar that, from my perspective, could be seen as the gateway to His Holiness's sacred seat. The meditation begins.
Monks and nuns pass out booklets of this morning's teaching. The teaching will be conducted in Tibetan only and so I do not take a booklet, though gazing upon the subtle beauty of Sanskrit Letters is a gorgeous meditation in and of itself. I prefer to listen. His Holiness wears a microphone and so the baritone depth of his prayers are clear to all of us seated near and far. Tibetan chanting is something unlike anything I have ever heard; it is nearly impossible to believe the extent to which highly trained monks can use their breath in one steady stream to create such a range of sounds: never gasping, hardly inhaling, just flowing breath, deep and wide. I let myself dissolve into the sound. The teaching lasts for nearly two hours all together; Tibetan men and women chant along in a breathtaking chorus. Though the temple is open, I could be water sitting in a brass bowl that is being struck with a soft mallet: reverberating incantation throughout and through-in. I smile a seamless chain of smiles; like the water droplets on a morning spiderweb, I smile.
When it is time for His Holiness to rise and exit the temple, once again, we all stand and show our deepest respect. This time, I see his face, his smile, his kind way of stopping and offering blessings to a few pilgrims on the edge of the path. We are all overcome: seeing His Holiness is like jumping at dawn into frigid water and feeling every nerve alive and open-mouthed with reverence.
I did not know how I would react to this chance occasion; I could not anticipate what it would be like to see His Holiness walking joyfully just 10 meters from where I stand. I can say, now, that this morning is one I will not forget: just being in the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who calls himself but a simple monk , is a blessing that will continue to bloom in me for many moments to come. The chanting, the smiles, the peaceful gathering of hundreds of pilgrims from all over the world, the sweetness of the first glimpse of glasses and smile-line wrinkles: I feel joyfully silent, abundantly grateful and happily peaceful. May all the world be well and peaceful in this moment and receive a breath of blessing from this unexpected morning. Om Shanthi
Thursday, August 12, 2010
On the Edge of Feeling Useless
When the cold feeling of uselessness begins to creep into my bones, I must immediately stop and evaluate why destructive thought patterns have edged their way into my mind. Walking the streets with a worn-out backpack and hiking shoes: a postcard image of the vagabond tourist who can afford more than a few weeks holiday in Asia. It is no use denying that, as the rain falls on the steep, river streets, I am wearing boots and a backpack and have white skin and only a handful of Hindi words to choose from. I am a tourist. So what is the problem?
"Tourist" does not have to be synonymous with idle, irresponsible, self-interested, wandering and aimless; but, some days, my white skin and hiking boots and daily stroll down Tourist Lane seeking an afternoon cup of tea makes me feel Icky. My feeling Icky is reasonable: Here I am wandering the hillsides, stopping to read the bazillion yoga fliers and noticing the bright green parrot community burst from the tree like a firework just 10 meters from where I am standing. What am I doing? If exchange is essential to life, or at least a most exciting and potentially positive aspect of life -- giving and receiving, being shaped and shaping, created and creating -- then what am I doing exactly standing in a cloud on the mountainside looking at yoga fliers?
When I begin to feel this way, like the Monsoon cloud is inside of me and not just forming puddles at my feet, it is time for action. Conversation with self: so you feel like a vacancy, a neon light flashing in the night, of no use, just taking up space with your boots and itinerary of "self-exploration." What to do? Go to yoga class, break a sweat, listen to your breath and nourish your body with fresh food. Health is a stepping stone: without a healthy body and resolved breath, mind and heart will swirl in a chaotic storm and throw obstacles in the way of moving through the vacant feeling of uselessness. Next: action. What might I do? Can I be of help in some way in this bustling town: half commercial tourism, half Tibetan Refugee Haven? A cup of tea in the right cozy cafe leads me closer to an answer.
Rogpa Cafe is one part of an organization dedicated to helping families of Tibetan Refugees begin a new life: encouraging them to become self-sufficient through job training, etc. One aspect of the organization is a Baby Care Center located here, in Mcleod Ganj, just a 10 minute walk from where I am staying. "Volunteers Needed" I read on the door and my heart jumps in my chest. "Baby Care Center" and "Volunteer" in the same sentence. Sign me up, please!
After speaking with the Volunteer Coordinator for the project, I agree to work 4 hours each afternoon in the Baby Care Center: helping to create a safe and playful environment for children from 8 months to 3 years-old. I will work under the guidance of Tibetan Teachers who have had some training in Early Childhood Education: change diapers, sing songs, play with blocks and Legos, tell stories and generally support the team of women who work at the center 6 days a week. I feel excited to take this chance: signing up for two weeks just on hearsay and the happy voices of children arriving from the classroom window into the office where I watched the introductory film. Rogpa, www.tibetrogpa.org seems like a well-organized and happy-spirited organization and I feel like I can offer my humble and joyful love to these youngsters and not do unintentional harm. In my experience as a volunteer, it is often best to begin volunteering in very simple, humble ways, especially if one plans to stay for just a week or two. The more responsibility you take on (or demand of the organizational staff), the more distant you might come from the humility that will allow you to appropriately shape your qualities for the particular context in which you are working. I will go to Rogpa Baby Center tomorrow with a completely open-mind: not pretending that I know a thing about child-rearing in a Tibetan Daycare. But I will watch closely, keep my voice soft and my eyes open - aware of what the children are doing and what seems to be considered appropriate behavior and what is not. I will bring a belly full of English songs to share if called upon to do so, and a no-fear mentality when it comes to changing diapers and cleaning Training Toilets. I undertake the adventure of joining 6 or 8 other women in maintaining a safe, clean, creative space for 35 youngsters to play and learn.
And so: yoga and meditation in the morning; childcare in the afternoon. This will be my life for the next two weeks: life in the dense cloud cover of Dharamsala. Admittedly, it is harder to rise with spunk when it is pouring down rain outside, but I have decided to offer my smile and heart to the mud-puddles while I am here. It was I who decided to come to the mountains during monsoon. Who am I to complain about the weather?
There is a yoga studio just a quick walk from the hidden hostel where I am staying. (One studio amongst a thousand in this tiny but bustling tourist town on the edge of a mountain.) I enjoyed class this morning; the instructor is called Vijay and he has been practicing yoga for 40 years. He is competent, thorough, offering a 2 hour 15 minute power yoga session each day at 9 AM. (www.vijaypoweryoga.com) This sweat producing, flowing, athletic yoga suits me at the moment: feeling like I need to move and challenge my body to stay healthy and supple amidst the rain and cloud-cover and beautiful challenge of traveling solo in a place that I have dreamed about for years and years. That's another topic to tackle: the ideas and fantasies that we allow to color our imaginations and the reality of the places we have colored with our dream-state mind. Something I have been thinking a lot about as my heart helps me understand that one of the greatest adventures one can undertake is that of daring to put down roots in a patch of earth. I focus my energy on being here and now: in India, alone, on a journey for reasons that I will learn as I go. And, at the same time, I am aware of my spirit's renewed commitment to settling down and beginning to sow seeds of health and beauty and learning in a community I will come to love more and more through both trial and celebration. The details? Refining themselves day by day but still malleable and full of possibility.
So, my attempt at organization went spinning into a twirl of my present thought patterns considering nomadic travels and sowing seeds in a garden. Here I am in the clouds of Mcleod Ganj, attempting to create a steady rhythm of yoga practice and child care fun: committing to be the artist of my each and every day; committing to not growing lazy or disheartened with my set of colors and brushes.
"Tourist" does not have to be synonymous with idle, irresponsible, self-interested, wandering and aimless; but, some days, my white skin and hiking boots and daily stroll down Tourist Lane seeking an afternoon cup of tea makes me feel Icky. My feeling Icky is reasonable: Here I am wandering the hillsides, stopping to read the bazillion yoga fliers and noticing the bright green parrot community burst from the tree like a firework just 10 meters from where I am standing. What am I doing? If exchange is essential to life, or at least a most exciting and potentially positive aspect of life -- giving and receiving, being shaped and shaping, created and creating -- then what am I doing exactly standing in a cloud on the mountainside looking at yoga fliers?
When I begin to feel this way, like the Monsoon cloud is inside of me and not just forming puddles at my feet, it is time for action. Conversation with self: so you feel like a vacancy, a neon light flashing in the night, of no use, just taking up space with your boots and itinerary of "self-exploration." What to do? Go to yoga class, break a sweat, listen to your breath and nourish your body with fresh food. Health is a stepping stone: without a healthy body and resolved breath, mind and heart will swirl in a chaotic storm and throw obstacles in the way of moving through the vacant feeling of uselessness. Next: action. What might I do? Can I be of help in some way in this bustling town: half commercial tourism, half Tibetan Refugee Haven? A cup of tea in the right cozy cafe leads me closer to an answer.
Rogpa Cafe is one part of an organization dedicated to helping families of Tibetan Refugees begin a new life: encouraging them to become self-sufficient through job training, etc. One aspect of the organization is a Baby Care Center located here, in Mcleod Ganj, just a 10 minute walk from where I am staying. "Volunteers Needed" I read on the door and my heart jumps in my chest. "Baby Care Center" and "Volunteer" in the same sentence. Sign me up, please!
After speaking with the Volunteer Coordinator for the project, I agree to work 4 hours each afternoon in the Baby Care Center: helping to create a safe and playful environment for children from 8 months to 3 years-old. I will work under the guidance of Tibetan Teachers who have had some training in Early Childhood Education: change diapers, sing songs, play with blocks and Legos, tell stories and generally support the team of women who work at the center 6 days a week. I feel excited to take this chance: signing up for two weeks just on hearsay and the happy voices of children arriving from the classroom window into the office where I watched the introductory film. Rogpa, www.tibetrogpa.org seems like a well-organized and happy-spirited organization and I feel like I can offer my humble and joyful love to these youngsters and not do unintentional harm. In my experience as a volunteer, it is often best to begin volunteering in very simple, humble ways, especially if one plans to stay for just a week or two. The more responsibility you take on (or demand of the organizational staff), the more distant you might come from the humility that will allow you to appropriately shape your qualities for the particular context in which you are working. I will go to Rogpa Baby Center tomorrow with a completely open-mind: not pretending that I know a thing about child-rearing in a Tibetan Daycare. But I will watch closely, keep my voice soft and my eyes open - aware of what the children are doing and what seems to be considered appropriate behavior and what is not. I will bring a belly full of English songs to share if called upon to do so, and a no-fear mentality when it comes to changing diapers and cleaning Training Toilets. I undertake the adventure of joining 6 or 8 other women in maintaining a safe, clean, creative space for 35 youngsters to play and learn.
And so: yoga and meditation in the morning; childcare in the afternoon. This will be my life for the next two weeks: life in the dense cloud cover of Dharamsala. Admittedly, it is harder to rise with spunk when it is pouring down rain outside, but I have decided to offer my smile and heart to the mud-puddles while I am here. It was I who decided to come to the mountains during monsoon. Who am I to complain about the weather?
There is a yoga studio just a quick walk from the hidden hostel where I am staying. (One studio amongst a thousand in this tiny but bustling tourist town on the edge of a mountain.) I enjoyed class this morning; the instructor is called Vijay and he has been practicing yoga for 40 years. He is competent, thorough, offering a 2 hour 15 minute power yoga session each day at 9 AM. (www.vijaypoweryoga.com) This sweat producing, flowing, athletic yoga suits me at the moment: feeling like I need to move and challenge my body to stay healthy and supple amidst the rain and cloud-cover and beautiful challenge of traveling solo in a place that I have dreamed about for years and years. That's another topic to tackle: the ideas and fantasies that we allow to color our imaginations and the reality of the places we have colored with our dream-state mind. Something I have been thinking a lot about as my heart helps me understand that one of the greatest adventures one can undertake is that of daring to put down roots in a patch of earth. I focus my energy on being here and now: in India, alone, on a journey for reasons that I will learn as I go. And, at the same time, I am aware of my spirit's renewed commitment to settling down and beginning to sow seeds of health and beauty and learning in a community I will come to love more and more through both trial and celebration. The details? Refining themselves day by day but still malleable and full of possibility.
So, my attempt at organization went spinning into a twirl of my present thought patterns considering nomadic travels and sowing seeds in a garden. Here I am in the clouds of Mcleod Ganj, attempting to create a steady rhythm of yoga practice and child care fun: committing to be the artist of my each and every day; committing to not growing lazy or disheartened with my set of colors and brushes.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Rooftop to Slum
The family of puppeteers and musicians perform on the rooftop of Anoop Hotel each night of the weekend: Jagdish, the puppeteer, his son Manshu, the assistant, an uncle on the harmonium and classical vocals, and a cousin on the tabla. The troupe plays the same show with the same spunk, the same jokes and smokes and puppet vignettes each night. I have already joined the lot of travelers that become fans three nights in a row: enjoying the music and fun and gorgeous confidence of these showman who make their living according to the generosity of their audiences.
Last night, in a respite between shows, the musicians continued playing and enjoying the pleasure of friendly improvisation with eyes closed and voices robust and rising in joyful crescendo. Jagdish saw me dancing in my chair and invited me to join their musical circle. From one moment to the next I went from a kind stranger to a tambourine player in the band: hired on for the next session. Moments in which white-skin dissolves into the drumbeat; when "other" and "foreign" melt into the ease and kindness of a stranger willing to take a chance as friend; moments such as these are among the most precious sand-grains in life's hour-glass. I am grateful to Jagdish for his merriment, his laid-back gestures, his easy acceptance of what is difference and willingness to invite me into the inner music circle.
And so we play and laugh and crescendo and stop suddenly to add a dramatic effect to the puppetry and dancing. I smile and laugh and feel at home on the rooftop in this otherwise totally alien city.
As night falls deep, from purple haze to black with hints of streetlight glow, our voices lower and instruments take rest. "Will you come have lunch with my family tomorrow?" asks Jagdish. "I would be honored." I say without hesitation. From talking with a French couple who are circus performers, I know that Jagdish lives in the slum and that his family will welcome me with open arms and offer me all they have and more. I do not fear the stench of the open sewer or the flies or the possibility of being sick from food or filth. Not for a moment. The concern that goes through my head is: what if they feed me with a week's wages? They will surely serve me like a queen and then watch me eat, not taking anything until I have finished and been served seconds and begged to take thirds until the sisters finally accept my thanks and take a bite for themselves and the children. What can I bring to this chance encounter?
I bring crayons, colored pencils and a pad of paper for drawing. I bring pencils and a sharpener, a camera and an open heart. I leave my judgment at home and stuff my gag-reflex to sewer stench deep in my pocket where it cannot breathe. I smile, put on clean clothes and hop on the metro to meet Manshu.
The slum is hidden behind street signs and shop entrances. From the main road, one has to etch-a-sketch a zig-zag canal before popping up just above the sewer pipes and between the broken concrete walls of the slum. The door to the house is made of rusty metal; the 1 year-old Anjaley greets me at the door: naked and covered in flies. I give her a kiss and her eyes grow wide as she gazes upon a face so unfamiliar. Jagdish's daughters welcome me into their living space: a bathroom-size concrete building covered by a humid black carpet and years of oil from the life that happens here. We sit and play and touch hands and look at jewelry and laugh. The daughters immediately focus their praise on my white skin, in broken English saying: "My skin: dark, ugly. You: beautiful." I try to explain to them that I believe they are beautiful just as they are; that their skin and eyes and smiles are gorgeous and I would love to look as radiant as they do. The women just look at me and laugh; I think they feel shyly happy for my complements.
The camera comes out and 30 hands begin to touch and grab and fight for a photo here and there. The sisters are especially happy to take photos with their small children. They are still children themselves: 18, 20, 22: but they each have a child on their hip -- learning to be children and mothers at the same time. It is challenging for me to see that baby Anjaley wants to nurse but her mother wants to take pictures and play and therefore just listens to her child cry for an eternal moment before raising the child's lips to her breast. And then, the tiny brother in the doorway: naked, surrounded by flies, learning that crying will not gain attention from the women because he need to learn to fend for himself on the hard streets of the slum. The sisters are lovely and kind and doing the very best they know how to raise their children in such a crowded, gray and harsh environment. But how hard it is to hear the children cry. They laugh, too: when we are playing the drum and playing peek-a-boo and especially when we are coloring with a fat red crayon and then blue and then yellow. The sisters are even more thrilled by the crayons: "Teach me how to spell my name," they insist sweetly, never having held a pencil or a crayon in their life. School is not an option, here. Tending to the family and marrying when the time is right: the contours of their life and their landscape. Once again, I recognize how rare and privileged a person is to have choices in her life: to have people even ask her the question, what do you dream of?
The afternoon is long and gorgeous and full of laughter and song and a heartfelt exchange of gifts. Yes, the mother feeds me with gorgeous food and the whole family, apart from the brother, Manshu, sit and watch me eat. Manshu, being the young man of the house at 12 years old exercises his authority with great confidence. It is surprising to see how at ease he is treating his sisters with a firm hand. He treats me as an honored guest and then loses his temper with the playful jokes of his older sisters. I kindly encourage him to see that I am just the same age as his sisters, that we are not so different at all, that he, please, should show them the same respect he shows me. Maybe he turns up his listening ear just a little. His sisters smile and we say a thousand times: Friends! Sisters! and signal to the circle of women with our hands.
Sangita asks me to sponsor her son to go to school when he turns five, three years from now. I explain to her that I do not want to make promises that I cannot keep; that five years from now I am not sure how we will be able to contact one another. But I encourage her to start saving and give her some funds to begin the collection: just a bit at a time. You are right to want education for your child, and you can give it to him: commit to it, one penny at a time! We understand each other in a clasping of hands and a hug. We express thanks for the shared songs, gifts and food. They invite me to stay with them whenever I like and I let them know that I will try and visit before I leave for the United States. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Blessings shared. From rooftop to broken concrete building, voices sing with laughter as loving kindness shines its light in even the darkest places.
Last night, in a respite between shows, the musicians continued playing and enjoying the pleasure of friendly improvisation with eyes closed and voices robust and rising in joyful crescendo. Jagdish saw me dancing in my chair and invited me to join their musical circle. From one moment to the next I went from a kind stranger to a tambourine player in the band: hired on for the next session. Moments in which white-skin dissolves into the drumbeat; when "other" and "foreign" melt into the ease and kindness of a stranger willing to take a chance as friend; moments such as these are among the most precious sand-grains in life's hour-glass. I am grateful to Jagdish for his merriment, his laid-back gestures, his easy acceptance of what is difference and willingness to invite me into the inner music circle.
And so we play and laugh and crescendo and stop suddenly to add a dramatic effect to the puppetry and dancing. I smile and laugh and feel at home on the rooftop in this otherwise totally alien city.
As night falls deep, from purple haze to black with hints of streetlight glow, our voices lower and instruments take rest. "Will you come have lunch with my family tomorrow?" asks Jagdish. "I would be honored." I say without hesitation. From talking with a French couple who are circus performers, I know that Jagdish lives in the slum and that his family will welcome me with open arms and offer me all they have and more. I do not fear the stench of the open sewer or the flies or the possibility of being sick from food or filth. Not for a moment. The concern that goes through my head is: what if they feed me with a week's wages? They will surely serve me like a queen and then watch me eat, not taking anything until I have finished and been served seconds and begged to take thirds until the sisters finally accept my thanks and take a bite for themselves and the children. What can I bring to this chance encounter?
I bring crayons, colored pencils and a pad of paper for drawing. I bring pencils and a sharpener, a camera and an open heart. I leave my judgment at home and stuff my gag-reflex to sewer stench deep in my pocket where it cannot breathe. I smile, put on clean clothes and hop on the metro to meet Manshu.
The slum is hidden behind street signs and shop entrances. From the main road, one has to etch-a-sketch a zig-zag canal before popping up just above the sewer pipes and between the broken concrete walls of the slum. The door to the house is made of rusty metal; the 1 year-old Anjaley greets me at the door: naked and covered in flies. I give her a kiss and her eyes grow wide as she gazes upon a face so unfamiliar. Jagdish's daughters welcome me into their living space: a bathroom-size concrete building covered by a humid black carpet and years of oil from the life that happens here. We sit and play and touch hands and look at jewelry and laugh. The daughters immediately focus their praise on my white skin, in broken English saying: "My skin: dark, ugly. You: beautiful." I try to explain to them that I believe they are beautiful just as they are; that their skin and eyes and smiles are gorgeous and I would love to look as radiant as they do. The women just look at me and laugh; I think they feel shyly happy for my complements.
The camera comes out and 30 hands begin to touch and grab and fight for a photo here and there. The sisters are especially happy to take photos with their small children. They are still children themselves: 18, 20, 22: but they each have a child on their hip -- learning to be children and mothers at the same time. It is challenging for me to see that baby Anjaley wants to nurse but her mother wants to take pictures and play and therefore just listens to her child cry for an eternal moment before raising the child's lips to her breast. And then, the tiny brother in the doorway: naked, surrounded by flies, learning that crying will not gain attention from the women because he need to learn to fend for himself on the hard streets of the slum. The sisters are lovely and kind and doing the very best they know how to raise their children in such a crowded, gray and harsh environment. But how hard it is to hear the children cry. They laugh, too: when we are playing the drum and playing peek-a-boo and especially when we are coloring with a fat red crayon and then blue and then yellow. The sisters are even more thrilled by the crayons: "Teach me how to spell my name," they insist sweetly, never having held a pencil or a crayon in their life. School is not an option, here. Tending to the family and marrying when the time is right: the contours of their life and their landscape. Once again, I recognize how rare and privileged a person is to have choices in her life: to have people even ask her the question, what do you dream of?
The afternoon is long and gorgeous and full of laughter and song and a heartfelt exchange of gifts. Yes, the mother feeds me with gorgeous food and the whole family, apart from the brother, Manshu, sit and watch me eat. Manshu, being the young man of the house at 12 years old exercises his authority with great confidence. It is surprising to see how at ease he is treating his sisters with a firm hand. He treats me as an honored guest and then loses his temper with the playful jokes of his older sisters. I kindly encourage him to see that I am just the same age as his sisters, that we are not so different at all, that he, please, should show them the same respect he shows me. Maybe he turns up his listening ear just a little. His sisters smile and we say a thousand times: Friends! Sisters! and signal to the circle of women with our hands.
Sangita asks me to sponsor her son to go to school when he turns five, three years from now. I explain to her that I do not want to make promises that I cannot keep; that five years from now I am not sure how we will be able to contact one another. But I encourage her to start saving and give her some funds to begin the collection: just a bit at a time. You are right to want education for your child, and you can give it to him: commit to it, one penny at a time! We understand each other in a clasping of hands and a hug. We express thanks for the shared songs, gifts and food. They invite me to stay with them whenever I like and I let them know that I will try and visit before I leave for the United States. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Blessings shared. From rooftop to broken concrete building, voices sing with laughter as loving kindness shines its light in even the darkest places.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Time limit helps me be succinct, maybe
Quite often I am a women of cascading words: phrase after phrase spinning off my tongue like the flying colors of the most magnificent acordian skirt. But today, I have no choice but to be succint: my computer time-limit is nearly up, so I am racing the clock.
Let me just reiterate that the laughter has continued as I venture out into the crumbling streets of Delhi. I learned why the entire city-center is under construction and displaying scaffolding and huge rock piles and rock tumbles at every glance. In two months time, the Commonwealth Games arrive here in Delhi. Like the Olympics, I've been told, but smaller. At the rate they are going, it is hard to believe the city will be an immaculate postcard in just two months: but, workers are banging and clanging around the clock, so anything is possibe.
Walking adventures over scaffolding and zig-zagging through manholes turned into a queenly India breakfast at what looked like a sterilized and sparkling fast-food joint and ended up being an excellent joint where locals and tourists alike enjoy cheap and yummy treats. The only breakfast place open before 11AM: life starts late here. So breakfast at 10AM with a stranger who made fast friends as he talked about where he was from and where we were from and where to go and what to see and the Commonwealth Games and the delciciousness of South Indian Masala Dosa breakfast. What fun.
And then back on the streets: offered a fine deal on an auto-rickshaw ride by Sonno: "First customer of the day: best price!" What a sweet man: helps us cross the crazy highway traffic running, takes us to the most reputable travel agencies and helps us try and get a good deal,shows us around Connaught Place, the city center, and makes suggestions of what Bazaars to visit and the pros and cons of each.
Mika just left for Varanasi. I will stay in Delhi another day and leave for Agra on Sunday morning. More updates to come: I think I will see the puppeteer Jagdish and his son, Manchu later this evening for another memorable show.
Let me just reiterate that the laughter has continued as I venture out into the crumbling streets of Delhi. I learned why the entire city-center is under construction and displaying scaffolding and huge rock piles and rock tumbles at every glance. In two months time, the Commonwealth Games arrive here in Delhi. Like the Olympics, I've been told, but smaller. At the rate they are going, it is hard to believe the city will be an immaculate postcard in just two months: but, workers are banging and clanging around the clock, so anything is possibe.
Walking adventures over scaffolding and zig-zagging through manholes turned into a queenly India breakfast at what looked like a sterilized and sparkling fast-food joint and ended up being an excellent joint where locals and tourists alike enjoy cheap and yummy treats. The only breakfast place open before 11AM: life starts late here. So breakfast at 10AM with a stranger who made fast friends as he talked about where he was from and where we were from and where to go and what to see and the Commonwealth Games and the delciciousness of South Indian Masala Dosa breakfast. What fun.
And then back on the streets: offered a fine deal on an auto-rickshaw ride by Sonno: "First customer of the day: best price!" What a sweet man: helps us cross the crazy highway traffic running, takes us to the most reputable travel agencies and helps us try and get a good deal,shows us around Connaught Place, the city center, and makes suggestions of what Bazaars to visit and the pros and cons of each.
Mika just left for Varanasi. I will stay in Delhi another day and leave for Agra on Sunday morning. More updates to come: I think I will see the puppeteer Jagdish and his son, Manchu later this evening for another memorable show.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Hello, New Delhi
At nearly 10pm, I am wide awake with the reverberating rhythm of first impressions of New Delhi. We step off the plane, hug our dear sisters of A Gift for the Village team goodbye, and step into a seemingly abandoned airport corridor: too bright, too silent, too safe. This is Delhi? I laugh. Where is the chaos and clamor and never-ending immigration lines and a thousand desperate drivers yelling, "Taxi, taxi! Tour! Madame! Can I help you? First time India? Train station, sister?" Mika and I wait in the immigration line casually, comfortably, admiring the enormous hand-mudra carvings that line the long hallway. We arrive to Delhi.
Just out the door and we meet our taxi driver, Manish, who was sent be our hostel to pick us up. He holds a sign with my strange name written in bold. Someone is waiting for me at the airport? What corner of my imagination is this? Is someone writing a novel and now I am a main character: emerging from the airport looking purposely frumpy and unattractive, wanting to blend in with the exhaust and unassuming street corners? As soon as we are situated in the taxi, Manish turns around and sprays us with an atomic perfume: a fragrance that makes you grimace and laugh at the same time as you wonder what alchemist thought up such a suffocating floral combination. "Welcome to Delhi!" he says, as if he had just given us the banquet welcome. The India chapter starts off with a good laugh: brilliant.
Time to hit the streets. My senses are bombarded with a thousand colors and sounds: playful auto-rickshaws who race the big, shiny taxis, just because the friendly competition is ridiculous and a way to break up the mundane job of driving a thousand laps around the all-too-familiar craziness of the city; a team of footballers who bus back from a winning game - all riding on the roof of a double-decker bus and dancing to the strong club-appropriate beat of Bangara hits. They see Mika and I smiling at them and reaching for our cameras to film the moving party. They play along and feed the theatrical exchange: dancing, smiling, waving hands ... knowing that Mika and I secretly wish that we could jump out the taxi window and into their celebration. Here is the chaos, the clamor, the unexpected humor of sensory overload: sadhus walking with circus-tent like puppets in hand, gorgeous women in red-saris hauling impossibly heavy bricks to build a wall, a taxi driver who sprays us with perfume and talks out the window to other drivers and then asks the occasional random question about where we are from in a mix of English and Hindi. We are arriving in Delhi.
After the 20km taxi ride from the airport, Manish drops us off in a rough-around the edges gorgeous market neighborhood that hides just a stone's throw from Connaught Place: a historic plaza that is shaped like a sun whose shining rays are streets full or artisans and shops and ... who knows what else: I'll see tomorrow when I venture out walking. Mika and I laugh at how strangely comfortable we are here. Not to worry: not so comfortable that I am going to leave my passport under the table and walk off without a second thought. My heart and mind are clear and aware: not hurrying but paying attention to each step. A good thing, since just 5 ft from the entrance to our hostel, men and women are demolishing an old hotel building so that they can build it back better and brighter, I suppose. No "caution" zones, no eye protection, no work boots: flip-flops are the national work-shoe. Gorgeous. So much laughter, so few barriers. All connected and thrown into the same simmering pot to cook and catch the flavor.
The women who carry children and bottles notice a new face immediately and seek me out to ask for rupees to help their cause. I understand your need, sister, I say; but I cannot give you money now. Maybe food tomorrow. Food would be better. Just as in Kathmandu, a tourist must be careful to assure that her good intentions are not doing more harm than good. Giving money to a mother who holds a baby and a bottle likely means that you are paying that woman's pimp to buy himself a drink and the mother and child earn a tiny fraction of the donation. So, I will give myself a few days to see if I come to know any of the street-women by name: it helps to know stories behind the face and often times, the women who beg speak impeccable English. They have learned through years of practice: practice mandated by desperate circumstances.
We go up to the rooftop for dinner: a stunning view. We climb the stair into a totally different world, a transformed frame of mind: like two young women surprised to be meeting the neon-cloud beauty of Delhi's rooftop sea in the very first hours here. We eat and weave our way through a smiling conversation. A crew of brother puppeteers dazzle us with tabla music, passionate song and a puppet show the shimmers and shakes with ornately sewn puppets and a master's hand. The puppeteer, Jagdish, is friendly and walks over to say hello after the show. He tells me about the community of 2000 artists where he and his family live. He shows me photos of the many tours he has done in Europe, being invited to festivals in Switzerland, England, Italy and beyond. But his European fame does not automatically mean fortune or even relative stability. The life of a traveling artist is hard: dependent upon the whims of each audience. How often are people willing to be generous? I wish I could say more often than not; but that is not the case. A few pennies here and there. Surprisingly, it is the locals who often give more; it is hard for tourists to understand the vitality of the artist and audience relationship: how dependent artists are upon a kind gesture, a belief that what is given is also received in the never-ending chain of human exchange. After spending many weeks learning from our most generous friends in Nepal, I am feeling generous and contribute a smiling green rupee note. For all the gifts and blessings and generosity I have received, may the cycle continue over and over and spin into a beautiful rainbow of colors and help us too-often-stingy human beings remember that it is our natural joy to be generous and loving and free.
And so: I am safe in New Delhi. I feel grateful for the multi-colored, multi-textured day of tearful goodbyes and laughing hellos and a thousand baggage stamps and airport antics in between. Mika and I explore the heart of Delhi together tomorrow and then ... off on our separate ways with humble hearts and courageous spirits. Hello New Delhi. What a fine welcome.
Just out the door and we meet our taxi driver, Manish, who was sent be our hostel to pick us up. He holds a sign with my strange name written in bold. Someone is waiting for me at the airport? What corner of my imagination is this? Is someone writing a novel and now I am a main character: emerging from the airport looking purposely frumpy and unattractive, wanting to blend in with the exhaust and unassuming street corners? As soon as we are situated in the taxi, Manish turns around and sprays us with an atomic perfume: a fragrance that makes you grimace and laugh at the same time as you wonder what alchemist thought up such a suffocating floral combination. "Welcome to Delhi!" he says, as if he had just given us the banquet welcome. The India chapter starts off with a good laugh: brilliant.
Time to hit the streets. My senses are bombarded with a thousand colors and sounds: playful auto-rickshaws who race the big, shiny taxis, just because the friendly competition is ridiculous and a way to break up the mundane job of driving a thousand laps around the all-too-familiar craziness of the city; a team of footballers who bus back from a winning game - all riding on the roof of a double-decker bus and dancing to the strong club-appropriate beat of Bangara hits. They see Mika and I smiling at them and reaching for our cameras to film the moving party. They play along and feed the theatrical exchange: dancing, smiling, waving hands ... knowing that Mika and I secretly wish that we could jump out the taxi window and into their celebration. Here is the chaos, the clamor, the unexpected humor of sensory overload: sadhus walking with circus-tent like puppets in hand, gorgeous women in red-saris hauling impossibly heavy bricks to build a wall, a taxi driver who sprays us with perfume and talks out the window to other drivers and then asks the occasional random question about where we are from in a mix of English and Hindi. We are arriving in Delhi.
After the 20km taxi ride from the airport, Manish drops us off in a rough-around the edges gorgeous market neighborhood that hides just a stone's throw from Connaught Place: a historic plaza that is shaped like a sun whose shining rays are streets full or artisans and shops and ... who knows what else: I'll see tomorrow when I venture out walking. Mika and I laugh at how strangely comfortable we are here. Not to worry: not so comfortable that I am going to leave my passport under the table and walk off without a second thought. My heart and mind are clear and aware: not hurrying but paying attention to each step. A good thing, since just 5 ft from the entrance to our hostel, men and women are demolishing an old hotel building so that they can build it back better and brighter, I suppose. No "caution" zones, no eye protection, no work boots: flip-flops are the national work-shoe. Gorgeous. So much laughter, so few barriers. All connected and thrown into the same simmering pot to cook and catch the flavor.
The women who carry children and bottles notice a new face immediately and seek me out to ask for rupees to help their cause. I understand your need, sister, I say; but I cannot give you money now. Maybe food tomorrow. Food would be better. Just as in Kathmandu, a tourist must be careful to assure that her good intentions are not doing more harm than good. Giving money to a mother who holds a baby and a bottle likely means that you are paying that woman's pimp to buy himself a drink and the mother and child earn a tiny fraction of the donation. So, I will give myself a few days to see if I come to know any of the street-women by name: it helps to know stories behind the face and often times, the women who beg speak impeccable English. They have learned through years of practice: practice mandated by desperate circumstances.
We go up to the rooftop for dinner: a stunning view. We climb the stair into a totally different world, a transformed frame of mind: like two young women surprised to be meeting the neon-cloud beauty of Delhi's rooftop sea in the very first hours here. We eat and weave our way through a smiling conversation. A crew of brother puppeteers dazzle us with tabla music, passionate song and a puppet show the shimmers and shakes with ornately sewn puppets and a master's hand. The puppeteer, Jagdish, is friendly and walks over to say hello after the show. He tells me about the community of 2000 artists where he and his family live. He shows me photos of the many tours he has done in Europe, being invited to festivals in Switzerland, England, Italy and beyond. But his European fame does not automatically mean fortune or even relative stability. The life of a traveling artist is hard: dependent upon the whims of each audience. How often are people willing to be generous? I wish I could say more often than not; but that is not the case. A few pennies here and there. Surprisingly, it is the locals who often give more; it is hard for tourists to understand the vitality of the artist and audience relationship: how dependent artists are upon a kind gesture, a belief that what is given is also received in the never-ending chain of human exchange. After spending many weeks learning from our most generous friends in Nepal, I am feeling generous and contribute a smiling green rupee note. For all the gifts and blessings and generosity I have received, may the cycle continue over and over and spin into a beautiful rainbow of colors and help us too-often-stingy human beings remember that it is our natural joy to be generous and loving and free.
And so: I am safe in New Delhi. I feel grateful for the multi-colored, multi-textured day of tearful goodbyes and laughing hellos and a thousand baggage stamps and airport antics in between. Mika and I explore the heart of Delhi together tomorrow and then ... off on our separate ways with humble hearts and courageous spirits. Hello New Delhi. What a fine welcome.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Pashupatinath
Where bodies go to die.
To burn up in orange marigold flames.
Do not cry, my son.
Your tears might cause the departing soul to remain,
tortured and restless: wandering.
Women, you wail and walk circles around the shrine.
Cry hard so the men set fire without weeping.
Burning flame of the mouth, creep slowly onto the pyre.
Burn hot and whole on the wings of the wind.
Carry father's ashes away home.
To burn up in orange marigold flames.
Do not cry, my son.
Your tears might cause the departing soul to remain,
tortured and restless: wandering.
Women, you wail and walk circles around the shrine.
Cry hard so the men set fire without weeping.
Burning flame of the mouth, creep slowly onto the pyre.
Burn hot and whole on the wings of the wind.
Carry father's ashes away home.
Spigot dripping
Spigot dripping brown.
Child drinking: I thirsty, Ma.
Sore belly, bright eyes.
Courage cracks a smile, even so.
Child drinking: I thirsty, Ma.
Sore belly, bright eyes.
Courage cracks a smile, even so.
Helen chuckles
Helen chuckles and says sweetly: "if I didn't know I was in the Kathmandu Valley, I could be in the Peruvian Andes." I return her smile and agree, surprised at how familiar the village footpaths feel after living beneath banana trees in Guatemala. Men and women who work like pack-horses to carry feed and grain and fuel up rocky trails, all the while smiling and looking radiant in colorful clothes. I have seen this before, in another time and place. Three year-olds walking the streets without a care -- negotiating the ebbs and flows of the day with peculiar confidence. And back in the city, wading through exhaust and the blaring traffic orchestra: the garbage smells and screech-owl sounds, the juxtaposed beauty and ugliness. Immaculate women walking and scrambling street children who hang on your arm and beg you for coins: this, too, familiar. But moments do not have to be novel in order to teach. The begging child opens a space in which to offer compassion and loving eyes: a firm, kind hand and a crayon drawing of a flower. "I know this isn't the money you ask for, love, but take a glimpse of color as a blessing. Maybe a whisper of beauty in the harshness you know?"
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Monk's Blessing
If ever you fall into dreams and awake at the foot of a winding stone stair, brave the thousand steps and climb with humble courage toward the cloud-top mist. At the top of the stair you may find a thousand butter candles glowing hopefully, like the sound of flapping wings: lighting the moment with magic and majesty. And if you do not disappear into the dancing flames, you may notice the entrance to a small cave, marked by the fingerprint-jewels of the orange, red and buttercup yellow offerings. And should you choose to enter, there may be a monk rocking in meditation (and the sound of your grandmother's rocking chair may peer through the gentle pulse). He may smile to see your sweet bare toes and invite you to sit and receive a blessing. Not missing a rhythmic beat in the buzz of his low-hum meditation, he may make a generous space for you with his eyes. The monk's kind blessing may leave you silent and joyful and you may walk away forever changed. If ever you fall into dreams and awake at the foot of a winding stone stair, brave the thousand steps and climb with humble courage toward the cloud-top mist. At the top of the stair you may find a thousand butter candles glowing hopefully, like the sound of flapping wings ...
The brightest red I have ever seen...
is the blood of a goat slaughtered as an offering to the Hindu Goddess Kali. Perhaps the gentle family making the offering would choose a word other than slaughter to describe slitting the throat of a trembling goat and letting the steaming blood shower the temple with devotion. The four year-old son seemed peculiarly unshaken by the death of the goat whose body quivered for an eternal moment after the beheading. I nearly thought he would walk in the blood to feel the warmth.
I arrive at Dakshinkali temple not to judge, but to observe. Flowers and ritual pigments color the affair with the ripest orange and yellow. But it is the brightest red that stuffs cotton down my throat and makes my heart feel like a knot of rubber-bands. The goat was shaking: standing with its hind legs wide and unstable, as if it would faint at the smell of its prescribed death. Impermanence is palpable: a hovering cloud of that same cotton-in-the-mouth feeling, but in a way a blessed reminder of how to live.
The brightest red I have ever seen is the blood of a goat slaughtered on the steps of Dakshinkali temple. May the life-force of the trembling goat appease Kali-Ma and send blessings, like music notes, into the world. Death is alive on the bloody steps of sacrifice.
I arrive at Dakshinkali temple not to judge, but to observe. Flowers and ritual pigments color the affair with the ripest orange and yellow. But it is the brightest red that stuffs cotton down my throat and makes my heart feel like a knot of rubber-bands. The goat was shaking: standing with its hind legs wide and unstable, as if it would faint at the smell of its prescribed death. Impermanence is palpable: a hovering cloud of that same cotton-in-the-mouth feeling, but in a way a blessed reminder of how to live.
The brightest red I have ever seen is the blood of a goat slaughtered on the steps of Dakshinkali temple. May the life-force of the trembling goat appease Kali-Ma and send blessings, like music notes, into the world. Death is alive on the bloody steps of sacrifice.
Gathering
I take a moment to gather my thoughts: gather like flowers the color of marigold mornings and the ripest strawberry, the yellow of sun-showered dandelions and the green of the newest leaf. Rain could fall and I would be happy, eager to play barefoot in the rice paddies with the children. Women dressed the color of jewelry shops kneel on the earth with artisan hands, transplanting single shoots of rice to hew homes in the luscious mud pools or the terraced hills. Would they feel surprised at my eagerness to know them? Communicating only with shining eyes and laughter? Or am I romanticizing the possibility and they would, of course, assume that I arrive to make business and take photos? I take a moment to gather my thoughts: gather like flowers the color of marigold mornings.
Connections
Jane and I venture to the Internet Cafe still beaming from what was a glowing night of connections. Indigo Gallery's showroom was filled with an audience of young Nepalis, fancifully dressed ex-pats, porter and guide friends from 2007's trek to Lo Monthang, and a sweet journalist/photographer who asked permission to write a piece about the A Gift for the Village presentation. The energetic Gallery owner, James, whose mind spins like a turn-table of the finest music, jumps at the opportunity to make connections in a world he proclaims is small and flat: connections are what make life vibrant, what keeps the wheel spinning. After the showing, he begins listing suggestions of places to show and it just so happens that his wife works at the Embassy and can almost guarantee a showing at the Ambassador's home or the Embassy itself. Wheels turning, ball rolling, artful conversation flowing like sunlight through the tiny leaf-windows of a forest canopy: planting seeds, forming friendships, marveling at the impossibility of connections that provide the spark for the fire: beautiful.
In short: tonight was a night buzzing with the inspiration of small-world connections. A film about building an unlikely bridge becomes a bridge itself: opening a space for connections: personal, artistic, surprising. This is what art can be: conversation, bridge, connection, evolving. When a paintbrush is lifted with respect, compassion, intention, responsibility and loving discipline, bridges might happen, like the unlikely bow of a double rainbow: colorful, rare and heart-inspiring. I feel honored to be a witness of such beauty.
In short: tonight was a night buzzing with the inspiration of small-world connections. A film about building an unlikely bridge becomes a bridge itself: opening a space for connections: personal, artistic, surprising. This is what art can be: conversation, bridge, connection, evolving. When a paintbrush is lifted with respect, compassion, intention, responsibility and loving discipline, bridges might happen, like the unlikely bow of a double rainbow: colorful, rare and heart-inspiring. I feel honored to be a witness of such beauty.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Kathmandu: Arrival
Time travel is real.
Chasing light to Kathmandu,
The journey begins.
We are exhausted and laughing in Kathmandu. We arrived this morning after what was an adventurous and mind-altering journey across time. Jenna explained to me that if you put your finger on the globe in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, exactly half way around the world is Kathmandu. I am the furthest away from home that I could possibly be. I let the night air cool my face, my feet and the delirious buzz of tension that accompanies a lack of sleep and 24 hours of airport re-circulated air. I am thankful to be here. The streets are bustling and busy with colorfully dressed people walking amidst rushing cars, motorcycles and rickshaws who will absolutely not swerve to miss hitting you and will probably not stop if they do hit you: so be careful! Makes walking an always adventure.
We adventured our way across a bridge of trash where water still manages to trickle, up hills of sardine-squished houses whose laundry is more beautiful than butterfly wings blowing in the wind. Everything blows here: prayer flags, white linen laundry, the florescent drapes that women wear with their jeweled and gold sandals, the dust-covered hair of the street children who run after us to be for spare change, attention a friendly smile or a distraction from the daily grind. We could see the shiny gold of Swayambu - a magnificent complex of temples in the center of the city - peeking out from the trees on the highest hill in the Kathmandu Valley. Valley: the city of Kathmandu rests in a crater-like valley that is completely surrounded by a perfect circle of peaks. One can feel protected or vulnerable, depending on how you look at it. But on the steps of Swayambu - what one feels is reverence. I could not stop losing myself in the hundreds of red, white, yellow, blue and green prayer flags that were miraculously strung more than a hundred yards between the tops of the trees. Do the monkeys hand the prayer flags? I wonder. Who could possibly have the strength the hurl a bundle of flags across the entire hill so that the flags blow just so, a symphony of prayers surfing the violin strings together: beautiful music. I stood mesmerized, too, by the feeding babies of the monkey mothers who sat just by the stairwell as if to give the tourists a show, expecting peanuts or bananas or a handful of seeds. How can one not be captivated. Tiny babies, so much like humans, learned to feed and follow and walk on their four legs and hold their tail just so so that they can swing and not swirl themselves out of balance. Swayambu is a holy place where hundreds of people gather to worship on any given day. Where hundreds of people gather to worship, to sell their goods, to make a living begging or to simply watch the circus. I am the tourist. I would not say that it is a role I love to play; but I am a foreigner in a faraway land: that is not something I can change. But laugh, share smiles, greet friendly and unfriendly folks alike with a sincere Namaste - that I can do. And listen, most importantly, I can do to. Learn from this place, from the people I meet, the places I see, the surprises, the shocks, the beauty, the struggle. We are beginning: today just scratches the surface.
We go to bed early in hopes that rest will allow our delirium to bloom into a pleasant and energized state of alertness, awareness, and joy. Tomorrow another adventure. Jane, Jenna and friends come home; I come to know this home and understand why it calls them back, again and again.
Time travel is real.
Chasing light in Kathmandu,
The journey unfolds.
Chasing light to Kathmandu,
The journey begins.
We are exhausted and laughing in Kathmandu. We arrived this morning after what was an adventurous and mind-altering journey across time. Jenna explained to me that if you put your finger on the globe in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, exactly half way around the world is Kathmandu. I am the furthest away from home that I could possibly be. I let the night air cool my face, my feet and the delirious buzz of tension that accompanies a lack of sleep and 24 hours of airport re-circulated air. I am thankful to be here. The streets are bustling and busy with colorfully dressed people walking amidst rushing cars, motorcycles and rickshaws who will absolutely not swerve to miss hitting you and will probably not stop if they do hit you: so be careful! Makes walking an always adventure.
We adventured our way across a bridge of trash where water still manages to trickle, up hills of sardine-squished houses whose laundry is more beautiful than butterfly wings blowing in the wind. Everything blows here: prayer flags, white linen laundry, the florescent drapes that women wear with their jeweled and gold sandals, the dust-covered hair of the street children who run after us to be for spare change, attention a friendly smile or a distraction from the daily grind. We could see the shiny gold of Swayambu - a magnificent complex of temples in the center of the city - peeking out from the trees on the highest hill in the Kathmandu Valley. Valley: the city of Kathmandu rests in a crater-like valley that is completely surrounded by a perfect circle of peaks. One can feel protected or vulnerable, depending on how you look at it. But on the steps of Swayambu - what one feels is reverence. I could not stop losing myself in the hundreds of red, white, yellow, blue and green prayer flags that were miraculously strung more than a hundred yards between the tops of the trees. Do the monkeys hand the prayer flags? I wonder. Who could possibly have the strength the hurl a bundle of flags across the entire hill so that the flags blow just so, a symphony of prayers surfing the violin strings together: beautiful music. I stood mesmerized, too, by the feeding babies of the monkey mothers who sat just by the stairwell as if to give the tourists a show, expecting peanuts or bananas or a handful of seeds. How can one not be captivated. Tiny babies, so much like humans, learned to feed and follow and walk on their four legs and hold their tail just so so that they can swing and not swirl themselves out of balance. Swayambu is a holy place where hundreds of people gather to worship on any given day. Where hundreds of people gather to worship, to sell their goods, to make a living begging or to simply watch the circus. I am the tourist. I would not say that it is a role I love to play; but I am a foreigner in a faraway land: that is not something I can change. But laugh, share smiles, greet friendly and unfriendly folks alike with a sincere Namaste - that I can do. And listen, most importantly, I can do to. Learn from this place, from the people I meet, the places I see, the surprises, the shocks, the beauty, the struggle. We are beginning: today just scratches the surface.
We go to bed early in hopes that rest will allow our delirium to bloom into a pleasant and energized state of alertness, awareness, and joy. Tomorrow another adventure. Jane, Jenna and friends come home; I come to know this home and understand why it calls them back, again and again.
Time travel is real.
Chasing light in Kathmandu,
The journey unfolds.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mantra
Knowing love, I shall allow all things to come and go.
Be as supple as the wind, and take everything that comes
with great courage. Life is right in any case,
my heart is as open as the sky.
This mantra comes from a film that hugely impacted my heart.
Maya, the main character, walks with me as I journey. She,
a courtesan in 15th Century India, learns that her heart is
courageous enough to risk grace in even the fiercest storm.
She continues to remind me to be grateful for all the moments
of this blessed life path: that it is up to us to recognize
the teaching in even the most terrifying shadow.
I carry this mantra in my heart and often repeat it, like a
prayer, as I dance the hills and valleys of my days.
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