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.
Circle of Blessings
Mother Mary in my pocket
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
Heart-shaped stickers on the edge of my smile
Joyful laughter in my belly
Life-affirming tears on my cheeks
Barefoot on the grass, at the edge of the green garden
I open my heart to the blessings only Mothers can offer.
Safety
Joy
Fun
Open-Heart
Adventure
Love
Friendship
Courage
Health
Learning
Sharing
Mothers make giving your heart seem so simple
Flooding generosity and love burst the seams
of my seamless heart and send me
Laughing, crying, jumping in disbelief, excitement,
and a spirit overcome by the
beauty of a circle.
A circle of women. A circle of Mothers.
A circle of women who love without question and
bless the little girl
whose eyes have only grown wider in 25 years of
walking barefoot over the earth.
A circle of Mothers in a garden.
What greater blessing is there?
One Year Later
The moon dazzles this Virginia summer night with a generous glow, reminding her wide-eyed children that the world is full of majesty. It takes courage to reflect the sun's burning light. But rather than standing by contemplating the pain of a possible burn, the moon opens her heart like a June tiger lily and allows the sun's light to shine through to us all: the ants of Earth, so busy about our activities.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
Here I sit, surprised that it has been a year since Rosario made the choice to turn-in her bright-eyes for a cage: a year since I turned to the typing board for the whisper of comfort that free-expression offers. In a way, I feel irresponsible for not being discipline about sharing more of my Guatemala experiences with the vibrant community of people that form the jeweled necklace that my heart wears walking. All of the moments leading up to this Virginia summer night buzz with the support of friends who, like light on water, sparkle in the current that flows in my veins and keeps my spirit alive. And so, how dare I not reach out more often How dare I not share stories and in so doing acknowledge the deep gratitude I feel for the love that has made me who I am. Perhaps it is that, I arrived in a place where I was a burning flame: sun up til sundown blue-orange-yellow alive and inspired by working with children and sisters who taught me to see the smallest wonder and surf the biggest wave. Perhaps it is that I could not bring myself to plug-in to cyberspace when the just-so movement of the banana tree leaves was so spectacular. Perhaps there is no reason in particular: just that the beating of my heart feels seamlessly connected to all of the friends I've met along the way. Space and time no longer feel limiting.
The point is: I am setting the intention to re-engage with the community of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and practical strangers who have expressed interest in my journey and supported who I am with no questions asked. The greatest gift imaginable. I am on the eve of departing for a tidal-wave journey to Nepal and Northern India. Jane, a friend and teacher, slid a beautiful Himalayan amethyst on my finger two years ago and said: "Two years, love. I think it will be two years." I smiled and somehow knew she was right. Two years to the day, she asked me to be part of a team that will travel to Nepal to deliver the documentary that she and two other friends recently completed: A Gift for the Village. Please read more at agiftforthevillage.com. An incredible story.
And so, in Guatemala with a Himalayan amethyst on my finger, I say Yes! Not knowing what else to say. I knew that answer when I was born. I will have to verify with Mother, but I believe I learned Yes! before I learned No. I finished the year in Guatemala with heart and soul burning with enthusiasm and love for the community of friends, teachers, children and rich-black earth that taught me, above all, courage, humility and a limitless belief in what is possible. I have written to the children about the upcoming journey: I carry them with me into each breathing-life moment and cannot wait to smile at them from the Himalayas. The next time I visit Guatemala, I will have more colorful experiences and surprising adventures (that somehow help me excavate and ponder the brightest parts of my being) to share.
Share: that is what I will attempt to do here, on this blog that will remain Guatemala-Living In the Flow. Life does flow. As Jane pointed out: "do you see that Guatemala contains both the words Gautama and Mala?" Indeed. So it is not so curious that Guatemala leads me to India.
One day, I will fill in the blanks of the Guatemala year. A dozen journals sit under my desk waiting to be read and edited. By the time selected stories arrive in cyberspace, the will be more refined, distilled, precise. In my evolution, I am learning to edit. It is so much harder than writing! For now, I set the intention to share stories from the Himalayas: guided by a dear teacher and an amethyst ring.
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