solbeam

non-dualism

solbeam — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 22:17:00 GMT

For the third time in a year, I’m in India. I feel ourselves in something of a desperate love affair; one, and just as often the other, on her knees, begging the other to come back, just go, or not leave.

Four months ago, in a dizzy spell in Delhi, I realized that my eyes no longer wandered. That in terms of travels, I’d become blinded by my loyalty and love for only one city: and nothing less than the, “oldest continually inhabited in the world”: Varanasi. This devotion I scribbled into a journal, confessed to a best friend, put the contract on my heart in fact and pen. Twenty-four hours later, an email arrived under the subject title, “when direction finds you” and in it, a job with outstretched hand and ring, proposing to marry all my passion-trodden directions, at the crossroads of my favorite city. Yes. The very same. Varanasi.

So here I am again. Hindi finally finding a more confident, or at least playful, place on my tongue. Swooping wide circles around the bull whose horns I know to catch those walking unaware and pull them, with a flash of adrenaline, to the present. Identifying which ghat I walk on by the very same cesspool I remember hop-scotching even five years ago. Waving hellos and bowing namastes to the shop-keepers, rickshaw-wallas, and restaurant owners, who no longer need to scratch heads long, before finding my name. My Hindi teacher, he knows exactly when I need the umph of chai to push me through the end of class. My host family, they know that my task list is endlessly long and that I’ll fall asleep on their bed once the Bollywood flick trespasses nine. The restaurants, they specially serve me the dishes no longer on their menus but still on mine.

And just as much as Banaras remembers me, I remember it. From the mantras chanting from loud speakers in devotion to the Ganga-ji, to the orange globe of India’s ever dusty sun. From the yappy white dogs with red tikkas on their foreheads to the smell of detol and scream of wedding speaker bollywood beats. On every corner, a principle of non-dualism in demonstration: jasmine and cowdung, temple bells and techno, cell phones and water buffalo, purification rites and pollution, saris and jeans, the city with the longest timeline in the world, living tightly confined to the present moment. Timelessness wordlessly understood by all as same, same, but different. Varanasi. Banaras. Two names. One place. Same, same but…..yes. Non-dualism. You get it.

Anyway. It’s just like me to ramble on. But lucky for me, at least in India, I can get away with it; where the baba might even agree that one endless, run-on sentence we are all living, writing, weaving. Still, for your relief, I know I saw a period around here somewhere…

Pilgrimage of Poem & Music: Day 3, in the ring of the wind

solbeam — Fri, 7 Nov 2008 07:12:00 GMT

A shortage of ponies keeps us, with bags packed and stacked at the doorway, hesitantly stationed in the tiny trail-head town of Jomsom.

Today, Sangeetha and I follow our whim through the the alleys and to the corners of this little sand and stone town.

We also weave our way in and out of the veins that sustain this community; the food, trekking equipment and hiker miscellaneous stores touting the treats one more often wants than needs.

In a Tibetan antique shop that my curiosity, running out of corners to investigate, leads me into, I greet the two men in the entrance in Nepali.

“Oh?! You speak Nepali?” one asks with surprise.

“No. Some Hindi. Only a few words in Nepali,” I shyly correct.

He switches to English and inquires as to what I’m doing in the area. I explain that we’re trekking into the Dolpa, but are stuck for lack of ponies. When he asks for what purpose are the ponies, I explain that we decided that if we’re going into such an off-the-map area, we might as well bring needed goods; in this case, some 200 pairs of shoes and socks. I then turn the question back to him, “and what do you do here?”

To this he states, “Well I don’t live here. I’m just travelling through as well. I build schools and plant trees in Mustang.”

Mustang is an equally remote corner of Nepal and I reply, “Oh? You’re doing good work!”

He squints an eye and says, “but you don’t actually know that, do you….”

And I wink back, “No I don’t. But doesn’t my trusted enthusiasm make you feel more inclined to do good work, even if you’re not already?”

He laughs and claps his hand on the table, “You’re right! That’s the right kind of optimism!”

He then spies the pendant around my neck that I had silversmithed in India. As he quickly scans the Devanagari script, he poses to me, “Parvat, huh? And where is Shiva?”

While most people immediately read and interpret the scripted word to mean that which sits across from it in the dictionary, “mountain,” I have not missed his reference to the Goddess Parvati and her relationship to her consort, Lord Shiva.

I answer, “Shiva’s at home.”

To this we both laugh out loud together. I then leave the store, as one should all good jokes, in the linger of laughing.

The Hindu Lord Ganesha, remover of obstacles and god of all good beginnings.

There is an appropriately dusty and crooked sign at the entrance of Jomsom that identifies itself, proudly, as being the capital of a windy valley. And as evidence of this claim pushes me around on the street, I muse to myself just how fitting this trailhead town trait is….

How many times have I heard a noise, turned around, and found a whiplash of footsteps haunting my own. This quick of the eye, evidenced only by the tail of a shadow ducking behind door or bush, makes my heart stutter with the question, what exactly is on my heels? Is it a guardian spirit? Or just the over-excited realizations of my immediate future rushing ahead to catch up to me? Is it deja vu running up to the door of my reality, knocking and fleeing, leaving only its ominous giggle? Questions unanswered, I conclude only that the wind is powerful. It seems to sweep our skin of any secreting soul, assuring the only state in which we are allowed to pursue this quest: naked. If uncomfortable, it still seems only right that we go through this purification ritual before our pilgrimage; it’s a gentle reminder that for all the stores touted “necessities,” and supplies with which we might stuff our sacks, nothing we can carry will protect us more against the forces of nature so much us our naked faith and trust. Yet this wind, as much as it is kind and cleansing, it is equally brave and daring. And at the same time as it purifies and prepares us, it bullies us around. Shoving our shoulders back and shouting, “Are you really tough enough? Are you?” Luckily, in our, perhaps naive, joy, all we can do is nervously laugh. And this good humor dismantles the push in the Wind’s shove as it does the power of all bullies. So we take our beating in the ring of the Wind, accepting that this practice, of cleansing, of submitting, of toughening, of trust and of good humor, will all, in the Dolpa, serve us well.

re-defining home

solbeam — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 01:22:00 GMT

What does home mean to you after traveling for so long?

When I first left the country, I was an angry girl; ashamed of my country, annoyed with American tradition & culture, disregarding of my family history, disappointed with my education, and I was no longer on speaking terms with religion.

It was the story of the young shepherd, Santiago, in The Alchemist that filled my spirit with an insatiable fire to move, and specifically to buy my first open-ended ticket to what would eventually accumulate into seven years of adventures abroad. But I still vividly remember the moment when I closed that little book and said, with noted disappointment, to myself, “Wait. The boy ends up where he began?” It was foreshadowing on my life that I was just barely smart enough to note with a squinted and suspicious eye.

Of course, I ignored the winking omen. And picked up the challenge of the chase. Home? I don’t need one. House? On my back. Family? They can live without me. Country? Never belonged there. Religion? I’ve got big skies and starry nights to answer those questions now.

Over time, my notion of home as an outward place harboring social detest, devolved into something much softer and closer. For somewhere along the path, I picked up meditating. And I remember, for a few years, telling people that “home” was that warm little nook in which I centered myself every morning, with my eyes closed, about ten minutes deep into sitting.

But this version of home is lonely. And, as every long term traveler eventually learns, the charms of a transient life are, mockingly, transient. I began to feel myself scrapping; the surfaces of cities, the shallowness of temporary friends, the stereotypes of a culture, the Lonely Planet highlights of a country. Feeling my travels weighted too heavily on the side of quantity, I added a few stones to the quality side, by slowing down my itinerary and stationing myself in small communities for 3-6 months at a time, usually working with this or that NGO with the goal of fostering the connection between local and international circles. In this way, I did finally learn full names, foreign languages, local bus routes, and the best street food stand in town. But still, I found myself in the strange position of never asking a person his or her name before finding an above-par answer to the question, “How long will you be staying?”

And that is perhaps when the big “C” word entered my mind and vocabulary. I decided that I did not care WHERE in the world I lived, so long as I was surrounded by people with whom I shared like values, trust, mission, curiosity and intentions; Community. One in which I could foster my new understanding of the concepts of interconnectedness and interdependence. A place and people in whom I could invest and connect. For just as I, in my perpetual pilgrimage had learned that my travels were less about the goal than the journey. SO had I learned that my relationships were less about the people, than my interactions with them. And I needed a circle. Of brothers and sisters and parents and lovers and extended family and community with whom I could exchange: trust, teachings, experience, dependence, beliefs, challenges, support and, of course, love.

But before I continue, I must also include the most noble, impacting, profound and beautiful lesson that my travels have BEATEN into me – and that is of Humility. The thought of the arrogance and ignorance with which I set upon my world “stomp,” today, changes my cheeks to shades of shame. That I left my country on the spit and snarl of these two charges, just emphasizes the depth of my personal projection. Such self-righteousness we assume in the task and name of seeking change! The world IS change; it’s the predominant characteristic of nature and the Earth and nothing but comical to presume that we need seek it out. We human beings, both individually and cumulatively, will constantly be presented with the challenges and opportunities to evolve to our higher selves regardless of the continent upon which we happen to find ourselves born or standing. I need not cross the world on a jet engine to either solve the puzzles of the planet or recognize the mystery of life. But perhaps, like Santiago, we just have to make the physical journey to come to that same, mocking-with-good-humor-at-
our-humbling-expense, conclusion.

A few months ago, I drank yak butter tea in an underground stone house at 15,000 feet, on a shelf of the Tibetan plateau. And as I watched the children playing with puppies, and the women chatting happily over the meal cooking on the fire, and the father spinning yak wool while checking in with the teenagers coming in from the fields, I realized that every community is precious, none more or less than another. Be it a tiny village high in the Himalayas or the park of a busy urban city street, the challenges, lessons and connections are the same. We don’t need to cross borders, but only to venture into the unknown. For only by leaving all that we know, do we discover exactly who and where we already are. And there, sipping tea in one of the most remote corners on the world, I concluded that the joy of travel, is not where it takes us, but the new awareness of where and who we already are. Very little does it actually matter where we go and, thus, where we began is the only place in the world in which we can end.

In the end of The Alchemist, Santiago returns to the sheep, fields, trees and family of his upbringing with a smile. Santiago’s community did not change. But his awareness and appreciation of his interwoven role within it, did. Home, to me, is defined as the circle of people and places in which we choose to foster kindness and love. It’s a community: of friends, teachers, lovers, mentors, family, students and every messenger met along the path. Home is the web of our interconnectedness. And once we realize the degree to which we are interdependent, the rest, I believe becomes irrelevant. Home is left, and returned to, as being nothing more than a new awareness of what’s been there all along.

pilgrimage of poem & music; day 1 in the Dolpa: dilation

solbeam — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 07:34:00 GMT

We wake and jostle our belongings together in haste; today, as we have long planned, we will begin our journey into the Dolpa.

Sacks stuffed, teeth brushed, packs on back, we descend the steep incline of wooden stairs and emerge on the lower deck of our guesthouse. Gombu, our “English speaking guide” is on the phone. He hangs up and sighs, starring at the phone like it might change its mind.

Finally, he lifts his head, but not his eyes, and carefully states,

“No porters. No ponies. Not cheap.”

Gombu speaks only in negatives; a style which tends to bump up roughly with our overly optimistic American angle on language. This is only one of the many communication challenges that we will encounter with our local guides; the first, and most glaring, being that Gombu does not understand English.

“But Gombu, we were told that there would certainly be ponies available. And that they would be cheap with your contacts. Well, that’s okay; we’re flexible. So how long do we have to wait? What are our options?”

To this, Gombu nods his head up and down and says, “Yes.”

When we furrow our brows in confusion, he furrows his.

Then he swings his head from left to right and says, “No.”

And the distinction between speaking and understanding English becomes clear.

Over the course of this adventure, we will come to adore Gombu with tender, constant and unconditional love. But his “yes” and “no” answers to our open ended questions will never stop testing our patience and compassion.

It’s our turn to sigh.

Sangeetha turns to me and says, “I’m convinced that everything that happens is good for us, even this.”

And I respond, “And that is why I chose to travel with you.”

We laugh and surrender ourselves to a situation in which we have no influence aside from attitude. We retreat to the roof deck where Sangeetha picks up her drawing pad and I my journal.

“Divots carved in the sandstone walls string together like the chunky coral strands that the Tibetan women tie around their necks. Lower teeth jut from caves, which, with squinted eyes, I am surprised to recognize as stupas: the Buddhist crosses of the Christian world; shaped monuments marking sacred sites. My eyes, adjusted and attuned to stupa spotting, suddenly spy dozens. But then, when my eyes relax, I realize that I’ve misidentified a natural pile of rocks for the sacred stupa shape. Confused, I realize my eyes are lost; confronted with that wall and question I’ve encountered in the midst of lucid dreaming: But which part of this is real? And which a symbol? And is this state, of un-focus, the intention? To blur the line between the sacred and profane; that one may become the other, not physically by shape shifting, but rather in the dilation of the witnessing eye? Is this exercise in the bardo, between the physical and metaphysical, an unnamed medium of every religion? A task in which we may further practice, aside from our nightly REM cross training, in preparation for the navigation our final traverse of life between lives? Is that the goal of all our sacred symbols? Well if the intention is confusion, then I am there. Pinching my understanding along with my leg.”

We put our pens down and wander into the streets on a mission. We have one map of our destination, but figure an additional pictorial perspective could do no harm. We weave our way through the street stores, but are consistently spit out of shops, short of our objective: “No map of Dolpa.” “Sorry. No map.” “We don’t have any.” “Of the Dolpa? No. Not that.”

Funny that the trail head for the Dolpa hasn’t a single print of its own mugshot. We’d note it as fair warning, if we weren’t so wrapped up in the cozy blanket of our own naivety. But at least we got out of that bed. The preceding day, as our bare-boned bus teetered over beckoning mountain cliff ledges, Sangeetha and I decided to define the word, “precarious.”

“likely to fall”

“dependent on chance”

“insecure positioning”

“teetering on trouble”

“bound for natural disaster”

“on the edge”

We take dibs on the things that we will grab should we plummet. She calls the seat in front of her. I call her. She’s envious of my window. I remind her of the things that could jut through it as we roll. She says that if we die, our disappearance might make a great movie. She claims Carrie Russel. I, Wynona Ryder.

And so, acutely aware of the precarious state of our lives on this pilgrimage, we are perhaps more accurately labeled stupid than naive.

And there is fear. Great fear, of which we speak little. Sometimes we poke a little fun and nervously laugh, but we’ve chosen each other for a serious reason; that in our moments of self-doubt and true fear, we may ride freely on the other person’s (presumed) faith and (assumed) sense of security. Afterall, isn’t that the most common function of couple-dom?

Ironically, or not, that night I have a lucid dream: In the commotion of typical non-sense, I turn and face a wind and hear myself say in my head, “I’m dreaming.” My perceptive centers itself. And I wake up. But into another dream. Where I can hear my voice but am not speaking. The voice I hear is story telling. It’s speaking of this very adventure in the Dolpa, but in the past tense. Talking in the future of a tale all but done. Then the voice becomes my own and I AM the story teller, speaking with confidence of events long experienced and gone. I wake up. This time, not into another dream, but into my twisted sheets. And when I awake, the taste of certainty is still so strong in my mouth, that I have to shuffle through a timeline of events to convince myself that I haven’t yet finished this trip.

And only then do I realize the severity of my unspoken fear.

That my subconscious felt it necessary to provide me this favorable omen means, indeed, a fear was brewing into a less-laughable and quite formidable threat. It’s as if a third person has joined us, in whose past tense story of our present tale and in the voice of timeless and all-knowing perspective, presents a faith upon which we feel confident placing our bets.

Sangeetha awakes. I tell her my dream. We confess the most formidable of fears. We laugh a little. And sigh more.

We will return. We’ll live to tell our story in the past tense. And to this faith, we suddenly cling.

Gallery: The Dolpa, Nepal

solbeam — Wed, 1 Oct 2008 01:02:00 GMT

on the on edge of the Tibetan plateau, deep in the Himalayas of rural Nepal

pilgrimage of poem & music; and intimidating book to open

solbeam — Wed, 1 Oct 2008 00:54:00 GMT

Opening the book on our adventures in the Dolpa (rural Nepal) is as intimidating as the 17,000 foot passes we crossed to get there. Just look at a single page of my notes!

So instead of hesitating any longer, I’m just going to open and type.

Scared, exhausted, breathless, hungry, sore, cold and wet, on the first week of our pilgrimage in the Dolpa, I woke up early and as Sangeetha took to her morning ritual of flicking at the beads of water that accumulated into breaking dams on the low roof of our tiny tent, I scribbled into my journal the following:

THESE are the adventures of Kavita and Sangeetha in the Dolpa of rural Nepal.

Names, dates, times, heights, distances and places cannot be confirmed as such numerals and characters have little value when that to which they are respective does not exist. Let it suffice that such measures, here, change with the wind, waning moon and a timeless culture’s mood.

My name is Kavita. Kavita means, “poem” in Hindi. The name was given to me by a man born a shepherd of the Ladakhi North Indian plateau, at the summit of a pass in the Himalayas as a gift to crown the acceptance of the path of adventures that would ultimately lead to this one. On that same cliff of life crossroads, I, curiously, kicked not one, but two, copper horseshoes.

Upon finding my first phone, weeks later, I called my best friend and told her of my decision to follow my open-ended whim in South Asia. She replied, “then I’m coming too” and so I sent to her, by way of messenger, the second copper horseshoe.

Fall, winter and spring pass before we find ourselves reunited in the smooth clay underground room of an attending Tibetan family in a tiny and ancient village in rural Nepal. My friend is sitting cross-legged and wide-eyed at the underground world of which she has so suddenly entered. She keeps trying to bow lower than the dark, wrinkled man holding a prayer mala (rosary) and chanting mantras (Buddhist prayers) beneath his smile, for whom she has an unnamed source of reverent respect.

I enter the smoke-filled room and Sonam Tashi, our Tibetan ponyman, looks up with his perennial smile, just as he snaps a set of new batteries into an aged radio (and only medium of this otherwise communication-less world).

“SANGEET!” he shouts, as his arms, inflated by enthusiasm, rise into the air.

As I cross the room to my seat on the richly carpeted clay bench, I do a little line dance in my best impersonation of traditional Tibetan dance as I have seen it. Our small audience laughs in surprise, claps to the beat, and, finally, applauds my short act. Finding my seat next to my friend, she asks of me, “What did Sonam Tashi shout?”

“Sangeet. It’s Hindi and Nepali for, “music.” That’s it! That’s your name! Sangeetha!”

For it was only a day ago that my friend charmed an entire bus of local passengers waiting on a cliff ledge (for a secret amount of time) with the guitar she had struggled to bring half way around the globe to this moment. As she sang and strummed on the muddy step of the bus, a beautiful Punjabi boy in a pink turban snapped his fingers, gyrated his hips and thrust his arms about in animated poses of what he claimed to be his culture’s traditional dance.

The name is perfect, and thus are born the adventures of Kavita and Sangeetha.

citizen of the bardo

solbeam — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 20:17:00 GMT

I think it was this photo.

... that made me and my girlfriend change our plans, mid-sentence from...

"Let's just go. We've been planning this trip to Kashmir for months!"
to...

"Hum. Maybe not."

And suddenly I find myself in Thailand; sweltering under both monsoon heat and the trail end of a three-day 102 degree fever.

Don't worry; the fever bit is just my body's fiery way of detoxifying what's left of a country in me right before I leave it. You'll find records of these repeat incinerations throughout my archives, in the sweat soaked and twisted sheets of the airport hostels in Madrid, Antiqua, Calcutta and Bangkok. It's a fact of my body/travels with which I've been forced into a delirious peace treaty.

So. Temperature at a steady and un-medicated 99 (yea!) with street-stand Thai-iced tea in hand I, today, come to you. Forgive me my delirium-ramble, as I'm still spinning from the surprise severance of my South Asia adventures, which was as blunt as the fever hot. In response to the baffled stares of the hostel staff downstairs, I have quickly relearned to rename "curd" as "yogurt" and "motor rickshaw" as "tuk tuk." May you, as well, practice patience with me as I stutter through these sentences and this transition.

Tibetans identify this state of being by a word I (probably inappropriately) use and (perhaps unhealthily) spend a majority of my life in: "bardo." Which means something like, "liminal passage, intermediate state, the state of consciousness in the course of migration between death and rebirth." Yep. That's what I'm putting on my next immigration form in the box asking for, "country of permanent residence."

Now, I haven't posted in over a month and I've got years of editing and entries to catch up on, which is about to change as I devote the next five months to exactly these creative pursuits. Writing. Posting. Not traveling. Because the realization has only JUST dawned upon me (I'm slow!) that remote travel and the processing/posting of its inherent experiences are two circles that are close to mutually exclusive. I know. Mind blowing realization for me to have just stumbled upon. But yes. I have to sit. In one place. At a computer. To put it all together. And that is the plan. (But don't hold me to it, because as you well know, sometimes I'm all talk.)

What I have not yet confessed is that sometime in the spring of 2003, while deep in pilgrimage along the Camino de Santiago, I pulled a pen out of my red bandanna and wrote the following into my journal:

"7 Years of Movement; 7 Years of Stillness"

As with many of the sentences that I hastily scribble down, I wasn't sure what it meant, or what seed, exactly, I had planted into my life path with that statement. But here I am. At the conclusion of what I estimate to be (a total of) 7 years of travels abroad.

And for the FIRST time in my life, I am ready.

Ready for what?

Stillness, friends.

Stillness.

a stone on simmer

solbeam — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 17:24:00 GMT

Handing me back the piece of paper with the single word on it, my student says,

"Um. I'm not sure I know what this is…"

Part of the mission of my work (in experiential education) is that of fostering eleven (what we call) "core values" in our students. It's a tricky agenda because there are no simple equations or lists of instructions with which you can assist students in the tasks of realizing such intangible concepts as, "interconnectedness", "authenticity" and "compassion."

In fact, giving the word itself away too directly could even prove itself quite detrimental as it is in the nature of any teenager (or for that matter, inquisitive individual) to be suspicious of anything offered too freely. We also have to be careful of words over-quoted and sometimes, these days, even mass-marketed; any word that has made the tagline of coca-cola has most likely lost everything but its jingle.

So much like the popular party word game Taboo, it is our objective to have the students struggle not only with the answer (that we don't name), but also the equation. And yes, they hate this game at first; especially because we don't even tell them we're playing it. (I'm realizing as I'm typing that this is likely to add a lot of fire to students' friendly fire accusations that the leader team is, "secretly strategic.") In any case, now that we are two months into our semester of intensive experiential lessons, we have seen our group, as individuals and a whole, give us easy evidence proving that they are now quite experienced with (even if they cannot name or define) all eleven of our core values. We're confident that they have harvested all the raw vegetables necessary to put this recipe together.

Back to the student holding the word and prompt with which I started this post. And let me add the disclaimer that it is quite ironical that the student in our group who embraces and exemplifies the quality most doesn't know that her most natural inclination is the very definition of the word in her hand (adding the final mark of purity to her quality).

Yet I am not going to fault her English teacher or general education for this vocabulary mishap. In fact, I'm going to enter some very dangerous territory and suggest that the responsibility might lie on the broad shoulders of American culture and society. But before anyone calls me a separatist or unpatriotic, please hear me out as I make the case by serving it in compliment-sandwich (a sneaky way to pass to some tough meat). For just as we (group leaders) encourage constructive criticism in our group, I think, as a country, we should also be taking some time to gently and compassionately give and receive the feedback that will evolve us to our highest nation.

With our students, after having them work to discover and define the words, we then asked them to each choose the "core value" that they, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in their personal development.

Now I'm clearly going to take some liberties here and choose a word for the United States of America, of which, if it matters, I am a citizen. And I hope to make the case a little more edible by emphasizing that the States does embrace many of our core values exceptionally well. As a country, we have proven ourselves quite skilled in the categories of, "courage," "responsibility," "ownership," and "curiosity." And then there are some classes in which we understand the term or goal even if we're still sorting out which verbs we actually have to put into action to complete the realization of the lesson. But I'm looking for the word that we, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in our country's personal development.

And the word I choose is Humility.

Now just as my student didn't know the meaning of this word, I think this term is so far from the mind of American culture that we can barely conceive of a sentence to put it in. But let's reach for a minute.

(And I know I'm predictable, but...)

Let's reach across the world to my personal and favorite teacher and Guru-ji of all.

India.

For while India has her own set of core values that are in particular need of development (perhaps actually, even the same that we in the West have mastered), the quality that I have witnessed her culture, society and people to embrace with eloquence and grace, on both conscious and subliminal levels, from sunrise to sunset and from child to great grand parent, is that of Humility.

Modeling by example, let's work on the definition first.

And instead of words, like a good experiential educator, I am going to use that which I've actually witnessed.

I am quite fortunate to be living between six sacred temples near Tulsi Ghat in Varanasi. The sacred pool outside my door is called, Lolark Kund and beside it is a temple dedicated to the planets with which our own is in orbit around the sun. So I need not step father than my doorstep to watch the following: a family approaching the temple, the father kneeling down and touching his forehead to the front step of the entrance, the elder daughter delicately holding a string of fresh flowers between her hands clasped in the "namaste" of respect, the mother covering her head out of modestly (to the gods) and gently lowering her 4-year old toddler son from her hip so that he too can touch his head to the ground.

The family enters and proceeds in their circumambulation of the inside of the temple. They approach the statue of Ganesha, touch his feet, ask for him to give them the wisdom to remove the obstacles from their life, and place a mala of orange carnations around him. They approach the mother goddess Durga, light incense, and ask for her to bless upon them the weapons of her protection. They approach the monkey God Hanuman, offer him his favorite sweets (usually Ladoo), and ask for him to bless them with his unfaltering devotion. They approach Vishnu, bow to his feet, and light a butter lamp praying for the preservation of their good health and prosperity. They approach Shiva, represented by a lingam, offer milk and throw flowers while chanting mantras that might invoke his blessing of finding the fortunate new beginnings within his destruction.

In this way, the family proceeds to each enthroned god, lowering their heads, humbling their beings, bowing their respect, and making offerings to those divine beings and virtues that they host closest to their hearts. When they leave the temple, the dare not turn their back on the Gods, but walk out of the temple backwards, reaching down with their hand to first touch the step, then their forehead, and then their heart -- in a symbolic gesture of holding themselves at the feet of their beloved.

Yet this family does not leave their humility in the temple. When the family returns home, they walk in the door and approach the 98-year old mother of the father. Each person -- father, mother, daughter, toddler -- before any chore or toy, approaches the grandmother and touches her foot and then their own head, to symbolically swipe the sacred dust from her feet. Depending upon her mood, the grandmother will either accept the gesture or, humbly, push it away. Either way, and even if only for the pangs of labor through which she birthed the existence of this family, she deserves this show of respect.

The daughter in this family is of the age to marry. Contrary to what you might expect, she does not cry every night wishing she had been born in a Western country where she might have had the opportunity of a "love marriage." Most likely, if you ask her, she will say that she respects, even more than the Indian tradition, the advice, experience, guidance, and ultimately, the choice of her mate by her parents. She questions her own lack of years and experience. She trusts their better judgment. She loves her parents and is loyal to trusting their love of her. She knows that they will make the decision that best befits her long-term and overall happiness. She shows her respect by submission and trust in their ultimate decision.

Okay. NOW let's get out the dictionary and define the word on the piece of paper that my student is still holding...

hu·mil·i·ty (noun) the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one's own importance, rank, etc. a lack of false pride; freedom from pride and arrogance; An act of submission or courtesy.

So where do we take this as a culture and as a nation? Well, the truth is, while I'm great at isolating problems (aren't we all?), solutions are never as simple. And even if I had one, neither would I be allowed to provide something so easy. For just as with the definition, it would be stealing something to give away the answer. We owe it to ourselves to allow and embrace the struggle, for only through that process can we ultimately claim full ownership of the resulting revelation.

So what we did with our students was simply ask them to hold the word in their minds.

humility

To see where it would take them.

For I think as individuals we have to do this first, as it is only in our collection, that we become a nation.

Perhaps it sounds like a funny recipe: to just "hold" the word in our consciousness. But as I learned from my favorite childhood storybook, "Stone Soup" – sometimes the best way to start is to just put a rock in the pot and then add as you may; stewing and stirring and building upon your stone 'till the soup starts to smell good. Perhaps even forgetting, in the process, with what (now irrelevant) intention we may have started.

Funny, actually now that I think about it, is that it would seem that the first step in recognizing our humility would be the very act of recognizing our lack of it!

In any case. Humility is the rock in my pot and I now have two weeks trekking in the Himalayas to stew on it. So do be patient with me as this post feels like it's only at a simmer and still missing some key ingredients. Maybe I'll find them growing in the mountains? In the meantime, will you just help me by holding this stone for a minute?

arranged love marriage

solbeam — Wed, 9 Apr 2008 18:02:00 GMT

One of my students recently quipped, "...arranged marriages give me faith in marriage."

And as quickly as I agreed with her, I wondered, "what a once-foreign idea with which I have so naturally nodded my head in agreement!"

It's one of the subjects on India of which I find to be the fullest of misconceptions and unfounded, ethnocentric judgments. But I never wag a finger at a new student of India when he or she comments, "Can you just imagine?! Not marrying for love?!"

Because I know my students will soon enough be living with Indian families, surrounded by Indian brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. And that each of these family members will have his or her own story to tell which will illustrate that there's a lot more hidden variables in marriage math. I have enormous faith that my students, too, will not just learn, but witness that Love, in the East or the West and regardless of method, is still just as likely to find itself on the other side of the equal sign in the wedded equation.

My first Hindi teacher is 24 years old and was married last year. Aside from a 1x1 inch passport photo, he did not see the face of his bride until after his marriage to her. My second Hindi teacher has been happily married for 41 years. He didn't glimpse even a photo of his wife until hours after the wedding rituals were completed. What do these two men and generations have in common? A respected cultural tradition that accepts and pursues (with great faith) a committed and self-sacrificing investment in the lifetime partnership of parenthood.

I've visited and shared meals with both families. The young couple is no less caring, loving, and challenging-yet-functional, than any of my friends' young married relationships. The older couple has not a single less story of compassion, sacrifice, tolerance, perseverance or tender love than that of our own Western parents.

What my student was saying is, "if people here can have perfectly successful and loving (arranged) marriages with someone they don't even know, doesn't that mean that opportunity exists for ANY two persons?"

(Whether we actually have an advantage in being able to choose our partner is then what becomes debatable!)

Let me provide two interesting linguistic examples that illustrate some of the differences on East and West perceptions in regards to their definitions of two of life's most important social pillars; I'm going to start with "religion," but stay with me as I'll then return back to, "marriage."

Hinduism in India is actually not as much a religion as it is a culture and way of life. Even the name, "Hinduism" was originally only a term created to characterize the, "people of the Indus Valley." So essentially, it was a name invented by outsiders to categorize a group of people with a different "way of life" in order to differentiate it from their own.

If you you keep this definition in mind, it begins to make sense why there is no word in its scriptures or pressure within the "religion" to cultivate the spread of Hinduism. Nor can one, even of his or her own choice, really "convert" to being a Hindu. And finally, this would also perhaps provide logical reason for why there are no historical accounts of war or violence in the name of "saving" or "forcing" a group of non-Hindus to convert to practitioners of the "faith" of Hinduism.

For that would, plainly, be silly. It would be like Italians invading Montana and forcing them to make their pasta from scratch and drive scooters. Silly. And so if you translate religion to "culture" or, "way of life" then it makes perfect sense why on, more than one occasion, I have found different Indian persons challenging me with...

"What do you mean, you have no religion? Do you not have parents? Were you not born in a country?"

Because despite my soft claims that, "I chose to stop being, practicing and calling myself a Christian when I was 21," this sentence is no more rational to an Indian than me saying, "I stopped being an American when I was 21."

Let me interject my disclaimer now that this understanding is only my own; it's a subtle and simple (and perhaps opinionated) observation that I've only hypothesized from the confused pauses before, after, and between sentences.

But what I was getting back to was the topic of marriage, and the link between the above example and the next, is only the similar confused pause at the end of the sentence...

"What do you mean you're not sure you believe in marriage?"

For just as religion equates to culture. The term "marriage" is easily transferable with the words, "life" and "family." And to challenge the existence or desire of marriage is quite equivalent to denying the existence of life or desire for love.

Now I can hear someone in the audience stirring in their seat and raising their hand with the following question: "But what about dowries (a type of early inheritance or investment paid to the groom's family by the brides), and the fact that not only is the marriage arranged, but that the bride is little more than sold, for a price, to the most appropriate bidder?"

Well. I certainly do not doubt the likely correlation between the social construct of dowries and the social norm of preferential sex selection and even female feticide. But as is often the case when I investigate a stereotype or preconceived idea and begin to explore the more intimate details of the (Indian) relationships near me, I hear quite interesting stories.

Like that of my best friend here in India who, even as a Brahmin (the highest caste and often demanding of the highest dowry), accepted only a single symbolic rupee (equivalent to about 2 US cents) in dowry for his arranged marriage to his wife. And of his and his wife's relationship, I can say that I would truly be tried to find a more accepting, self-sacrificing, committed and loving relationship than theirs on any continent. (Would you know by witnessing the tenderness in the above photo that there's a 3-year old screaming for a toy in one corner and a 1-year old trying to eat Vaseline in the other?)

I'm not out to prove anything. I only want it down for the record that, from my experiences here in India, I have gathered absolutely NO evidence that would lead me to believe that a "love marriage" has any greater chances for "success" (which would take an essay of its own to define) than that of an arranged marriage. And if you have any doubt or questions, I challenge you to find any Indian couple who's been married for a few dozen years, and sit down and have chai with them and hear out their stories; of anxiety, of fear, of desire, of bliss, of routine, of duties, of immaturity, of overwhelm, of challenges, of loss, of self-sacrifice, of commitment, of pride, of trust, and of the continuum and construction of love. And I challenge you to see if that story is really any different from those of the elders of the country where you were born. And if you come to any interesting conclusions, I'd like to have tea with you too.

walking down the up escalator

solbeam — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 22:42:00 GMT

"Well. You know what Buddhists would say? You must have some karmic connection that keeps bringing you back..." � the woman checking me into the Roots Institute of Wisdom Buddhist Retreat Center, Bodhgaya (Bihar), India

And even I have to admit that finding myself again in a Buddhist learning and meditation center for the 7th time in 7 years, does cross the line of coincidence. Even if I tried to deny it, my "connection" still manages to leak out in a "glow" that others have told they observe of me (when I'm in retreat), and the unexplainable tears in which my eyes well each time I encounter another special lama, geshe or monk who steals my heart with his laugh and mirror of love.

Buddhism certainly is, as I was taught, a graduated path. Like my height inching up the notches on the wall in grade school, it is hard to recognize how much I've grown since my first class. Today, I sit in meditation and wonder, "Wait? When did it stop being painful to sit? When did I stop stealing restless sneak peeks at my watch? When did my legs stop falling asleep? When did I stop "treating" myself to daydreams and fantasies? When did I stop hurling mental obscenities at the person whose voice is leading the analytical meditation? And since when am I able to sit for forty minutes without moving, on mental task, and at peace?"

I remember sharing a meditation hall with people like me and hating them, "You think you're enlightened, don't you? Well. I hate you and your perfect posture. And I might spend my next meditation fantasizing about hitting you with my meditation cushion." (Okay. I know that's a harsh and embarrassing line of thought. But try "meditating" for 11 hours a day, and see what pops into your head on the 6th day.)

In any case, if I hadn't already given it away, not whisky or affairs or high-speed sports, but ANGER is my poison. Don't worry. No one that "knows me", would know it. (Well, maybe a special few.) Because as an expert suppressor of unkind emotions, I usually just bottle my poison and then grind my teeth through the night, bite at my cuticles, and connive especially smart ways to "bite" in sneaky emails. Are you getting afraid? So am I.

And as my last teacher correctly told me in response to my question, "Ah yes dear. So you're beginning to worry that you're a terrible human being who acts only under the influence of her afflictions and delusions? Then the dharma (teachings of Buddha) is finally sinking into you! (And the denial out.) They say it takes at least three teachings before you hear it for the first time. So welcome! And don't worry. We can't begin to fix our flaws unless we recognize them. The only teacher more powerful than Buddha himself, is your suffering and struggle."

That's some sneaky reassurance.

Anyway, a "simultaneously-up-and-down" graduated path, I'd like to correct it for the record. For it seems that for every additional minute I am able to sit in mindful concentration and awareness, I am rewarded with the realization of the plummeting immaturity and reckless state of my mind. Meditation IS exhausting.

And yet.

I am sleeping two hours less each night. I wake up remembering each of my dreams in vivid detail. My breath is deepening. My awareness heightening. My appreciation strengthening. So meditation is also walking-down-the-UP-escalator and, to the observer, walking-in-place. If you wanted circles and conundrums, look no farther than Buddhism. Have you ever noticed the soft and sneaky smirk on Buddha's lips? If I might borrow the quote of a dear friend and apply it the prophet: "He's not laughing at you. You're just not laughing with him."

Anyway. I escaped the retreat center for only a minute in the name of business. So I have to get back to it. If my chatty mood (I've been in silence for six days) confused the message, do let it be clear that I love Buddha. His teachings, of all the religions I've studied, have had the most profound impact on my relationship to the world and the human beings that inhabit it. If you're feeling curious, duped by, or clueless to, the world as you know it, and have a sneaking suspicion of a much bigger mystery that's tooling you around like a kitten a yarn ball, then I can't more highly recommend a course in Buddhism as the most pragmatic and experiential path to self-discovery that I've yet encountered.

And as I've been musing through the day, I don't think I've ever met a Buddhist I didn't highly respect and love.

If you'd like some material, this is what I've been read- (and re-reading) this week from two of my favorite human beings, both of whom I've had the great karma to bow my thanks to in person:

ANGER: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames - Thick Nhat Hanh

Healing Anger: The Power of Patience from a Buddhist Perspective by H. H. The Dalai Lama

Old Path White Clouds � Walking in the Footsteps of Buddha � Thick Nhat Hanh

The Art of Happiness � by H.H. The Dalai Lama

The Stone Boy � Thich Nhat Hanh

Back to my (business, and) retreating.

interview with a village family

solbeam — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:28:00 GMT

India is the home of almost 1/6th of the world population; 1.13 billion people and around 80% of this population lives in rural areas.

Last weekend I spent a long weekend in a small, rural village on the outskirts of Varanasi of which I've visited and fostered some lovely friendships over the course of the last six months. Our students each lived with different families in the village and we gave them a set of questions (constituting a sort of, "anthropological survey"). We, as well, lived with one of the families and spent a day gathering answers to the same survey questions. The following are excerpts from the information gathered...

(I start off by addressing my questions to our 14-year daughter of the primary family occupying the house.)

Me: So this is the only Brahmin (highest caste) family in the village?

Daughter: Brahmin? What is this? I don't know.

Me: You know, the caste system?

Daughter: No. I don't know what that is.

Me: Do you know where the women of the village give birth?

Daughter: Now? Now, babies are born in the hospital. Before they were born in the house. But now, in the hospital.

Me: When do you worship and or make puja (prayer)?

Daughter: Sometimes we go to the ashram. And we make puja also in the house. The whole family participates. But mostly my grandfather does it. Which god we pray to depends on the day of the week and/or the festival.

Me: Do the kids in the village go to school?

Daughter: Yes. All the kids in the village go to school from 8am - 3pm, Monday through Saturday. I go to a special school because the teacher at the village school is very lazy - always sleeping. Many girls here study to class 8, and then they usually make marriage.

Me: Do you know who is the prime minister of India?

Daughter: Oh... I can't remember his name.

Me: Do you know who is the president of the United States?

Daughter: Ummm. One of my friends is telling jokes about someone called, George Bush. And there was a big bomb blast in America in 2001, no? One of my friends is also calling me, Bin Laden. (She is particularly famous in the village for being a fireball with a temper who is ever eager to instigate brawls and fighting with, even, village boys.)

Me: Can you help me draw out your family tree?

(We draw out a tree of the 43 persons she knows to be in her family. After finishing, we take a chai break and move downstairs, where her uncle is sitting. I turn my next questions to him...)

Me: She told me that she doesn't know what, "Brahmin" or the "caste system" is...

(The uncle calls his niece into the room and says,)

Uncle: What "janti" do you belong to?

Daughter: Pandey.

Uncle: Pandey is your (last) name. You are Brahmin, na?

Daughter: (She bobs her head in hesitant agreement.)

Uncle (addressing me): Did you know her grandfather (who lives here) was a freedom fighter for the movement with Gandhi?

Me: Really? The man whose feet I touched in the fields? That's amazing.

Me: So here's the family tree she and I drew together...

Uncle: (He looks at it for a minute and then asks me for a piece of paper. He then draws out the complete family tree of 64 persons.)

(The uncle leaves and the father of the house returns from working in the fields. His English is limited so I enlist the help of his 20-year old nephew to help me with the rest of the questions...)

Me: So what is your family business/trade?

Father & Nephew: Having land. Other families have shops and sell buffalo milk. We have land.

Me: And in addition to your family, you employ people to work on your fields? How much do you pay them?

House Father & Nephew: Those that work in our fields are paid in rupees, rice paddies (or land), food and jaggery. How many rupees? About 80 rupees per day. The government pays its field workers a rate of 110 rupees per day. But we also provide, each year, a plot of land to each worker. Then, they get 5 kilos of food from the fields they work on each day. And spices and essentials, like jaggery (sugar cane sweetener). We also make meals for them every day. What do we serve them? You know, because you eat the same thing. We all eat the same food. The same meals you are eating here for breakfast, lunch and dinner, are the same that they eat. Are they happy? Yes. They are happy because they have their own land and can do what they want with it; grow what they want on it.

Me: What about the caste system? How does it work here?

Nephew: If you're in another caste, there is no thinking that another can't come into your house or anything. We are always wanting and looking forward to nice things happening to all people. Many times I have gone to the "untouchable" part of the village and helped students to do these interviews there. I go into their houses too and we talk.

Me: Who is in charge of the village?

House Father & Nephew: The government leaders are in charge. But ours is a bad drunkard. He is a milker - because in our village, this is an important caste. He is still here, but he only likes to drink and lay around. He uses all the money that the government gives to the village for bad things. So now two others of the village have taken over managing the village. My uncle is one of them.

Me: And what happens when there are conflicts in the village?

House Father & Nephew: If there is a problem in the village, there is a panchayat (a committee of five elders chosen for their life experience and wisdom, to proceed over community disputes). The problem is taken to the panchayat to help. People can also choose their panchayat, if they want. If both people are not happy with the resolution of the panchayat, then they will go to the police.

Me: What happens in cases where people steal, or in the case of a woman who is raped?

Nephew: It's never happened in my village that I've seen.

House Father: There is so much work for the women in the village. Hard work. They work till 12 at night; with the baby, in the fields, cleaning, cooking...

Me: And the men work hard too?

House Father: Yes. But the women work harder.

Me: Is this fair?

House Father & Nephew: No.

Me: What is the water system here?

Nephew: Rain, when there is rain. But we haven't had rain for four years. When is the rain season? July. No. September. Hum. I don't remember, it's been so long since we've had a rain season. The village had to make wells. The government didn't make them, but my uncle, he had a contact with someone who makes wells for the government and so this family put two wells in: one inside our house for our family, and one outside the house for the village to use. These wells are 350-420 feet deep. This is very deep, and each year we have to go deeper. The government made a water tank two years ago. Six months ago, it started working. It costs 18 rupees per month to use, but it also costs 800 rupees for the connection. That well comes from the earth, 345 to 400 ft. There are maybe 10-12 wells in the village, but only six of them still work.

Me: Does the village have electricity?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. We have electricity. When? From about 11pm to 5pm. But we don't really know the times because it changes every day. For example, since you are coming, we haven't had light. The electricity is most important because we need it to pump the water in the fields. 75% of the village has electricity. Normally it costs 70- 80 rupees per month, but most people are using the lines without paying for it by just taking it.

Me: What forms of fuel do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We use dung from the animals for cooking. And some wood. One time, each year, we go up to the mountain and take wood from the forest. We take 2-3 bushels and use 1-2 small pieces per day. Are we running out? No. We only go a few times a year. There is so much wood. And we use diesel for the tractors.

Me: What kinds of electronics do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We have TV's. But ours is in the closet. There used to be only two or three TVs in the village, but now everyone has one. Not everyone uses them; sometimes we use to watch cricket matches, political news and serial pictures which the government plays for free on weekends. We use FM (radio) too - to hear the news. We have three cell towers here, and 30% of people in the village have cell phones. CD players too. Chinese players are so cheap on the black-market in Varanasi.

Me: What is the possession that you treasure most in the house?

House Father & Nephew: Our family.

Me: Where does the food that you cook the meals with come from?

House Father & Nephew: Mostly from the fields. Sometimes we get some vegetables from the market (in surrounding villages). Right now we grow (and are eating) carrots, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, lentils, green peas, chick peas, zucchini, garlic, onion, potatoes, mustard seed (and oil), cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, ginger, bitter gourd, different leafy vegetables, sugar cane (and jaggery), and chili peppers. Soon we will begin to plant and harvest our summer foods: watermelon, cucumber, mangos, pumpkin, and rice when the rain season comes. Normally, we sell our surplus of these things in the city, but because we haven't had a rain season for four years, we have just enough food for our own family.

Me: And the animals, what is your relationship to them?

Newphew: Do you know the Hindi word for animal? It is, "janvar." This word means, "he who will kill himself for you." Our animals take care of us. When my aunt died, we left our house empty (to attend to her death rites), and our dog watched over the house. We only have dogs and water buffalo here. We are Brahmin. So we do not eat any meat. If a Brahmin eats meat, another will say, "Don't sit on my bed. Sit over there."

Me: In the case of medical emergencies, what happens?

House Father & Nephew: Here, there are some doctors, but they are not very learned. For fevers and critical cases, people go to the hospital in the city. But it's hard to get there; some people die on the way.

Me: Do you have any preventative health treatments, natural medicines?

Nephew: Yes. We pick natural medicines from the mountains. We use trees, grasses... I don't know. My grandfather makes all the ayurveda medicine for our family. He still does it. What happens when he dies? It is so bad for the family. Because no one knows how to make the medicines. No one has the time to learn these things. But he will teach it, if anyone wants to learn.

Me: So when and for what do you go to the city?

House Father & Nephew: For some weddings, government work and to buy electronics. But, everything in the city - milk, vegetables, chick peas, rice, spices - comes from the villages.

Me: Interesting. So really, if there were a major disaster in the world that cut you off...

House Father & Nephew: We'd be fine.

Me: What are the things your family fears most?

House Father & Nephew: Separation of family.

Me: You mean physical separation? Like people moving away, to the city or other countries?

House Father & Nephew: No. I mean, if we don't have nice relations with each other.

Me: Is there anything else your family is afraid of?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. Also drought and terrorists. Naxilites walked by our village once, two or three years ago. They just walked by. But there is a fear that they will come again and begin to kidnap persons.

Nephew: My uncle wants to know what you think of our village?

Me: I think it all works very well together. The community and family are such a strong and functional foundation to the village. And I think this emphasis is so important. I also see that while there are less material things here, there seems to be more peace and general happiness. Tell him that I think his village is beautiful.

a creative life

solbeam — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 17:14:00 GMT

For about six months I've been feeling something shifting inside of me. I can only compare the sensation to being made of sand; where every move I make shifts a million grains into a new order that fills the holes and packs down to take the shape of each novel form, motion and angle into which I contort. The shifting brings confidence in its settling. But it also brings some discomfort in its weight and slow reluctance to continually resort itself from a form in which it was content. Regardless, this shifting brings me no alarm; it feels natural, timely and called (subconsciously) upon. While I feel it scraping around my insides and clearing the space for something new, with too many options on my table, I wonder if I will be doing the choosing or if, eyeing the clean and ready slate, it will be one of my choices that will snatch the opportunity and choose me. But then again, perhaps every decision is only the "x" where time and opportunity cross – and one (choice and chooser) could not exist without the other. In any case, comforting is the fact that there is also an unaccredited confidence that I am approaching a surprise conclusion. I'm not sure if I'm making any sense, but I attempt to explain this "shifting," because I like to call out my phases as I move through them, especially for those mislead into thinking that I'm as solid and unwavering as my path sometimes projects.

While the shift is still nameless, there is a new theme that is taking shape. This week I found myself pondering my history and recognizing that while in high school and college I pursued what I imagined to be a perfect life (with perfect grades and perfect partners and perfectly pretty places) I finally (and think correctly) rejected the notion of "perfect" and replaced it with "unique." And so I spent the next ten years singing to the theme song of, "of all my lives, this will be my most unique" and whistling this tune I walked to a few corners of the earth. Now while this message, of the options and expanse and magic of a unique life, continues to be the most important I carry and share with others, I feel myself now ready for something new. There is an important parable in Buddhism that asks, when you cross a river with a boat, and finally reach the other shore, do you pick the boat up and continue to carry it with you? In this way my "unique life" has served as my boat; and while it was essential in transporting me to where I am, I feel it now weighing and constricting me, from my path forward. On a new side and shore, it's time for me to respectfully leave the paradigm, as I would a child that has come of age, and reassume responsibility for my life, free of the constraints that even a "free" life contains.

So I move. And while perhaps it is not wise for me to so casually and quickly replace one word with another, it is my nature to theme my living, as aims and goals and intentions I have yet to resolve as unessential.

The word I have chosen is, "creative." Can you hear the sigh? Does it not immediately drop bars and overwhelm with relief? Does it expand horizons beyond the straight lines of "unique"? Doesn't it give room to color in instead of expand straight lines out? It does all these things for me.

And the word is full of challenge.

With a left brain sharpened by a business degree, statistics, excel spreadsheets, and finance, my right brain, while spinning quite out of control in dreams and sometimes in type, has yet to find the outlets through which it would like to fully breathe.

My "creative life" was seeded in birth, fostered in childhood, neglected through school and only started dropping hints as to its existence through the pockets discovered in the path of a "unique life." But I'm turning those pockets now inside out, and challenging myself, starting this week, to the task of exercising the muscles and employing the tools of a creative life; to drop my bars of perfectionism and contours of exclusivity and open myself to the peaceful process of coloring my life in; focusing on the details, character development, and the lines on and stories behind, the hands that touch my life. It's a big theme, but a small daily task, to stop looking forward, and instead consider the angles. And it's a new beginning, with creative muscles that shake with neglect, weakness and fear. But it's also an invigorating relief, to have a new boat, and new shores, and a new journey, to color in front of me. And I'm especially appreciative of the community of exercised artists that, with great luck, I have subconsciously called into my life as best friends, and of whom I will be calling upon for mentorship on this new phase of, "my creative life."

my camera kit

solbeam — Fri, 1 Feb 2008 05:54:00 GMT

A friend recently told me over tea, "So I'd decided along with everyone else to stop researching cameras and computers and just buy whatever you do..."

Both off and online, I get a lot of questions on my camera kit (as it has evolved significantly over the last seven years) and so here's my update as of 2/1/08.

And I want to start off by noting that my latest investments in lenses actually necessitate that I try to take this passion professional (in order to afford the cost of my terrible addition to such an expensive hobby). I am afraid for the fact that I'm carrying my savings on my back and still searching online forums for help on affordable camera equipment insurance for a meager stack of gear (compared to the REAL professionals), so if anyone has any advice, please post it below.

Back to the point: here's my camera bag and the contents of it. I have linked all images and descriptions to www.bhphotovideo.com because it's where I have consistently found the best prices, reviews and most professional service (as of 2/1/08):

(Please note that all the pictures I've taken in the last four months have been with the 70-200 f/4L and the lens that came with in the kit with the Rebel Xti body. The other two lenses were delivered to me by UPS two days ago and images will, of course, be posted soon.)

THE BAG (which I've used and is proved and TRUE):

Lowepro SlingShot 200 AW Camera Bag

THE CAMERA BODY:

Canon EOS Digital Rebel XTi (a.k.a. 400D) 10.1 Megapixel, SLR, Digital Camera Body

THE LENSES:

Canon Zoom Telephoto EF 70-200mm f/4L IS USM Autofocus Lens

Canon Zoom Super Wide Angle EF-S 10-22mm f/3.5-4.5 USM Autofocus Lens for Select Digital SLR

Canon Zoom Wide Angle-Telephoto EF 24-70mm f/2.8L USM Autofocus Lens

THE STOCK HOSTING SITE & ALBUM

In a first attempt to accrue the funds necessary for me to pursue this costly passion, I've now also begun to upload photos to the PhotoShelter Collection:

My PhotoShelter Portfolio is small, but images have to be accepted and it's, at the least, "a process."

"The newly launched PhotoShelter Collection enables photographers of all levels to benefit from a worldwide image-selling marketplace that returns commercial and creative independence back into the hands of the artist. For commercial photo buyers, The PhotoShelter Collection aims to offer the freshest editorialized collection of imagery online." - PhotoShelter.com

THE PHOTOGRAPHY COMMUNITY:

And finally, I've found the professional photography community at LightStalkers.org to be full of kind and patient mentors with heaps of tips and expertise to share.

RESOURCES & READS:

And if you want some clear leads on how to move forward with your own budding photo passion, I found Bryan Peterson's books to be some of the best and especially helpful in clearing up my questions and helping me expand the boundaries my own creativity:

******

Okay. I'm out of breath.

india is an arranged marriage

solbeam — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 11:08:00 GMT

(This is an excerpt from a personal journal entry from the first week when I arrived in India. I sometimes cringe and curse at the weird way my sentences wrap around each other in odd-measured rhyme when I get writing. So know that it's unintentional, but just the way my thoughts get scribbled. You see. A curse.)

india is an arranged marriage

There is no courtship with India. The face peering back at yours from behind the curtain does not bat her lashes or bite her lip. It is the lack of fear behind her stone stare that makes your heart race with unnamed emotion. The sterile passport-sized picture of her given to you does not invoke the vision of her as the mother of your dozen children. Yet your story with her seems dimensionless and pregnant with a million incarnations that could be conceived of the union. India is not coy. Nor is she shy. And you sense a thousand secrets, hidden millennia deep, when she finally chooses to give your gaze relief. India does not rank high by conventional standards and comparisons of beauty. But her features are sharp and distinguished and clues of a character that will not fade when fairness and years are incrementally dismissed. India does not flaunt, but neither does she hide. She does not rely on the skin she shows, but that which she doesn't, to tantalize. India lowers her eyes. Not in feigned defeat, but in respect to that which she knows hides under the shadow of Earth's own sari. India does not pretend -- to know you, or that you know her. She knows that those worlds will take exponential lifetimes to explore. India hasn't the time to, without prompt, monologue an explanation of herself to you. But she will reward each individual and invested question with her most straightforward and simple truth. For although India is a young bride, she feels no rush to attach herself to only one of her multiple lives. India dreams. And she trusts. She still calls it fate and questions those who say it's not. India raises a candle to the sun. She feels no need to draw the theories when she can see the likeness clearly. India knows not what, but, that she doesn't know. She doesn't guess, but answers the biggest questions, honestly, with her silence. India knows she will grow old and, with time, wrinkle, but that is not how she remembers the line of women that came before her. She's comfortable with her youth being shed and only hopes to inherit the pride of those whose footsteps left the path before her distinguished and well-tread. India trusts her ancestors. She counts on their mistakes to give merit to the wisdoms they pass along, even if the logical connection is ages lost or forgotten. India has great heart and hope. She sees no advantage in allowing herself to wander the fantasies of failure. India did not choose you. Neither did you choose her. Someone, something -- above, older, wiser -- of this proposal, was the organizer. And yet, the plank over this apparent divide, was the subconscious consent stated in the silence from both sides. One can insist on free will and draw a line. But, as India points out, fate can always draw another one, just an inch behind. Yes. India is wise. She's an old wife, who has outlived her partner but lives on to share the recipes -- for food, in love, of life -- to any of those who bother to lean in and listen to the creaking treasure chest of her whisper. Perhaps you are circling India now, taking your wedding vows as she follows your steps around the sacred fire. You may not have ever seen her face, but you know she is there, a step behind you. Waiting for you to gather your courage, take her hand, lift her veil, and finally face her.

some questions & answers

solbeam — Sun, 13 Jan 2008 15:20:00 GMT

I recently answered the following questions from a Portuguese journalist and figured to recycle the content. The answers are short because the last time I had something published, the editor had no mercy with the scissors and cut my tresses of words to something of an ugly bob. So my answers are trimmed in anticipation of another hack job. :)

Q: Tell me about your life before the trip?

My life before “the trip” was spent checking off a list of the acquisitions that people around me (family, culture, society) told me I needed to have in order to be happy. I think of that period of my life (ages 14-21) as years of blindness: I just felt around in the dark and let the people and objects I bumped into direct my path. I certainly wasn’t unhappy. I just had no goals or passions or interests of my own and so I was fine with putting my faith in the path that American society prescribed for me. I’ve since realized that I sort out a lot of my life by walking down paths that lead to dead ends; it’s just my slow process of learning. So when I had everything I was told would make me happy, but still felt empty, I realized that the path prescribed me was a dead end. I was simply done with that path and ready for a new one.

Q: Why did you decide to go?

I wanted to know what would remain if I left everything behind. I was numb and wanted to feel things again – coldness, warmth, pain, rain, surprise, bliss, confusion; it didn’t matter to me so much what I felt, but just that I could FEEL again, something that could confirm that I was alive. I started to contemplate the idea of traveling for a year in Central America, and only at the first contemplation of the idea, I began, for the first time in a long time, to feel something. I felt nervous and I felt wicked and I felt brave and I felt afraid. But I was feeling! And that’s how I knew I was doing something that I needed to do. So I bought a ticket. I had a job at the time and I didn’t even tell my boss. I just bought a one-year-return ticket and let all the details sort themselves out on their own.

Q: What is the message you want to pass to your generation?

That your life is unique and a mystery to be explored. I’m not sure how we can live with sunrises and sunsets and stars and not wonder the big questions that such visions inspire. But I really think these questions should be pondered, individually and with each other. Because they are the most important questions in life and I have a hunch that anyone who asks them, will come, via their own unique path, to the same conclusion. And this conclusion is the answer to most of our (humanity’s) problems. So I guess my message is to engage your sense of wonder and think creatively with your life path; it’s your own to create and color.

Q: What did you learn travelling for so many countries?

I learned that borders mean little and that an open mind and heart means a lot. I learned that despite the thousands of dialects, we (humans) all speak the same universal languages: of laughter, music, dance, art, and play, of love for family and of needs for safety, community, health and peace. I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter where you start, go or end; but that life, like little kids in the mud, will teach you everything you need to know utilizing whatever resources are available, providing an open heart, creative mind and will to learn are present. And I’ve learned that the truth is easy to find; you just have to ask, respectfully, for it and be ready to listen.

Q: What is the experience, the place or the person that marked you the most?

An American woman named Hanley Denning donated her entire life to providing education, safety and health care to children living in the slum community of the Guatemala City dump. She was a friend and mentor. She died, tragically, in a car accident this year. But she is still my guide by her example of total selflessness and the power of a single human to better the lives of thousands. You can learn more about her and/or the project at: www.safepassage.org.

Q: What is your next trip?

Currently, I’m living in Varanasi, India but in May of 2008, I, along with a best friend, will begin a 40-day pilgrimage into the Dolpo Region of remote Nepal. Logistically, we hope to explore the kingdom of Mustang and visit what is considered one of the last enclaves of pure Tibetan culture left on earth. Intuitively, we are most interested in the nomadic nature of the pilgrimage itself, and the messengers, messages, questions and answers, we are bound to encounter and ponder along the way. For those interested, I’ll be documenting the pilgrimage on my blog: www.solbeam.com.

Q: Is it possible for a normal person to do the same? Leave a job, family and country and travel the world?

I’m a normal person. I’m actually abnormally clumsy, slow on many subjects, and I bite my lip over the same questions that everyone else does. If anything, that’s my charm: that I’m a single, solo, and normal girl, and I did it. It doesn’t take great courage, but it does take a first leap of faith. My advice to everyone is the same: don’t think about it – just make the decision and start acting like you own it. Make a physical commitment if you can – buy the plane ticket, go the school registrar and ask to defer your next year of university, get the second job you need to save the money. Once the commitment is made, the rest of the details (obligations, logistics, etc.) will sort themselves out on their own. All you have to do is make the decision and take the first step. At least “try on” the decision and see how it feels. If it makes you feel lighter or sparks something on the inside, you’re probably on the right path.

Q: And what about the money? How much does it cost?

Mostly likely, it’ll cost you less than it does for you to live at home. My costs of living abroad are a fraction of what I spend when I’m living in the States. My best tip is to be aware that there’s a two-tiered cost structure when traveling in foreign countries: prices for tourists and prices for locals. Do you hang out at the places in your town where tourists hang out? Of course not. Those places are unauthentic and overpriced. So try to avoid the package tours and tourist hot spots. Pick a random place that fancies you and instead of sticking to the guide books, study the local language, make friends with locals, and let them be your guides. If you are authentically interested in understanding another culture and country, people will feel it and open their hearts, houses and lives to you. An amazing resource for finding friends in foreign countries is the online community of travelers congregated at www.couchsurfing.com. Those are my best tips.

What do you know about Portugal?

I walked along the Camino Portuguese from Santiago, Spain to Porto, Portugal. The route has very few pilgrims on it and no organized accommodation for those on pilgrimage, but I was greeted and treated with enormous warmth by the people of Portugal. Shopkeepers let me sleep in their attics, bartenders served me free hot meals, priests let me set up my tent in the courtyards of their churches and I remember even spending one night at the fire station. I found the people and landscapes of Portugal to be exceptionally lovely and have put the country high on my list of places, should I ever slow down enough, to retire. I was unable to finish the pilgrimage due to heat and forest fires, so someday I plan to return and complete the route, walking from Porto to Fatima.

days debrief

solbeam — Sat, 5 Jan 2008 16:01:00 GMT

For most Westerners, it's unfathomable for a major city to function without 24-hour electricity. Yet like the monsoon rains on their mission to Ganga-ji (respected river), the 1.3 million people who live here in Varanasi somehow always manage to redirect, divert, finagle and finesse around the obstacles of 10 powerless hours, to fluidly find a way to go about their day. And despite the fact that the electricity has gone off TWICE in the typing of this single sentence (once for 3 hours, once for 20 minutes), I've never heard a native complain. Hold on. I have to "save."

Three hours ago, my resolve to sit down at this computer and write till something came out was as strong as the espresso I shot to chase it. But the power outages, along with missed trains and traffic jams, prepared yet another alternate reality and route to amble along. So now I'm back at the blinking cursor, but the caffeine I fired up with four hours ago has stopped doing jumping jacks and crashed on the couch. Being the hated type that jumps out of bed at sunrise, I now write from a slightly sleepy and somber mood; why not? Let's try something new.

No one knows what I'm doing these days; neither my family nor friends. So if you fall into one of two former categories, don't feel left out, because much like Varanasi, everyone is in the dark. So it is with the purpose of filling in this gap of trivial yet missing information that I chose the content of this update. Also, my fingers are still stiff with bed rest, having spent too much of the last month turning many pages (of books and in life) but not outputting much in the medium of type. *save*

So what am I doing? I'm squinting my eyes and wondering myself. And that is because I don't do very well without two-page checklists to reference. Ah, yes. So, it's something I don't think I've ever confessed to, but certainly responsible for 74% of my life successes: I'm a relentlessly effective multi-tasker and organizer. (My sister, in an email today, made reference to this same quality that we've inherited by blood from my mother as, "itchy butt syndrome"; I laughed for 10 minutes.) This, as all our best qualities are, is a sword; the other edge being that in the process of my ruthless swinging around, I am often negligent of emotions, people, creativity, alternatives and details that I arrogantly slaughter in the name of producing the fastest and highest yield. (And I call myself a vegetarian.) As my co-leader recently wrote of me in my evaluation: "...she just needs to remember that there is more than one (i.e. her) way to get up the mountain." So wise and true. And there are just as many ways to get around the mountain -- meaning it's taken me an impressively long paragraph to summarize the sentence: "My days are simple."

My days ARE simple. Awkwardly and healthily, uncomfortably simple. Right now, I only have three daily obligations. And they are kind of interesting, so let's go there...

Hindi Classes. This is, without challenge, my favorite hour of every day. And that is because my Hindi teacher, Virendra-ji, is perhaps, my favorite man in the world. And yes, I think this of a hundred human beings. But part of being a "non-dualist" (invented term) means that I can have as many "favorites" as I want (infinite); or at least that's how I rationalize it in my world (also invented). *save* Virendra-ji is single-handedly responsible for every fluent (Western-born) Hindi speaker I've ever met. He is considered the most respected master and guru of language learning in the city - and I too will confidently vouch for him as the nothing less than the, Yoda of Hindi. The man reads minds. He handles Jedi learning and memorization techniques like a light saber. He employs your subconscious and manipulates it like play dough. And us poor, lowly, ignorant students - we are blind to the firm and expert rationale behind his magic-like tricks. You may not get it, but hardly I do - so how can I explain? I've never known a teacher to be able to entice the subconscious of a student into secret action. But he does it. He'll strand an especially complicated sentence together and instruct me, "Don’t think. You will understand this in three minutes. Just repeat. Now repeat again. Now close your eyes. Repeat. Okay, say it backwards. Now say it forward. Say it fast. Slap your hand on the table when you say the last word! Now tell me what it means in fluent English. Not broken English. Fluent English! Now say it fluently in Hindi, with confidence. Good. Next." *save*

Bamboo Flute Class. The vision, obviously, is of a charmed pilgrim, skipping her way through the winding valleys of the Himalayas, singing back and forth to the little birds, all the while smiling under the whistle of her simple wooden flute. The reality, however, is eight neighborhood kids taking a collective break from their cricket game to inhale just enough air to scream at the practicing pilgrim, "STOOOOOOOP THAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!" It could be worse I suppose. Instead of scales and ancient, sacred Ragas, I could be murdering Mary and her Little Lamb. Either way, it's bad. It's very, very bad. And, to the recurring nightmare of my neighbors, it's likely to be that way for still some months. My flute teacher however, is quite wise. He only gives me enough examples to take home for practice and then fills the rest of the two hours with warm chai and lovely chit-chat on the history, culture, and logistics of learning Indian music.

Brainstorming with Ajeet-ji, the visionary behind GURIA. Ajeet-ji is the lovely man I quoted a few posts ago from his speech aimed at elevating awareness of the flesh trade in India. I'm collaborating with him on a number of projects, all of which he groups into the single, endearing, category of, "high tech." The projects' task lists include collecting content, articles, photos, film and contacts for the purpose of furthering global awareness and sponsorship of the NGO and its objectives. We'll see where it goes; it's only in seed stage at the moment. But if you happen to be rich and reading this, and hoping to find an amazing non-profit in which to invest some money (with fantastic karmic returns), do email me: solbeam@gmail.com. There will certainly be more thoughts turning to print in future posts on the subject of GURIA as my involvement moves from seed to sapling. So rich or poor, stay tuned.

*save*

Wow. Maybe my days aren't so simple? But they are. They are. I wake up at 7am (no alarm) and meditate every a.m. I have plunger coffee, brown bread and honey with a newspaper and Hindi conversation every day at the same place for breakfast. I go to my classes and then I read the same book (Indian Religions - The Spiritual Traditions of South Asia - An Anthology edited by Peter Heehs) while I sip on lemon mineral water and wait (1 hr) for vegetable paneer momos, on the same rooftop, every day, for lunch. I meet up with Ajeet-ji, or, in some crazy variation, venture on an exciting errand in the afternoon. And then I share my evening with my Indian homestay family, stop in for email on the way home, say goodnight to my landlord, review my Hindi vocab, crawl into my 0 degree sleeping bag, read a short story from Jorge Luis Borges, and fall asleep as soon as, sometimes before, my head hits the pillow. Occasionally, I wake up in the middle of the night with the intrusive and compulsive thought to recharge this or that appliance so that I, too, will be prepared for the 10 powerless hours of tomorrow to come.

And THAT, I guess, is what I'm doing.

(Please excuse my midnightishness.)

*save*

the guts to look inside

solbeam — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 02:50:00 GMT

At this very minute, scouts from every major city in India are making their way to the site of the recent natural disaster in Bangladesh. There, they will pick through the rubble of the dead and displaced, in order to find, lure, trap and/or steal young orphans and make propositions to the parents of those that have no other options, in order to secure and move a fresh lot of women and children into India's sex, slavery and human trafficking trade (that includes over 3 million victims in the country).

Ajeet, founder of GURIA, an organization that fights against trafficking and prostitution in India, spoke to my student group on the subject. Quoting him as quickly as I could, here are a few snippets from that discussion:

AJEET: "Prostitution is not the problem. Poverty and starvation are the problem. Women do not seek a life of prostitution. They are forced into it. You free the world of prostitution when you free the world of starvation.

And you should think now like a child, "What is this?" "Why that?" "Why not?" Why, if we can put a human being on the moon, can we not feed people that are starving for food? This is a simple question. Do not think politics. Do not look into all the rationalizations. Just think like a simple man; "Should a person die of starvation? Is there any reason why?"

This is not a question of charity. This is a question of justice: how do we make a humane world? Trafficking of human beings refers to the movement of people, against their will, for prostitution, slavery, organ transplants, beggary and manual labor. Trafficking in India is, after drugs and arms dealing, the largest market of crime in India. Of the three, it is the most violent and deadly. You can't just take a child out of the network. Everyone is involved, from the police, to the law, to the pimps, to the mafia, to politicians. Yes. I've had many death threats for saying this.

Education and health care are good, but they are not the goal. If you educate a prostitute, then you just have an educated prostitute -- who still lives under the same thumb and power of her oppressors. She is still controlled by the system. For change to happen, the structure itself must change. We have to minimize the dependency of the woman on the system."

ME: "But what do I, as a Westerner do to help? Do I sponsor a child with donations and give your organization money? Do I legally adopt the infant of a prostitute as my own child? Do I write the story and give it to the press? Do I stand and wave banners in protests? Do I go back to my own country and raise money for the cause in India? Do I go back to the US and work with the prostitutes that walk the streets of my own city? Tell me. How do I help?"

AJEET: "Ah. So you want to know where to catch the snake: by its head, tail, or by its middle? That's a complicated question with an easy answer. Don't try to find the answer in textbooks -- that's a limited framework within which you�ll only find more limits to your thinking. You want to know how you help?

You have the guts to look inside.

You have the guts to look inside and then you walk within your heart.

What you should know is that you will always be alone. You are only one person. So you will always be a minority. You have to put the world behind you. And you have to have the guts to walk alone. This is the problem you will always face. You'll be isolated and ostracized. Your greatest opposition will be your family. And then society. But don't think of what others will think. These groups, they should not destroy you; they should service you. So begin by asking yourself the simple questions. And then, work to create a humane world. Just create a circle wherever you are.

I don't know the answer to your question. But you do. So go inside your heart. Walk there. Listen there. And there you will find your answer."

*******

From the GURIA phamphlet: "GURIA has been fighting the sexual exploitation of women and girls, especially those forced into prostitution and trafficking, which has further become severe and complex due to sex tourism and the spread of HIV & AIDS. While responding to their immediate suffering, we are focusing on the root causes of prostitution -- inequality and poverty. We strongly believe that it is not charity that is wanting in the world -- it is justice to make a humane world where all beings co-exist in harmony."

i choose

solbeam — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 17:46:00 GMT

(Buddhism was the first Eastern religion I encountered on my travels and when reincarnation was explained to me, it changed my world in the way it did mapmakers when they were told the earth was round. But it did not so much, “explain” as it, “told me the story I felt to have always known” through mental experience. In any case, I’ve explained my ideas on life-after-life in prior posts. Where my own beliefs in the continuum of life differ from Buddhism is that I “imagine” that we choose our lives, or rather we choose our “lessons”; the lessons that will further our (individual and cumulative) evolution and the circumstances that will ripen that fruit. But there is no proof and neither am I out to find or make it. The following is just a spiral of thoughts, rationalizations and appreciations…)

I chose my father so that I could inherit his overly sensitive heart. I chose my mother to model the potential of a self-reliant, spiritual and determined life. I chose to be born in Alaska, so that the discomfort of the cold would always nip at my heels and chase me to places warmer. I chose to be raised in Oregon so that heavy gray skies would turn me inward and push me beyond its, and my, borders. I chose brown hair, eyes and skin, so that I could travel the world without special recognition. I chose to be the third child, so that my parents would be happy enough with the successes of the others in order to be okay with one slipping away. I chose parents who were raised with financial hardships, so that a respect for resources earned and saved would always be given with unsaid, but clearly communicated, appreciation. I chose a natural disposition of aversion to attachment, so that I could say goodbyes with calm and ease. I chose to be a slow learner, so that I would be driven to seek the direct experiences that would take my hand and walk me through each of my lessons. I chose to be an introvert, so that my independence would not divert, but fuel the progression of my path. I accepted being painfully self-conscious, because it came with a critical eye for all persons, communities, and social institutions that surround me. I chose the United States so that I would have a passport and the political permissions to be able to freely transit to and from the country where I was born. I chose parents committed to providing a stable home free of both clingy attachments and vice addictions, so that I would be granted the confidence and curiosity necessary to venture out into a world of unstable conditions. I chose a house with a forest in the backyard, so that my inclination toward exploration could easily be fostered. And I chose parents who were too busy to be bothered, so that my wonder, for unchecked hours, could wander everyday there. I chose a family that adventured on countless road trips so that, as a childhood habit, I learned to treasure every minute spent in transit. And I chose modest parents happy with humble camping tents, so that I too would learn the logistics of, and love for, travelling “close to the ground.” Through my schooling youth, I chose a quick understanding of math and numbers so that being baffled by their nature was not the same as being academically challenged by their function. And throughout the later grades, A’s came easy, so that I would know there was much more to each subject than this or that teacher’s projection and/or interpretation. I chose to be born to a time and place where I would never know hunger, thirst, fear or abandon – so that I would not have to live my adult life recoiling or running from the memory of these pains. I chose the early 21st century, because I knew it would be the battleground for the future of humanity and, of all my lives, I knew it would be a particularly exciting one. I chose a female form because I knew it was one of the first centuries where, with careful choice of birth country, the spiritual and logistical advantages of being a woman would finally outweigh those of being a man. I chose a healthy and disease free body, so that I would not be hindered from helping others. I chose to spend many years blindly socially abiding so that I would know and understand the appeals of that confusion intimately. I chose not to be naturally talented in any one subject or skill, so that I would be tempted by not only one obsession. I chose not to be conceptually bright to prove that the things I would come to understand are inherently simple.

I chose my life. I choose my life. I take responsibility for all that has passed, is and will come to be. Under meditative investigation, all the qualities that fuel my self-pity and -hate, I find to have grown from -- rarely obvious but -- always altruistic reason. And I am so grateful; for my family, parents, friends, health, wealth and even my century and country; for all the work it took to tend the fields and ripen the circumstances into which I have chosen to have this life born. And I thank also this Life. For while I did choose it, it had the choice, and did not reject, but accepted my proposal. And I know, I know, I have a lot of my life contract yet to fulfill, and that all the care and love put into me, was done so in the faith that I would one day reflect back, and multiply that within, the mirror. And my signature, at the bottom of Life’s contract, also attests to my understanding that I will one day drop from its tree and die. And nourish the earth with this life’s sacrifice. So that I too, may take a turn at the fields, ripening the circumstances, for another’s birth.

chai with Agam-ji

solbeam — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 23:11:00 GMT

This is not my first cup of chai with Agam-ji.

While the kinship I feel for him might well transcend centuries, Agam has already become a revered character in one of my many lifetimes within this one; I studied the art of silversmith under his mentorship, three years ago, on my first trip to India. But in our many hours sitting cross-legged in the tiny carpeted studio attached to the shop showcasing his craft, I spent far less time melting, hammering and buffing than I did sipping, listening and laughing. And while my silver may have laid battered and unbuffed, my understanding of India was shaped and polished by Agam’s stories; of his beautiful arranged marriage, of his father’s life work and its distribution among his sons, and of his business, art, love and skill – silver – all in one.

Agam was the first star I found in my evening sky of India; my first friend born of the country. And on my last day in Banaras, I ran into his shop and asked him to mark our memory of times together, to which he agreed, as always, with a humor-her chuckle. He took out one of his tiny silver earrings and sharpened its blunt end to a piercing point. I stood with my back flat against the wall and when he told me to take a deep breath, as he’d instructed the hundreds of Indian women before me, I filled my lungs and exhaled my complete trust in him. What remains is the little star-like stud, on the left side of my nose, which I wear to this day.

Today, three years later, I find myself again in Agam-ji’s shop, wafting on the memories that the scent of silver dust in the air has yanked from past to present – as the smells of all the best stories do. And now, with a night sky full of Indian friends, I recognize just how lucky I was to have found such a North star: his character is un-faded by time; his charm as luminous, and wisdom striking, as the day I met him…

I look up over my chai cup and shout my surprise, “Agam! Look at all the little birds sitting above your shop door! That must be auspicious!”

He tips his wire-rimmed glasses up from the tiny earring that he is shaving with a hair-thin wire and with a chuckle says, “Well, yes, it is. And I am also feeding them!”

I laugh, stand up, and walk over to the doorway. I move slowly, but the dozen little finches and sparrows, in one great wing of wind, scatter to the tree across the street.

Agam laughs out loud and says, “They don’t know you!”

“Do they fly away when you go through the door, Agam?”

He laughs again, as he does with every response, and says, “well of course not!”

He instructs me to reach up and feel the top ledge of the metal door and as my fingers scope out inch-deep divide, I feel, with the tips of my fingers, a thick layer of seed lining the length of ledge.

“One day,” he begins as he holds up the earring for inspection of his work…

“One day, a bird came to my store. It was May. A very, very hot day. In the hottest month of the year. Everyone was hot and thirsty and this little bird came to my store. And it opened its mouth like this, breathing without closing its mouth, doing this, what is that called? Panting? Yes. Panting. It was panting and I thought to myself, “this bird is thirsty.” And I had a glass of water by my side and thought, “it does me no harm and it will make this bird happy if I give it water.” And so I put some of my water in a little dish and this little bird flew right to the dish and drank the water. And then I thought to myself; I wonder if this bird is also hungry? It will do me no harm to feed this bird and then the bird will be happy, isn’t it? So I went out and bought a bag of birdseed – which, in the market – it costs nothing. Only one rupee a day and this bird will be happy. And so I put the seed on the top of my door and the bird came back every day to eat and drink and it made me happy to see his bird happy. Then one day another bird came. And the two birds were happy and came back every day. Soon a third bird came. And the two birds did not like this one, and chased him away. They are very fun to watch; how they get along with each other, just like we do. But the third bird came back, and then a fourth came, and now they are many. Sometimes there are thirty or forty. They come for lunch at 11:30 and they come for dinner at 5:30. Everyday, they come at the same times. And they are very happy. Do you hear them singing? They are happy knowing that if they can not find any food that day, they can always come to my shop and have food. Do you know what it’s like to be very, very thirsty? Or very, very hungry? I am very happy to know that when they are feeling this, they come here. And that when they receive food, they give me their blessing. And this blessing is the blessing of a thousand. Because when you are very, very thirsty, or very, very hungry, your gratitude is of a thousand. And it is good karma to have thousands of such blessings sent into the world each day.”

He continues…

“Some people, they come into my shop, and they complain that the birds leave seed on my doorstep or their shirt– they say the birds make things dirty and ask me why I feed them. But I ignore them. It is nothing to me. I only need to clean just a little bit every day. Every morning I only need to use a rag to wipe the ledge and a broom to sweep the step, and it is so very little work for me to make the birds happy, isn’t it. Just a little bit of work every morning. Human beings are so selfish. We do not want to give, even when it costs us nothing. Only 1 rupee a day and look how many birds we can make happy. Look how many blessings we can have. And they chatter and sing and are beautiful to watch and they are happy and they are free.”

The smile fades from Agam’s face as he puts the piece he is working on down and raises his voice with an edge (not of anger, but of strength) that I have never heard before…

“Now, I go sometimes to a person’s house and I see a bird in cage. And I ask that person, ‘What are you doing! What are you doing to this bird? This bird is not happy!’ And that person says, ‘Well, I’m feeding it, aren’t I?’ And I say, but that bird is not free. Look at it. That bird is not singing or playing or fighting or flying. That bird is very unhappy! Why do you have to cage it to feed it? Your bird is unhappy and you have only one lonely and unhappy bird. Why only have one unhappy bird when you can make many, many birds happy and they will come to you the same, but they will sing, and fly and be happy and free?”

He puts the finger down that he was using to make his points in the air and picks up a soft cloth and starts to softly buff the silver while at the same time softly explaining...

“So this is my rule. Every morning. The first person who walks into the door of my shop. If it’s me, or one of the workers, or my trainee; no matter who it is, if you walk through the door first, it is your job, first, to clean the ledge and to sweep the step and to feed the birds. And if he, who comes through my door first, does not do this….”

Agam looks up at me above the wire rim of his glasses and says with a winking smile,

“Then I do not give him money for his breakfast either.”

divine chaos

solbeam — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 18:59:00 GMT

Why India?

I find the inquiry funny for the fact that the question is, for others, as obscurely obvious as the answer, for me.

But I was asked this question three times this week and, only just, woke to the idea that perhaps it was not a rhetorical question; nor a bluff or joke to which my response of laughing made any sense or left the question less hanging.

So now I muster my grin and giggle and tap my lips with my fingers and wonder how to answer the question.

My first response is defensive: That’s like answering, “Describe that upon which you base your faith.” or “How do you commune with God?”; the answer is so personal and intuitively understood that it is actually a shame, and certainly poetic insult, to even try to nail of box of words around it.

My second response is personal: I’m not a particularly courageous or brave or strong person. Perhaps exactly the opposite. For when an idea or intuition enters my head, as soon as it exists, and I know on all subconscious levels that it’s right – then everything in my being that is not in alignment with that idea, begins to die. A seed of anti-dream cancer is sown and slowly begins to spread through my body, and I, being a particularly sensitive creature to anti-dream cancer and finely attuned to the slow wilt of my soul, am left with no other option. So that’s one of my secrets: that I am less brave than I am afraid of my own slow suicide. Making such a huge life decision (such as to stay in India) was a simple act of self-preservation.

My third response will appeal to the practical people as much as a person like me can. It’s a two-fold answer with an accordion of like unknowns that I imagine will be revealed as we stretch out the intestine of time and see what lies hidden within my future. But right now, on my fifth trip to India in a three-year span, the two words that sum up my awe of this country are, “divine chaos.” Yes. It’s the same two words that I worked into a quote that somehow found its way onto a greeting card. And everyone should know that I found those words, and understood those words, and borrowed those words, from no where else in the world, but India. I can promise you that any person who has been to India, be they a detester or lover (usually the two predominant categories) will smile at the charm and recognize exactly those features, in the face of India.

And what is divine chaos? It’s an arranged marriage. It’s a train ride in a sleeper car. It’s the colors of a sari. It’s a haggle in the market. It’s a Bollywood movie. It’s the most polluted and sacred river in the world; Ganga-ji, and the fresh-water dolphins and flesh-eating turtles that swim within it. Divine chaos is the interaction between beggers and givers in the streets. It’s the making of a samosa. It’s Kali; the goddess of both destruction and birth. It’s the mantra chanting of a fire puja. It’s the construction of a road. It’s a sacred cow chewing up plastic bags. It’s a yogi standing on his head. It’s a Muslim and Hindu living next door to each other. It’s the process of silencing the mind. Divine chaos is both the flavor of a steaming chai and the swirls that are left in the cup at the bottom of it.

Divine chaos is not the choice between right and wrong, black and white, as some have wrongly interpreted the greeting card quote. Divine chaos is exactly the opposite. It’s the non-dualistic notion that opposites do not oppose, but complement, and by simply refocusing perspectives to either micro or macro or stepping into the shoes of the other, it will be shown that there is always a pattern, always an order, always an organization of such intricate conception that it could only be divinely inspired. But divine chaos is not the process of constantly refocusing the lens and testing those formulas and outcomes of science, but the bliss of bearing witness to, and having faith in, the pattern itself and marveling the magic and enchantment from which such experiments always befall.

I choose India because I saw a thousand of these experiments in my sunrise walk down the market street this morning. And I choose India because she fosters the diversity, respect for faith, and undefended love that are the necessary elements for such experiments to ripen with exponential abundance.

That's why India.

Gallery: Visions of India

solbeam — Sun, 7 Oct 2007 17:52:00 GMT

A new India adventure begins...

a new revolution 'round the sun

solbeam — Sun, 7 Oct 2007 17:47:00 GMT

The Himalayas are a holy place.

For a moment, I forgot this. And remembered them only, as big mountains. But slowly crawling along the valleys and ridges of the Earth’s crust had the effect of a pumice stone on my soul. For 15 days I walked. And for 15 days I was scraped. Scraped of the thick residue of petty life details that had settled onto my body so sneakily that I had not realized the extent of the accumulation until I looked at the floor and saw the scaly pile of skin I had shed off.

And then I kept walking. For that is the nature of a pilgrimage: to walk, encounter, and keep walking.

I kept walking. And with layers undressed and pores unclogged, my skin, for the first time in a long time, breathed. And my pores, for the first time in a long time, wept. Big salty tears for all that had passed that I had not mourned. And for all that I love, that I had not appreciated.

And then, one day, many days deep into the range and peaks of mountains tops and thoughts, I kicked a rusted, fallen, horseshoe. I leaned over to pick it up and, at that same second, someone yelled and pointed a finger to the clouds. I looked up and two white wingspans, the length of my own arms, swept silently over my head. As their shadows passed over me, I fell in awe of the grace of those wings: requiring the will of not a single muscle, but hitchhiking a breeze and riding the wave of the wind; cutting through space and air utilizing (only) the power and momentum of the play between elements, earth and air.

Could I do the same?

Could I stop fighting gravity? Stop pulling up and pushing down? Stop submitting to pressure and exerting my strength on the immovable mountains of my life? Could I catch my own wave, with the bend of a wingtip, and ride the will and wind of the universe?

I stood on that cliff and looked out. And suddenly I saw.

I saw a thousand paths. I saw a thousand lives. I saw a thousand dreams. And I saw that they were all mine. My eyes watered and my heart wanted to burst in bliss.

“I’m staying in India,” I whispered to myself.

I turned to my friend walking with me and said louder, “I’m staying in India.”

He smiled.

I ran up the hill to the rest of my companions and shouted, “I’m staying in India!”

They hugged me and said, “Really? You’re not coming back with us? How long will you stay?”

With the confidence of the sun, I smiled and said, “No less than a year or two. With a thousand options.”

Two weeks later, with the essential blessing of my loving boss, I have officially been granted my wings for a few revolutions around the sun in this beautiful country called India.

****

Friends and family, it’s confirmed: I’m here for all of 2008. It was as much a surprise to me as it might be for you. Only my soul knew. And it just took “some big mountains” for the secret to surface.

A Final Footprint in Peru: conclusion

solbeam — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 04:25:00 GMT

Before we leave the village of Quelqanqa , we take one last tour of the sites laying (quite physical) tribute to the successes of our manual labor. We walk down the valley to visit the new stone bridge and draw our names in a small patch of its still-soft cement. And then we turn around and follow a mile of trenching up towards the reservoir, stopping at one of the houses along the way to, ceremonially, turn on the tap for the first time.

As I strap and snap myself into my backpack and double-knot the laces of my boots, I recognize that I am- all at once - dirty, satisfied, exhausted, excited and ready and sad to leave. I can't avoid the allusion to the trip being a mountain range of emotions; physical symptoms, energy levels and sentiments that have risen and descended in just as dramatic elevations as those we've climbed.

There is a final Andean value which is appropriate, now, to introduce: ayni. Ayni refers to reciprocity and the exchange of kindness, knowledge and/or labor between humans, nature, spirits and the environment.

We name it a "bridge", or a "reservoir", or a "community service project", but its physical form -- of concrete or water or stone – is never as important as its function as a channel. And I am very happy to borrow such a nice little word to name that channel and call it both the essence and highlight of my adventure in Peru: the exchange of kindness, between humans, nature, spirit and the environment.

On my plane back home from Peru, the flight attendant passes a UNICEF donation tin down the isles and through the passengers. And as the coins jangle and make empty sounds in the metal bin, I can't help but hear an absence of ayni in the transaction. Had we written a check, we could have probably still left a stone bridge in Quelqanqa. Less physically quantifiable, but equally emotionally valuable, was that fact that a group of strangers, via a simple united task, built a bridge connecting foreign peoples and cultures. A bridge that recognized some of our similarities and over which mutual admiration and respect was exchanged. And so, along with the crushed remains of coca leaves that I unknowingly pass through customs, I consider this the most valuable thing that I take home from Peru.

Footprints in Peru, Day 10: collective sigh

solbeam — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 04:23:00 GMT

Our bridge is only a few hundred hauled-stones away from completion when I wander up the hill following a rumor that the men of the Quelqanqa are constructing a traditional "earth oven" or pachamanca in which the feast, celebrating the completion of our mission, will be cooked.

Indeed, on a hill overlooking the soccer field, I find a few dozen men squatting, squinting and otherwise overseeing the construction of the last of three pachamancas. The process of stacking the stones is quite similar to a game of reverse-jenga; it's a delicate equation in which the placement of every stone is crucial to the whole of the balancing act and yet a single weak or teetering point can send the whole thing tumbling down.

And tumble down is exactly what I watch the aspiring pachamancha do twice before I add my own two hands to the twelve already collaborating. Our strategy is to slowly build up, and then hold down, the vertical walls, while making a bridge of locking vertebrae stones that will function as the skeleton of the pachamancha.

After ten minutes of careful construction, we reach the roof of the dome and, with a collective held breath, finally connect one side to another. At the same time, we each quickly reach for smaller stones to stuff and support the cracks. But we pay dearly for this lapse in concentration as the entire pachamancha crumbles, in a mere fraction of the time it took to construct, to a clumsy pile of rubble on the ground. All the men lean back on their squatting haunches and exhale the long breath of tested patience. And I do what I always do in most situations of emergency, exhaust or fury: I laugh. In response, one of the men tosses out a comment in Quechua to which all the rest fall in fits of laugher and then he turns to me and says, "Every time, you laugh!"

He says it with a sincere smile, but I suddenly take into account, for the first time, that I am the only woman represented at this party. I begin to fear if perhaps I have crossed inappropriate cultural boundaries, or even worse, will be blamed for cursing the work! I'm horrified at these prospects but shake the new fear from my hands and follow quick suit as the men all lean forward to begin construction again.

I work on a small front wall and begin to pride myself on how sturdy my interlocking rocks are proving themselves. When the stones on the top of the dome finally begin to reach across and link solidly together, this time, without lapsing our concentration or held breath, we manage to swiftly snap into piece all the smaller supporting stones until every hesitant hand has slowly released its grip and we tumble back in a simultaneous gasp of satisfaction.

I am particularly happy that I have proven myself not to be a curse and, unable to hold back my laugh any longer, am delighted when everyone joins me also in sounding off our shared joy.

Footprints in Peru, Day 9: romancing pachamama

solbeam — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 12:20:00 GMT

After a night of tossing through below-freezing temperatures, the sun finally rises. And as I peer out of my tent to watch it chase away the shadows, melt the frost and fill our valley with fuzzy light and flushing warmth – I clearly understand, and immediately convert to, worship of the Incan sun god, Inti.

Watching the clouds traverse the sky, I come to the slow conclusion that I have no idea what day, date or time it is. I only know that the light is golden, the shadows heavy, and the sky clear; my first, second and third clock hands all pointing at the precise time of, "morning."

When given the rare opportunity, Nature quickly reassumes her authority over my senses, replacing my watch with new, but natural alarm clocks like, "wake when the light opens your eyes" and "eat when your stomach sounds for it," and "sleep when the sky shuts its lids." After only a few days in the Andes, I can already feel my umbilical cord to the revered and worshiped, pachamama (mother earth) tugging me closer. Can I imagine the implications of being born here in the mountains: feet accustomed always to being bare upon the earth, life dependent on what yields the seasons fancy, years measured by the movement of my earth among the stars. No I can't imagine. But I can intuitively understand. I understand that when the earth is your god, its elements and inhabitants are its messengers. And it makes sense to me that the people of Quelqanqa spend endless hours embedding the intricate outlines of suns, moons, pumas, condors, eagles, humming birds, serpents and jaguars into their shawls, scarves and skirts.

They say that even the language, Quechua, derives from the sounds of nature. And my ears attuned, finally, to the silence in which all mountains whisper, I too hear the voice of the river scouting the fastest route south, the wind blindly winding its way through the passes, the odd beeping talk of llamas and alpacas shouting warnings to each other, and the Andean condors silently swooping while the finches bounce their calls of mountain walls.

For me, it is this devotion to pachamama that distinguishes the people that populate this continent as special from the rest. While I highly respect that spirituality is so well researched, studied, explored, termed and given such specific method, form and expression in the East, I am equally awed by the simplicity of understanding your relationship to the world, not in terms of what you are not, but as a function of exactly your physical interdependence and relationship with all that IS. The Earth is clearly respected here as the provider, the nourisher, the sustainer – and also the destructive – but always equally fertile - Mother of all life. And to Her, all respects are paid.

In the Incan cosmic vision, kaypacha is the world we live in, hananpacha, the higher world of spiritual beings, and ukhupacha, the interior and bridge between worlds. Yes. I am a romantic, and while it's perhaps unfair for me to romanticize others' lives, I'm entitled to my personal, even if rosy, experience of my own. And here in this little lost valley in the Andes, this is what I experience: the height of the mountains humbling me, the brightness of the sun blinding me, the extremities of the weather sensitizing me, the constant physical connection to the earth grounding me, and the immensity of open space shrinking me. This pummeling, of my ego and senses, back into the Earth and my place of interdependence within her, is what I experience whenever I find myself surrounded by, and surrendered to, the Earth's elements. And if I have ever come close, it's only been under these conditions that I’ve found myself on the bank of the ukhupacha -- the bridge between worlds.