The Master said, "The scholar who cherished the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar."
The Analects, Confucius
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
For the one who cooked me Poha
I had
a friend
tell me
With eyes
of endearment
to my naivete
That she, too, once believed
in love
in travel
Experience
the fruit of her adventures
enlightened her
with life's wrinkles
Romance
the physical performance of love (as I know it)
left her
with social scars
And love
and travel
now loess
To the owner of a heart
sinking
into the everyday
As I quietly panic
at the inevitability
of being too old
For dreams
a friend
tell me
With eyes
of endearment
to my naivete
That she, too, once believed
in love
in travel
Experience
the fruit of her adventures
enlightened her
with life's wrinkles
Romance
the physical performance of love (as I know it)
left her
with social scars
And love
and travel
now loess
To the owner of a heart
sinking
into the everyday
As I quietly panic
at the inevitability
of being too old
For dreams
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Yunnan part 二
Two days after the soul recharging at Dianchi Lake, I boarded a bus bound for Yuanyang, home to the rice terraces of Yunnan. Probably a year ago, I was looking through some of my friend's pictures and this unbelievable image of a sunset over rice terraces captured my imagination. Bright oranges and yellows reflected over the glass mirrors of the terraces (you’ll see what I mean below) as my breath disappeared in bewilderment. One of the most beautiful images I’d ever seen on digital film, my eyes would have the chance to the grandeur first-hand upon venturing to Yunnan’s south.
Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.
Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.
Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.
The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.
Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.
The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.
The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”
The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.
Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.
Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.
Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.
The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.
Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.
The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.
The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”
The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.
Yunnan part 一
So, the time has come. As I sit listening to the cars outside of my Beijing hotel room, the hours before my departure back to the US have dwindled down to 18. That’s only 1080 minutes before my feet will be off Asian soil! Even though I didn’t believe him for some time, the words of Mr. Harrison, “All things must pass,” have never rung truer. Sitting on the floor with the computer in my lap, my mind is filled with memories of new friends, outrageous stories, unbelievable displays of hospitality and the strong, organic connections to cultures I called foreign only months ago. A piece of my heart will be left here and maybe, just maybe, I’ll return for it someday.
I haven’t updated this blog since first getting back to China, and my return to the Middle Country deserves its place on the blog! Upon leaving Thailand, I set my sights for Yunnan, the Southern China province characterized by its City of Eternal Spring, the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang and the tourist getaways of Lijiang and Dali. Yunnan was of special interest to me because it is also home to many of China’s ethnic minorities (yes, this is what the Chinese call them).
The journey began in Kunming, home to the special Camellia Flower and its accompanying festival. The capitol of the Yunnan province, Kunming was the jump off point for anywhere you would like to go in Yunnan and I found myself and the travelers around me returning to the City of Eternal Spring more than we would have preferred. Nevertheless, Kunming offered some beautiful sights.
My first day in Kunming took me to the Ethnic Minority Village in the SE part of Kunming. The Village was a “theme park” of ethnic minorities, with over 20 different minorities each having their own village inside the compound where they worked, lived and practiced their own unique cultural heritage. Here is a good time to bring up a shining example of the kindness shown to me by the Chinese.
Jumping on the bus to the Ethnic Minority Village, I had no idea where the stop would be. Cautiously peering out my window for any sign that might indicate my destination I spotted a big blue information advertisement for the Minority Village and quickly descended from the bus. Strolling around the area, I discovered that my feet were a little green and the Minority Village was no where in the vicinity. Pondering my predicament, I found the nearest large hotel, hoping their large establishment required their employees to speak English and posed in my best Chinese the question of where in the world this Village was. A lively older woman came up to me and over-enthusiastically answered my question, in Chinese waaay too far for me to grasp. “Wo bu dong, wo bu dong,” I repeated, hoping she would begin to counsel me in my mother tongue. Like a cat taking her new-killed prey proudly to its owner, the woman led me by the arm out to the street and pointed me in the direction of my destination, all the while still talking to herself in Chinese (since I couldn’t understand a word). Pointing to the sidewalk and moving her arms upward, I took her signals to mean I should continue straight down the paved road. Happy that I was at least heading in the right direction, I bid her farewell and departed to where her hands, unintelligible speech and eager energy instructed.
Not more than half a kilometer down the road I heard the sound of someone yelling, unintelligibly to my ears, in my general direction. With my only companions being the flowers on the sidewalk and the cars to my left, I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Wouldn’t you know it, it was the same woman from the hotel jogging in my direction, flailing her arms in hopes of capturing my attention. When she came closer I saw she'd adopted a pair of yellow evening slippers with chicken faces on the sole and a brightly colored umbrella that you might find in Key West, indicating to me that she was making the stroll along with me. Starting up her excited Chinese again, I was able to decipher that she really doesn’t want me to get lost, and sure enough, the slippered woman led me 3 km down the road to the Ethnic Minority Village with the protective nature of mother bird. Even though it was a straight shot down the road she initially instructed, it was such a kind gesture that I thanked her over and over as she headed 3 km in the other direction, in that combination of a jog and hurried walk that that only Chinese females can do (Hannah calls it the China shuffle). A flattering display of hospitality, this instance was one of many that imprinted a love for Chinese culture into my psyche.
Being a student of culture and helping to put on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival (a 2-week festival with the same “cultural exposition” goal as the Ethnic Minority Village), the Village was a fascinating example of cultural tourism. Its hope was to display the varying cultures found within Yunnan in one location, a goal that made me wonder what role the Chinese government played in putting this exhibition together. As I strolled through the religious altars of the Dai and the clothing stands of the Hani, I couldn’t put my finger just on how I felt about the place. In my most optimistic I appreciated what the Village was trying to do and was excited that these cultures had the stage to share themselves with the larger audience. In my more pessimistic views the Village was nothing more than a human zoo, with the meanderings through the minorities’ living spaces akin to the tapping on a fish tank at the aquarium. But hey, the free wine offered by the Naxi’s wasn’t all that bad . . .
Upon departure I headed south of the Village to Dianchi Lake. Not really sure what I was getting into, I was bowled over at this beautiful creation. To the left of the Lake stood the spread outskirts of Kunming while steep, grey mountains inhabited its right bank. I found myself standing in the middle of Dianchi, observing a beautiful sunset amidst the Chinese tourists and the “you-know-you’re-standing-beside-a-big-body-of-H2O” winds. Venturing out onto an abandoned dock, an even more spectacular sunset awaited me as I chugged a beer and realized how thankful I was to be alive.
I haven’t updated this blog since first getting back to China, and my return to the Middle Country deserves its place on the blog! Upon leaving Thailand, I set my sights for Yunnan, the Southern China province characterized by its City of Eternal Spring, the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang and the tourist getaways of Lijiang and Dali. Yunnan was of special interest to me because it is also home to many of China’s ethnic minorities (yes, this is what the Chinese call them).
The journey began in Kunming, home to the special Camellia Flower and its accompanying festival. The capitol of the Yunnan province, Kunming was the jump off point for anywhere you would like to go in Yunnan and I found myself and the travelers around me returning to the City of Eternal Spring more than we would have preferred. Nevertheless, Kunming offered some beautiful sights.
My first day in Kunming took me to the Ethnic Minority Village in the SE part of Kunming. The Village was a “theme park” of ethnic minorities, with over 20 different minorities each having their own village inside the compound where they worked, lived and practiced their own unique cultural heritage. Here is a good time to bring up a shining example of the kindness shown to me by the Chinese.
Jumping on the bus to the Ethnic Minority Village, I had no idea where the stop would be. Cautiously peering out my window for any sign that might indicate my destination I spotted a big blue information advertisement for the Minority Village and quickly descended from the bus. Strolling around the area, I discovered that my feet were a little green and the Minority Village was no where in the vicinity. Pondering my predicament, I found the nearest large hotel, hoping their large establishment required their employees to speak English and posed in my best Chinese the question of where in the world this Village was. A lively older woman came up to me and over-enthusiastically answered my question, in Chinese waaay too far for me to grasp. “Wo bu dong, wo bu dong,” I repeated, hoping she would begin to counsel me in my mother tongue. Like a cat taking her new-killed prey proudly to its owner, the woman led me by the arm out to the street and pointed me in the direction of my destination, all the while still talking to herself in Chinese (since I couldn’t understand a word). Pointing to the sidewalk and moving her arms upward, I took her signals to mean I should continue straight down the paved road. Happy that I was at least heading in the right direction, I bid her farewell and departed to where her hands, unintelligible speech and eager energy instructed.
Not more than half a kilometer down the road I heard the sound of someone yelling, unintelligibly to my ears, in my general direction. With my only companions being the flowers on the sidewalk and the cars to my left, I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Wouldn’t you know it, it was the same woman from the hotel jogging in my direction, flailing her arms in hopes of capturing my attention. When she came closer I saw she'd adopted a pair of yellow evening slippers with chicken faces on the sole and a brightly colored umbrella that you might find in Key West, indicating to me that she was making the stroll along with me. Starting up her excited Chinese again, I was able to decipher that she really doesn’t want me to get lost, and sure enough, the slippered woman led me 3 km down the road to the Ethnic Minority Village with the protective nature of mother bird. Even though it was a straight shot down the road she initially instructed, it was such a kind gesture that I thanked her over and over as she headed 3 km in the other direction, in that combination of a jog and hurried walk that that only Chinese females can do (Hannah calls it the China shuffle). A flattering display of hospitality, this instance was one of many that imprinted a love for Chinese culture into my psyche.
Being a student of culture and helping to put on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival (a 2-week festival with the same “cultural exposition” goal as the Ethnic Minority Village), the Village was a fascinating example of cultural tourism. Its hope was to display the varying cultures found within Yunnan in one location, a goal that made me wonder what role the Chinese government played in putting this exhibition together. As I strolled through the religious altars of the Dai and the clothing stands of the Hani, I couldn’t put my finger just on how I felt about the place. In my most optimistic I appreciated what the Village was trying to do and was excited that these cultures had the stage to share themselves with the larger audience. In my more pessimistic views the Village was nothing more than a human zoo, with the meanderings through the minorities’ living spaces akin to the tapping on a fish tank at the aquarium. But hey, the free wine offered by the Naxi’s wasn’t all that bad . . .
Upon departure I headed south of the Village to Dianchi Lake. Not really sure what I was getting into, I was bowled over at this beautiful creation. To the left of the Lake stood the spread outskirts of Kunming while steep, grey mountains inhabited its right bank. I found myself standing in the middle of Dianchi, observing a beautiful sunset amidst the Chinese tourists and the “you-know-you’re-standing-beside-a-big-body-of-H2O” winds. Venturing out onto an abandoned dock, an even more spectacular sunset awaited me as I chugged a beer and realized how thankful I was to be alive.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Meditation
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started this blog, either on the page or in my mind, but was never able to give the experience its due credit through this or any medium (and probably never will). My vocabulary and knowledge of how to construct sentences in the English language was just not cutting it. Not that I could not describe the everyday events, but in looking for an over-arching theme or something that would tie the experience together, I always came up empty-handed. Let me back up.
A few weeks ago, I completed a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation in Chiangmai, Thailand at a beautiful temple called Wat Rampoeng. Here were the rules of the meditation: no talking, no eye-contact, no writing, no reading, no mixing the meditation with other techniques, white was the only color clothing you could wear (including underwear), no dinner, no eating food after noon, and usage of the computer was out of the question. While this all might sound extreme, the point was to eliminate as many distractions as possible. To eliminate the things that inhibit us from being in the present moment, to stop the dependence on external stimuli, and to allow for the most mindful experience possible.
Days started at 4am and ended at 10pm. We were expected to meditate between 10 and 12 hours per day, splitting our time between walking and sitting meditations taught to us by the ever-unintentionally-funny Pra Chaibordin. More on him soon.
At times I joked to myself that I was in “Buddha jail,” being denied the freedoms I’d become so accustomed to, but other times it was so liberating to be rid of the bullshit we create that consumes so much of existence. The emails, facebook, the pointless conversations, the things that somehow take up so much of our day, but whose importance is questionable at most. That being said, I can’t count on the fingers and toes of the New York Yankees how many times I thought about my email while in the midst of meditating. “Oh shit, I forgot to respond to Chase,” “Man, I’m going to have so many emails when I get outta here!” “I wonder if I have a message from Dan?” “Do I sound full of shit when I write messages,” “Was that message to Cristina too formal?” The list of thoughts about these ephemeral, ones and zeroes flashed across my mind much more often than I would like to admit.
And this wasn’t all . . . stupid-ass shit filled my brain. I mean, really, really idiotic. One day I would have hours of thoughts about what my future home would be like. The rooms, each carefully designed in the blue prints of my mind. The music room, with its CD’s piled high to the ceiling. The reading space directly in the sun, allowing for the words of Marquez to have the most potent effect possible. A lovely, but not over done, kitchen where I could impress my friends with my mediocre culinary skills. The bedroom, perfectly fit for a bachelor but with just enough extra space in case someone were to come along. The bathroom, with its tiled artistry, a perfect size and space for privacy. The meditation space, a small shrine to . . . (and then), WHAM!!! The present moment would catch me, allowing me to realize that my mind had been taking a stroll down Unmindful Lane, and that it might be a good idea to put my thoughts back on my breath.
I cannot tell you how many times this happened, with the subjects different for each day. If you are reading this, I probably thought about you, a lot. About times we were together, moments we were lucky enough to share, times that I thought shed some insight into your personality, times where I knew you had caught onto my bullshit, times where I caught onto your bullshit, times I wasn’t always the best friend or brother or nephew or son that I could be, times where I was selfish around you, times when I could have said, “I think it’s a good idea if we don’t speak anymore, ok?,” times where I felt sorry for you, times where I tried to help you out, and the amazing, wonderful, inspiring love you gave to me in all those varying ways I would have never imagined.
I thought a lot about old loves and lovers. What they were doing, what they thought about our time together, how shitty I had been to them, how selfless I had tried to be around them, about how they hurt me or how I had hurt them, how I was trying to prove my manhood through my relationships with them, how I was so grateful for the things they taught me, what it would be like to take them home to my parents, about the ones I might have in the future. On and on and on and on and on, until, WHAM, the present moment would once again intervene. Thankful each time it happened, but soon enough I would find my mind off again on one of its quixotic adventures.
This kind of thinking happened with every person in my life, every stage of my life, ever job I had in my life and with all the memorable events that happened in my 24 years on the earth. 10 days is a long time to be alone with your thoughts!
Our teachers would tell us that the point of our meditations was to attempt to gain mindfulness, focusing on the present moment and the breathing that occupied that ever-illusive space. Past and future were non-existent. Our job was to focus on where we found our bodies at that moment, knowing (not thinking or analyzing or examining or pondering or any other verbs that the human brain can perform), simply knowing.
It always sounded so simple. So elementary, so grounded. Just to be here, in this moment. My college-educated, DC-living, world-traveling, jazz-listening, intelligentsia-inhabiting ego thought it would be a piece of old-school Southern apple pie that my esoteric tastes outgrew years ago. The reality of the situation was that the practice was easiest thing I could ever do, but in the next moment, it would be the most challenging task I’d ever put myself up to. It WAS elementary and grounded, but at the same time it was the realm of higher-conscious and complete ungroundedness, although my glimpses into this part of the practice remained few and far between.
The first few days were a little shocking, just letting go of MY world was tough. I would often have thoughts about leaving the monastery and going to indulge in all the earthly pleasures that my money would allow. Hookers, beer, expensive hotels, whatever it was, as long as it seemed it would set me free from my current state. The place seemed like a mental institution at some points. Free access by our arms was the only thing differentiating the clothes we were wearing from straight jackets (we had the colors and the uniformity down!!), mysterious bells would ring at all hours of the day, and the dogs and cats and lizards and crickets and other unknown creatures would all make the strangest (I mean strangest) sounds in the midst of my meditations. I wondered if these animals made these sounds all the time and I just never paid attention, or if the crazy spirits of Wat Rampoeng had somehow gained access into their psychic spaces. I remember one day I was doing a walking meditation and there were two cats literally talking to each other. I mean, they sounded like toddlers trying to piece together words, but their inflections, pitch and intensity mirrored the other's to a tee. I had to stop my walking meditation as I searched for someone else who wanted to reassure themselves they hadn’t gone crazy.
Physical pain was also a big part of the first few days. Leg cramps, back aches, and thanks to my good ol’ Osgood–Schlatter disease, knee swelling were rampant in my first days. This brings me to Pra Ajahn Suphan. Ahh, Pra Ajahn Suphan. The man was the abbot of Wat Rampoeng and each day we would be allowed 10 minutes or so where we could speak with him about our practice and he would offer insights of the most basic and human variety, all with soaked astounding truth. When I asked him about my pain he replied in his sagely manner, “Ahh Douglas, pain is a very good friend. It will come to visit you often.” Call it a mind-fuck, call it a non sequitor or whatever you will, but in that moment, there was nothing more perfect he could have communicated. So, I took his advice and was friendly with my pain, and funny enough, it subsided.
There were countless moments where Ajahn Suphan would invoke his teachings in what other states I might have coined pretentious bullshit, but I believed his words to my core. The beauty of his personal discourse was like a marble dropped in my lake of consciousness, its wake reverberating in all directions. In moments of clarity during meditation, his words were among the most beautiful things I was lucky enough to hold in my mind, void of ego, void of show, full of light.
Keeping our rooms and surrounding areas clean was one of my only duties throughout my time, and I was amazed at how diligent and willing I was to uphold my duties! Sweeping my porch was so important to me in that time, as if the porch had a soul and out of respect for it living, I offered my services in removing all those pesky dead leaves. Watering the plants became the reason for my existence as well. Grabbing the hose, turning on the faucet and strategically planning my watering routine became a meditation to me. I would notice the plants moving slightly back and forth as the water splashed their photosynthesized leaves, both pleasurably dancing and thanking me for helping them grow. I would roll the hose in the most careful manner and even rinse off the extra dirt it might have picked up, all in respect for the next person who would lend their help to the plants.
I also made a friend in the process.
I returned to my meditation cushion one day to find a gift occupying the space my ass usually filled, a CD and note from a woman named a Hispaniola named Bea. Written in Valencian Español, Bea’s constant stream of letters poured in each day and were a blessing in disguise to my uber-inner world created at Wat Rampoeng. She reminded me that the silent creatures all around me were souls, with feelings, emotions, thoughts, hopes, and fears, something that was frighteningly easy to forget under the circumstances. I read her notes in the shadow of my room, like a teenager smoking cigarettes in a bathroom stall, itching in anticipation for their content, but in utter fear of being discovered for breaking the rules!
Bea and I became buddies through the exchanges and it was amazing to reactivate my shitty Spanish through the correspondence. We left the Wat together on the final day, and there was no one else in the world I would have preferred more to share the experience with.
In the midst of the meditation, it was beyond incredible to see the fleeting quality of my thoughts and feelings. Some days I was really happy, some days I couldn’t have been more sad, some were exciting and there some where I was ready to pull out my hair in boredom. But none of these emotions lasted. There were days when all I could think about was food, and would have whole meditations where the taste of a burrito, fried chicken or anything but what I was served at the monastery, would haunt my tastebuds like a fuku. (Thanks, Junot Diaz) But as quickly as these thoughts would come, they would go. I would want things soo badly, and then ten minutes later, they were the farthest things from my mind. The same thing happened with the emotions I experienced; come and go, come and go. It was a shining example of impermanence, another important lesson shared by our teachers during my time in Chiangmai.
Since I mentioned him, I’ve got to talk about Pra Chaibordin. Chaibordin was a monk, couldn’t have been more than 26, who was in charge of working with all of the foreigners (farang) who came to Wat Rampoeng. In the monastic hierarchy of Wat Rampoeng, his job was one of the shitiest for sure. He was in charge of showing the dumb farang who had never even been to a Buddhist temple before the ropes of the place and teaching us our basic meditations. He explained the meditations to us with such a vapid sense of interest; you could imagine he was doing calculus equations in his mind. I remember my first night at the Wat, he showed me around the place, leading me by my underarm and explaining in his broken English where this and that was. Everything was spit out at the speed of a racehorse and questions were not answered, if even listened to. But the funny thing about Chaibordin is he has a crazy streak in him. Again on my first night, he became so excited about showing me the dorms that he hugged me out of the sheer excitement of his words. A strange exchange that I went with at the time, but one that also gave me suspicion when Bea questioned his sexual orientation after the meditation.
My third morning I walked into his office and without getting a word in (we could speak to him, albeit only if we had a problem and it better be brief!!!) he started to spatter, “Ahh yes, present moment, present moment, its like, you have girlfriend, yes, you have Thai girlfriend, ok, and you meet girl Mom, ok, haha, and when you meet Mom she talk wid you, yes, but you no kiss other girl, no, the paparazzi come, yes, and bad, bad, bad, very bad. . . “ How the hell do you respond to something like that?
Chaibordin was also the “farang police officer” of the Wat. Temples have police officers? Maybe it would be better to say he was the “farang mindfulness officer.” Whenever we would run into him on the grounds of the Wat all he would say would be, “Eyes down, present moment, knowing, knowing, knowing,” never really directed just at you, but almost like a reminder to everyone who could understand him. He delivered his preachings with an intensity that was both ridiculous and contrived, but it was his job! We learned by the end of our time just to laugh at Chaibordin and roll our eyes when he would start his spiels. Una risa is what Bea would say every time he came to mind . . .
In the final days of my time at Wat Rampoeng, I became very accustomed to my life there. It was nice, actually. I meditated, I ate, I meditated, I cleaned, I meditated, I drank soy milk, and then I meditated some more. That was my day. It seemed that each day lasted an eternity, but by the 9th day I found myself saying, “Holy shit self, you leave tomorrow. This was so quick!”
When the time came to actually leave, I was soo happy that I was going to have a hot shower and a comfortable bed to sleep in. And the emails!! Just how many would I have and who would want to know how the meditation went? And oh my god, how good is that beer going to taste tonight?
Well, when I finally did find a hot shower it wasn’t all that great and the beer I had longed for wasn’t so tasty either. And the emails? I had a few hundred spam messages, about 10 that were semi-important and 2 that actually had actual significance, including one from my Mother. All that time and brain power spent thinking about email was a total waste, as most thinking is.
If I had to pull together some things I gained from the meditation, a few things stand out. First off, the fact that everything is impermanent. That means everything, folks. Money, friends, family, feelings, love, and the whole shebang. Secondly, everything we need in the world is always provided for us, often times in the most unimaginable ways. All the things we want will never be provided, so we best just get over it. Thirdly, expectations are the worst thing we can create for ourselves. Just avoid ‘em. Finally, how grateful I was for the people in my life and to be given the opportunities that I’ve been lucky enough to experience.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. Am I glad its over? Affirmative. Do I think it was beneficial? Yes, and it will probably become more and more so as time goes on. Was the surrender hard? Extremely. My ego fought it tooth and nail, but when it stopped, some beautiful things shined through.
This is the best I could do at putting this on digital paper. I hope you enjoyed.
A few weeks ago, I completed a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation in Chiangmai, Thailand at a beautiful temple called Wat Rampoeng. Here were the rules of the meditation: no talking, no eye-contact, no writing, no reading, no mixing the meditation with other techniques, white was the only color clothing you could wear (including underwear), no dinner, no eating food after noon, and usage of the computer was out of the question. While this all might sound extreme, the point was to eliminate as many distractions as possible. To eliminate the things that inhibit us from being in the present moment, to stop the dependence on external stimuli, and to allow for the most mindful experience possible.
Days started at 4am and ended at 10pm. We were expected to meditate between 10 and 12 hours per day, splitting our time between walking and sitting meditations taught to us by the ever-unintentionally-funny Pra Chaibordin. More on him soon.
At times I joked to myself that I was in “Buddha jail,” being denied the freedoms I’d become so accustomed to, but other times it was so liberating to be rid of the bullshit we create that consumes so much of existence. The emails, facebook, the pointless conversations, the things that somehow take up so much of our day, but whose importance is questionable at most. That being said, I can’t count on the fingers and toes of the New York Yankees how many times I thought about my email while in the midst of meditating. “Oh shit, I forgot to respond to Chase,” “Man, I’m going to have so many emails when I get outta here!” “I wonder if I have a message from Dan?” “Do I sound full of shit when I write messages,” “Was that message to Cristina too formal?” The list of thoughts about these ephemeral, ones and zeroes flashed across my mind much more often than I would like to admit.
And this wasn’t all . . . stupid-ass shit filled my brain. I mean, really, really idiotic. One day I would have hours of thoughts about what my future home would be like. The rooms, each carefully designed in the blue prints of my mind. The music room, with its CD’s piled high to the ceiling. The reading space directly in the sun, allowing for the words of Marquez to have the most potent effect possible. A lovely, but not over done, kitchen where I could impress my friends with my mediocre culinary skills. The bedroom, perfectly fit for a bachelor but with just enough extra space in case someone were to come along. The bathroom, with its tiled artistry, a perfect size and space for privacy. The meditation space, a small shrine to . . . (and then), WHAM!!! The present moment would catch me, allowing me to realize that my mind had been taking a stroll down Unmindful Lane, and that it might be a good idea to put my thoughts back on my breath.
I cannot tell you how many times this happened, with the subjects different for each day. If you are reading this, I probably thought about you, a lot. About times we were together, moments we were lucky enough to share, times that I thought shed some insight into your personality, times where I knew you had caught onto my bullshit, times where I caught onto your bullshit, times I wasn’t always the best friend or brother or nephew or son that I could be, times where I was selfish around you, times when I could have said, “I think it’s a good idea if we don’t speak anymore, ok?,” times where I felt sorry for you, times where I tried to help you out, and the amazing, wonderful, inspiring love you gave to me in all those varying ways I would have never imagined.
I thought a lot about old loves and lovers. What they were doing, what they thought about our time together, how shitty I had been to them, how selfless I had tried to be around them, about how they hurt me or how I had hurt them, how I was trying to prove my manhood through my relationships with them, how I was so grateful for the things they taught me, what it would be like to take them home to my parents, about the ones I might have in the future. On and on and on and on and on, until, WHAM, the present moment would once again intervene. Thankful each time it happened, but soon enough I would find my mind off again on one of its quixotic adventures.
This kind of thinking happened with every person in my life, every stage of my life, ever job I had in my life and with all the memorable events that happened in my 24 years on the earth. 10 days is a long time to be alone with your thoughts!
Our teachers would tell us that the point of our meditations was to attempt to gain mindfulness, focusing on the present moment and the breathing that occupied that ever-illusive space. Past and future were non-existent. Our job was to focus on where we found our bodies at that moment, knowing (not thinking or analyzing or examining or pondering or any other verbs that the human brain can perform), simply knowing.
It always sounded so simple. So elementary, so grounded. Just to be here, in this moment. My college-educated, DC-living, world-traveling, jazz-listening, intelligentsia-inhabiting ego thought it would be a piece of old-school Southern apple pie that my esoteric tastes outgrew years ago. The reality of the situation was that the practice was easiest thing I could ever do, but in the next moment, it would be the most challenging task I’d ever put myself up to. It WAS elementary and grounded, but at the same time it was the realm of higher-conscious and complete ungroundedness, although my glimpses into this part of the practice remained few and far between.
The first few days were a little shocking, just letting go of MY world was tough. I would often have thoughts about leaving the monastery and going to indulge in all the earthly pleasures that my money would allow. Hookers, beer, expensive hotels, whatever it was, as long as it seemed it would set me free from my current state. The place seemed like a mental institution at some points. Free access by our arms was the only thing differentiating the clothes we were wearing from straight jackets (we had the colors and the uniformity down!!), mysterious bells would ring at all hours of the day, and the dogs and cats and lizards and crickets and other unknown creatures would all make the strangest (I mean strangest) sounds in the midst of my meditations. I wondered if these animals made these sounds all the time and I just never paid attention, or if the crazy spirits of Wat Rampoeng had somehow gained access into their psychic spaces. I remember one day I was doing a walking meditation and there were two cats literally talking to each other. I mean, they sounded like toddlers trying to piece together words, but their inflections, pitch and intensity mirrored the other's to a tee. I had to stop my walking meditation as I searched for someone else who wanted to reassure themselves they hadn’t gone crazy.
Physical pain was also a big part of the first few days. Leg cramps, back aches, and thanks to my good ol’ Osgood–Schlatter disease, knee swelling were rampant in my first days. This brings me to Pra Ajahn Suphan. Ahh, Pra Ajahn Suphan. The man was the abbot of Wat Rampoeng and each day we would be allowed 10 minutes or so where we could speak with him about our practice and he would offer insights of the most basic and human variety, all with soaked astounding truth. When I asked him about my pain he replied in his sagely manner, “Ahh Douglas, pain is a very good friend. It will come to visit you often.” Call it a mind-fuck, call it a non sequitor or whatever you will, but in that moment, there was nothing more perfect he could have communicated. So, I took his advice and was friendly with my pain, and funny enough, it subsided.
There were countless moments where Ajahn Suphan would invoke his teachings in what other states I might have coined pretentious bullshit, but I believed his words to my core. The beauty of his personal discourse was like a marble dropped in my lake of consciousness, its wake reverberating in all directions. In moments of clarity during meditation, his words were among the most beautiful things I was lucky enough to hold in my mind, void of ego, void of show, full of light.
Keeping our rooms and surrounding areas clean was one of my only duties throughout my time, and I was amazed at how diligent and willing I was to uphold my duties! Sweeping my porch was so important to me in that time, as if the porch had a soul and out of respect for it living, I offered my services in removing all those pesky dead leaves. Watering the plants became the reason for my existence as well. Grabbing the hose, turning on the faucet and strategically planning my watering routine became a meditation to me. I would notice the plants moving slightly back and forth as the water splashed their photosynthesized leaves, both pleasurably dancing and thanking me for helping them grow. I would roll the hose in the most careful manner and even rinse off the extra dirt it might have picked up, all in respect for the next person who would lend their help to the plants.
I also made a friend in the process.
I returned to my meditation cushion one day to find a gift occupying the space my ass usually filled, a CD and note from a woman named a Hispaniola named Bea. Written in Valencian Español, Bea’s constant stream of letters poured in each day and were a blessing in disguise to my uber-inner world created at Wat Rampoeng. She reminded me that the silent creatures all around me were souls, with feelings, emotions, thoughts, hopes, and fears, something that was frighteningly easy to forget under the circumstances. I read her notes in the shadow of my room, like a teenager smoking cigarettes in a bathroom stall, itching in anticipation for their content, but in utter fear of being discovered for breaking the rules!
Bea and I became buddies through the exchanges and it was amazing to reactivate my shitty Spanish through the correspondence. We left the Wat together on the final day, and there was no one else in the world I would have preferred more to share the experience with.
In the midst of the meditation, it was beyond incredible to see the fleeting quality of my thoughts and feelings. Some days I was really happy, some days I couldn’t have been more sad, some were exciting and there some where I was ready to pull out my hair in boredom. But none of these emotions lasted. There were days when all I could think about was food, and would have whole meditations where the taste of a burrito, fried chicken or anything but what I was served at the monastery, would haunt my tastebuds like a fuku. (Thanks, Junot Diaz) But as quickly as these thoughts would come, they would go. I would want things soo badly, and then ten minutes later, they were the farthest things from my mind. The same thing happened with the emotions I experienced; come and go, come and go. It was a shining example of impermanence, another important lesson shared by our teachers during my time in Chiangmai.
Since I mentioned him, I’ve got to talk about Pra Chaibordin. Chaibordin was a monk, couldn’t have been more than 26, who was in charge of working with all of the foreigners (farang) who came to Wat Rampoeng. In the monastic hierarchy of Wat Rampoeng, his job was one of the shitiest for sure. He was in charge of showing the dumb farang who had never even been to a Buddhist temple before the ropes of the place and teaching us our basic meditations. He explained the meditations to us with such a vapid sense of interest; you could imagine he was doing calculus equations in his mind. I remember my first night at the Wat, he showed me around the place, leading me by my underarm and explaining in his broken English where this and that was. Everything was spit out at the speed of a racehorse and questions were not answered, if even listened to. But the funny thing about Chaibordin is he has a crazy streak in him. Again on my first night, he became so excited about showing me the dorms that he hugged me out of the sheer excitement of his words. A strange exchange that I went with at the time, but one that also gave me suspicion when Bea questioned his sexual orientation after the meditation.
My third morning I walked into his office and without getting a word in (we could speak to him, albeit only if we had a problem and it better be brief!!!) he started to spatter, “Ahh yes, present moment, present moment, its like, you have girlfriend, yes, you have Thai girlfriend, ok, and you meet girl Mom, ok, haha, and when you meet Mom she talk wid you, yes, but you no kiss other girl, no, the paparazzi come, yes, and bad, bad, bad, very bad. . . “ How the hell do you respond to something like that?
Chaibordin was also the “farang police officer” of the Wat. Temples have police officers? Maybe it would be better to say he was the “farang mindfulness officer.” Whenever we would run into him on the grounds of the Wat all he would say would be, “Eyes down, present moment, knowing, knowing, knowing,” never really directed just at you, but almost like a reminder to everyone who could understand him. He delivered his preachings with an intensity that was both ridiculous and contrived, but it was his job! We learned by the end of our time just to laugh at Chaibordin and roll our eyes when he would start his spiels. Una risa is what Bea would say every time he came to mind . . .
In the final days of my time at Wat Rampoeng, I became very accustomed to my life there. It was nice, actually. I meditated, I ate, I meditated, I cleaned, I meditated, I drank soy milk, and then I meditated some more. That was my day. It seemed that each day lasted an eternity, but by the 9th day I found myself saying, “Holy shit self, you leave tomorrow. This was so quick!”
When the time came to actually leave, I was soo happy that I was going to have a hot shower and a comfortable bed to sleep in. And the emails!! Just how many would I have and who would want to know how the meditation went? And oh my god, how good is that beer going to taste tonight?
Well, when I finally did find a hot shower it wasn’t all that great and the beer I had longed for wasn’t so tasty either. And the emails? I had a few hundred spam messages, about 10 that were semi-important and 2 that actually had actual significance, including one from my Mother. All that time and brain power spent thinking about email was a total waste, as most thinking is.
If I had to pull together some things I gained from the meditation, a few things stand out. First off, the fact that everything is impermanent. That means everything, folks. Money, friends, family, feelings, love, and the whole shebang. Secondly, everything we need in the world is always provided for us, often times in the most unimaginable ways. All the things we want will never be provided, so we best just get over it. Thirdly, expectations are the worst thing we can create for ourselves. Just avoid ‘em. Finally, how grateful I was for the people in my life and to be given the opportunities that I’ve been lucky enough to experience.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. Am I glad its over? Affirmative. Do I think it was beneficial? Yes, and it will probably become more and more so as time goes on. Was the surrender hard? Extremely. My ego fought it tooth and nail, but when it stopped, some beautiful things shined through.
This is the best I could do at putting this on digital paper. I hope you enjoyed.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Bech in fact had felt quite tired of life ever since completing his last - his final, as he thought of it - and surprisingly successful novel, whose publication coincided with the collapse of his one and only marriage. That was why, he supposed, you travelled to places like this: to encounter fictional selves, the refreshing false ideas of you strangers hold in their minds.
Bech at Bay, John Updike
Bech at Bay, John Updike
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