I just taught some Buddhist Monks how to juggle... WINNING!!
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Ruminations on an Earthquake
For the past two weeks, I rose from bed each morning and strolled out my door to the sight of monkeys swinging from trees, picking sweet mangos from them. I walked past the monkeys, up stone steps and through throngs of robed monks and nuns, deep in meditation. I slided into the dining hall, where I sipped black tea on a rooftop terrace that overlooked Kathmandu and the rolling Himalyan foothills that surround it. After this morning ritual, I would spend the next 10 hours of my days in meditations or teachings from the wise Geshis. Over dinner I'd discuss and debate the lessons and insights of the day with the United Nations Council of Wanderers and Seekers. Yet, it was not a monk, a gesha, the hills, a friend or even my own mind that taught me the greatest lessons at Kopan. No, my greatest teacher was an earthquake.
We were sitting in the colorful, quiet gompa, deep in a meditation used to cultivate a powerful and equal compassion to friends, enemies and strangers alike. I began to hear, even feel, the heavy footsteps of the monks above, performing some ritual I had never seen. Wait. It is not just the ceiling shaking. It's the walls, the Buddha statues, the pillars, the ground... I'm in an earthquake!
My eyes shot open to the sight of Ani Karin, our kind teacher, chanting her sutras fruiously with a possessed trance on he face. Meanwhile, my friends in the class were actually curiously looking about, many with sly grins on their faces. The earthquake was actually more of a source of amusement than one of fear. The ground was shaking, yet gently so. It was as if the Earth was rocking us, her precious child, sweetly to sleep. How cool! I've always wanted to feel what an Earthquake felt life!
Then, the Earth was angry. It's calm rocking became a mad shaking. The grins snapped to long-drawn faces of dread. Ani Karin screamed, "GET OUT!"
Self-preservation took over. I must get out of the Gompa! With no care or concern for the old or injured friend I'd made, I darted for the door. In this moment, I cared for nothing else but myself. Others became mere obstacles on my way to the door, some gateway to a perceived land of safety. For a quick moment, I considered going back to grab my camera, but a forceful jostle almost kocked me over. My selfishness consumed my attachment, and propelled me out the door.
The city of Kathmandu screamed in terror. It was the first time I've heard a city scream, the first time I felt a heavy, tangible fear howling in the sky all around me. Yet, this suffering in the air instigated no cause of concern for others. Instead, it only intensified my own desire to save myself, and it forced my feet to scurry ever faster down the stairs to the solid ground.
Under my stuttered breathing - a grasping for air - the Earth calmed. The palpable fear around me dissipated and my consciousness returned. As we all came back to our senses, some of us laughed, some held hands, some went for walks, whatever our shaken minds needed at the time. With a restored mind, I asked Ani Karin if this was normal. She said it was only a tremor, but the strongest tremor she's ever felt, and she thought at the time that it was the beginning of the huge earthquake Kathmandu has been fearing for a long time.
So, it was not a true crisis, but my mind perceived and acted as if it had been. This behavior of my mind frightened me even more than the screams of Kathmandu.
I consider myself a compassionate person. A lot of the major choices I make in my life arise from a belief that if we truly think about the suffering of others, the only rational course of action to take is one of compassion and kindness. I've adopted the idea that by benefitting others we ultimately benefit ourselves, into an aspect of my identity. I actively search for ways in which I can make some difference, even if only a small one, on the lives of other people. Yet, when a true test of compassion came before me, I failed miserably.
Not only do I consider compassion to be an important part of the essence of who I am, but I was actively meditating on the necessity and importance of compassion. Yet, as soon as I was in danger, I didn't care in the slightest what happened to the people around me. As horrible as it sounds, they could've been crushed into oblivion from the ceiling, and it only would've pushed me quicker to my own safety.
------------------
After two days of complete silence and 12 hours of meditation, I found myself alone on a grassy knoll overlooking the monastery. The lessons, insight and impact of the past two weeks welled up so completely in me, I could do nothing else but weep. Warm tears gushed across my face uncontrollably, and whenever they would begin to cease, a new thought would take hold and joyful tears would erupt again. All-in-all, I spent half an hour crying in happiness on that hilltop.
I thought about sharing the thoughts I had on that hilltop on this blog, with family and friends, but have chosen not to do so. Wise words and elegant pleas for compassion would strengthen neither my mind or heart, only my ego. For there is a fundamental difference between intellectualizing something; arbitrarily adopting beliefs into an identity, and actually being something, actually breathing something. When the Earth shook, it showed me just how far I have to go. Words will not get me there. Only meditation. Only action. Only experiencing.
We were sitting in the colorful, quiet gompa, deep in a meditation used to cultivate a powerful and equal compassion to friends, enemies and strangers alike. I began to hear, even feel, the heavy footsteps of the monks above, performing some ritual I had never seen. Wait. It is not just the ceiling shaking. It's the walls, the Buddha statues, the pillars, the ground... I'm in an earthquake!
My eyes shot open to the sight of Ani Karin, our kind teacher, chanting her sutras fruiously with a possessed trance on he face. Meanwhile, my friends in the class were actually curiously looking about, many with sly grins on their faces. The earthquake was actually more of a source of amusement than one of fear. The ground was shaking, yet gently so. It was as if the Earth was rocking us, her precious child, sweetly to sleep. How cool! I've always wanted to feel what an Earthquake felt life!
Then, the Earth was angry. It's calm rocking became a mad shaking. The grins snapped to long-drawn faces of dread. Ani Karin screamed, "GET OUT!"
Self-preservation took over. I must get out of the Gompa! With no care or concern for the old or injured friend I'd made, I darted for the door. In this moment, I cared for nothing else but myself. Others became mere obstacles on my way to the door, some gateway to a perceived land of safety. For a quick moment, I considered going back to grab my camera, but a forceful jostle almost kocked me over. My selfishness consumed my attachment, and propelled me out the door.
The city of Kathmandu screamed in terror. It was the first time I've heard a city scream, the first time I felt a heavy, tangible fear howling in the sky all around me. Yet, this suffering in the air instigated no cause of concern for others. Instead, it only intensified my own desire to save myself, and it forced my feet to scurry ever faster down the stairs to the solid ground.
Under my stuttered breathing - a grasping for air - the Earth calmed. The palpable fear around me dissipated and my consciousness returned. As we all came back to our senses, some of us laughed, some held hands, some went for walks, whatever our shaken minds needed at the time. With a restored mind, I asked Ani Karin if this was normal. She said it was only a tremor, but the strongest tremor she's ever felt, and she thought at the time that it was the beginning of the huge earthquake Kathmandu has been fearing for a long time.
So, it was not a true crisis, but my mind perceived and acted as if it had been. This behavior of my mind frightened me even more than the screams of Kathmandu.
I consider myself a compassionate person. A lot of the major choices I make in my life arise from a belief that if we truly think about the suffering of others, the only rational course of action to take is one of compassion and kindness. I've adopted the idea that by benefitting others we ultimately benefit ourselves, into an aspect of my identity. I actively search for ways in which I can make some difference, even if only a small one, on the lives of other people. Yet, when a true test of compassion came before me, I failed miserably.
Not only do I consider compassion to be an important part of the essence of who I am, but I was actively meditating on the necessity and importance of compassion. Yet, as soon as I was in danger, I didn't care in the slightest what happened to the people around me. As horrible as it sounds, they could've been crushed into oblivion from the ceiling, and it only would've pushed me quicker to my own safety.
------------------
After two days of complete silence and 12 hours of meditation, I found myself alone on a grassy knoll overlooking the monastery. The lessons, insight and impact of the past two weeks welled up so completely in me, I could do nothing else but weep. Warm tears gushed across my face uncontrollably, and whenever they would begin to cease, a new thought would take hold and joyful tears would erupt again. All-in-all, I spent half an hour crying in happiness on that hilltop.
I thought about sharing the thoughts I had on that hilltop on this blog, with family and friends, but have chosen not to do so. Wise words and elegant pleas for compassion would strengthen neither my mind or heart, only my ego. For there is a fundamental difference between intellectualizing something; arbitrarily adopting beliefs into an identity, and actually being something, actually breathing something. When the Earth shook, it showed me just how far I have to go. Words will not get me there. Only meditation. Only action. Only experiencing.
Driving in India or Nepal
I was fortunate to come across the study guide for passing the India/Nepal driving license test. Apparently it's only three true/false questions. For your convenience I've posted the exam and answer key online.
1. The lines on the road matter.
2. The fact that you are careening toward an on-coming bus with cars blocking you on both sides is a cause for even the slightest concern.
3. You are Dale Earnhardt.
(Answer key. 1=False. 2=False. 3=True.)
Driving in India and Nepal is either a continuous stream of fear or miracles, depending on how you look at it. Time and time again while driving in a taxi cab, you find yourself in perilous situations almost unimaginable by Western standards. On one side you'll be blocked in by a car, a straight cliff promises certain death on the other side, and here you are, heading directly toward a bus. Surely you think, this must be the end. The properties of physics allow you no way to diver disaster under these circumstances.
Yet every time, somehow, someway, all the cars at once beep their horns, communicating by some telekinetic power, and the cars slither through each other in the seemingly only possible way they can fit on the road. Maybe one car almost crashes into a group of school children. Maybe the bus has half a wheel over the cliff. Yet, by an act of what can only be divine intervention, you are safe.
Surely a miracle such as this can only happen once in a lifetime.
Yet, 10 seconds you find yourself in the exact same predicament.
1. The lines on the road matter.
2. The fact that you are careening toward an on-coming bus with cars blocking you on both sides is a cause for even the slightest concern.
3. You are Dale Earnhardt.
(Answer key. 1=False. 2=False. 3=True.)
Driving in India and Nepal is either a continuous stream of fear or miracles, depending on how you look at it. Time and time again while driving in a taxi cab, you find yourself in perilous situations almost unimaginable by Western standards. On one side you'll be blocked in by a car, a straight cliff promises certain death on the other side, and here you are, heading directly toward a bus. Surely you think, this must be the end. The properties of physics allow you no way to diver disaster under these circumstances.
Yet every time, somehow, someway, all the cars at once beep their horns, communicating by some telekinetic power, and the cars slither through each other in the seemingly only possible way they can fit on the road. Maybe one car almost crashes into a group of school children. Maybe the bus has half a wheel over the cliff. Yet, by an act of what can only be divine intervention, you are safe.
Surely a miracle such as this can only happen once in a lifetime.
Yet, 10 seconds you find yourself in the exact same predicament.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Kindness and Diarrheoa
I was drifting into sleep on my upper berth on my first India train. I felt something slip out of my pocket onto the ground below. By the time I turned my head to search the ground, an Indian man had jumped out of his lower berth and was handing me my pen with a smile on his face.
Kindness is universal.
The next morning I was sitting on the lower berth watching Indian countryside fly by the window. I bought some delicious chai tea from a man on the train, but I couldn't understand how much money he wanted from me. The guy sitting next to me reached in his pocket and handed the chai tea salesman a coin, and he looked at me with a smile. For the rest of the journey he explained to me how Indian trains function, and when my stop would be coming up.
Kindnes is refreshing.
After constantly being bombarded and hassled by Indian men in New Delhi, I was glad to have experiences that reminded me of this. I was even more thankful for these truths the next night.
I was on an overnight bus from the bordertown of Sunali to Kathmandu. I fell asleep at around 8, but awoke at around midnight with a sudden pain in my stomach. I tried to kid myself into thinking I was fine by minimizing any movement in my abdomen, but I could only kid myself for so long. A lot of nasty things were about to come out of my body, and I had to get outside. Thankfully, the bus had made a quick pitstop, although I didn't know for how long. Climbing over See-Soo, the incredibly nice Nepali man next to me, I accidentally awoke him. By his request I explained what was going on, and he offered to assist me outside. After stumbling out of the bus, I whispered, "Where's the bathroom?". "In that door down there I think." he replied. I walked down a stone staircase and opened the door to a small shack.
BAHHH!!
*pooooop*
Two thought grenades exploded in my brain.
1. It's a fucking goat!
2. I just shit my pants!
Yes, yes, yes. Instead of being welcomed by a much-needed toilet, I was met by a loud and angry goat, which shocked me so much, I ended up using my pants as the toilet. Defeatedly, I closed the door to the shack and cleaned myself up to the best of my abilities behind the shack. Then I vomitted. I looked up and noticed for the first time that I was about 200 feet from a quiet and serene lake that was towered by rolling mountains on all sides. I was puking and pooping in paradise.
The realization that I was surrounded by beauty did nothing to alleviate the pain in my stomach, which now felt like it was ripping me apart from the inside.
I trudged back up the stairs and found See-Soo sipping on some tea with a few other passenger's outside a woman's shack. I recounted my unfortunate tale to See-Soo who told me, "You are sick, but it will be okay". He gave the woman a few ruppees, and she handed me a bottled water. "Drink slowly.", See-Soo told me. See-Soo spoke a few more words to the woman, upon which she sat down next to me and rubbed my back.
Kindness is Universal. Kindness is refreshing. And Kindness may be the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better after a goat-induced pooping of the pants.
Friday, 9 September 2011
I know almost nothing
When I left my motel room at 8 am this morning a downpour had just conceded itself to a light drizzle. I walked down the main bazaar, still in shock that I was actually in India. Even as things happen, it doesn't feel real. It's just a big practical joke my mind and senses is playing on my consciousness.
Further down the street the road had flooded. I miscalculated the depth, thinking it was only a couple inches, only to find myself half-calf deep in a muddy, trash strewn puddle. As I pondered whether or not to turn back or keep going (both choices were the same distance), I glanced to my side and watched a young indian boy scoop water out of his water-submerged shop with a huge bucket and toss it back in the streets, as if his shop had just capsized in a tidal wave. With my ankles soaked in water that is probably going to give me STDs, I looked at him with a curious look. He looked back, and in broken English told me, "Come back 5 minutes! We give you real good pancake!"
Not knowing how to respond, I sloshed forward in search of a good cafe I could get breakfast. On my way there a dangerously skinny old lady carrying a crying baby came up to me and pleaded, "Please give me 10 Ruppees. My child so hungry." Worrying that if I gave her money I would become a magnent for the destitute beggars, I walked on not saying anything. She followed me, tapping on my shoulder begging, "Just 10 Ruppees. We need food." I felt her desperate glare sear into me as I kept silently strolling by. If she had known how many thousands of Ruppees a favorable transfer rate left me with, her desperate glare probably would have been an angry scowl.
After the poor old lady stopped following me I found a really nice rooftop cafe where I bought a huge breakfast for 2 US Dollars, sipped on some tea, and people watched on the bazaar below. I struck up a conversation with my waiter, a nice and quiet kid probably in his mid-teens. I asked him what he did for fun. He told me that he woke up every morning in the room upstairs and worked from 8 am to 11 pm every day, so he was too tired to have fun. Now, I barely know this kid. I don't know if he's been doing this his whole life, let alone whether or not he has dreams and aspirations that stretch past this restaurant, but learning of his predicament made me sad. Every single day on my blessed journey across foreign lands, he'll be working 15 hours a day. He'll probably work 15 hours a day for fmany days after my adventure is over.
Trying not to let my mind wander towards realms of shame and guilt, I struck up a conversation with a solo traveler sitting at the table next to me. He was in his mid-20s, and like me, from the United States. A few years back he spent a few months in Thailand. Instead of going back home at the end of his trip, he changed his ticket to Australia. After his bank account dwindled to $18, he got a job on a farm where he performed hard manual labor for 10 hours a day. After doing this for a while, he had enough money to a buy a plane ticket, so he came to India. He doesn't know what comes next.
There was a time when hearing this story would make me jump up and down and pull my hair out in an insane fervered excitement and wonder. Yet, as crazy as his story is, I've become acclimated with the alternative vagabond lifestyle that a certain crazed subculture choses to adopt. In fact, learning about this subculture made me feel as if the US was in some ways acultural. As in, the people are so diverse, that there is no natural culture. I mean, what does my mom and this mad traveling man have in common. What binds them together?
Then, I looked out upon the main bazaar again. A group of half-clothed Indian boys had just sprinted out of a side alley into the dirty streets without any shoes on. A speeding car swerved around these kids and almost collided into a cow.
On second thought, I can think of one thing that truly binds the United States together. We're not India.
Further down the street the road had flooded. I miscalculated the depth, thinking it was only a couple inches, only to find myself half-calf deep in a muddy, trash strewn puddle. As I pondered whether or not to turn back or keep going (both choices were the same distance), I glanced to my side and watched a young indian boy scoop water out of his water-submerged shop with a huge bucket and toss it back in the streets, as if his shop had just capsized in a tidal wave. With my ankles soaked in water that is probably going to give me STDs, I looked at him with a curious look. He looked back, and in broken English told me, "Come back 5 minutes! We give you real good pancake!"
Not knowing how to respond, I sloshed forward in search of a good cafe I could get breakfast. On my way there a dangerously skinny old lady carrying a crying baby came up to me and pleaded, "Please give me 10 Ruppees. My child so hungry." Worrying that if I gave her money I would become a magnent for the destitute beggars, I walked on not saying anything. She followed me, tapping on my shoulder begging, "Just 10 Ruppees. We need food." I felt her desperate glare sear into me as I kept silently strolling by. If she had known how many thousands of Ruppees a favorable transfer rate left me with, her desperate glare probably would have been an angry scowl.
After the poor old lady stopped following me I found a really nice rooftop cafe where I bought a huge breakfast for 2 US Dollars, sipped on some tea, and people watched on the bazaar below. I struck up a conversation with my waiter, a nice and quiet kid probably in his mid-teens. I asked him what he did for fun. He told me that he woke up every morning in the room upstairs and worked from 8 am to 11 pm every day, so he was too tired to have fun. Now, I barely know this kid. I don't know if he's been doing this his whole life, let alone whether or not he has dreams and aspirations that stretch past this restaurant, but learning of his predicament made me sad. Every single day on my blessed journey across foreign lands, he'll be working 15 hours a day. He'll probably work 15 hours a day for fmany days after my adventure is over.
Trying not to let my mind wander towards realms of shame and guilt, I struck up a conversation with a solo traveler sitting at the table next to me. He was in his mid-20s, and like me, from the United States. A few years back he spent a few months in Thailand. Instead of going back home at the end of his trip, he changed his ticket to Australia. After his bank account dwindled to $18, he got a job on a farm where he performed hard manual labor for 10 hours a day. After doing this for a while, he had enough money to a buy a plane ticket, so he came to India. He doesn't know what comes next.
There was a time when hearing this story would make me jump up and down and pull my hair out in an insane fervered excitement and wonder. Yet, as crazy as his story is, I've become acclimated with the alternative vagabond lifestyle that a certain crazed subculture choses to adopt. In fact, learning about this subculture made me feel as if the US was in some ways acultural. As in, the people are so diverse, that there is no natural culture. I mean, what does my mom and this mad traveling man have in common. What binds them together?
Then, I looked out upon the main bazaar again. A group of half-clothed Indian boys had just sprinted out of a side alley into the dirty streets without any shoes on. A speeding car swerved around these kids and almost collided into a cow.
On second thought, I can think of one thing that truly binds the United States together. We're not India.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
India has a lot of internet cafes
Due to my recent discovery of the density of internet cafes, I've decided to make a blog! That's all for now.
Are you upset that the first blog post doesn't actually describe what I've seen, what I've experienced, and what I'm feeling? ... Cry about it.
Are you upset that the first blog post doesn't actually describe what I've seen, what I've experienced, and what I'm feeling? ... Cry about it.
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