Leaving Nepal

Today I fly. It's hard to believe. This place has come to feel like home. The rhythm of each day predictable, comfortable, familiar. Yet I am poignantly aware that my loved ones are elsewhere and I am moving, albeit in the opposite direction, towards them. I am also aware that I am not ready to come home. There is something about being free of roles, expectations, responsibilities that is delicious; an experience I haven't had since I was in my 20's. That sense of possibility, of freedom to be myself, whatever that looks like today, is filling. I want to take that with me, even when I pick up the harness of work, even when I slip into "granny" status again. I've noticed that when I don't use a part of myself, after a while I lose familiarity with that part and feel that it is no longer accessible. If I am not in a sexual relationship, I must not be sexy. If I am not free of responsibility, I must not be carefree. If I am not doing something new and untried, I must not be adventurous. But all those parts exist regardless of my activities. And I don't want to lose them again.

When I was working in Napa, it was so easy just to fill up on the activities of the day. Work, maintenence of the home, of my body, some brief time for personal relationships, sapped my energy and left me with a sense of exhaustion and being trapped. And yet I loved my work, my relationships. So how do I pull those other newly rediscovered parts out as I pick up those routines? Ah yes, more to discover.

I am lucky. I walk through the streets of Nepal knowing that this afternoon I will be on a plane to Australia. I look at the people here, caught in poverty. There is little opportunity for the luxury of going away and exploring what means the most for them. They are grateful for hot water, should they have that, a full belly, healthy bodies. It is a gift, this affluence, health and education that lets me explore, travel both internal and external. I am lucky.

Stretching Heart

My heart is stretching. It's odd. At first I thought I was just having an emotional moment, or even a few of them. Makes perfect sense; on the road, away from friends and family. Yet it keeps happening. It happened again the other day and I finally asked Julie why I cry at unexpected times. "Your heart is stretching," she said. I thought about that. I have a big heart, I thought. I love easily, feel empathy for people. When I hear their stories, tears often come to my eyes. But this was different. It started when I said good-bye to His Holiness Sakya Trizim. When he looked at me and it felt as if he was looking straight into my heart; I wanted to sob. Well, I thought, he is an exceptional human being and maybe it was him, in his enlightened state that had this effect. But then, the other day, when we were participating in the tsok ceremony (a ceremony of thanksgiving and gift giving) at the monastery here, I took my envelope with money and kata (silk scarf) up to the empty chair with the Dalai Lama's picture on it. I looked at the picture and it felt as if the Dalai Lama was looking back at me and again, I wanted to sob. Tears ran down my cheeks. It was as if I had looked into the eyes of compassion and felt seen and loved. From a picture. I put down the envelope, stretched the kata across the front of the altar, composed myself and walked on. But then, a little bit later, Julie said some word of kindness and again, the tears came.

I have given the heart a lot of thought. It seems that there is a spectrum of love, caring, fear and anger that it can run through. There is a range of comfort that I maintain and when I get to the outer reaches in any one direction, tears or anger or fear will well up. Maybe the heart does and can stretch. Maybe there is a habituating to loving freely without fear that can be expanded. Julie describes love as shared mutual presence and well wishing. Not having another person do what you want them to do. It's an interesting idea, that love could be so simple. Just that, shared mutual presence and well wishing. I am going to practise that. And see. Who knows. Maybe my heart can keep stretching even when I'm not looking into the eyes of a realized human being. Maybe I can grow from the inside out as well as the outside in.

The "I don't want to" girl

I ran into the "I don't want to" girl yesterday. She refused to do what "big girl, responsible girl" said she would do. Bad girl said "I want to go shopping with my new friend and I don't want to listen to Julie recap the group and then transcribe this summary for those not here." And she ran out the door. Later, when others expressed disapproval, I couldn't really believe it myself. How had I been so irresponsible? I flashed on when I was four and refused to go indoors after a particularly delicious recess. How did four become so vocal?

As I sink deeper into this retreat, this whole trip, actually, there has been an alarming phenomenon. I continually run into myself. The trouble with traveling alone is that there is no one else to blame anything on. If I am crabby, irritable, self-absorbed, it is because I am crabby, irritable and self-absorbed. I am left with pulling apart the origins of said moods. My stories, my self talk, my judgements, my critic; they all bubble up in full view. And I am such a nice person, too. I have spent a life time of figuring out how to get along, be included and please others so that I can play too. What are all these selfish, bad ass folk doing in my psyche? I wish I could say I am truly shocked to meet them. Actually, we have had a long aquaintence, thanks to years of therapy, writing, talking with a loving sister and patient friends. Yet my first impulse continues to be RUN.

I am trying a new strategy; I am listening to them and trying out new stories in response to their insistent behavior. Maybe, if I can learn to incorporate their needs into my life instead of focusing so much on others. . . Well, you can see the challenge. So we lurch along, bad girl and me, like a new driver trying to figure out the clutch. Sometimes she drives, sometimes responsible girl drives. Sometimes it feels like no one is driving. But, as I am back in Nepal, we all honk the horn.

Back in Nepal

It's been a wild and woolly ride, these last ten days. What surprised me the most, was saying goodbye to His Holiness. Now this is a man whom I'd met once when we first arrived in a private meeting with Tony, who knows him well, Emily, William and myself. He was immediately human, talking with Tony about his health, his concerns about the health of his monks (Tony is an MD) etc. There was all the usual catching up about family, what was to come in the next few weeks at the monastery. I listened. Smiled. Spoke minimally. The next two days I sat in a temple with a few hundred monks and received two empowerments. Then a week later, we went to say goodbye. And this is the odd thing. I felt my heart open to this man. I wanted to cry. I felt bereft I couldn't understand it. He gently took my hand, told me that he'd heard that when people go to Australia, they fall in love. I think he meant to say that they fall in love with Australia but who am I to argue. I told him I was looking forward to it. And then he went back to his preparation for that evening's teaching and my heart ached. So Tony and Emily and William and I packed up our things, journeyed on to visit two other monasteries, meet new monks, and enjoy each other's company.

When I returned to Nepal, I noticed a difference. The only time I've experienced this is in the first rush of new love, when I've felt loved and beautiful and certain that regardless of what the world might bring my way, I was wanted in a most thorough and seen way. I felt taller, stronger, more graceful as if I had a secret joy inside that was private.

For the next eight days I will be sitting with Julie in a small group of 19 of us. It will entail body work, emotional work and the mystery that is this transmission business. I am grateful for the gift of time and resources to explore this. I am amazed at the potential of life, that at 59, my curiousity and insistence that life can be more has brought me here. It is a gift.

India

I've been traveling in India for the last five days. I flew to Delhi on Thursday and then met friends from Australia, Tony, Emily and William traveling with them up to Durhadun for six days of empowerment from His Holiness Sakya Trizin. It has been a time of wide stimulation. India is a visual, olfactory, auditory and sensual overload. And then there are the hours of sitting in the temple while His Holiness reads the empowerments that he has been integrating since 3AM and some twelve hours later is sharing with us. The temple is full of some 100 plus monks chanting, blowing horns, having tea, chanting and then sitting quietly while His Holiness chants. Outside there are 100 plus more Tibetans doing the same. And then there are the sensations all mixed together. The fatique of sitting for four hours, the tingling in my brain that makes me wonder what is happening, the dreams at night that are unique--images that I have not ever had before, images of power. So I wanted to write to let you know where I was and will write more when I can, when things have settled and Emily isn't waiting patiently for me to finish so we can walk the mile back to the guest house, past the dogs, monkeys, watching out for the motorcycles, tiny buses that run on LP gas, cars, trucks and tractors. It is India and it is so loud in every sense. The saris of the women are rich in color, the garbage that lines the roads, the cows and pigs that root through it, the monkeys leaping among the trees, they all shout to be seen, heard, and smelt.

I'm sorry if this is chaotic. But then it is India.

Continuous praying

Yesterday I went to a temple built around caves that lamas have been using since ancient times. The temple was built in the 14th century, I believe, not so new itself. As I climbed around the temple, it is up many stairways that look more like concrete ladders than stairs, I came across a small courtyard, maybe 10 feet by 15 feet. In the center was a small altar and around it were buildings, each one room deep. One side of the square wasn't a building but rather a cave that was still being used. As I stepped inside, I discovered that the cave went back maybe five feet, with a width of about eight feet. Inside was another altar with candles, a statue of Buddha and two monks who were praying. The monks were sitting on the floor by the door with strips of paper on a small stool in front of them. The paper had prayers written on them that the monks were continuously reading, turning one over and reading the next as they intoned the prayers in quiet, deep voices. I felt awkward, walking past them to get to the altar but they seemed undisturbed. After standing quietly for a bit, letting their voices weave around me, letting my eyes accustom to the dim light, taking in the statue of Buddha barely discernable from age, candle drippings and red wax or clay that is put on it, I found myself relaxing. This is their life. No need to rush or apologize. They do this every day, all day. People, tourists, pilgrims come and go. They sit and read the prayers. The older monk's eyes never left his prayers; the younger monk looked directly into my eyes after I stepped back out and turned to bow. I found myself thanking him. It's hard to explain the gratitude I felt. As I stumble about, walking fast sometimes, slowly others, and some days hardly moving, these men are praying. They pray for all sentient beings. They pray for peace in the world. They pray for enlightenment in our souls. They sit on the stone floor, in the mouth of the cave so they can read their prayers, wrapped in cotton cloth robes and intone truth, love, and generosity of spirit.

I went to numerous temples yesterday, some Buddhist, some Hindu. The Buddhists and Hindus often share a temple, each honoring the other's gods. The god of creation, the god of destruction, the god of protection. My guide told me that Hindus have 36 gods in all, the three major ones and their offspring, the lesser ones. They pray to them all. I asked my guide if he was Hindu. Yes, he said. I pray to all the gods, Hindu and Buddhist, but, he acknowledged, whatever you are born, that is what you truly are. What a thought; that religion, like family, is so embedded in your bones that no matter what happens to you, that root never fades. It made me think that if you're not born Hindu or Buddhist, you can never truly be one. Maybe intellectually, maybe emotionally, but not bone deep, not returning to this rhythm of adoration that speaks of home, of gods, of protection. Unless, of course, in another life, you knew this way and this undeniable song that sings through your bones, your memory, calls you home.

Today it rains, as it did yesterday, and I stay in my monastery. Life's routine reasserts; email, blog, phone calls, writing, reading, walking, chatting with new friends. But that image, of those two monks in the cave comes with me, like a low throb barely discernable. Somewhere, there are monks, more than these two, spread throughout the world, praying to different and similar gods, asking for peace, asking for loving kindness, asking for enlightenment for all sentient beings. Maybe I don't have to understand it, maybe I can just lean into that chant, that hum that throbs below the din of everyday life and rest.

Traveling

I've been thinking about why we travel, why I travel. There are lots of reasons on the surface; see exotic places, meet people with different cultural backgrounds, and the last, discover ourselves. That last one, discovering me, is what I have been aware of the most these last few days.



I heard a story a long time ago, about fleas. Apparently, fleas can jump about three feet high, which explains a lot. Anyway, according to this story, if you put fleas in a mason jar and secure the lid, fairly quickly, fleas will only jump slightly less than the lid so that they don't keep hitting their flea brains on it. The spooky part is, after some time (and I apologize for not knowing the data-how long exactly) if you take the lid off the jar, the fleas won't jump out but will continue to jump just a little less than where the lid once was.



I feel a bit like the flea that discovered the lid was gone. I am nervous. All this potential jumping, all this potential freedom. If I am not a worker, not a mom, grandmother, who am I? If I am not being productive (and here I tip my hat to my mother) what do I do that matters and what makes it matter?



The other day I was talking with Tamdrin about the mala, or the Buddhist rosary that monks wear on their arms and Buddhists use to count the repitition of mantras to insure that the mantra is said 108 times or multiples of 108. I told him I wanted to buy one and he told me that if I did, I would have to decide which mantra I would say. He said there are three mantras, one that asks for my awakening, the second that asks for the awakening of myself and those I bring with me and the third, that requests awakening for everyone else so that they don't return to this world of suffering but which says that I will stay, helping, until everyone is free. That gave me pause. If I am free to jump out, the first thought is to jump. The next thought is that I want everyone I know and love to jump with me. But the third, hang out until everyone jumps? It gave me pause.

In that I am not sure I have figured out how to jump out, I am still mulling this question. It raises so many questions. What does help others, how do I communicate, assuming I even know, what will make things better? Maybe life is a series of jars, each a bit bigger than the last. As I contemplate jumping out of old roles and expanding who I am, I am, according to the Buddhists, still in the world of suffering. But then again, maybe to make big jumps, one must start with small ones.

So, travel makes me aware that the lid is off, always has been, or at least has been for longer than I realized. Jumping higher is scary, exhilerating, exhausting, invigorating.

I suppose, being in Nepal, I should beep. I am jumping.

Prostrating yourself to enlightenment

Yesterday Tamdrin told me about pilgrims who spend three years traveling from eastern Tibet to Lasa. Their mode of transportation is prostrations. They wear knee pads and hand pads, the hand pads are made of wood and look like sanding blocks. A prostration consists of squatting down, then putting your hands on the ground in front of you and pushing forward until you are prone on the ground, arms extended. Then you push yourself back up, once standing, you slap your hands together, the blocks of wood making a loud, loud smack, and then do it again. It is a slow way to travel. There are other things devotees do. They will spend 2-3 months saying 1 million repititions of a mantra. Not so hard, Tamdrin told me. If you just do 2,000 a day, it goes pretty quick. All the monks do this, some more than once.

As I listened, I thought there is no way I would want to do any of these things. It brought forward to me how different I am from these monks, whose lives are devoted to awakening.
And yet I too, feel the need to grow, explore just how much stretch life has, how much joy and love can be felt, shared, sent out to others. Somehow, prostrations don't tempt me though, as the path.

I find myself grateful for my teachers, Julie Henderson and Michael Macklin. People who have also pushed to find ways to grow.

So I hold out to the truth that life is seldom all or nothing. Like water running down hill, a path emerges if the drive to find it exists. So I poke along, looking, listening, feeling my way through this plethora of choices. Slow business, this, and yet there is a kind of peace in this slow moving, sometimes sideways, sometimes stalling, sometimes a free fall into a new space. So maybe this is my form of prostration, this slow path of moving. Who knew?