October 5th 2010

I arrived yesterday. All through the 25 hours of flight I was complaining and promising myself that I would not do this again, It's too difficult. I'm too old. But after I arrived, I found myself just smiling at all of it; the noise, the heat, the smells, the bouncing around ruts in the road, honking at the other cars. Ah yes, I'm back. It is glorious.

People here have god/gods woven into their lives. I passed the shrines to this goddess or that god as I drove through the streets. Today I spent two hours at the artist's home who paints tangkas as he spoke with us about this or that god or goddess, showing us the painting, looking up the mantras, talking of gods, talking of prayer, talking of lives changed and moving within this world of finding connection to the holy. But the holy is not some quiet, distant kindness but gods of passion with their consorts twined to them, multiple heads, arms legs thrashing about holding skulls, knives dancing on demons. Passion. It is full of passion.

It is so poor here. What we take for granted, paved streets, cleanliness, intelligent medical care are all distant dreams here. And yet the vibrancy of it all, the pure thrumming humming throb of life is so loud that I am humbled.

It is a gift, this travel. It pulls me into it; I shed skin after skin of assumption about what is true, real, necessary. And I feel that connection, that pull of being near, surrounded even, by great souls that prod me into being more than I thought ever possible.

It is a gift.