Land of Oz

Oz has a familiar air to it; as if I am at home. And yet there are such differences. Some of the birds here make truly alarming sounds, like a small child being tortured. It is spring; the jackaranda trees have gone mad with purple, painting it everywhere and dripping it onto the streets. The story I heard was that the jackaranda are native to South America and were brought over. Later, an OB nurse fell in love with them and gave a baby tree to each of her new mothers. They are planted everywhere.

I walk for hours a day, downtown, to the Rocks, where the first settlers lived, to the opera house, to the botanical park. I have been on a short ferry ride cool ocean breeze licking my face and plan to take the longer, two hour ride around the harbor when I get back from this retreat.

But the thing that keeps sneaking up on me is joy. It jumps me as I am walking, trying to figure out which way the cars will be coming from, trying to figure out exactly where I might be going as I meander about. It is such a strong impulse, this joy, like a sudden buggle blow billowing out into the quiet, filling my mind. For so long I felt I had messed up my life in some serious ways, choices made that if only. . . Things might have been so different for my children, for me. Guilt and worry and what if's. This joy rips that to shreds. It shouts of the wonder of this moment, of the strength that evolved through all that I have experienced. It whispers of aspects of my self that would never have bloomed had I lived the life my mother painted; safely married to a devoted, wealthy husband who would tenderly care for me and our children. And I find myself laughing outloud, shaking my head and letting my imaginary long hair blow free (let's hear it for another bad, inch long hair all over my head haircut). I am well and truly alive. Fearful sometimes, lost sometimes but such adventure just here, just around the corner. It is a gift; the pearl from years of struggle. I live. I laugh. I learn. And I love it all.

Back to the western world

My last morning in Kathmandu, I walked the fifteen minutes to the stoupa. I walked past the new mother bathing her two to three month old baby on her cement front stoop as she let him have some sun. We exchanged the same smile we'd been exchanging every time I pass by and see them, the smile of awe and joy. I passed the men sitting on their front stoops sewing, the men and boys playing the same game of flipping a chip with their fingers across a board, past the men hammering copper, brass and silver pieces, past the cows, the goats, the dogs, over the mounds of dirt that surround the men digging up the street (with shovels and picks) and putting it back together again. They are preparing to pave it. I walk all the while dodging bicyclers, motorcycles and the occasional truck as the street is blocked off due to the working men. The barriers are large bamboo poles tied with nylon rope and a few cloth flags under which scoot pedestrians, bicyclers, cows and dogs. I walk avoiding the mud, the cow pies, garbage that lines the streets, the dog poop, the beggars (there are two to three regulars on this walk). It is my last day so I give the old woman with the blind husband(?) she leads around 100 rupees. I tell her, even though I know she won't know the words, that today is my last day. Usually I give her 20 rupees when I see her, ($.25) which delights her so today, she knows something is different and we look into each others eyes wordlessly for a long time before I hold my hands together in prayer and tell her goodbye and Nameste. My eyes fill with tears. I give the emaciated man with one foot who sits in a tortuous position on the ground 100 rupees as well. Usually I ignore him. My old woman and her blind husband are my charity and the rest, well it was too overwhelming. But today, I am out early as is he, and for some reason, maybe because it is my last day, we look into each others eyes and I have to offer some part of me in response to the part of him that is open for the whole world to see. As I give him the bills, he too looks deep into my eyes and we hold that look for some time before I say Nameste and he says the same back to me. Quietly, softly, and then I walk on.

I left the monastery at 2PM, flew to Delhi, flew out of Delhi at 11PM to Kuala Lampur, Malaysia, two hours later, flew the last 8 hours to Sydney, arriving 8PM the next day. And it is another world. The streets are paved. Traffic flows in an orderly fashion, albeit on the wrong side of the street--I mean on the left side of the street. There is no honking. There are traffic lights. There is a speed limit. The traffic is light, moves easily. And this morning, I took a long, hot shower. I love it. I love consistent electricity. I love a computer that works quickly and reliably. I love air that is clean and doesn't hurt my throat and lungs.

And yet, my heart will hold Nepal.

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.