Full Circle

His Holiness the XVII Karmapa has come to Seattle, my home. Tomorrow he returns to India.

It's been a year since I've come home from my trip to India to see His Holiness. Heartbreak. Breakdown. Journey. Longing. Shadows. Dreams.

In the past year I've begun the journey of processing my shadow, the place of wounds, fears, the repressed subconscious. The process of embracing all that my conscious mind does not wish to acknowledge that is me, that is of me. The process of dying and being reborn. A process of dreams and journey.

May 7, 2004. My first dream with the Karmapa. He shows me how to make a death soup for dream interpretation.

His Holiness imparts a family treasure, the mantra Om Mani Padme Hum. Passed down from his grandmother to his mother and from his mother to him. And from him to the audience in Seattle. Delivered by the empowerement of Chenrezig (Avalokiteshvara), the bodhisattva of compassion.

Tomorrow I leave for India, He says. Even though my physical body is not here, I am always with you.

Full Coffers

In one certain aspect of giving, the coffers are full and the capacity has been reached. The object of generocity that has been exhausted is the friendship with Jane, the lay nun.

I once knew an activist in Seattle who was of South Asian descent. She would go to bars in white supremacist areas and engage in conversations with white supremacists to learn about the inner workings of militantly racist minds. I have no doubt she was putting her life in danger by doing so. Coming to Nepal with Jane was my version of what the South Asian activist did, but minus the life threatening part. My intention also differed. For me it was an exercise in patience and compassion and putting my Buddhist practice into practice. That or I'm really stupid.

I'm nearing the end of my time in Nepal and luckily we are going in our separate directions. Am I sorry I did it? No. She still is a very generous person and I wouldn't have gotten to know Kathmandu or attended so many teachings without her. Would I do something like this again with her or someone like her? Hell no. Being with Jane was a good exercise in breathing it through and not once did I lose it.

As my time in Nepal comes to an end, so does a chapter in a short friendship. And next resumes the chapter on much cherished alone time.

The Gift of Giving

So now I'm at my last teaching before leaving Kathmandu. From the Karmapa I received the oral transmission for the ngondro, the preliminary practice, but not the instructions for actually doing it. It just so happened that I lucked out again because a monastery is offering a teaching on ngondro instruction.

I am at Jamgon Kongtrul Lobrang, a beautiful Kagyu monastery perched on a hill. On the drive up, the monastery's prayer hall would stand out boldly and then disappear as the cab followed the curves and bends of the windy road up the hill.

The most striking structure is the prayer hall that is painted in hues of purple and red. The wall that surrounds the huge entrance doors is covered with paintings of various deities. Pujas start early in the morning and monks are blowing horns that accompany the pujas into the night, even after the pujas have ended.

In front of the prayer hall is a stone tiled square, but in the shape of a circle. From it are stairs and walkways that lead to other buildings like the monks' dormitories (they call them hostels), the office and a smaller prayer hall with a stupa inside. The grounds are beautifully landscaped with flower gardens that surround the prayer hall buildings.

Last night was my first evening at the monastery and after finishing dinner, I enjoyed a moment alone at the edge of the square under an almost full moon. The days are getting hotter and hotter and being outside after it gets dark is much more comfortable.

Yesterday's teaching was on the practice of the mandala offering. One of the elements of this practice is either giving actual physical objects and/or visualizing giving objects. In this practice one is to generate a sincere feeling of offering abundance, the most precious of objects free of any attachment.

Attending all these teachings and learning about all these rituals, there's a lot to do in Tibetan Buddhism. It's not solely meditating. In that way it's a lot like being Catholic - and I thought I was getting away from being Catholic by converting.

During the lama's teaching about giving and generosity, I thought of my mother. She was a wonderful example of giving. One year I bought her a Thai orchid bouquet for mother's day - and it wasn't cheap. I asked her shortly after mother's day if she liked the bouquet and she said she gave it as an offering to the altar at church. She was always giving away her best as offerings. Her best roses out of her garden were always given as church offerings.

Her generosity went beyond church offerings too. She freely gave away things - clothes, financial help - without any attachment. In my mother's generosity there was also unbending devotion and faith - also points emphasized in the Buddhist teachings I've attended. Maybe it's all a conspiracy to make me Catholic again.

For much of my life I've focused on how I didn't want to be like my mother. There were a lot of painful issues that were unfortunately never acknowledged or healed. As a result I could only see through unresolved anger and couldn't see how in many ways my mother was a shining example, whether Catholic or Buddhist.

I have known that the painful side of my relationship with my mother is my teacher, but haven't had the capacity to accept it. The teaching on generosity opened the door for me to accept that, then and now, good and bad, my mother is my teacher and to learn from it.

The flip side to my mother's devotion is that she forced Catholicism onto me that had the affect of turning me away from it. My mother may not have made me a good Catholic, but she's making me a good Buddhist. And in the end, I think she's proud.

Perfect Timing

My timing for being in Kathmandu is lucky. Since the cremation, it's really been teaching, after teaching, after teaching - thus the lag in my blog posting. Jane keeps on saying that I'm lucky and have good karma because while I've been here, one lama who never gives teachings has given teachings twice, and other very high lamas have given teachings that I've attended as well. It feels like one door after another opening up for me.

One consistent lesson I've heard is how fortunate it is to be within earshot of the dharma much less to have the time to practice it. So I better get on cashing in my fortune.

Holy Stupas, Batman

After arriving in Boudha I made my way to the guesthouse where Jane and I would share a room, took a shower, ate a quick breakfast, and then I was off to Chogye Trichen Rinpoche's cremation.

Jane's purpose for being in Kathmandu was to attend the cremation, so naturally I followed along. Tibetan Buddhism is confusing because there are divisions of a topic, any topic - truth, hell realms, methods - and within those divisions there are subdivisions, and within those subdivisions there are more subdivisions and so on. It never seems to end. So I'll try to break this down as simply as possible.

There are four main schools of Tibetan Buddhism: Nyingma, Sakya, Gelug, and Kagyu. The Dalai Lama is the head of the Gelug school and the Karmapa of the Kagyu. The Sakya school has three lineages: Sakya, Tsarpa, and Ngarpa. Chogye Trichen Rinpoche was the head of the Tsarpa lineage. Being a highly revered and renowned master and lineage head, his passing and cremation are a huge, huge deal.

Rinpoche's cremation was held at his monastary in Boudha. To attend, a special pass was required and luckily Jane was able to score one for me. A madhouse amount of people were in attendance.

A special cremation stupa was erected in the middle of a square grass lawn. When it came time for the ceremony to start, a procession of monks blowing horns walked in followed by all the heads of the Sakya lineages and the head of the entire school of Sakya, His Holiness Sakya Trizin. Another reason the cremation is special is that it brought all the lineage heads together at one time.

After the parties processed in, each lineage head, his Holiness Sakya Trizin, and his oldest son, the heir to the Sakya throne all took their seats at thrones situated in each of the four directions, each on one side of the square lawn. From their, the pujas began accompanied by horns, drums, and cymbals at certain points. Each respective lama had been leading a puja since the death of Chogye Trichen Rinpoche.

The lineage heads then did kora around the cremation stupa and the body of Chogye Trichen Rinpoche, enclosed in a glass case sitting in meditation posture and wrapped in cloth, was carried out upon the shoulders of each Sakya lineage head. Rinpoche's body was then removed from the glass case and placed inside the stupa for the cremation.

The pujas continued during the entire ceremony. It was fascinating to hear the chanting and watch the beautiful mudras that accompanied each puja. During the pujas, objects that seemed to be branches, grains, oil, and others I couldn't identify were brought on platters to each lineage head. While still reciting the puja, the lineage head would then place the objects on another platter and then the contents of the platter were tossed into the cremation stupa. Sometimes a forceful stream of fire would come out of the top of the stupa and many people in attendance claimed to see different colors within the fire that came out of the stupa.

A few hours into the ceremony, I was starting to nod off due to the long busride and my recent arrival. I ended up leaving early. Even though I didn't stay for the entire cremation, it was quite an honor to attend and witness such a ritual. Chogye Trichen Rinpoche was truly loved as evident from all the Tibetans lined up outside of his monastery hoping to attend his cremation, to his western students who remember him and his teachings very fondly, and to other lamas who pay homage to him in their teachings that I've attended. Another testament to his mastery is how long Rinpoche stayed in samadhi, mind concentration meditation. Rinpoche remained in Samadhi for fourteen days, the length of which he determined prior to his passing, a capacity that only great masters have.

Full Moon Over Kathmandu

At 7:00 AM the bus arrived at it's final destination, nearby the entrance gate of the stupa in Boudhanath (Boudha for short). The Boudhanath stupa is the largest stupa in the world and at around 5:00 PM, many Tibetans and other Buddhists alike do kora, circumambulate the stupa.

The best way for me to describe the area around the stupa is like a piazza, and rather than a church, there's the stupa. The stupa is surrounded by a red cobblestone walkway and on the border of the walkway, the circular area is lined with guesthouses, restaurants and shops that sell different kinds of dharma wares - statues, thangkas, malas, and more. Boudha has anything and everything related to Tibetan Buddhism.

Boudha is saturated with Tibetan Buddhist monasteries, twenty-eight in fact. There are also many shedras, schools for learning Tibetan Buddhist philosophy and language, for westerners. Kathmandu is a dharma rich city for sure. There are so many resources here and so many teachings by respected masters available that I feel like I've accumulated good merit toward my karma by just being here.

The day that I arrived in Kathmandu was the first day of the full moon. That evening there were many carts full of lit butterlamps to offer at the stupa. The full moon also lit the final hours of an auspicious day that hosted the cremation of a great Buddhist master - Chogye Trichen Rinpoche.

Next Stop... Kathmandu

Toward the end of the Karmapa's teaching in Tilokpur, Jane had been trying to convince me to come to Nepal with her, or to meet her there. Two days later I was packed up and in New Delhi. I gave up my apartment and let the owners know that I would be gone for a few months. Two days after arriving in Delhi, I was on a two-day bus to Kathmandu.

I was traveling with a monk friend of Jane's. We thought we were going to ride on the comfortable bus to Kathmandu, the ABC bus. We walked up to the ABC bus and presented our tickets to the ticket collector. He pointed out the name of the bus company printed on our tickets and directed us to the neighboring bus parked nearby. I looked back at the roomy, comfortable looking seats on the ABC bus as we made our way to the other one. I'm not sure what happened, but the travel agent for some reason put us on a different bus even though we specifically said we wanted ABC.

Our bus was not so comfortable. The seats were quite hard, but luckily I was able to sleep. The bus ride was a straight thirty-six hour drive with meal stops two times a day and bathroom stops. I'm not talking literal bathrooms, either. I'm talking find a good bush and squat on the side of the road. Hand sanitizer has been my best friend on this trip so far.

The drive through Nepal was so charming. We would pass rice terraces and fields of flowers with thatched roof adobe houses. Scene after scene was like this and such a joy to take in. There were also curvy mountain passes that would lead back into fields and rice terraces with the charming houses. As we came within the final hours of arriving in Kathmandu, I looked forward to what my stay in Nepal had in store for me and to giving my ass a break from the rock hard seat.

Refuge

I didn't think I was going to go, but did. I had known for a while that the Karmapa was going to give a teaching in Tilokpur, a village an hour and a half away from McLeod at a Kagyu nunnery. I wasn't going to go because of the cost. The teaching was a fundraiser for the nunnery and the cost for staying at the nunnery guesthouse was $200-$300 U.S. for all five days.

I called the nunnery a few days before the teaching started to see if there were cheaper options and it turned out that there were in village houses. Those options ended up being all taken by the time I arrived at the teaching and luckily for me Jane was attending the teachings too, so we shared a cab each day.

What a contrast to his public audiences. I found the Karmapa to come off as serious and intense, but underneath he is very soft and charmingly funny. From him I learned the Thirty-Seven Practices of the Bodisattva. I also got to take refuge, which makes me officially Buddhist, took the Bodisattva Vow, AND received the oral transmission for the Ngondro. To receive all of these in one teaching, much less one day is uncommon. The ngondro is the preliminary practice that consists of visual meditation and devotion practices, so once I receive the instruction, I can begin. The Karmapa did not give the instruction for the ngondro, so that I will have to seek out elsewhere.

This teaching turned out to be very auspicious. It set the foundation for me to begin my Buddhist practice and revealed the context for my journey, to plant myself in the dharma.

The Most Unlikely of Friends

Shortly after arriving in Dharamsala, I met Jane, a New Yorker and lay nun who has been living in India for the last few years. Jane wears robes, and has taken vows, but she is not a fully ordained nun. In fact, in her school of Tibetan Buddhism, there is no such thing as a fully ordained nun, meaning the full set of vows that are available for monks are not available to her as a woman. Being that she can marry if she wants. I call her a lay nun for lack of better words.

Jane is a character. A tiny middle aged woman who looks like a buddhist nun shaved head and all, but swears like a motherfucker and smokes (in secret). And she comes with a New York accent.

Being with her while she bargains for taxi and rickshaw rates is a little stressful and embarrassing. If a rickshaw or taxi wala quotes her a tourist price , she yells at them telling them to fuck off or to go fuck themselves. God forbid they try to survive in a third world country by quoting tourists a higher price. After all, that's what anyone remotely involved in the tourist industry does in India. That's India. Bargaining is the name of the game here and she's a good bargainer, so I'm a little perplexed why she gets so vulgarly bent out of shape time and time again about something that is so routine, a daily fact. Yea, they do try to take advantage of tourists and I wish she'd get over it, especially when she successfully bargains and gets the local price.

Her upper middle class upbringing and privilege were easy to peg. In Dharamsala she had her Tibetan housekeeper to do her dishes and laundry and her Indian driver whom she barked orders at probably very much like she did her colored servants growing up. And sure enough I learned that she had a governess and black cook as a child. The only person I haven't seen her treat like a subordinate is another white woman who also has money and very, very high Tibetan lamas - people with high social rank and status. She knows better than to pull that higher rank and subordinate shit with me. I won’t put up with it.

Two weeks or so after arriving in Dharamsala, I got my worst case yet of diarrhea. One of my older sisters had asked me previously in an email if I had lost weight in India. Well, with this case of diarrhea I can confidently say yes and being that this was my third bout, I've been able to keep the weight off.

Jane generously went to the chemist for me on her own accord and sent medicine up to me via her cab driver. Another thing about Jane is that she takes the liberty of sharing people's medical conditions with others. Upon meeting her friends for the first time, they already knew that I was recovering from a bad case of diarrhea and were expressing their sympathy.

Traveling, especially around the context of the dharma, has created the most unlikely friendships. Jane would never be my friend in the U.S. We come from different class and race backgrounds, and have different ways of being in foreign places. I prefer to learn as much of the local language before I travel somewhere and act in accordance to the local culture and customs. Jane expects people to adapt to her, a centrism that gives Americans bad reputations.

Jane is also one of the most generous people I know. When I was sick, there was no hesitation in her generosity and action in helping me get better. As someone who wants to plug into learning about Tibetan Buddhism and developing a practice, she has been an invaluable resource who is so willing to help me make connections. A wealth of information she is. Jane also exercises her generosity by financially sponsoring monks and monasteries and finding sponsors for monks.

Maybe it's the karma, the situation, or my own growth, but I'm learning to take the good with the bad, and more importantly to see beyond what is offensive (we'll see how long that can last with Jane though). And as a result, I've made a friend, even if only for this leg of my travels. Someone who is loyal to those whom she loves, and someone in the end who has a good heart.

Tibet's Occupation: A Tragic Story

So far, I've had the opportunity to watch two documentaries about China's invasion and occupation of Tibet: Escaping Tibet and Cry of the Snow Lion. If you can get your hands on them, please watch.

With both films, it was incredibly hard to fight back the tears while watching them. To give some context, Tibet was once a mighty military force whose conquers reached as far as Central Asia. The king at the time then converted to Buddhism, disbanded the military, and since then the country has been devoted to non-violence and peace. Monasteries in Tibet were institutions of higher learning, like libraries and universities are, as well as being pillars of spiritual knowledge and practice. The entire country was devoted to spiritual enlightenment. Was it perfect? No. A hierarchical class structure left an aristocracy and monasteries benefiting from the labors of peasants who remained poor. Yet, ninety percent of the country's wealth was devoted to monastic education, which if one were to compare, is what the U.S. spends on its military budget. It would be similar to the U.S. diverting it's military budget and applying it to education instead.

Since the Chinese invasion of Tibet 1.2 million Tibetans have died, that's one out of every six Tibetans dead. A campaign of genocide is in full effect while Chinese settlers are given incentives to immigrate to Tibet. In the capitol city of Lhasa, traditional Tibetan homes have been demolished to make way for housing settlements for Chinese settlers. Tibetans are being displaced from their homes and Chinese is the official language of occupied Tibet. Not all Tibetans speak Chinese and Tibetans are institutionally excluded from jobs, so many are forced into poverty on top of being displaced. The Chinese population is quickly outnumbering the native Tibetan. This is a classic case of colonization that has been played out with Native Americans in the U.S. and Canada and many other formerly colonized countries in the third world.

Since the occupation, thousands of monasteries and nunneries have been destroyed and religious freedom stifled. The Dalai Lama is labeled a splittist and it is illegal to own his picture. Many monks and nuns must undergo re-education camps where they are forced to denouce the Dalai Lama, which completely violates their vows. Otherwise they face torture. Monks and nuns are very active in the resistance movement, staging protests demanding a free Tibet or publishing literature that accurately documents accounts of the Chinese occupation. Such acts of dissent are met swiftly with military force resulting in death and/or torture. Lhasa is covered with surveillance cameras and high sensitivity microphones to spy on any "dissenting" activity.

The accounts of torture are horrific. Both films had accounts of monks and nuns who had been imprisoned for 22, 28, 33 years and others who had been imprisoned for less. There were many accounts of prisoners being beaten and denied medical care and food. Some were released close to death so the Chinese could avoid the embarrassment of a death on their hands. Many prisoners were tortured to death and then made to look like a suicide. One monk was imprisoned for 33 years and for some time he was hung by his hands so he can no longer extend his arms properly or fully. He was able to smuggle torture instruments used on him out of Tibet. They included electric cattle prods, handcuffs and other electro-shock instruments. One nun's account of torture included being shocked with an electric cattle prod in her vagina. The effect of being shocked with this instrument is being knocked unconscious. The stories go on and on and get worse and worse. One touching account is of a woman who was imprisoned for 28 years where many of her friends died. While in jail she collected a piece of each of her friends' clothing who died and made a quilt in honor and remembrance of them. So she would never forget their faces she said.

With all these accounts, these Tibetans have such compassion for their torturers absent of any hate. That's how evolved Tibet is. And how brave these survivors and resisters are to continue telling their stories. Some readers may already be familiar with what I've written and for those not, while I have the forum of this blog, I have the responsibility to share this information.

Tenzin, the Tibetan, has offered to take me to Tibet. I refuse. I'd rather visit a free and sovereign Tibet. It may not be during this lifetime AND it is fully possible for the sovereign nation of Tibet to be free during my lifetime. I hope so. In the meantime, the grief I feel for Tibet during it's occupation would be too much for me to witness in person.

A Red String: My First Audience with the Karmapa

The purpose of my trip to India is to see His Holiness XVII Karmapa, the supreme head of the Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. While I was in Southern India, he was giving teachings in Sarnath, Varanasi, with the Dalai Lama, where the Buddha gave his first teaching after attaining enlightenment. It turned out that the day he returned to Dharamsala was the same day that I arrived in Dharamsala. It turned out that airfare for my flight from Chennai to Delhi went down right around the time that the Karmapa was returning home. A funny coincidence or not. Who knows.

A week after being in McLeod, I went to the Karmapa's first public audience since his return. Tenzin, the Tibetan, accompanied me to the Karmapa's temporary residence, Gyuto Tantric University, where the audiences are held. Gyuto Gompa is a beautiful monastery in the lower Dharamsala area with the stunning backdrop of mountains.

To attend the audience, Tibetans and foreigners must register and then go through security before they can await His Holiness in the main temple. Everyone also has a kata, a white scarf, to give to His Holiness. We all waited for a half hour or so and then the moment arrived, His Holiness came into the main temple. Everyone bowed and then the order of events was as follows:

Everyone lined up. People had their kata and money in hand. His Holiness was accompanied by several monks and security. First there was a monk to whom the kata was given. The monk then put the kata back around the person's neck. Then came the Karmapa who stands behind a table. People humbly placed money on the table and the Karmapa doled out a red string. He didn't look at anyone directly. Some asked the Karmapa for blessing. The money isn't a requirement, it's a voluntary donation. Afterward, each person was directed to the temple exit and left the temple. For me it was very short, and very impersonal. I felt very discouraged and thought my whole context for being in India was shot. I came here from the guidance of some dreams and ended up feeling no connection to His Holiness.

I went again to his next public audience a few weeks later. To prepare myself energetically, I did compassion meditation and chanting, especially toward myself. I don't want a negative thought further degenerating my karma. This time, I figured fuck it. If there's no connection to the Karmapa, the compassion meditation is really all that counts and if he inpires me to do it, then that's what's important. This time I had no attachment to hope, outcome, or any connection. For my second public audience, it was the exact same thing as the first time. This time I was fine with it all. No attachment. That evening I could feel the Karmapa all around me.

I emailed a wise friend back home about these accounts and she generously gave me a very wise question in return to contemplate: What is the Karmapa teaching me by giving me a red string?

My New Home

A few weeks ago, I moved into my new home, an apartment in McLeod Ganj. I love it. It has a full kitchen (which in this area does not include a fridge) and attached bathroom with hot water. It's VERY clean and located further up a road in McLeod that's away from the hustle and bustle of town. It's owned by a Tibetan couple who are expecting their first child shortly. They take good care of me and feed me every now and then with delicious momos, pancakes, and porridge.

After I do my morning meditation and hygiene ritual, I open the door and drapes to let in the sunshine. Between 8:00 and 9:00 or so the sun shines directly through my door and whenever I'm home, I leave it open to warm up my room and enjoy the beautiful view. After I cook breakfast, I enjoy eating it in the sun on my apartment floor balcony walkway. Since my apartment is higher up, I have a beautiful view of the mountains and the town below, especially from the rooftop.

When I first moved in, the husband owner gave me some cautionary advise: when I go to the bathroom, shut my apartment door because the monkeys might come in and take something. And if I'm in the apartment while I have the door open, have a stick handy to chase them away. Monkeys are a problem in this area and they get blamed for everything. I understand now why everyone here has a pet dog - because of the monkeys. The wife owner of my place has a slingshot with an arsenal of rocks that she shoots at monkeys who get too close as do many people in the surrounding apartments.

When I first moved in, the owners gave me a bowl, plate, one set of silverware, a pot and a pan. That day I went to the market in lower Dharamsala to complete my kitchen. My Hindi teacher in Bellevue would be proud of the full Indian kitchen I've set up. I'm damn proud of it too. My kitchen is equipped with a pressure cooker, belen and chakla (a short wooden platform and rolling pin for making roti/chapati), roti pan, a dabba masala (Indian mult-spice container), and a variety of stainless steel containers and plates. I love my heavy bottomed pot for deep frying, something I always wanted in the States but was reluctant to buy for one reason or another. These are all things I'll send back home when I leave because they're costly back home. Naturally, the first thing I put on the stove my first evening in the new apartment was a pot of chai. A wonderful housewarming.

The Indians that I've met so far get a kick out of me because I can read and write Hindi (although like a little kid), I cook Indian food, and I know all the Bollywood actors. They ask me what I cook and when I tell them, roti, parotha, gobhi ki sabzi, egg curry, veggie cutlet, cilantro and tamarind chutneys, they chuckle. They're surprised when I read the newspaper, but I don't understand what I'm reading. They ask if I speak Hindi. Toda I say. A little.

Since arriving in Northern India, I try to read as many signs as possible so I can become faster at reading. I also track my expenses, so now I do it in Hindi to practice even more with writing, especially numbers. It's also good for building my vocabulary. When I get better at Tibetan, I'll do it in that language too. Right now I'm still learning the alphabet. While shopping, I also talk in Hindi as much as I can, even if it's just asking "Kitna yaha?" over and over again. How much is this?

When I was in Delhi, I was surprised at how much I could say in Hindi to the guys at the tourist office who helped me out. It wasn't much at all, but more than I expected with the many lengthy lapses I've had in my Hindi study.

Being in a predominently Tibetan town, I miss being around Indians. There are Indians here too, but McLeod is a predominantly Tibetan enclave. Going to lower Dharamsala is refreshing. The Kotwali Bazaar is there with a variety of shops and markets. It's where Tibetans and Indians in this area do most of their shopping.

I love the stainless steel store. It has a variety of pots, pans, plates, cups, containers, pressure cookers, urns and more. I'm like a kid in a candy store there and often have to practice self restraint. It's my new fetish. I buy fresh produce at Kotwali Bazaar as well or at the market in Mcleod every few days.

So gradually I am settling in. I am exploring my options for learning Tibetan and volunteering. All my options are like separate puzzle pieces that haven't quite yet come together to create the context of my life here, but it will in due time. It's also winter season, so all classes and many restaurants are closed until March. Many people go away for the winter because it's so cold. Right now there isn't much that I can plug into, but Losar (Tibetan New Year) is just around the corner, which initiates the tourist season. It is also followed by teachings by the Dalai Lama. I'll have much to look forward to very soon. Until then, I'm enjoying, savoring really, my alone time.

McLeod Ganj

A little over two weeks ago I arrived in McLeod Ganj. Coming from Delhi was an exhausting two days of travel, but I made it - to FREEZING cold weather. It's a fair trade off though. I give up the warmth and mosquitoes of Southern India for the cold without mosquitoes of McLeod Ganj. I'll take it.

It is stunningly beautiful here. I'm in the Dauladhar Mountain Range in the foothills of the Himalayas. I'm surrounded by majestic mountains and trees. The area has two main parts: McLeod Ganj and lower Dharamsala. His Holiness the Dalai Lama's residence and his monastery, Namgyal Gompa are both in McLeod. The Tibetan Government in Exile is located in the Ganshen Kyishong complex between McLeod and Lower Dharamsala. The entire area is home to a Tibetan refugee community.

On my second day here, I made a Tibetan friend, Tenzin, a social worker. He's turned out to be a valuable friend because he has many connections and has made inquiries into several places where I can volunteer. He also has some convoluted fantasy that I might fall in love with him some day, so I've had to set some clear, firm boundaries with him, like it will NEVER happen.

McLeod Ganj is small, really two main parallel running streets that both lead down to lower Dharamsala. The streets are lined with vendors, both Indian - mostly Kashmiri - and Tibetan, and restaurants. The food is delicious. I keep warm by eating Tibetan thugpa, noodle soup, and love munching on street side potato momo. Chowmein here is bomb. Most places also serve pancakes to my delight, and the best pancakes are at Nick's Italian Kitchen. I was having dinner there one evening and the music they were playing gave me my first bout of homesickness. It was a mix of songs by American artists - Leanne Rhimes, Alison Krauss, Mariah Carey - all songs that I love to sing along to.

I was at a small chai stop on the way down to McLeod Ganj one day and a radio was tuned to an Indian radio show. Pearl Jam's Alive started playing and I told Tenzin that the band was from my home town. That week gave me many reminders of home.

On my second day in McLeod, I circumambulated the Dalai Lama's temple at Namgyal Gompa, turning the prayer wheels. Elderly Tibetans walk with their malas chanting mantras while circumambulating the temple and walking throughout town. I see shopkeepers with their malas too as they sit at their stalls or talk to customers. I don't see young people so much with malas.

I love being in McLeod because I love being among a community whose spirituality is absorbed into every aspect of life. It is evident from the craft cooperatives, the craft vocational programs, the cultural preservation and education institutes like Norbulingka, how hard the Tibetan government and community work to preserve their language and culture. They do so much with limited resources and with a growing refugee community, I wonder how the growing Tibetan diaspora will choose to shape itself and be shaped with populations in India, France, the U.S., Australia, Switzerland, Canada and elsewhere. With limited and overburdened resources in McLeod, the Dalai Lama is encouraging new refugees to return to occupied Tibet to tell the truth about their culture and history after receiving their education from Tibetan schools that exist all throughout India.

More Angels in Delhi

I left Mamallapuram at 3:00 AM to catch my flight to New Delhi, the first leg of a multi-vehicle trip to Himachal Pradesh in Northern India. I boarded a 5:55 AM flight that arrived in Delhi at 8:30 AM. I then jumped into a pre-paid taxi to the area of Paharganj to find a room for the next 10 hours before jumping on an overnight train. When I arrived in Paharganj, a maze of market streets that are part of a huge bazaar, a man immediately asked me where I was going. When I told him the name of my guesthouse, he said to follow him. I did so not knowing if I should trust him or not. We walked a short ways to a tourist office where there were several men. One man wearing a leather jacket with a mustache and a cell phone headset in his ear asked me where I was staying. He looked like a 90's cop straight out of a Bollywood movie. When I told him he called the guesthouse. It turned out that they had taken my name, but didn't assign me a room so now they were all full. The Bollywood Cop then suggested a hotel whose advertisement was pinned to the wall. No way, I said, was I going to pay that much for a half day stay, so I whipped out my Lonely Planet and gave him several more numbers of guesthouses to dial. All full. He pushed for the advertised hotel again. When I said no, it seemed he was at his whits end because none of the places I suggested from my guidebook where suitable for a lady and if I wanted to meander through Paharganj then go on ahead. I was already up with my pack on my back when I said if I don't find anything I'll come back. Bollywood cop said okay. "Are you disappointed I didn't take the hotel you suggested?" I asked. "You seemed mad."

"Of course not," he said. "It's not about business. It's about helping out your fellow man." I softened up. Then the man who brought me to the tourist office in the first place, Vijay, invited me to go upstairs to the International Tourist Office desk. I followed him upstairs. "Is this all free?" I asked. Of course. I thought they were touts that my guidebook forewarned me of, especially with Bollywood Cop, whose name is Kamal, pushing his hotel.

Suman (pronounced Schuman) got behind the International Tourist Office desk. He served me some tea, served up some small talk, then filled out a pre-paid hotel reservation voucher and got me a room within my price range. Part of the small talk was what I was going to do for the day. And soon enough we had a plan: he would meet me at my hotel where we would have lunch and then see a Bollywood movie. Vijay arranged for a cycle rickshaw to take me to my hotel and on the way out I apologized to Kamal for being so hard. I didn't know what was going on and what their intentions were. No problem. After finding out that I can read Hindi and with my Indian looking hair he pulled me aside and said if I ever wanted to get married in India, he approved of me and when I decide to let him know.

I arrive at my hotel and an hour later Suman met me for lunch. He also took care of the bill. I ran a quick errand and met him back at the tourist office and it turned out that he couldn't go to the movie because he had a meeting with his boss. I went with Vijay instead, but we left the movie early. Neither of us liked it. He took me to chai, the India Gate, to the train station to buy a chain for my luggage. We had a plan to meet up again in an hour so he could take me to the Old Delhi station where I would catch my overnight train. He didn't end up meeting me, but I made my train on my own just fine.

I am truly blessed and protected in India. I don't know where these guys from the tourist office came from, but they sure saved my ass in Delhi. Not only did they save my ass, they were gentlemen who took me out to lunch, paid for my movie, and paid for the rickshaws to the India Gate. Then they faded into the distance with the rest of Delhi as my train pulled away.

I'm learning that for me, India is a tough balance between staying guarded with edges rough enough to keep me safe and remaining open to and receiving the guidance and protection that the universe is blessing me with. It's like having a strong, clear protective layer that my heart can still see and act through.

My First Love Letter in India

Well, it's more like a love post-it. Remember the one Sex and the City episode when Burger breaks up with Carie on a post-it note? Well, a shop owner in Mamallapuram expressed his fond feelings for me in the same way, on a 2x2 inch piece of paper.

Each morning in Mamallapuram greets me with the clank clank of stone artists chiseling away at their sculptures. My days and evenings are sprinkled with greetings from shopkeepers as I walk by them. In this town, the majority are from Kashmir, the northern most state of India that is only accessible by road four months out of the year. Many of them sell bags, beautiful rugs, wall hangings, pillow covers, and bed spreads from Rajasthan, and shawls from Kashmir. During the winter months, the shop owners work in Southern India and then return home to Kashmir in the spring and summer time to run their other shops.

I had fun getting to know many of them. The shop owners are very nice and a few of my afternoons have been spent chatting with them. They genuinely enjoy learning about those who walk by and browse their shops. With the shops I've visited, I've been invited to have a seat and drink some chai. They always reassure me that they're not trying to sell me anything and it turns out they're not.

The shop right next to my budget hotel is owned by a Kashmiri shop owner who told me today on a note that he likes me. I'm not interested at all, and then I found out he was 21 - way not interested. He's been involved in the family business since he was 15 and it turns out that many of the Kashmiri shop owners are young, in their twenties and in their fourth or fifth year of running their own business. Amazing.

It turns out that I may be in the business of breaking hearts in India. The most common question I get is if I'm married and then if I have a boyfriend. I was hoping from this crushed out shop owner that I could get a good deal on a ring that I could stick on my wedding finger to avoid the inquiries. No such luck.

Goodbye Sadhana Forest

I left Sadhana Forest Thursday. It turned out that I was quite a popular cook there. Typically the most flavor the food had was the salt that each person added to his or her own dish. When I busted out with the Indian food that my Hindi teacher taught me how to cook, food with flavor, it became a hit.

My last night at Sadhana was lit by a full moon framed by the silhouette of trees just outside my hut. With the moon coming into its full cycle, I thought I'd begin my new cycles of renewal and change for the new year.

My friend, Venedel, has the most brilliant phrase: I don't know and let it go. I think about it everytime I want something to roll off my back. With the help of the moon, I did a meditative ritual to let it all go, a ritual of forgiving and asking forgiveness. The more good karma I can accumulate, especially before seeing the Karmapa, the better.

Traveling is teaching me how to open up my heart. I had my guards up when I came to Sadhana Forest. Being there was an exercise in protecting myself AND keeping an open heart toward people. Everyone was very nice and it was fun getting to know the people I had a chance to talk and hang out with. I had a lot of laughs.

So now I am passing my days in Mamallapuram, a city renowned for its stone temples and sculptures, until I make my way up north to see the Karmapa. Everyone is recommending that I stay longer in Southern India because it's so cold up north, but a good tourist I do not make. I need a deeper context for traveling than going from site to site and from guesthouse to guesthouse. For me it's either learning or volunteering. So hopefully the context for my stay up north will gel more concretely in the next few weeks. Until then, I'll enjoy eating Indian food again and having internet access within a short walking distance.

Morattandi? Morattandi?

Catching the bus from the bus stand in Pondicherry to Sadhana Forest is always an interesting adventure. Actually, to get to Sadhana Forest, I get off at the bus stop in the village of Morattandi and then I walk 3 km from the main road.

Since today was the first day of the New year, everyone got the day off from volunteer work. I and another fellow American volunteer decided to spend the day in Pondy. We enjoyed a day of shopping and eating.

Sadhana Forest is completely vegan and the food cupboards are not stocked with cooking oil. Most of the food I eat here is a combination of boiled, mushy vegetables. The vegan fare is of the non-spicy, non-flavorful variety that is also void of anything sweet. I call Sadhana Forest the land of bland. So naturally when I come into Pondy, my first stop is the French bakeries and the chai walas. Today I had a butter roll and big chocolate donut. Then it was on to the chai wala for two cups of chai - a perfect way to end the day in Pondy. And here begins our eventful bus adventure.

The bus stand is chaos. Here's how it works: I wait near the free men's urinal and ask either the bus driver or the fare collector, "Morattandi?" They then bobble their heads no. I then get directed to the opposite side of the terminal where I continue, "Morattandi? Morattandi?" Then I'm pointed in the direction of the urinal where I started. So it goes back and forth like this until I find a driver who bobbles his head for me to get on the bus. The last five times I've taken the bus, I got on near the urinal three times, opposite the urinal one time, and then the location where I boarded today. To summarize, it's a mystery where to catch the damn bus.

So today started like every other day, near the urinal. My cohort and I did the back and forth gig and ended up where we started, but this time standing next to a group of women and their kids. I heard Morattandi sprinkled throughout their conversation in Tamil.

One of the little boys was looking our way, so I bobbled my head and smiled. He gave me a big smile back, so I offered him a snack. He accepted after some prodding from his mother. "Morattandi?" I asked her. She confirmed her location, "Morattandi." So now we knew that we could follow them to the bus, and that we did. After a few moments more of waiting, they made their way opposite the urinal and we followed behind. As we made our way, one of the women was humorously complaining in Tamil about the back and forth, back and forth. After a few moments one of the women started running. She was chasing a bus leaving the terminal. We chased her chasing the bus and finally all of us made it on - to a jam, jam packed bus. It was like a can of sardines and it only got worse.

We were all tightly squished up against each other, contorted in ways that magically allowed us to cram on. The bus stopped and more people crammed on. The bus attendant moved us around like puzzle pieces, grouping us together by our stop. With each shift, a new contortion - someone's elbow pressed tightly against someone's stomach, someone else pressed up against someone's back, another against someone else's shoulder. The bus chug chugged along and then stopped. More people piled in. Whatever minute space was between our body parts, the bus attendant filled with new passengers. Again another stop and more people squeezed on. And again. The women kept yelling at the attendant with each new body. Men don’t get squeezed on. They hang out of the bus instead. For a split second, the image came to my mind of the people trampled to death at soccer games in Europe because of the crowd size. My friend and I easily estimated 150 passengers on a bus with a regular capacity of half that. I was worried about the kids being squished among a sea of legs, but they were okay.

I would look at the women and all we could do was laugh it was so crazy. Somehow there was enough space to reach into my friend's purse for her camera and take pictures of everyone squished on the bus. The women got a kick out of the images as I played them back.

It took a while to get to Morattandi with the bus chugging along so slowly. When we finally got off, everyone in the back of the bus waved goodbye as the bus slowly rolled away. The women remained on the bus to get off at a different stop and I was sad I didn't have a chance to thank them. I doubt two less people made a difference, but I hoped at least one person could breathe a little better.

My legs were drenched with sweat it was so hot on that bus. So much so that I sweated off my butter roll and chocolate donut. While at the bus stand, we wondered how the Indians knew where to catch the bus. We learned this evening that it's even a mystery for them.

Volunteering

12 days down, two more to go. There are about 30 volunteers with new ones who arrive every few days or so. So far my volunteer duties have consisted of cutting grass with a sickle, clearing grassy areas completely, dumping compost, mulching, and cooking lunch.

Last week Amalia arrived, a middle aged Israeli woman with three kids: one daughter who is working on her Ph.D., a son who is a filmmaker (he’s worked with Robert Altman), and her youngest son who is in the military. He plays soccer in the position of goalkeeper. She's a very proud mom and I loved watching her glow as she talked about her kids.

When Amalia arrived at the forest, she rolled in with her rolling luggage, an interesting contrast to the younger people who arrive with their backpacks and a tight budget. She’s in India for one year. Her husband is in Israel and she’s in India, free as a solo traveler. I wondered how she would take to the forest because she seemed a more comfortable traveler, not one seeking to rough it in thatched huts and composting squat toilets as we do here.

During her first full volunteer day, we were clearing grass. She asked me how to say in English what she was gesturing. She had all the words except the verb. After repeating after me a few times she had it down. “I am collecting the grass.” Yes, I said. Perfect. From then on, she would say, “I am collecting the grass,” to each volunteer whose grass pile she collected. “I am collecting the grass.” She taught me how to say it in Hebrew. Then it changed to, “I am dumping the grass.”

Amalia is one of my favorite people I’ve met at the forest. Upon seeing her for the first time in the day, I get a big hug and a kiss. “You know I love you,” she says. Yeah, and I love Amalia too. She has a lot of courage breaking out of her comfort zone. A big heart in Sadhana Forest she is.