leaving nepal.

isn't it all just as a dream?
nothing starts, nothing finishes, just a continual journey, a continual flow of experience, arising and passing, the screen of consciousness.
I have grown non-sentimental over these years; walking out of Boudha, my back to the giant stupa whose gaze has accompanied me for so many months, for so many nights, its eyes welcoming me home after so many journeys, a simple smile, a simple acknowledgment of time spent, of moving forward on this perpetual journey that life has been, the cumulative experience, the perspectives gained, the whole greater than the sum, lost, seized upon, abandoned.
as the plane lifted off the tarmac in Kathmandu, the haze parted with the recent unseasonable rains, and the ancient city shone below the tips of the white wings, its decrepit and ramshackle glory, the huge village sprawl, the dusty brown facades, life continuing apace from this downward gaze, i recognize this fascinating home now from space, and smile, the perpetual journey swallowing the moment, and pushing further forward, into the unknown, the future.

perspectives

"The cumulative experience of seeing the world from many vantage points has helped me to appreciate the real circumstances of our planet-the causes of poverty, the role of rich-country policies, and the possibilities for the future. Gaining a proper perspective on these issues has been my struggle and challenge for the decades. Nothing else in my intellectual life and political engagement has been as rewarding."

-Jeffrey Sachs, The End of Poverty

lumbini journal

3.22.11 Lumbini, Nepal

Back in Lumbini. Back in the shadow of the towering gray pagoda, the setting plains sun casting off its cool, unfinished cement facade, the dusty paths where the Buddha walked, over 2600 years ago. Yet the dust, the trees, the grass, these are all the same; evolution does not work so fast as the human mind; the solidity of the natural world, its radiance, comforts the tumbling consciousness.
Back with the birdsong, the gray clad Korean monks riding bright red Chinese bicycles, the golden Tibetan stupa, with its Buddha eyes and their knowing stare, poking through the horizon. A landscape literally littered with the Dharma. The end of a long day on the road, of 8 hours of hard bus travel, of crammed legs in tiny metal framed seats, overheated engines and frantic bus conductors pouring litre after litre of spring water in a vain attempt to cool; they should know, only time will do this, the futility of their actions blinded by repetition on the side of the dusty mountain road. I sit in the sun and watch the scene unfold, watch the passing trucks and buses, careening down the same mountain road, no guardrails and horrific drops, the unimaginable a constant companion, the mind learns to accept the inevitable over the hours of travel. Dusty bus transfers in dusty intersections where dust is the only reality; how people can spend time, can spend their lives in these spots I cannot imagine; my 15 minutes spent waiting for the new bus to depart begins to drive me mad, as I sit and choke in the afternoon heat. The Indian ladies, laden with children, golden bangles, golden earrings and nose rings, sit down on the half seat in front of me, literally dripping with colors, with hardship, with dreams I will never know. I offer their young children some dusty peanuts which they eat with the shell intact, staring at this strange white man with long legs crammed into the tiny tattered seat. I looked into the dark eyes of the young mother, holding her child casually, who was busily dismantling the peanut with its tiny brown hands; her ornamental nose ring dangling past her nostril, sari bright with color and kitsch, so young, so obviously young and burdened, despite all the beautiful ornament, I cannot stop wondering of her life in this harsh agrarian land. And then the bus stopped, as it did ever 20 feet or so, a slowly moving Nepali Thanksgiving Day Parade Float, and she, along with her young sister with her own children dangling, was simply gone, another memory, another story unknown, dreams, shadows. I am ecstatic for the simplicity and wonder of this place.

March 11, Jomsom, Nepal

Drinking a few cups of warm, milky chayng, the local millet brew, at a table filled with red cheeked, robe-clad young Mustangi monks, who have just piled out of a tractor outside the ramshackle old building and join me for their evening meal of Dhal Bhat (rice and lentils). They are returning from the winter spent in Kathmandu, away from the bone-searing artic winds that blast the Mustang region all winter and drive most of its hardy inhabitants to warmer climes. I wonder if I have passed some of these young monks before, walking the cobbled alleyways of my adopted home of Boudha, Kathmandu. The local men, huddled around the old wood fed iron stove, seeking warmth from the high-altitude cold, smile as the strange foreigner walks in, surveys the ancient room, old hand-beaten pots and pans lined up on the soot-covered walls, a low ceiling causing me to crouch and deliver my "namaste" greetings. Its just a simple day in March, the 11th, to be precise. I sit at the table, the monks simple english exhausted as they dig into their meals, and wonder, how many of these experiences, these unique, memory-piercing moments, have been crossed in my years...I ponder the moments of this life, a strange path indeed, a wonderful series of moments, stacked into the deck of life; how many are still yet to be uncovered, I ask. The wonderful mystery brings a grin to my windblown face.
It has been a wonderful 10 days back in the Himalaya, a short trip, but with enduring images; the harsh landscapes masking the cradle of such intricate culture; the ochres and reds superimposed against the barren high altitude desert peaks; the howling winds, the dusty trails, the brilliant blue skies carved against pillow white peaks, truly the abode of the snows. Without the distraction of the world, the mind is free to open, plans unfold out of the crisp mountain air, propelling my onwards. Six months in this strange land; a warm comfort in my soul.

heavy load

2.19.11 Boudha, Nepal

“Our life is frittered away by detail...simplify, simplify.”
-Thoreau

When you have to carry all your possessions, when one is nomadic,
it becomes much more attractive to let go of the unnecessary;
when all must fit into one bag, the surplus becomes burden, not luxury.
A forced lightening of the load, of the soul.
And yet still, I lay eyes on the old vagabond monk in the monastery courtyard,
see him in the morning laying out his simple maroon robe, his old, worn cloak,
his bowl, to dry after a wash, and I grow envious of his own lack of attachment, his lack of need, ; his lightness of load makes my own seem cumbersome and redundant.

Night Air

In my small room, more books than clothes; noticing this

put a smile to my face, chilled from the clear night air,

filled with moon, stars.

I walked home on the smooth stone path, chasing the sounds

of bells, of drums, of prayers from distant windows; my eyes

given only the distant glow of candles in the darkened streets.

The guard at the monestary gate was not at his post; I walked past

his empty old chair, my evening greeting met only by the empty earth,

the simple acts, the rituals, a goodnight to a stranger encountered so many

times.

india journals, rambles...

India Journal


Benares, India 6.2.11


Kites twisted in the dusk air,

their motions jerking, spiraling, diving, climbing, reds, purples,

superimposed against the pale blue sky, the late afternoon stillness,

filled with the sound of muezzins calling their faithful to prayer,

the sounds wailing from countless minarets dotting the ancient skyline,

beginning, sparking, like brushfire;

I pondered both the kites and the calls,

the former so simple, ingenious, ancient, relavent; to hoist into the sky, to send

prayers up to the heavens, such a simple pleasure in this manic, distracting age;

the mosques, their faithful, in this most holy of Hindu cities, a badge of tolerance

in this patchwork land.


Some randomesque quotations from personal inspirations...words worth a ponder, a dance in the mind...Theroux speaks of Rimbaud, as in Arthur Rimbaud, the 19th Century French poet, who, at a young age, in the prime of his career, left the ease and pomposity of Paris literary life for an existence of hard travel, settling and becoming a simple trader, nobody aware of his fame, his past, in northern Ethiopia, in the ancient town of Harar, where several crumbling buildings still mark his transitory presence....Rimbaud's words haunt the mind...a man so far from home, denying his past existence , living amongst strangers in a strange land, finding ease amongst hardship, contentment amongst the unknown...Rimbaud said, “I am used to everything. I fear nothing.”


“Other cultures are not failed attempts at being us, but they're unique answers to

a fundamental question -what does it mean to be a human and to be alive?”

-Wade Davis



“You go away for a long time and return a different person-you never come all

the way back. You think, 'I is someone else,' like Rimbaud.”

-Paul Theroux



“Hindu civilization is the only great classical culture to survive intact from the ancient world, and at temples such as Madurai, one can still catch glimpses of festivals and practices that were seen by Greek visitors to India long before the rise of Ancient Rome. Indeed, it is only when you grasp the astonishing antiquity, and continuity, of Hinduism, that you realize quite how miraculous its survival has been.”

-William Dalrymple



“A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”


-Albert Einstein



11.

Calcutta, India


Walking the old lanes of Calcutta, life is lived, laid out bare, in front of one's eyes. There is no shame in this act; it is simply life, simply survival, but something more resonates; laughter and joy echoing from the men sharing their morning bath at the community pump, this scene played out on every street, on every block; there is nothing self conscious in this act; simply life, dancing its dance; the denizens of the streets, sleeping in their makeshift lean-tos, sidewalk camping, if you will; they sleep, curled up in nuclear and extended families, which people pass, the busyness of life not seeming to notice, their ears calloused to the outside world; again, nothing self-conscious, no shame, simple life; the workers from the tall towers, names emblazoned, the corporate titans of the next century, crowded on the street outside, eating simple lunches with their hands on tin trays, jostling, crowded, never solitary in this city of so many souls.

India Journal, pieces

“In Africa, for the first time, I got a glimpse of the sort of pattern my life would take...that it would be dominated by writing and solitariness and risk...I learned what many others have discovered before me, that Africa for all its perils represented wilderness and possibility...School teaching was perfect for understanding how people lived and what they wanted for themselves. I never wanted to be a tourist. I wished to be far away, as remote as possible, among people I could talk to.”
-Paul Theroux


The patterns of life; even spontaneity can be habit forming; the thrill of stepping into the unfamiliar, of walking down a simple street never before seen, of turning a bend in a small alley and allowing the world to unfold before your eyes; to become a 'beginner' again, to see with this 'beginner's mind;' lifes many paths, many divergent trails, alleys leading into this great unknown...a great, mysterious dance we dance on these footpaths...to step back, to see things as they really are, experiences, memories, that vanish into light and shadow; experiences yet to happen, that will succumb to the same fate.
Understanding that aloneness is not aloofness; a sense of solitude is more than alright; it is to be embraced, celebrated, seized upon, utilized, honored; possibility can whither like a dying leaf in the small sense of mind, the small mind that has forgotten wonder, that refuses to see the mysterious dance, to sit back and smile at it all, to not take it too seriously.
The wish of remoteness; being away, truly away; observing, witnessing both the beautiful and the terrible, the lights and the shadows, for the first time; a silent witness to the world, watching the dance unfold.


2.1.11 Bombay to Benares, India Railways

Swaying rhythmically, the sound of the tracks groaning and a distant diesel locomotive, a beast of man, groaning like an overloaded ox cart, riding into the Indian night. The oranges flashed through the opaque window, my little porthole into a strange world, a new world, though I have seen it many times already. Riding into the night; on a train filled with colors;
the car is half empty, yet I know this is a mirage.
I know upon waking and drawing back the small maroon curtain, which provides me a small, fleeting sense of privacy, illusory perhaps, that there will be bodies to fill every space, for this is always the case, in a land so small, with so many souls.
The swaying pulls me to slumber, but the journey has just begun.


2.4.11 Benares, The Ancient City of Kali, India


“I had the Rimbaudesque thrill that noone on earth knew where I was.”
-Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari


The thrill of solitude. The thrill of seeking, of journey, of pilgrimage, of wandering.

The big boat, crammed with pilgrims in this holy city, the holiest of Hinduism, the place of Moksha, of liberation from the cyclical wheel of birth and death true to this faith, and others, its engine like a distant jackhammer pounding its way through the morning mist, its pistons methodically misfiring, a split second of complete silence, then continuing, makes its way up the most sacred of rivers, the Ganga, Mother Ganges. Its long, dark, backlit shadow casts over the glasslike surface of the water. Where these pilgrims are coming from, where they are going, I could not guess...the loud sounds of chanting, of what sounds like drums, a cacophony of human emotion, comes into range as the boat turns towards the muddy shoreline, towards home, or away, I do not know.

Tharoor on The Mahatma

“Gandhi's life was, of course, his lesson. He was unique among the statesmen of the 20th century in his determination not just to live his beliefs, but to reject any separation between beliefs and actions. In his life, religion flowed into politics; his public persona meshed seamlessly with his private conduct...No dictionary imbues 'truth' with the depth of meaning Gandhi gave it. His truth emerged from his convictions; it meant not only what was accurate, but what was just and therefor right. Truth could not be obtained by 'untruthful' or unjust means, which included inflicting violence on one's opponent. For Gandhi, the way to truth was not by the inflicting of suffering on one's opponent, but on one's self. It was essential to willingly accept punishment in order to demonstrate the strength of one's convisions.”

-Shashi Tharoor


Tharoor describes Gandhism as “physical self-denial and discipline, spiritual faith, a belief in humanity and in the human capacity for selfless love, the self-reliance symbolized by the spinning wheel, religious ecumenism, idealistic internationalism, and a passionate commitment to human equality and social justice.....

truth alone triumphs

“How does one come to grips with a land of such bewildering contrasts? The world's largest democracy that is also home of the ageless caste system; a land steeped in superstition ad spirituality that is a world leader in information technology; the nation of Mahatma Gandhi, the apostle of non-violence, that is convulsed by periodic bloodletting. The Paradoxes abound. The country's national motto, emblazoned on its government crest, is “Satyameva Jayate:” Truth Alone Triumphs. The question remains, however: whose truth?”

-Shashi Tharoor

india

walking down a dusty road, its initial curves masking any sense of ultimate destination.

i came across a simple stone carving; it read:

Hello Wanderer,

Don't Forget

Inner Stillness.

I walked on; down the same dusty road,

the peace palpable. A distant chatter of unknown tongues

in the green fields shadowing the shallow river,

four brilliant yellow and black butterflies,

dancing a mid-air dance,

hovering over the most supple pink of pinks,

illuminated in the afternoon sun, effervescent,

fleeting, staggering.

Izumi Shikibu

"Although the wind blows fiercely here,
the moonlight also shines
through the roof planks
of this ruined house."

"Watching the moon,
at dawn,
solitary,
midsky,
i knew myself completely,
no part left out."

A Master's Words on the Nature of Mind.

“These trains of thoughts and states of mind are constantly changing, like the shapes of clouds in the wind, but we attach great importance to them. An old man watching children at play knows very well that their games are of little consequence. He feels neither elated nor upset at what happens in their game, while the children take it all very seriously. We are just exactly them.”

“Maintain a state of simplicity. If you encounter happiness, success, prosperity, or other favorable conditions, consider them as dreams or illusions, and do not get attached to them. If you are stricken by illness, calamity, deprivation, or other physical or mental trials, do not let yourself get discouraged, but rekindle your compassion and generate the wish that through your suffering all beings' sufferings may be exhausted. Whatever circumstances arise, do not plunge into either elation or misery, but stay free and comfortable, in unshakable serenity.”

“However deluded your thoughts may be, they are but products of your own intellect.

If you set your thoughts free, where nothing arises, remains, or ends,

they will vanish into emptiness.”

Dilgo Khyentse Rimpoche

Everest Journal. Thame

Thame Village, December 1st.

A flock of white birds, sun catching their feathers and lighting them on fire, against the dark granite spires and pale cloudless sky, streaking past my view.
The old stone walls, ancient corrals, allow only abstract shapes of light to pass with the sounds of the flowing stream hidden from view.
Life comes quickly and brilliantly, complete silence framed by rocks, earth, sky;
the laughter of a band of brightly colored school children running down a mountain trail from an unknown village above, countless stories, dreams, sorrows, happiness, reflected in the crystal air;
a flutter of worn prayer flags in the bitter wind;
the sun warms my face as I sit, admiring the simple, beautiful, rugged perseverance of this high land.
It is now December; another fascinating month has passed all too quickly; all is fleeting.




"To become one with whatever one does is a true realization of The Way."
-Peter Mattheisson

Everest Journal Outtakes

Khumjung, Nepal. Thanksgiving Day.

The dirty Tibetan trader, sack filled with market wares slung over his shoulder,
red braid weaved into beautiful long black hair, makes his way up the ancient
stone pathway. Both his origin and his destination are unknown to me as i stand in
the frigid early morning air, observing the high peaks surrounding this narrow valley
illuminated in the low morning sun. The brilliant whites of the towering snowfields;
the jagged, angular manifestations of this earth's crust, thrusting to the heavens, surround
my simple presence.
Last evening, watching the same sun make its way into the high horizons, it was flaming oranges that rang the day into night.
The Tibetan smiles a wide, white smile; and i return my own, no words, he is gone.

basho

Days and months are the travelers of eternity.
So are the years that pass by.
I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud moving wind-
filled with a strong desire to wander...I walked through mists and clouds,
breathing the thin air of high altitudes and stepping on slippery ice snow,
till at last through a gateway of clouds,
as it seemed,
to the very paths of the sun and the moon,
I reached the summit, completely out of breath and nearly frozen to death.
Presently the sun went down and the moon rose glistening in the sky.
-Basho, The Narrow Road to the Deep North

borges

Boast of Quietness

by Jorge Luis Borges

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.

The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.

Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to

understand them.

Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.

Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.

They speak of humanity.

My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.

They speak of homeland.

My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,

the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.

Time is living me.

More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.

They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.

My name is someone and anyone.

I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive

Lumbini. Pilgrimage

Walking the dusty paths, the same strides taken by pilgrims from all Buddhist faiths, the countriesas diverse as the skin tones, as scattered as the tongues, as varied as the hues of the clothes that drape; Cambodians and Thais in bright orange temple robes; Sri Lankans and Vietnamese in the deep browns of the monsoon season earth; Tibetans in maroon and crimson.

Millenia ago, on these same dusty paths, the same ancient rice paddies dotting the fading horizon, the same crickets greeting the flaming orange horizon, the same primal screams of roving bands of jackals under the starry sky, walked the Buddha himself, a simple man, a simple message.

The chanting of the Korean monks reverberated off the cavernous confines of the unfinished, concrete gray temple; the sound waves collided with my silent mind and stirred my soul.

I smiled deeply and bowed to the moment. What an astonishing adventure this has been, all these years.

“The Tibetans liken the mind to a great clear sky, a cloudless sky. All the phenomena of the mind and body are happenings in this clear sky. They are not the sky itself. The sky is clear and unaffected by what is happening. The clouds come and go, the winds come and go, the rain and sunlight all come and go, but the sky remains clear. Make the mind like a big clear sky and let everything arise and vanish on its own.”

-Joseph Goldstein

words.

"Many people pass through life driven by greed, fear, aggression, or endless grasping after
security, affection, power, sex wealth, pleasure and fame. This endless cycle of seeking is what Buddhism calls Samsara. Its rare that we take the time to understand this life that we are given to work with. We're born, we grow older, and eventually we die; we enjoy, we suffer, we wake, we sleep-how quickly it all slips away. Awareness of the suffering involved in this process of life-of being born, growing old, and dying, led the Buddha to question deeply how it comes about and how we can find freedom. That was the Buddha's question. That was where he began his practice. To understand ourselves and our lives is the point of meditation; to understand and to be free."
-Jack Kornfield

Helambu Notes

10.22 Kutumsang

The fog came quickly to the small stone town, as i sat watching the green hills bathed in the late day light; as i sat, watching my breath, my mind, the fog a fitting metaphor for the defilements that come to visit consciousness. How this journey came to this time in space, to this small teahouse nestled on a high Himalayan ridge, huddled in the kitchen around the hearth, the cold mountain air creeping in through the roughly hewn wooden door;
the young Sherpa boy, clad in an old blue blazer several sizes too large, blows at the waning fire through a large wooden straw, as his mother prepares a simple meal over open flame.
In 2 days of walking, the modern world feels centuries away.


10.23 Magangoth

The early morning air at 14,500ft numbs my hands; the proof seen in the layer of frost covering the rough wood planks that constitutes a bench in this remote land; the sun will warm, but it is still far away, illuminating only the golden brown peaks lining the horizon with the pale blue sky.
The young girl fetches freezing water for tea; juniper offerings waft in the silent air.


10.24 Phedi

"all thoughts in their infinite variety are utterly without substance. this is the mind of a Buddha."
-Dilgo Khyentse Rimpoche

I sit on a flat stone, overlooking the awesome green valley below, the suns rays illuminated across, slowly receding; thundering waterfalls reverberate their energies in my humble ears, the peaks of jagged stone cathedrals bath in the orange glow of dusk.
The landscape here is hallucinatory;
my mind, clear, yet overcome by the beauty of this place, in this time.
I am profoundly at peace.



10.26. Gokainsund

We crossed the high pass in the midday sun, prayer chortons festooned with prayer flags sending their messages to the gods from this holy place, asking for protection from the evil spirits that lurk in these dangerous high places. We sat in the sun at the base of a simple stone wall and watched the afternoon fog creep through the break in the massive, crumbling stone hills; over 15,000ft; my third high crossing in these mountains, and the one that instilled the most tranquility as i sat, watching the crows and hawks, flags and peaks.
A rest day now at 14,000ft; impromptu english lesson with the morning sun warming my chilled back; talking of life and its myriad struggles with the old, bent lodge owner; hiking amidst high alpine boulder fields, ringed by complete solitude, complete peace, many miles from any vestige of the 21st, let alone 20th or 19th centuries. Beautiful, fleeting moments true serenity.

"to become one with whatever one does is a true realization of The Way."
-Peter Mattheissen