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 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.

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

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

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

Boudhanath.

the days pass with such simple ease in this place.
up with the sun, the offerings, temple bells, laughter of neighbors pounding chilies with mortar and pestle for the day's meals;
life beings early here.
simple reflections;
being blessed with the luxury of time, to walk slowly down the narrow, crumbling pathways,
bowing and extending a simple "namaste" ("I honor the spirit that is within you) to those passing on their own way;
time is treasured in its abundance.
I try to work with the wandering, planning mind;
focus here, on this precious moment;
inspired by the great Tibetan teachers who have walked these same narrow pathways,
I work to control the mind; to see what is true.
Unknown chatter wafts from an open window above the green courtyard;
distant laughter;
then it is gone.


"The great inspiration of the Buddha's teachings is that we must each take ultimate responsibility for the quality of our lives. When we understand that our lives are the unfolding of karmic law, that we are the heirs to our own deeds, then there grows in us a deepening sense of responsibility for how we live, the choices we make, and the actions we undertake."
-Joseph Goldstein

Thoughts. Words.

The old Tibetan ladies, in a seated row in the early morning sun rising over the great stupa,
display the tubs of kernels in front of their colored brocades.
The kernels are an offering to the flocks of pigeons who also call this area home;
life here is precious and revered for all beings, and this is manifested moment by moment,
glance by glance, step by step.
The scents of burning juniper, wafting from ornate carved silver boxes,
fills the air.




"When the eyes and the ears are open, the leaves on the trees teach like pages from the scriptures."
-Kabir

"In order to understand our lives it is essential top understand the nature of the mind. Everything that we are, everything that we do, has its origins in the mind. What we are is the manifestation of the mind. Rarely, though, do we take the time to create a space of silence to see how this mind of ours is working."
-Jack Kornfield

"Think of what your experience is from a moment to moment perspective: a sound, a sight, a thought, a sensation, and emotion, a smell, a taste. Moment to moment, these experiences arise and vanish, are being born and dying; the very nature of this process is constant, immediate, and continuous change. There is no possibility of holding on, although sometimes we try very hard to do so."

"We believe happiness lies in the experience of pleasurable feelings, ignoring their fleeting, unfulfilling nature. This ignorance feeds the craving in the mind for more and more pleasant feeling. And although our desire for pleasant feeling is continually being gratified, we are never fully satisfied, precisely because of the fleetingness and insubstantiability of these feelings...Its like trying to quench your thirst by drinking ocean water. The more you drink, the thirstier you become."

-Joseph Goldstein

Nepal.

10.7.10 Kathmandu...."Back in The Valley"

As the sleek metallic jet, anachronistic to the simplicity beneath and around, banked eastward into the rising sun, the jagged white teeth of the mighty Himalaya, the "abode of the snows" fell into full, marvelous view; white flanks shimmering in the thin mountain air; feeding sedimented rivers of brown into the foothills and beyond onto the great, baked plains of India, like crooked fingers extended from the roof of the world; the checkered heartland of the country, verdant shades of green, the full spectrum cut squarely into the flat plains and terraced in oblong beauty into the foothills surrounding the ancient valley. The green meant harvest, of plenty; of survival in an often harsh and unforgiving land; this sight made my heart warm and brought a smile to my jet-lagged lips; sustenance for the people, sustenance for my heart as well. Crossing over the hills, mountains in any other land, into the ancient valley, as the plane lost altitude, details became finer, weaving into reality with memories rushing back to the present; broken, low buildings cast over dusty, potholed streets; hilltop shrines covered in prayer flags sending blessings to the corners of the universe; chaos; brilliance; disrepair; beauty; the subtle exoticism that comes so effortlessly with this land, even after so many visits and so many other travels. The first time I crossed this path, 6 years ago, marked the beginning of a long journey, of a changed course in life, of questions that needed to be answered, of a restless mind and soul; I smile as the plane prepares for landing, as the ancient cars and motorbikes plying the dusty, narrow roads come into view, weaving, screaming, in their typical Nepali madness, and like that, I am back, I have arrived, I am home.


10.8.10 Boudhanath. Kathmandu.

Outside the early morning window,
the crows cry mercilessly.
The sun begins its distant rise over the jagged white peaks,
a small bell tolls rhythmically from some unknown shrine room;
framing the day in this far away land;
the entirely of the passing show brings a smile,
as the sun slowly warms my face.

"Some day you will die. Lying on your sick bed about to breath your last breath,
you will be assailed by every kind of pain.
Your mind will be filled with fears and anxieties. And you will not know what to do or where to go.
Only then you will realize that you have not practiced well.
Impermanence does not hesitate. Death will not wait.
You will not be able to extend your life by even a second.
How many thousands of more times will you have to pass through the gates of birth and death.
If these words are challenging, even insulting, let them be an encouragement for your change.
Practice heroically. Do not accumulate unnecessary possessions.
Don’t give up. Still your mind. End wrong perceptions.
Concentrate and do not run after objects of your senses.
Be determined to not let your days and months pass by wastefully.
- Zen Master Guishan

"When desire arises, it is a force that pulls us out of the moment into our imagination. An antidote is to reflect on impermanence, even on death. How much will fulfilling this desire mean at the end of your life? Recognize that no matter how many times we get what we want, it always passes. It's endless." -Joseph Goldstein