The Non-Normal

Sometimes I forget that I'm in India. I forget to stand still and really, truly be surprised by where I am and what I'm doing.
I forget that what I see here day after day isn't, or wasn't, a part of my life a few months ago. In those moments that I remember, I see the rocky brown mountains occasionally interspersed with the dark green of trees. I see the craters left by development in the mountainsides, as if God was a three year old with a sledgehammer and a mission. I smell the dust kicked up by tires, hooves, and feet, the scent of deep earth and ash that permeates my clothes, hair, and lungs.

I remember that at home, I wear flannel and that I listen to my iPhone when I run. In the States, I didn't even wear a watch. Now, I don't leave my room without a kurta, mala beads, and my 10-rupee gold-foiled Ambedkar ring. I keep thinking that I've stayed the same throughout this trip, stayed "normal." Then I remember what normal was and how far from it I've gone.

Three months ago to the day, I was learning to read Devanagari script. The lines upon lines of scratched letters are still in my notebook, incontestable evidence that once upon a time, I knew nothing. My first word that I taught myself in Hindi was "phal," or "fruit." Although I'm still a few lifetimes from fluent, I can tell the difference between a street sign and a cave painting--and I call that a step up.

So, as all reflections must go, what does this mean for me, for my "normal"? What am I going back to, and who am I going back as? Those are big questions that might take more than a car ride to find out. But what I do know, or might know, is that there is no such thing as normal. When I go back to the land of flannel and fox squirrels, I will have at the very least an awareness of an Other. I will know that across the street and across the world, there are billions of equally valid and equally illusory "normals" that can change with a plane ticket and a pair of pyjamas. I left to see the world only to find out that there isn't one world to see. Yeah, I've been to India. But Thailand? Burma? the Congo? Europe? How many millions of experiences have I not had? How many normals have I never known as my own?

There is a giant looming mass of the Unknown that my visa doesn't cover, but it's not unknowable. At least, not completely. And maybe the knowledge that things can be different, that things already are different, is enough for now.

A Bollywood Recap

(I got exhausted while typing this. Heads up.)
I saw a Bollywood movie last night in downtown (?) Nagpur with Erin and Hanna, the two girls traveling with me. Now quickly think of all stereotypes attached to Bollywood and how ridiculous they would all be crammed in a three-hour movie. I saw it. And I had a movie-theater samosa to top it off.

Title: Jab Tak Hai Jaan (loosely translated: Best Movie Ever!)

Plot summary: Rich Indian girl in London is fated to marry a white dude, but falls in love with an Indian musician/waiter. But then he is hit by a truck, and she prays that if he lives, she promises leave him for the white guy. He lives, and she leaves. Super emotional. Really, though.

So he joins the Indian army as part of the bomb squad. Why the bomb squad? Rule one of Bollywood: don't ask questions.
Ten years later, a super hot, young journalist starts to report on the unit that he joined. By the end of her report, she falls in love. But he can't love her because he loves someone else far away from long ago. She returns to London to produce her piece, but her boss says that the man must come to London to corroborate the story. After begging him to return to London despite his history there, he comes. Day one: he gets hit by another car... yeah, it happened.

Naturally, he experiences retrograde amnesia, so he can't remember anything that happened between the two accidents, including the first woman leaving, him joining the army, and the news reporter that he came to London for. Oh my God!

Wanting to help, the reporter tracks down the first woman, finding her at her daughter's birthday party. But for the man, she agrees to meet him and pretend that they were never separated over the ten years. She brings him home, and they "live" together. But she, unable to live with the lie, calls it quits. Enter the reporter.
Pretending to do a report on his condition, she walks him through his life up until the first accident. But it didn't do much until there was a bomb threat on one of the trains. Suddenly, his past overcomes him and he enters 007 mode, disarming the bomb before it explodes.

Realizing that he had been lied to, he leaves the first woman (who had since revealed her undying love for him and that she had divorced her husband years ago). But it is too late for the reporter also, who had let him go for reasons I'm still not sure about. He returns to the army, but we are told that this bomb, his 108th, is his last. He is not scared to die, he is not backing down, but he wants to finally have a chance to live the life he's always wanted. In the last scene, he turns around and sees the first woman dressed all in white. He walks over and gives her a ring.
This is not a story about a hero. This is not a story about bravery. It's a story about love.

*Throw in a lot of music, montages, and sexually objectified women, and you've seen India at it's best.

From Jab Tak Hai Jaan: "Jiya Re"

Namaste from Nagpur

So this post will probably take me ten minutes, and it'll probably show. Be forewarned.

I'm sorry for not posting for the last few weeks. Life at the vihar was crazy with classes finishing, finals, and getting ready for ISP (Independent Study Period). As a testament to that, I stayed up until midnight and beyond...twice. Leave it to finals to make life in India feel like the good ol' American college days.

But now, I've officially said "bye" to Bodh Gaya, and after a four-hour delay and a 25-hour train ride, I'm in the wild, wild Western India. For the next three weeks, I'm going to be bouncing throughout Maharashtra, from Nagpur to Pune and finally, Mumbai.

But, first, here's a little context: the program funds each of us for a month of research on whatever topic we pick, anywhere in India. As long as it somehow relates to Buddhism and we aren't moving in with a drug lord, it's pretty much a green light. A lot of my friends went North to Sikkim, Darjeeling, Dharmsala, and in short, the Himalayas. For a while, I was going to kick back, study some Lecha folklore, and do the same thing. Needless to say, I didn't.

Part of me still wonders what it would be like to look out my window and see snow-covered mountains, wrapping my Tibetan shawl just a little tighter to keep the bite of winter at bay. What would it be like to switch out an endless river of daal and chapati with a plate of hot momos and a steaming cup of butter tea? Maybe I'll never know, but that was, and is, my choice to live with.

So why? Why hit up the cities of the South (really, West) instead of the breezy and beautiful North? Long story short: because I came to study Buddhism, and I wanted to do that in India.

This is by no means a knock on those who went North. I love them, miss them, and wish them the best. But when I close my eyes and picture India, I don't see the crisp peaks of the Himalayas. I see a street full of saris, slicked hair, and rickshaws in a constant dance of stopping and going, always fitting, always flowing as one. I smell a warm, buttery garlic naan roasting in a tandoori oven, and I taste the first burst of juice from a fresh orange. I hear Hindi broken up by broken English. That, to me, is the India I came to see, and years from now, it's the India I want to remember. So here I am.

Now, I'm studying the progression of Dalit literature and its representation of Ambedkarite, and thus Buddhist, ideals. I'm looking into the deep, dark, and dirty past of Hindu oppression and listening as those captive give rise to a new voice, one that hasn't been heard in centuries. These are stories, poems, and plays inherently angry, filled with pain and suffering that I couldn't begin to imagine. But they are also full of hope. Underlying each, there is a lingering potential for change, freedom, and expression. For generations, these people were "untouchable," branded by their society for sins from their past lives. No one would walk in their shadow, let alone touch them. They lived on the brink of civilization, always kept at a distance, always sick, always starving. But 60 years ago under the leadership of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, they revoked karma, fate, and God(s). They found their humanity.

My Life be Like...

I've been wanting to write out a solid schedule of a typical day in the vihar for a while now, something that says "this is what a Tuesday is like."
I wanted to share with the world what my new "normal" was in India, but sadly, after realizing that I've been here for over six weeks, I still have nothing. Between the different meditation traditions, the papers, and the weekends on mountains, in cities, and at temples, there is no such thing as normal. A typical 9 to 5 day is just another myth of America.
Since my life is about to become a flurry of Tibetan meditation, Independent Study research, and Halloween (this Saturday!), I figured this is as close to normal as India is ever going to be for me. So here is a sketch, as loose as silk pajamas and as malleable as the cow poop on the street. But hey, it's something.

5:15 a.m.: A bell rings through the hallway. I ignore the first one, wake up to the second, and get up on the third. My kurta is draped over my bedpost, and I pull it over my head as I walk out the door. The yoga room is empty, with the exception of Ben, and we do some stretches to wake up. Yoga is notably harder in Zen robes or a man-skirt. Be warned.

5:30 a.m.: Meditation begins in the Buddha hall. Slowly but surely, India has gotten cooler, so the need to shoot daggers at Sensei as he closes a window or turns down the fans have disappeared. Each tradition has a distinct flavor, but not totally mutually exclusive. Whether I'm forming the mudra or breathing out white smoke and taking on the doubts of the world, it's still my mind. That never changes (....or does it?)

6:30 a.m.: I take my one plate and spoon down to the dining hall for silent breakfast. India is big into this idea that breakfast is the biggest meal of the day, and then they get progressively smaller throughout the day. Whatever.
All I know is that breakfast is always fantastic.
There's a pretty reliable cycle between cereal and hot milk, porridge with baked apples, toast and a fried egg with a Paula-Dean amount of butter, and a disgustingly enormous English muffin-esque thing that I will never know the name of, with a spattering of the occasional french toast day or crepe Sunday. On the table, there is butter, peanut butter, honey, and either mango, mixed fruit, marmalade, or strawberry jam.
On the side, there are bowls of palm sugar syrup, which is thicker and darker than maple syrup, flax seed, and sesame to taste. And as sure as the sun rising, there are pomegranate seeds. POMEGRANATE SEEDS! It's as if the deliciousness of fruity pebbles and the healthiness of Kashi made a beautiful Indian breakfast baby.

7:30 a.m.: Hindi class. Sometimes I play the game, "which do I know better: Spanish or Hindi?" And it's often a toss up.
I've decided that there's this giant blob of brain designated to "foreign language," and everything inside of it, Hindi or Spanish, becomes interchangeable, creating the wonderful language of Spindi.  Unfortunately, the bigger the blob gets, the more I forget English, effectively making me the most blundering, blubbering English Lit major ever. Such is life.

8:30 a.m.: Philosophy. What is philosophy? What is to think? Who is the thinker? Between Yogacara and chariots with wheels with spokes, I often walk away with a headache. Not a bad one, just one that makes me want to lie down for a long time and never think again.

10:00 a.m.: And the world is right again. Teatime.
On the beginning of this trip, me and tea had an unhealthy, possibly abusive relationship. The transition from trenta iced coffees to chai masala was a little too smooth, and one obsession became the other.
Also, there are these round coconut "biscuits" that they've stopped putting out because of its mass consumption and, layered with freshly ground peanut butter and a dash of salt, become the epitome of perfection. Once upon a time, I thought I'd lose weight here. Then I went to teatime. The end.

Favorite teas: lemon grass, cherry almond, rooibos with honey, mint, and chamomile rose

10:30 a.m.: Traditionally, this holy time is reserved for nap time, but there have been a few times when I've audited the Anthro class for an academic change of pace. Unfortunately, the nap-less me is a dysfunctional me, and most of the time, I cuddle up with my mosquito net and "meditate horizontally."

12:00 p.m.: Hindi Round 2, without the white board. Guarav-ji asked three assistant teachers to come in every day, split us up, and work with us in smaller groups for language practice. Vishnu-ji, Shanti-ji, and Achina-ji each have their own accent, vocabulary, and teaching style.

1:00 p.m.: Don't get me wrong, lunch isn't bad, and when it rolls around, I've got my plate ready to go.  But it's not my favorite.
Daal (lentils) seems to be a lunchtime staple along with a side of beets in a variety of forms: chopped beets, shredded beets, beet and carrot salad. Indian yogurt is pretty good with a spoonful of sugar, courtesy of Mary Poppins, and I've mastered my phobia of grapefruit. (Editor's note: turns out it's really pomela. Phobia restored).
I've not no quarrel with lunch. It's enjoyable, it does its job, and we part ways as friends.

1:30/1:45 p.m.: Free time, which isn't really free at all. It's get-everything-done time. Whether I have to run to the bazaar for soap or Rajesh for some pants, this is the prime time.
Exhibit A. It's 2:50 and I'm downstairs in the bazaar interneting. If there's nothing to do, there's always homework. Always.

4:00 p.m.: Back to teatime. This is why I get fat.
A peanut-butapple (like a caramel apple with peanut butter), banana dripping with honey, or a slightly curried smiley-face cookie, and no Jenny Craig commercial can save my diet.

5:00 p.m.: Sitting, sitting, sitting. Sitting is form is emptiness. Tara is sitting on my head.

6:30-ish p.m.: Hallelujah, the gods are good. If it's not Madras Monday with some awesome $1 dhosas, which it is today, then we're chowing down some fried momos or panneer of any variety for dinner. Calyans is a hotspot, but I'm also good with Gautam's, Lotus, or Tirupati.

7:30/8:00 p.m.: Occasionally I do homework at my desk, but it's a severe rarity. The night before a test, a study group takes over the classroom and uses the whiteboard, marker courtesy of the library. Last night, our T.A. woke up to "I Hamesha Love You."
On a chill night, the library is a pretty great place to study, have some company, and read some books.

9:30 p.m.: After a quick, cold shower, it's off to bed.

Do You Believe in Magic?

Yesterday was a day of new beginnings.

First of all, it marked the official start of the second half of the term, and to celebrate, the entire vihar went into a spring (?) cleaning frenzy. Wet kurtas and saris hung out in the sun, dripping from the clotheslines lining the hallway, and the smell of Dettol saturated the air from mop buckets and bathroom floors. After the super official health inspector, aka our history prof, cleared each of the rooms, she gave my room a giant pink star for doing the best job. It's a point of pride.

Maybe more importantly, though, was the wedding.
Gwendolyn, the program manager who makes sure that we have electricity, running water, and pillows at least the majority of the time, got married to Adam, her boyfriend of four years, this morning. As an American couple who met in Japan and tied the knot in India, they decided to have the wedding be a dual Theravadan-Zen ceremony. Being international is a lifestyle.
Now, I had a lot of trouble understanding the concept of marriage within Buddhism because a lot of people do it... but it doesn't make sense.

It's not uncommon in a lot of Buddhist countries for the groom-to-be to ordain as a monk for three months before the wedding day so that he gain the spiritual understanding and leadership he will need as a husband and father. In the same vein, thousands of monks disrobe every year because of the classic boy meets girl and falls in love story. But there's still a "but."

I've taken a lot from Buddhism over the past few weeks, and I really can't express how grateful I am for this opportunity and how much I've learned about myself, India, and life as a whole. But in the end, Buddhism says that there is no self, and these concepts of "me," "you," and any relationship between the two are conventional, conceptual fictions. To reach enlightenment, one lets go of "me," "mine," and desire, freeing him or herself from craving, and thus, suffering. This is a super Buddhism 101 summary, and there's so much more to it, but I'm just trying to set the scene.

Now, it wouldn't be a realistic expectation for everyone everywhere to drop everything, shave their heads, and pick up some robes. The sangha (monastic community) depends on the alms of the laypeople for their food and shelter as they continue on their journey towards nirvana. In turn, the laypeople make merit that will enable them to be reborn in another life in a position that will allow them to ordain and reach enlightenment. Eventually.
But the underpinning thought is still there: live your life, fall in love, but know that ultimately, it's not real. So tonight, I went to dinner with Sensei, and he restored all of my faith in a chuckling, almost incomprehensible English. Buddhism says that there are two realities: conventional and ultimate. And the key part of understanding either is realizing that both are real. Nirvana is samsara, reality is delusion. Zen isn't about theory, labeling, or philosophy; it's about living. It's about the pure experience of reality, conventional or otherwise, and love can be a part of that.

"Marry You" by Bruno Mars

Admittedly, I'm caught in the throes of conventional reality. I get attached, I get hurt, and sometimes, I suffer. But I'm no where near giving that up.
From where I stand, I want to want. I want to be happy and enjoy the happiness that I have here and now. Whatever pain comes along the way is life, and it's worth it.

The wedding this morning was absolutely beautiful. Everyone dressed up (makeup allowed), Indian kids ran in, out, and all around the Mahabodhi, pilgrims crammed their way in to watch, and the nuns were taking an endless string of pictures. All was India, and all was right.
There shouldn't be a "but" in life or love, and something I've really enjoyed about meditation, zen especially, is the idea that everything just is. There is life, there is love. No questions, no hesitations.

"The question in Buddhism is with the 'I' and the 'you,' but the love? The love is real." (Katie, our TA)

I don't believe in fairy tales, but I do believe in magic. I believe in the ups, the downs, and all the beauty in between. Magic isn't in a lamp, ruby slippers, or all the fairy dust in the world. It's about coming home from a 9 to 5 to a cup of coffee, an advil, and a kid running up to the car door. It's about sitting out on the porch for a summertime sunset. Magic isn't extraordinary or supernatural--it's an everyday, mundane miracle.

The latest incarnation of Oedipus, the continued romance of Beauty and the Beast, stand this afternoon on the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, waiting for the traffic light to change." (Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces)

I'm not ready to give up on the story, and even if there's no palace, no wizard in the land of Oz, there is absolutely a happily ever after. And it starts today.

Myths of America

I've been out of the States for about a month now, but it feels like it's been a lifetime and more (which, thanks to rebirth, is totally possible). These are the things that, when I'm surrounded by cows and Sri Lankan pilgrims, I cling to like Oz or Santa Clause. These are the faintly remembered dreams of another place, another time that at this point might never have been real to begin with.

1. Air conditioning: India is HOT! There really isn't much else to say. A fan or a cool breeze are merciful gifts from God that faintly dry the constant streams of sweat dripping down my back. But to stop sweating completely? Over my dehydrated, sunburned body.
A magic machine that turns an entire room cold? Don't tell me lies.

2. Meat: Going 100% veg really hasn't been that much of an issue, and as someone who has had zero experience with Indian food, I'm enjoying the hundreds of ways there are to avoid eating animals. But sometimes, when I'm waiting for another round of buttered naan, I can't help but think of a bacon cheeseburger dripping with fat and barbecue sauce.

3. Black people: Thought I saw one guy today walking to the Japanese temple, but he was South Indian. The search continues.

4. Consistent electricity: There have been many light-less study sessions in the library spent not knowing whether it's worth the effort to go get my candle. And there have been even more meditation sessions that have been solely dedicated to sending metta to the fan. I firmly believe that a constant flow of power is impossible.

5. Cold milk: Earlier this trip, I was craving something cold. A milkshake, a smoothie... hell, an ice cube would have worked, which is also a myth of America. I almost cried when I saw cereal and a giant vat of milk at breakfast. I'm pretty sure I managed a few authentic tears when I sat down and saw steam coming up from my cornflakes. It was hot milk
 Honestly, it would almost be worth a few days over a toilet for a cold glass of 2% and a nice PB 'n J.

6. Jeans: I wore them in the States, I wore them in London, but now, my jeans are just decorations I put on my shelf a long time ago. The thickness, the stiffness... the pockets! Unbelievable. Now, I'm rocking some hardcore pajama pants...and that's on the days that I'm wearing pants.

7. IPhones: Complete and constant access to the internet anywhere, anytime. Want to know what the weather will be later? No problem. Lost? Don't ask a local in tragically broken Hindi, just ask Siri.

8. $10 meals: Last night, I went to a fancy Thai restaurant for some pad thai, and the bill was around 140 Rps., which is around $3 rounded up. That was an expensive night out. Tonight, for three dhosas, three mago drinks, and some chai: also $3. When a bottle of water is around 40 cents, the $5 footlong looks like a scam.

9. Midnight: I woke up at 12:00 a.m. once, and it was for a middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom. My wake-up time is a pretty established 5:15 am, so falling asleep at 10:00 p.m. is a quick recipe for a very angry, never fun Joe.

10. Parties: going hand in hand with the nonexistence of midnight, my Saturday nights are more likely spent up on the roof looking at the stars. The Five Precepts and a 9:00 curfew have done a pretty good job of stamping out sin.

11. Multiple brands:
"I'd like some toilet paper, please."
"You're in luck! We have one of those."
"Thanks, India."

12. Set prices: Haggling has become a favorite hobby of mine. Since I'm white, I'm automatically a rich tourist in the eyes of all venders, beggars, and rickshaw drivers. If I don't work them down to at least half price, I'm doing something terribly wrong.

13. Washing Machines: No one who has a washing machine should have dirty laundry. Ever.
For the most part, I don't trust myself with my kurtas, pajamas, and lungis. Here, Dadai-ji (Grandmother) takes our nasty, sweat-soaked laundry, and in a few days, she comes back with a  pile of crisp, fresh, and ironed goodness. And it only costs about 120 Rps.
But when it comes to my boxers, tshirts, and workout pants, I go old school. The soaking, soaping, rinsing, and wringing take a solid 40 minutes to get it all done. Then a long day in the sun should finish the job. The idea that I could toss in clothes, taking about 2 minutes, and use those other 38 to sit back, eat some chips, and watch t.v.? Never will I complain again.

A Monk and a City

So I officially should resign my blog-ship because I am the worst blogger ever. BUT I'm officially back in Bodh Gaya and ready to go. There are three moderately huge things to cover that would each typically deserve their own post, so I'll break them up one by one to avoid the massive blob of all things India that have happened over the past couple weeks.

Ordination:

 Every year, Antioch allows its students on the program the option to ordain as Burmese monks in the Theravadan tradition for a week. Two weeks ago, I did it.

Out of the 36 kids on the program, 10 guys and 7 girls ordained, which involved a shaving ceremony and a robing ceremony, and the next day, we went out to the river to dump our hair. In addition to the 5 precept we were already following (no lying, killing, sexual misconduct, stealing, or intoxicants), we weren't allowed to handle money, eat after 12:00, wear perfumes or ornamentation (watch included), sleep on high or luxurious beds, and sing, dance, or entertain excessively. Every time we sat down, we had to layout a seat cover, which we always carried for us. We were never allowed to be out of our robes, and we were supposed to sleep and shower in our one pair of under-robes. I kind of broke the shower rule: no bucket shower can be that strategic. We went first in line at all of the meals and sat closest to the teacher in class. We never sat next to the nuns, and in a perfect world, a male layperson would sit next to the monks so that a woman never would.

In the evenings after meditation, we had honey lemon water with U Hla Myint, our Theravadan teacher who was ordained for twenty years before he got married and disrobed. Oh my GOD, the honey lemon water was fantastic. After the ten of us downed a bottle of honey the first night, the women in the kitchen started mixing it in so that we didn't have the chance to destroy their tea table with massive amounts of sticky deliciousness. That was easily my favorite part of ordination.

Since it's been a while, here are a few entries from my journal:

September 17, 2012
"So it's my first full day of being an ordained monk, and I thought it would be best to write down my reasons why I decided to ordain so that, at the end of my time, I can see if the reasons were reflected in my experience and how they had changed or adapted.

Going into it, I couldn't really think of a reason not to. This was an incredible experience that probably won't come around again any time soon, and what did I have to lose? A few dinners? The little hair I had? A week of my life? It seemed like I would be trading virtually nothing for the strong possibility of a something.
The problem is that I don't know what that something is. Originally, the idea was that by giving up food, music, and money, I would disassociate myself from the everyday things we hide behind. I am not my clothes, my hair, or anything else. By having nothing, I would have only myself and my thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, I'd find out what I am.

It's a great idea, and I appreciate the novelty, but I didn't associate with any of that any way. I still feel like me, just a robbed and balder version. It makes me wonder what I do associate with, what sacrifices I could make to really challenge my concept of identity. I guess there's always the option of giving up more. But I don't think that's necessary. What I have left is my fan, Western toilet, breakfast, lunch, and cold showers. I've already left home and left college, including the family and friends that are still there, waiting. The people and things in my life are representations of who I am, but I realize that the person I am is something distinct from that. I may have new clothes, customs, and a new name, but in the end, nothing has changed."

**Fun fact: my monk name in Pali is "Dewennda," which is translated as "celestial king." Things worked out well.**

Thoughts from others:

"I feel like I'm ignoring some parts of myself (singing, dancing, expression) in favor of others. I just don't know what those are yet" (Evelyn)

"Up till this point, we've always been looking at the system (caste, gender, etc.), and we've been outside of it. I might not like something, but it doesn't really matter because I'm Western and it's not really my life. It's hard because now, we're a part of it, and we haven't done anything for our position in it" (Claire)

"The idea of ordination was for us to enter into and understand a social framework other than our own, but even though we're technically in it, we're still not operating in it. The system runs on ideas of karma and reincarnation, and if we believed, you guys (the sangha) would be holy people. But to us, you're just our friends. All we see is this new, unfair hierarchy" (Michelle)

"I know that a bunch of laypeople are kind of upset because we didn't choose to be part of this, but we still have to be. We didn't ordain, we didn't want to be different. So why are we being treated differently?" (Chris)

September 18
Maybe there is no difference, and maybe that in itself is different enough.
The entire idea of Buddhism is non-attachment , the shedding of conventional identities and distinctions to recognize that there is no "Joe," no "man," let alone no "monk." I wear these robes to signify the sacrifices I've made in search of enlightenment, but they are not me. This undeserved stratum in society is not mine.
At their barest qualities, Joe and Dewennda are no different, and both are still bound to this world of suffering and mortality. Change my name, change my clothes, but none of that changes the truth. None of that changes me.

Theravadan Buddhism:
This is for all those Ahmuricans out there who know as little about Buddhism as I did coming here. Keep in mind, this is a super Meditation 101 outline, and there's a lot of theory, philosophy, and practice that people have written books about. This is just for a blog, and thus, you have me.

For the past month, we've been working on the Theravadan tradition of Buddhism, often considered the most classic and stringent school...and rightly so.

The first meditation style we learned was Samadhi, concentration or tranquility meditation. We sat for about half an hour early in the morning and later in the evening with our legs crossed, and on ambitious days, in a half-lotus position. The meditator focuses solely on the nostril, the gateway of the breath. In. Out. In. Out.
If his mind drifts, he brings it back into the breath. If he is in pain, hot, or both, he brings it into the breath. And when the mind is filled only with the awareness of breath, it is too full, too focused to allow any defilement.

Metta is tranlated as "loving kindness." At the end of each evening meditation, we are to foster a sense of well-being and let it emanate outwards from ourselves into the world. Each phrase below is repeated twice, but we are supposed to also keep it personal and not get caught up in the labels.
    1. There are beings frightened or not frightened. May they be well and happy.
    2. There are beings visible or invisible. May they be well and happy.
    3. There are beings living near or far. May they be well and happy.
    4. There are beings having more rebirths or no more rebirths. May they be well and happy.
    5. There are beings tall, short, or medium. May they be well and happy.
    6. There are beings big, small, or medium. May they be well and happy.
    7. There are beings gross, subtle, or medium. May they be well and happy.
(I'm really hoping I'm not gross or subtle....and I'm still not sure why they're opposites).

Vipassana means "wise seer." Back in the day, one spent years on Samadhi meditation and mastered all of the jhanas before he began Vipassana, but there has been a recent movement in the tradition that made Vipassana much more accessible to the common person. Hence, we're allowed to practice, capable or not.

Basically, the meditator is supposed to watch his body. Sensations, thoughts, and desires arise in the mind, but he is not to make any kind of judgment. Just watch as they come, and eventually, as they go. When the power goes out and the fan dies, he notes "hot, hot." When his nose itches, he notes "itching, itching." And when it passes without a response, he returns his focus to the rising and falling of the abdomen.

For the first half an hour, we walk. We find a straight line about twelve feet long, and we focus on the lifting, moving, and placing of each foot. We walk very slowly, paying attention to the pressure of each footfall, the movement of energy carried in each step. And it's about five times easier to stay awake...not that falling asleep isn't possible. Trust me.

By realizing that all things come, last, and go, we are to realize that nothing is permanent and that everything is in a constant state of change. We cling to things in this world that are bound to fade and leave us reaching after something that wasn't ever there to begin with. This is why people find Buddhism pessimistic, but it's also why people find it liberating. I would write more about it, and I probably will in the future, but after four weeks of meditation, philosophy classes, and complete immersion in this religion, I'd much rather step back right now and take a nap.

Varanasi:
Varanasi is "the city of lights," the oldest surviving city in the world after 4,000 years, and the site of the Buddha's first sermon after enlightenment. And it was a hella good time.

The train ride began like any other, with some good conversations and games of Go Fish, Spit, and Egyptian Rat Screw. Then things got strange in all the good ways possible.
Ben YH was passing a bench with a woman playing a flute. He told her that her playing was beautiful, and she invited him to sit down with her and her posse. Turns out, they were a band heading to a concert in Calcutta, and ten minutes later, the entire car was full of music. They busted out their instruments, we busted out ours, and it was a solid two-hour jam session. For so long, we have been inundated with cautionary tales of travelers. Every one waiting outside the gates of the vihar had a hidden intention. I was white and I had money; they were Indian and they were trying to get it. The line was drawn.
But in that car, we erased it.

The next day, we woke up at about 5:45, rented out a boat, and watched the sunrise over the Ganges. There were no brilliant bursts of light, no choir of hallelujahs arising forth from the river. It was much more subtle. Slowly, light blues and pinks crept into the horizon, mixing with the heavy dust to blur the colors into each other like chalk on a sidewalk canvas. The sun was a round and distinct red, but it was deep and dull, seemingly incapable of lighting up the world, but somehow doing it any way.

After a terrible breakfast of tasteless cheese and maple-sausage coffee, we went shopping for silk in the Muslim Quarter. The silk shop owner was incredibly kind, giving us chai masala and talking for about half an hour about how authentic his shop was. An hour later, we found ourselves at Gateway Hotel, only the snazziest hotel in town, for lunch. Apparently, the chief minister was coming in the next day, so security was pretty tight. But one of the guards gave each of us a caramel candy, so all was right in the world. An average meal was around 500-600 Rps, which is roughly $10-12. I spent 225 Rps ($4) on a mango lassi that I will never regret. Later that night, there was a beautiful concert with two musicians at a nearby hotel, but after a long day, I have no shame in saying that I totally fell asleep. Oops.

That Saturday, I slept in for the first time since I can remember, waking up at a whopping 7:30. After a plate of chocolate pancakes and a pot of tea, we were on our way to the cremation ghats. Pictures not allowed--and not wanted--so we left our cameras in our pockets as the priest of the ghat explained the process of dying in Varanasi.  When someone dies, they bring the body to the ghat and wash the body in the river. After it dries, it's ready for the pyre. The closest relative (oldest son, husband, dad, etc.) shaves his head and bathes in the Ganges also, dressing in white for the burning. Women aren't allowed into the ghat in fear that, lost in grief, they will toss themselves onto the fire. Hey, when in Rome.

It was really strange being there. I knew that under those six piles of wood, there was a body being slow roasted for hours on end. I knew that the strange object sticking out from the logs was a leg, singed and deformed in the heat. But it didn't seem real. There was no smell (thanks to the type of wood), no crying, and no body. It was surreal, and I left soon after, unable to feel anything and not wanting to.

Round 2 consisted of lunch at Brown Bread cafe, and three fantastic cheeses and breads later, we were on the road again. We picked up some candies at a supposedly renowned sweets shop and a chocobanana muffin at Open Hand cafe. Then, we were just in time for a Bollywood movie. Bollywood. Everything you imagine it being.

That night, we ate at Ashish (because we obviously hadn't eaten enough). It was a local but fantastic Indian place where we sat cross-legged on a mat with a small tea table for the food. I got the special thali, and unlike the vihar, they spared no spices.


My time at Varnasi was mainly spent eating, shopping, and driving, like any good tourist. But it wasn't about what I was doing as much as it was about who I was doing it with. In the hotel, we met a guy on a Ford fellowship doing research on the Tibetan people in exile/education system in Dharmsala named Patrick. Then, at the same hotel, we ran into Grant, who was an alum of the program two years ago, and his friend Lilly. With a spattering of other guest appearances by girls enrolled in a four-year international college majoring in Human Trafficking and Prostitution, and another who was designing a filtration system for the runoff water in a ghat that can be used for agriculture, we had a fantastic time. After meeting these people and hearing their stories, I can't imagine not coming back here. Once upon a time, three months seemed liked forever, but this is an entirely new world. I'm only scratching the surface.

The Power of She(va)

I can't really say any of this from personal experience, but from the outside looking in, it seems really hard to be a woman in India. Hundreds of societal expectations, none written down in a "How to Survive India" handbook, guide every step and frame every sentence long before you do or say anything. There is an image of modesty and appropriateness that is always looming, always embedded as a subconscious standard of dress, language, and anything else under the sun...and it's a standard the men don't have.

Is it fair? Oppressive? I'm not really in a position to say. But as far as rural India is concerned, all I know is that it is. And it has been for a very long time.

We, as Americans, are walking into a culture with thousands of years of history, traditions, and customs that aren't going to change in the next three months. It's different, and it can be hard- but fighting isn't much of an option. All we are left to do is put aside whatever our definition of "equality" is and try on these new ideas, to live the life we came to experience.

First of all, I want to give credit to all the girls on the trip. They are the ones who have to make sure their salwars are covering everything above the ankle, who keep walking as the local men take pictures from a distance, and who are constantly shadowed by the stereotype of the Western woman: sexually available to all.
        Dancing or singing in public? Prostitute.
        Making direct eye contact with a man? Prostitute.
        Smiling (suggestively?) ? Prostitute
We have a severe lack of prostitutes on this trip, and I really respect the women here who have the patience to maintain that image, no matter how frustrating it can be.

Secondly, I would like to give credit to the Indian women who, although not the head, are the heart of this country.
They may have the same standards held above them, but there is no compromise. These women watch their own steps, and each one has purpose, power, and dignity. What they do to regulate and restrict themselves isn't out of shame, it's out of a desire to preserve and protect who they are as women.

During my time in Delhi, I found myself at Gandhi Smirti, the place where Gandhi was assassinated. Among all the monuments that commemorated India's movement towards independence, there was a room right in the middle full of the women who made all the difference. My favorite was Rani Gidalu, the "Joan of Arc" of the Nagaland who led a force of 4,000 volunteers in guerrilla warfare against the British. She was 17 when she was captured and tortured. But she gave them nothing until India was officially declared independent...over a decade later.

An example a little closer to home is Sister Molini, a Nepalese nun and one of the three Samadhi meditation teachers here at the Vihar.
Growing up in a home with eight other siblings, her family couldn't always afford clothes. When she went to school, she would put on the uniform light green lungi and one of her dad's old military shirts. When she was 12, her mom got sick, forcing Sister Molini to drop out of school for the year to care care of her. Against all odds, she went back to school, and with the help of state scholarships, graduated law school in her early twenties.
A few years later, she was in an accident that left her in the hospital for three months. During that time, someone donated a book that crossed her bed and changed her life: The Life of the Buddha.

"Everything that's happening, you do." -Sister Molini

 She realized that she was angry. Angry at her father for not being able to provide for her and her sisters and angry at her mother for holding her back from an education. But ultimately, she realized that her life was her own. The best way to take control, to change her life, was to become personally and intimately involved with the teaching that had set her free and to become a nun.

31 years later, she began an orphanage for girls thrown out of human trafficking, typically because they had contracted HIV. The girls are kidnapped at around 6 years old, and by the time they find their way to Sister Molini, they are no older than 13. These seven girls were taken from their home, violated, plagued with a disease that will haunt them for the rest of their lives, and tossed out with no where to go and no one to care. Sister Molini gave them a bed, a meal, and a hope for something better.

These women I have met in India are stronger than I can imagine. They may not talk to me, but they definitely have a voice. Humility may serve its purpose, but the moment that a woman's family and the life she loves are threatened, there are no holds barred. Hell hath no fury, and it be best that men don't forget.

I Am Here.

I am here.
It's a simple enough sentence, but it's one that I'm only beginning to really understand.

Delhi was an extremely fast city, a constant flow of beggars, rickshaws, and buses working their way around each other like a puzzle with ever moving pieces that always seem to fit but never seem to finish. So we learned to move with it, caught somewhere in the stream of venders, restaurants, and marketplaces. We learned to waved away beggars while waving down tuk tuks and to haggle, to never take anything at face value. Here, everything is a lot deeper and more intricate than what it first appears to be.

Every temple I've been to so far, whether Buddhist, Sikh, or Muslim, has been ornamented with gold, silver, and a deep sense of serenity. But just outside is the immediate reality of the beggars and their place in the hierarchy of India. Broken men with crippling deformities are forced to walk on all fours; women, hunched against the weight of their years, quietly tap your shoulder, searching for a little bit of food, a little bit of money, or a little bit of humanity to touch her own; children paint fake mustaches above their lips and perform, doing flips and tricks as a man from their syndicate watches from a distance and waits for the money they make.

We are told that as Americans, as white people, we are beautiful. Even further, we are heroes. But who are we saving, and what are we saving them from? To become a student of Buddhism, I had to let go of everything to take on nothing. But thousands of people wait on the street day after day and beg to hold on to just that: nothing. No one can save what they can't touch, and these are the untouchables.

 

There is no change in sight, no hope for a life different than the one they have now. They aren't looking for an answer or a solution that will deliver them from their caste. But still, they look at us and our blue eyes, pale skin, and money pouches. And they know they will never have it. They aren't looking for a different life- they're looking to see if one exists.
When I look at the stars, I know that I will never reach them, but I don't care. The knowledge that a man has walked on the moon and that NASA has sent drones to explore and chart far-off planets is enough. I don't need to leave where I am, but I do need to know that something else, something more, is out there. I guess, in that way, I can understand the beggars. I can understand the stares from around corners and across streets. I can understand the giggles and whispering as I walk by. I have done nothing to deserve any attention at all...nothing more than simply be there. Simply exist.

But now I'm in Bodh Gaya. I'm here.
For the first few days, I listened to everyone else's "aha" stories, those moments where it hit them that they were halfway across the world eating different foods and wearing different clothes, and that we weren't leaving any time soon. I didn't have that moment, and I was getting frustrated.

Yeah, I ate all the same thalis and dal, for better or worse. I dodged the same cows in the streets, looked at the same fabrics, and I sat there under the same bodhi tree where the Buddha was enlightened over 2,000 years ago. Yet no eureka, no overwhelming sensation that screamed "I'M IN INDIA!" Nada.
I was seeing, hearing, and walking Bodh Gaya, but I wasn't feeling it at all. Faced with all that "here" had to offer, all I had expected and all that surprised me, something was missing. Last night sitting on the roof of the Vihar, I realized that I was.

That sounds stupid to say, especially to write out, but it makes sense to me. I came to India with the purpose of simply seeing what was here and taking from it what I could. But the difference between seeing a place and living there is that living is a two-way relationship. You bring everything you are and invest everything you have in the place you call home, for no matter how long. I came to observe, but it's impossible to stop there. I (with everything I am) live (in every way I can) here (with everything that is). Suddenly, it's not that simple of a sentence.

No one to tell us "no," or where to go...

That was a lie. Pictures aren't coming.

Turns out that my India power adapter doesn't work in the UK, which shouldn't have been a surprise. But regardless, I have a dead camera and two totally empty SIM cards. My bad. For compensation, I can paint you a word picture, and if you somehow can close you're eyes and read it at the same time, it'll be just like you're here too.

1. People actually say "Right-o" and "Bonkers." Whenever I speak, I still sound American. But when I think, it's really hard not to mentally impersonate every accent you hear.
Example: "Mum, come heah." It's priceless.

2. Everyone jogs and bikes kind of like how everyone in the States eats McDonald's and watches television. As much as they fit their stereotype, they make me really feel like I'm fitting mine too.
Also, bikers have to act like cars, with hand signals, red lights, the whole shebang.

3. "Mash" is really just mashed potatoes. It's not a trick.

But as a whole, London has been fantastic. My roommate, Brian, was the first person I met on the trip, and as soon as he got in, he wanted to go out again. So £7.70 and a transit day pass later, we were off for Olympic Park. But apparently a ticket to the opening ceremony was £300, and no job in college pays that well. So instead, we went all along the Thames, went to Tate Museum to see some epic modern art, and to East London to check out Little Bangladesh and some awesome graffiti.

I'm not a big art kinda guy, but there was an incredible exhibition at the Tate that attempted to bring elements of motion and movement into art. Is art simply caught on a canvas, or can it be expressed, recorded, and exhibited? Can it take on a life of its own? It was theatrical, dramatic, and powerful... and it worked.

There are 36 of us on the program, and the first night, about half of us went to a restaurant around the block called Night and Day. After, we went to Trafalgar Square to watch the Opening Ceremonies projected in the park. But after we listened to all the countries starting with "C," we bailed and went to the Thames to see the Eye of London and all that stuff around there. On our way back to Russell Square, we saw a giant escort driving by...and the Queen was in the car in the middle. Yeah, the Queen! So Day 2 was exciting.

Day 3, we had some orientation and then went to the British Museum in Bloomsbury (a four-minute walk from the hotel). Outside of all the Hindu and Buddhist exhibitions, which I will probably talk about more in depth later, I got to see the Rosetta Stone and some Olympic medals, which was incredible. For dinner, we went to Vegetarian's Paradise for some India prep. That night, four of us (Ben, Will, Tamara, and I) went to Westminster, and as soon as we got off the Tube, Big Ben was towering over us. I swear, it's so surreal that the picture looks like we got the backdrop from Walmart. It's absolutely beautiful. Then we walked to Garden Square to check out Buckingham Palace. A small part of me was hoping for a chance to see the Queen again, but oh well.

Today, these were my thoughts:

"Up until this point, London has been an idea, and abstraction as intangible as Narnia, and to see it become embodied by specific people, places, and the memories I'm walking away with has been an incredible opportunity. When I got here, I was alone and lost, but happy. I was given the ability to find my own way around, a place for myself in a city of thousands. But when orientation began, things opened up even more. I've met new people, and together, we got to go through London in every sense that matters. It took only took a few days to discover a whole new world, a lifestyle and culture that up till now was theoretical. No, I'm not alone or lost, but I'm definitely happy.

I know that India is going to be a whole new place with different customs and expectations, and it's full of people and places I don't know yet. But I will. Bodh Gaya is just waiting to become embodied and explored, to be brought into my experience- and thus, my reality."

Tonight, New Delhi!

Going Across The Pond....and getting wet.

Welcome to the land of Wallace, Grumit, James Bond, and Adele.

It wasn't fun getting here.

No, I didn't mind the hour delay in Miami thanks to Hurricane(?) Tropical Storm(?) Giant thunderstorm(?) Isaac. I didn't mind the fifteen minute power walk to my connecting flight. I didn't even mind the ten hours going across the Atlantic. I could sit, read, and wait just fine as I made my way across the world. But I am kind of bummed that my bag didn't come with me.

Being without toothpaste, clothes, and money taught me a lot, and it turns out, I can have next to nothing and get by just fine. Lesson learned.

Lesson number 2: always lie to customs. I could have just been visiting a friend or brother in town for a few days. I could have been simply wanting to live the London lifestyle and get away from the States. But no. I was too happy to be there, and I wanted to let the deceptively happy looking guy at customs know exactly why...in excruciating detail.

Orientation? Yessir. For what? I'm going to study abroad in India. And you're orienting yourself for India...in London? That doesn't seem normal. I guess not, but that's what the program told me to do. I'm meeting them here. Do you have proof? No! It's in the bag that it's in Charlotte, North Carolina!

This is what happened for about 20 more minutes until he "gave me the benefit of the doubt" that I wasn't trying to kidnap the Queen. I was the last one to clear customs.

But then I was out in the city. The inner tourist in me who just wanted to get to my hostel by any means necessary accidenaly bought an express train ticket that, though while significantly faster, was twice as much. When I got off in Victoria, I couldn't find my bus, and after seeing how beautifully stereotypical the taxis were in London, I had to take one. Twenty pounds and fifteen minutes later, I regretted it. But still, poor or not, I was where I needed to be....wherever that was.

It's strange being in a country where no one knows your name, and no one is about to ask. I was just some stranger walking on the street, and no one gave me a second look. Yesterday was my day to wander with my destination as aimless and inconsequential as myself. No one wondered or worried about where I was, and when I got lost, I had all the time in the world to find my way back. If I got tired, I found a park and I slept. My nap count: Little Russel Park, Grand Russel Park, Braxton Park, and the British Museum.

After a 12-hour night that I forced myself to sleep through, I woke up to a new day. I know where I am, and thanks to yesterday, I know where I need to go. My bag should be on it's way, and so should I.

London is absolutely beautiful, and I'm excited to spend a few more days here with people who care who I am. Or at least have an idea. There are lots of cafes to find, teas to drink, and people to get oriented with. This is just to say that I'm here, I'm safe, and I'm happy.

Pictures are still to come!

Forever Young

A few days ago, I was driving my little brother Jack Jack somewhere. The west coast? Home? Publix? I can't remember. But what I do remember is that "Don't Miss Your Life" by Phil Vassar came on the radio. It's one of those songs that make you want to grab a pint of cookie dough ice cream, mourn your lost innocence, and never be happy again. The lyrics are chalk full of missed opportunity and chances you'll never get back.

Link: "Don't Miss Your Life" by Phil Vassar 

But Jack, apparently unaware of my emotional turmoil from the backseat, kept talking about his score in Fruit Ninja. I did a few "mhmm"s and super subtle "yeah, that's cool"s, but he just wasn't running out of things to say. Had I used the American Flag blade yet? Yup. He just cut up a power-up pomegranate for 25 points. Wasn't that cool? Yeah, bud, that's super cool.
Just when I was about to turn around and ask him to not talk until the song was done, I realized that this was the life the song warned me about: the life I was missing.

My brother is six years old, going on seven. He still laughs at the jokes on Disney channel, and he has no idea that "The Suite Life" wasn't originally "On Deck". He loves baseball, and he started coach pitch last season. Pokemon has always had 7 generations, and Jar Jar Binks has always been in Star Wars. He's a little boy, and he does little boy things. Apparently in all of my twenty years, I forgot what that was like.

"Some day, you'll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again" (C.S. Lewis)

I have three younger siblings, and five on the days we want to be technical. Jack is named after an animated Pixar superhero; Calista wants to be a part-time Soccer player, part-time Olympic swimmer, and full-time book reader all in one; and in a day far, far away, Julia will talk to me about boys...... Maybe when she gets her permit. Zing ;)

Watching my mom run her house of seven has made me gain a healthy appreciation for what adults put up with in a kid's world. There are only so many spilled milks, broken plates, and Powderpuff Girl reruns any (wo)man can handle. I tip my hat to those who can fake it till they make it through the roller coasters, arcade games, and play dates. But I think more importantly, I appreciate all those brave folk ridden with age who don't fake it at all.

I appreciate those who see a kid laughing and they laugh too. I appreciate those who see childhood in full bloom and not only remember what it was like, but also realize that it's not all that different now. The only time you miss life, Mr. Vassar, is when you think you've outgrown it.

"If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!" (J.M. Barrie, "Peter Pan")

I fully realize that I don't fit on most playgrounds, and I'm pretty sure the security at Boomers wouldn't let me in all by myself. No complaints.
But I'm still young enough to run outside in the rain during a thunderstorm and not worry about getting my shoes wet. I still spend hours doing absolutely nothing but talking to friends on a Monday night, and I'm still hoping that one day, I'll hit six foot.
Being a child isn't about being a certain age--it's about being young. And as far as I'm concerned, nothing is stopping me.

There's still a lot of magic in the world. A first kiss, a walk under a magnolia tree in Spring, and the first time your newborn child wraps their hand around your pinky. Those moments happen, and if they don't make you believe in pumpkin carriages, I don't know what will.
A happily ever after is only impossible when you stop wishing for one, and there are a lot of stars in the sky.

So this is to Jack, who is growing older way too fast but not growing up at all. I wish you never will.

Manifest Destiny

Yesterday, I woke up at a whopping 6:30 a.m.

With my glasses, a pair of basketball shorts, and an "Amazing Blood Donor" shirt that could fit at least two more of me, I made my way to the beach.

My sister has been wanting to do one thing for a while: watch the sunrise over the Atlantic and then drive across Florida in time to watch the sunset over the Gulf. Finally, we did it, and watching that sunrise was completely and totally worth the early morning coffee.

We went from sea to shining sea, Deerfield Beach to Marco Island, like modern day Lewis and Clarks. We followed the sun as it made its way across the world, rising in the East and setting in the West. And the best part is, it was only a two hour drive!

There was a beginning, and there was an end. Alpha and Omega. Birth and Death. And there was the journey in between.

The ocean is immense, and the horizon, endless. Looking on, it's easy to see that in comparison, I'm neither. I have those moments when I stand on the brink of eternity, and maybe I even touch the water, but when the sun sets, I'm still on the shore. It's hard not to feel small.

When I stood next to something seemingly infinite, I realized how limited I really am. God willing, I have my 80+ years to live, and I only have one body with which to live it. Life (capital "L") isn't fragile, and I know that. It's been around for a long time before me and it will be around for a long time to come. But my life? The life of one man in a world with seemingly endless space, time, and brimming with other living things? That's a different story.

People die. It's not an original thought, and I can't say that I'm super surprised. But that realization inevitably means that for the small amount of time that they have, people live too. Yeah, my biological clock is ticking, my lifespan fixed to a date I don't know. But in that moment when I got to sit on the beach surrounded by my family, I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Limits are what make us who we are. The only definition we have is the life we've made for ourselves through the things we've done and the people we chose to share it with. Our legacy is left with the few, and although every impact is finite, it's as unique as we are.

 

What are the chances that out of all the places and times that have come and gone, I would be right here, right now? There are a million of other ways my life could have turned out. If I hadn’t been born into the family I was, or if my brothers weren’t born on the same day. Countless “ifs” could have changed anything and everything. But none of them matter.
All that matters is the specific road I did take, the choices I did make. Call it Fate, God, or Statistics, but I find it amazing any which way.

"Today, you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You." (Dr. Seuss, Happy Birthday to You!) 

Not that it was ever an option, but I have absolutely no interest in immortality. Having everything means holding on to nothing. It's only when you have a few things, a few truly important people, places, and memories, that you cherish them just as much as your own life. Because that’s exactly what they are.

We all reach that final limit where there is no where else to go, when the sand runs out and it's time to jump in the water. One day, we'll have that last sunset where it's time to go beyond the shore and follow the sun on its way out. But who we meet on the way and what path we take to get there? That's up to us. I may have my limits, but I promise that I'm living fully within every one of them.

The Final Countdown....

“You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore” (Christopher Columbus)

 

Ten days.

In first grade, my class did a presentation on India, and in front of watching parents and little kid classmates, I stood at the front of the classroom and informed the unknowing public that “India is a triangle. Like a slice of pizza.” That gem of wisdom plus the fact that peacocks are the national bird and brides wear red on their wedding day and I was the authoritative scholar of all things Indian. That’s where things got started, and fourteen years later, I’m in the frenzy of packing, sorting, and stressing my way through study abroad preparations. Ten days from today, an early morning plane is leaving Fort Lauderdale airport bound for Heathrow in London, and I have every intention of being on it.

Until then, I have the pleasant waiting company of prescription meds, a folder with a passport, tourist visa, and a long list of things I still haven’t bought. On the counter is a red notebook full of Hindi scribbles, the early beginnings of an alphabet that I still have to learn. A lot to do, not a lot done, and the knowledge that soon, I better be travel worthy. But more importantly, I also know that if the next ten days disappeared and I still didn’t have my order of powdered Gatorade, God forbid, I would still get on that plane. I’m ready to go, even if my things aren’t exactly ready to go with me.

 “Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get. Life should be touched, not strangled. You've got to relax, let it happen at times, and at others move forward with it. It's like boats. You keep your motor on so you can steer with the current. And when you hear the sound of the waterfall coming nearer and nearer, tidy up the boat, put on your best tie and hat, and smoke a cigar right up till the moment you go over. That's a triumph.” (Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer)

Four months

and the promise is a spiritual awakening, a lifetime of pictures and stories, and a new lease on life. In short, it promises a break. I’m trading in my cell phone, laptop, and red meat for a kurta, yoga mat, and grains and beans. Coffee for tea. Late nights for early mornings. The West for the East. Four months with family and friends for four months with strangers in a strange place doing strange things. I’m trading the old “me,” everything I know, have come to know, and have come to love, for whatever “me” is out there. Looking on, it’s a trade worth making—for now, at least.

Most changes in my life up to this point (family moves, changing schools, new brothers and sisters, graduating high school) weren’t voluntarily. So every time I chose to change (going to college, joining a fraternity), I asked a question: am I running away from where or who I was? If I’m completely honest, the answer is yeah, I am. But only because it's inevitable.

Going forward means leaving something behind. The intention isn't to go away from anything necessarily, or even to go to, but that's what happens anyway. Such is life. I've lived in the same neighborhood in the same house for twenty years and counting. But those years left their mark, and even though it's the same address, I live in a completely different place. I'm not riding my bike down the block to ask neighborhood friends if they want to play kickball until the sun goes down. I don't wear a collared shirt and black knee socks to school or play hookie so that I can watch reruns of Dragonball Z on Toonami. Kids grew up, families moved out, and finally, so did I. Nothing is ever really static, and people and places change from moment to moment. All I can do is change too. Yeah, I'm on the run, but only because the past is already gone. So the question changes, and instead, I have to ask where, or who, am I running to? That, I don’t know yet--and there's no hurry to find out.

 “ ‘By not so willing anything in the world, he grasps after nothing; by not grasping, he is not anxious; he is therefore fully calmed within.’ One should neither look forward to coming experiences, nor clutch at present ones, but let them all slip easily through one’s fingers.” (Michael Carrithers, Buddha: A Very Short Introduction) 

Every time we leave, we wonder if we'll ever find our way back. Maybe we will, maybe we won't, and maybe we won't want to. Nonetheless, life is always moving forward, and this is me deciding to move with it. Starting today, I’m on my way.

Link: "Send Me On My Way" by Rusted Root