Grub

Profile - a formerly widowed and remarried returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Nepal; have been a stay-at-home father for the past 16 years; am afflicted by a serious autoimmune condition, but can manage with a cane or walker; have four children ranging from 14 to 19, three sons and one step-daughter; play guitar (not too well, but enjoy it); live in the mid-atlantic region, but prefer the west coast; have been a vegetarian of various stripe for over 25 years, but currently consider myself a 'carrion-vegetarian,' that is, one who will occasionally eat the flesh of fish, fowl, or beast if it has been leftover and forgotten in the fridge well past anybody's intent to consume.  These are some of the things that I carry.

Sometimes it feels like my life experiences, both big and small, will separate me in ever smaller groupings till this unique little snowflake melts or blows away.  But then I will reach out, talk to another homo sapiens sapiens and find that in fact the chasm which divides really isn't there.  How vast our shared humanity is.  However, there are some issues I might broach that almost without exception will paint me into my tiny idiosyncratic corner.  Such as this post.  Why do I persevere in this manner?  Is it boredom, a desire to shock and awe my dear reader?  To stand up and be counted, occupy myself?  Probably some pedestrian blend of the above, and more.  Or perhaps less.

Without further ado, back to the 'meat' of this post.  What is an entomophagist?  (And, will this discussion wedge me off even further from the 99%?)  It's a nice new (to me) word I recently picked up from an article in the New Yorker with the same title as this post.  And means one who eats insects.  As noted above, I've practiced vegetarianism for much of my life, mostly lacto-ovo, and for some years I also ate fish.  Recently went back off fish, due to the very dire state of worldwide fisheries.  However, I will occasionally eat the leftovers off the plate of a friend or relative, right after they tell the waiter 'sure, I'm done.'  Maybe a crunchy fish head, some fat off of a steak, salmon skin - whatever, before it goes to the trash.  That's me, the last stop before the dumpster.

Well, some many posts ago I mentioned trying the 'chapulines', or grasshopper tacos at the gourmet Mexican restaurant Oyamel here in D.C.  I was working on my 'life list' of bizarre foods (not to mention taking my then girlfriend/now wife Dwan out for a Valentine's day dinner.  Go figure, I ate bugs, and still she married me!).  And they were pretty good.  Recently we returned to the restaurant with a gift card we'd received from a friend.  True confession, I ordered the 'hoppas' again!  To be honest, it didn't taste as good as the first time, so I probably won't be going back for more anytime soon, if ever.

I have a question though, namely, are bugs people too?  That is, are they sentient beings?  And, more specific to my brand of vegetarianism, are they endangered?  According to the New Yorker article (as far as my weak memory serves) they are a very healthy source of protein and other nutrients.  And have been eaten throughout the ages, both cooked and raw, even to this very day in some cultures.  There are even entomophagists in this country, and they meet for occasional cooking competitions, serving up morsels both savory and sweet like the delectable pictured here:

The article claims that insects are an ecological source of these nutrients, but I wonder just how sustainable they would be if everybody started eating them.  I mean a lot of them every day.  And, if they had to be transported hundreds of miles, freezer packed, or otherwise processed, for the average consumer to be able to incorporate them into their busy lives?  (For more about the article, and some cool audio and video, check out:  http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/08/eating-insects-entomophagy-video.html - it's pretty short.) 

If this sounds like a bit too much bother, for little or no gain, how about this?  Drop a roach into your next smoothie, blend it beyond recognition, and if there is a crunch, tell yourself it's a blackberry seed.  Still feeling skittish?  Maybe start with an ant, and work your way up the food chain?  I can feel the chasm widen as I think of you pondering this...  But wait, let me paraphrase Solzhenitsyn: the line which separates disgusting from delicious runs through the heart of every bug!

Clouds

The clouds and mist cleared, the late afternoon sun shining from the west.  We were standing in the Daman lookout tower I had stayed in some twenty four years before at the end of my Peace Corps tour in Nepal, a kind of 'self-retreat.'  Spencer, Miller, and I could see shiny white Himaalayas in the distance.  This remained our only glimpse during the entire Asia trip last summer.

"I can't meditate," some will say, "my mind just won't shut up," they may add.  Now, before you think I'm starting to proselytize, you can calm down - this is not my intention.  Rather, I would like to share some recent insights, and some facility with the contemplative path might be helpful.  Meditation, at least as practiced in the Theravada tradition, neither begins nor ends with clarity of mind, necessarily, or some sort of blissful tabula rasa.  The practice involves a good deal of watching just what the mind does on its own, moment by moment, returning from time to time to an 'anchor,' commonly the breath.  Each time you become aware of having 'drifted off,' and return your attention to the breath, is a moment of awakening to the here and now.  No matter that three breaths later you are adding to your shopping list, lamenting a recent altercation, or making plans for the weekend.  These are three more opportunities from which to 'wake up.'

A kind heart, and patience with the messy process of mind, are quite helpful in this endeavor.  We may be quick to judge ourselves, sometimes harshly, for the confused and muddy mind that presents.  Even these judgments are mind states we can observe, let go of - if only for a moment - and return to the anchor.  "Why did I waste a whole half hour planning and regretting, and now have nothing to show for it?  Am I now more 'awake,' or 'Buddhish,' or something?"  These are questions that may arise, and only you can answer.  The empirical nature of the practice is clear:  if meditation (or any other form of mindfulness practice - yoga, tai chi, qi gong, etc.) does not lead toward freedom, then let it go, by all means.  It may not be a wise path for you right now - or maybe ever.  However, it has been a path I have found quite helpful negotiating a rather challenging decade.

After getting lost in thought (which is bound to happen - to you and even to the Dalai Lama), can you return to the breath with a 'thank you' to the very thought process you were lost in?  And without which you likely would not have noticed coming back to your breath?  The jewel of your awareness - your clear view of the Himalaayas - is not just enhanced by the distracting thoughts which surround it - like the mist and clouds - but is in fact created by them.  The luminous mind is only seen in contrast to the clutter surrounding it.  Yin and yang arise in concert.

I'm attempting to let such a practice of gratitude enter other facets of my life.  One area that has been particularly challenging concerns my symptoms of MS.  Which you are likely aware, is a very big facet.  What would it mean to thank these 'clouds'?  There are times I can feel gratitude for the slower pace, but then there are lots of other times...  Sometimes the MS feels like an animal trap.  Unlike a mouse trap, which snaps and holds with a constant force, the larger animal traps used by professionals in the fur trade do this:  after being triggered they clutch their quarry, and if the trap holds around any moving body parts - such as the lungs or heart - it will constrict tighter with each breath or pulse, narrowing to an intractable end.  Some days my mind will go there.

Driving the other day I was having a more pronounced 'nystagmus' - the slight jiggling of my eyeballs in their sockets so that everything at rest seems to be shaking and pulsing.  This is usually less pronounced in the morning, and gets more intense during the day.  (Like most of my symptoms.)  Anyway, I thought of Cat Stevens' song 'Moon Shadow', with a slight twist:  and if I ever lose my eyes, if my colors all run dry, yes, if I ever lose my eyes, oh way ay ay ay hey...I won't have to [drive], no more.  Because I've never much cared for driving.  But the possibility of losing my license most assuredly gives me considerable pause.

Sure, there are taxis, busses, and metro, thankfully driving isn't everything.  Yesterday I rode the metro back from downtown, the day was mild, even a bit too warm under the windbreaker I wore.  There are many steps, however, between the bus and train doors.  And coming back, I just missed the connecting bus, and needed to use the loo.  Which meant it would not be well to sit and wait the extra half hour, so I decided to walk to the Giant, use the facility, and catch the bus from there.  My early morning walking metric - the number of unassisted steps it takes to get from our door to the elevator - was the lowest number I've ever recorded (since noting this for maybe a year now), tying perhaps only two previous occasions.  However, walking around town my legs - particularly my right one - were dragging something fierce, and my pace and balance were quite shaky.   Fortunately, I have learned after all these years how to slow it way down.

Can I learn how to thank my shaking eyes, dragging feet, impaired balance, etc. etc. etc.?  Are these dark clouds allowing me to appreciate the Himaalayan vistas in my life - my darling fiancée, strong and healthy sons, the guitar that feels gradually lighter and more facile in my grasp?  The vibrant greens of the season?

"But teacher," I ask my inner Buddha, "these MS symptoms are always changing, and are mostly getting worse!  How can I ever find peace with such a dire situation?  Waaah!"  On my good days, I can say, "lucky me!  Impermanence is in my face, every day - no need to imagine a future loss and decline - just hobble down the hall!"  But on the heavier days, oh my.  Can I look at these clouds from both sides now?

The tenth is in!

...the tenth visa, that is. Four to India, four for Nepal, and two for Brazil. (Just Spencer and Miller will be going on a cruise up the Amazon with extended Ruppe family. I didn't want to risk my health before the big Asian adventure - not to mention an already maxed-out travel budget - and Eli remained faithful to his skateboard and friends. Or something like that.)

The last four visas I got were from the Embassy of Nepal. This is located in a little townhouse on Leroy Ave., near Dupont Circle. Arrived Monday morning, parked on Connecticut (Leroy was a 'one way' preventing a right turn), and put all my silver in the parking meter - sixty cents - which yielded me a grand total of eighteen minutes parking time. This is a bone of contention for many, I know - the new rates - and to the extent that folks in general are suffering in this G.D. II (second great depression), it does seem a bit cruel. On the other hand, if it is one more reason to walk, bike, ride the bus or metro (fare increases notwithstanding), telecommute, or in any other way leave that darned private automobile in the garage (or sell it), then I support the rate hike. Which may sound a bit 'let them eat cake' Antoinettesque; I would counter, however, it is more the opposite: 'how about they eat bread' since we are running out of cake (gasoline, parking spaces, roads, clean air, clean oceans, etc.)

So, huge digression behind me now, on to the next. My eighteen expensive minutes afforded me enough time to walk up Leroy to find the embassy, and some parking spaces (unmetered - which due to my lack of coins was more good than bad). I wheeled my walker back and moved the car closer.

Not knowing what the embassy would be like, I had brought the walker instead of the cane. Something to sit on, if necessary, waiting in line, etc. And - he adds cynically - it tends to elicit kinder regard by bureaucrats than a cane. Unfortunately, in front of the embassy are approximately eight concrete steps up from the sidewalk, with no hand rail. What to do? Sick the ADA on them? No, I'll just go slow, that's what: while breathing in, push down on the walker handles (this is one of the four wheel jobs with a seat - we'd bought if for Loret), to set the front wheels up on the step; while breathing out, lift the handles and set the back wheels on the step below. Pause, feel the balance return to the inner ear and the MS affected regions of the brain and spine. Repeat these steps eight times. Then wheel ahead to five more steps up to the door. Not a problem, I'm moving now folks. Not even the ninety degree heat is slowing me down - there is much more important stuff slowing me down. Like, what is the improbable miracle that dropped me here in this infinite moment, walking past the tall white pole bearing the strikingly unique flag of Nepal. You can see it here: http://www.embassy.org/embassies/np.html

(Anybody know how to put a picture in a blog post? Or make a 'hyperlink'?)

I lift the walker inside. Wooden floor with the dust and dirt of decades ground in. There is a stairway on the right side of the hall - put there as if to taunt me, dare me - I shrug. There is a door on the left slightly ajar. Nothing in the way of ornamentation or directional signs. A few years ago there surely would have been pictures of the late king Birendra and his wife queen Aiswarya. But the monarchy is no more. (Which tempts a huge digression here, but I'll let the curious do their own research on the web - or maybe at the library: just look in...what were those things called, you know, you could get a set of them, they'd weigh a zillion pounds, and make book shelves sag, twenty volumes, thirty maybe? Wyclopedia Britannica or something? World Facebook?)

I push the door open and say 'namaste,' and in Nepali ask, 'do you speak English?' A friendly man - sixty maybe? - sat at a desk with a big ledger book open atop it. With wavy hair and glasses, he had Mongolian features (suggesting Tibetan origin, though I didn't want to ask his ethnicity. I routinely ask Brahmins, Newars, and Chetris their ethnicities - or 'castes' - in order to confirm my guess. And am relatively assured that they will not take umbrage at this, middle to upper caste as they are. I will eventually learn this clerk's caste from his name, Dig Bahadur Tamang, his last name referring to the 'horse warriors' who migrated from Tibet to Nepal over the last several centuries. His 'caste' is the same as mine, that is, non-Hindu, aka. the drinking caste.)

He offers me a seat, and we begin a dialogue in Nepanglish: my Peace Corps years, how long he has been at the embassy - thirty years - how he does not much care for the Maoists (currently in control of the parliament), etc. Very ramailo (a word which translates as gemütlich in German, or cozy, relaxed, harmonious. At which point I will note briefly how often a German word will come into my head as I'm looking for the Nepali - as if there is just one 'foreign language storage locker' in my brain, where words and concepts can get mixed up.) Practice will help with this. I'm currently reading a book in German, as well as The Tin Drum in English. Maybe it's time to focus on Nepali...

At one point somebody shows up - could be thirty or sixty, red polo shirt, coiffed yet natural flowing sandy blond hair, khaki pants: which is to say, a stereotype of privilege (did I mention how judgmental I can be?) - and hands Mr. Horse Warrior his passport and visa application, which he will have to come back in some days to pick up. He leaves, and Dig Bahadur tells me he will process my visas right then and there while I sit and chat. He gets the correct impression that I am in no hurry, which by the laws of judo mean that I sometimes get there sooner. (And even occasionally realize that I'm already there: there is really nowhere, ultimately, to go.) Then he offers me coffee, goes and retrieves two steaming styrofoam cups - his black, mine with what tasted like creamer powder. It was delicious.

He gives me his phone number at his home in Gaithersburg in case I should need anything else, and he helps me with words like 'multiple sclerosis' and 'metastatic breast cancer' which I will want to know if we make it to 'my' village to explain the porters who will have carried me there, etc. He offers to help me down the stairs, but I take the opportunity to sit-walk it down, another physical therapy opportunity. Was nearby the Indian/Nepali restaurant, the 'Polo Club,' so I called my sister and niece who work nearby and they joined me for lunch.

After the drive home, the heat was starting to get to me; but oh what a beautiful morning it had been! The corn as high as an elephant's eye...