Volunteer

I made it to the Wendt center a few weeks ago for a training on candlelight vigils, something the center will sponsor if requested. It was a very cold night, and it being rush hour, I took the metro. The center was supposed to be a half block from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast, an area I'd never been to. I didn't know which way to turn, so I hailed a cab. The cab driver got lost looking for the place, and said that I didn't have to pay for the ride. We had to call, and get directions, and indeed, it actually turned out to be just a half block from the station. Riding shotgun was the cabbie's girlfriend. We had a nice conversation during the 10 minute trip. Turns out the cabbie was widowed 15 years before. Of course I paid for the ride. Take a breath, step into the cold.

One of the speakers, Kecia, a middle aged woman with straightened black hair, while handing out written instructions, noted that at least two volunteers would need to be present at a vigil, and that the police would need to be notified. She also handed out lists of precincts and their phone numbers. 'The crowds can number in the hundreds,' she tells us. Her plum red false fingernails extended a good inch past the end of her finger tips. Holding up a short white candle, maybe 1/2 inch diameter, she said, 'the center provides fifty candles, candle holders, and programs. You might want to call the family to suggest they bring more, if they expect a larger crowd.' She wore dozens of silver bangles on each arm, and dabbed with a tissue at the perspiration on her heavily made up face. She'd said in her introductory comments that public speaking makes her uncomfortable. Ten of us sat around three office style tables, set side by side in a square.

'Depending on who is being memorialized at the vigil - somebody involved with criminal activity perhaps, or a controversial politician - there may be trouble. Before getting started, be sure to introduce yourself to the police. If things should get tense, you may leave. Be sure that at least two volunteers remain. If you all decide to leave, be sure to tell the immediate family members, give them any remaining candles - and candle holders - [these are small round paper cutouts with perforated holes in the center] and tell the police.' She dabs at some more perspiration. 'In the eight years I have been with the Wendt center, only one vigil has gotten out of hand.'

I take off my jacket, sit back in my chair. I had no idea that vigils could turn ugly like this. But this is D.C. after all. We are told that the Center is asked to sponsor maybe a dozen vigils per year. I ask whether it would be okay to use my walker if I were to help at a vigil. I had a hard time imagining passing out candles, holders, programs, verbal condolences, etc. while walking with my cane. Oh, and the p.a. system consisted of a hand-held megaphone. Maybe three of me with canes could manage it. I am assured the walker would be fine. We are thanked, some leave while some others stand around afterwards chatting (or in my case waiting for the proffered ride back to the metro.) We step into the parking lot, and the bracing cold.

Pretty long wait for the next train. Fortunately I had worn our heaviest jacket. I say 'ours' as the boys and I trade off, Miller now rapidly approaching six feet tall. So I get on the train, and exit at Friendship Heights, our station, but come up the wrong exit, which lies a good half mile or more from home. It was a lovely walk, though quite cold. I traded off my bare hand using the cane with the pocketed one every fifty paces. I stopped by Chipotle to get a burrito and two quesadillas for the boys on the way.

I got an email a few days ago from Kecia asking for volunteers for a vigil downtown to be held tonight. The deceased was a homicide victim. I will go unless the predicted snowfall cancels the event.

p.s. i drove for over two hours in the snow and sleet, but never found the place. maybe time for a gps. or make sure to carpool next time.

Agnos/Atheos

Here's a story. A bedtime story, a fairy tale guaranteed to put both the listener and the teller to sleep in less than five minutes. I wish I could say I thought it up myself, but I can only claim copyright to this (über-pseudo-scientific and tedious) modernized account: (This is a version, to some extent by way of Alan Watts, of the ancient Hindu Upanishad cosmology, or sacred text on the origin of everything.)

Once upon a time, so the tale begins...

Picture the situation, the beginning of it all: no thing there, not even time and space. Got the picture? Well then, the picture you have is wrong, forget it: not even nothing existed - it can't be pictured, there was no canvas. Until there arose Brahman, who appeared and thought 'what the?'. Just try to suspend your disbelief for a moment. You can call it Brahman, or God, or, in the religion of science, a Singularity. (In the theory of the Big Bang, I understand, major leaps of faith surrounding the singularity - what it was, what preceded it, etc. - are necessary. In a fairy tale we need a proper name for such a thing...). And it was aware of absolutely nothing but awareness itself. And after some infinite spans of not-time elapsed, it became aware of boredom. That's right, this Brahman dude was bored, all alone with less than nothing to do.

So it turns into a thought - how, out of what, you might wonder? Out of no-nothingness, that's what (remember the disbelief suspension thing) - and the thought becomes time, and it becomes space. And this Brahman character is, like, woah dude, this is cool - time and space - he feels vast. After several more infinite eons pass, he gets bored again. Yes, time and space - we're talking infinite time and space no less (though these infinities kind of wrap in on themselves) - these are pretty cool to get lost in. I mean, heads to this very day can't quite wrap their minds around these - time and space - no matter how many hallucinogenic substances they ingest.

Eons pass again when bored Brahman suddenly has another incredible insight, and BAM, he turns into matter and energy. Within seconds he grows to galactic proportions, with infinite energy shooting around in all its spectra of radiation. Pushing pushing into the darkness it goes. In fact, creating the very concept of darkness as it expands. More eons pass, and Brahman has experienced about enough of being gamma rays, photons, x-rays, electrons, quarks, gluons, stars, comets, asteroids, galaxies, quasars, black holes, supernovas, etc. He starts to, like, fall asleep in the back of a physics lecture. (Perhaps you can relate to such a sleepy state of mind right now...)

Luckily, he has a really cool daydream: planets. He wakes up and finds himself becoming a vast array of the humongous spheres. These are really cool - they'd come spinning out of stars (another great idea), and collide with other cosmic flotsam. Occasionally they'd split apart, maybe merge back together. Brahman is having the time of his life, doing the mashed planet, it goes like this. But alas, after some billions of years, even this grows tedious.

So Brahman brings his attention to one of these planet spheres he is now comprised of. There are probably other special ones, but let's imagine he focuses on one in particular. Like if you have a pimple, you are 15, are going to the dance tonight, and all you can think about is how to make it go away. Or your favorite book you keep coming back to read, say, The Count of Monte Cristo. Sure, you know how it ends, but still, each time there is something new. (And why do the good guy and bad guy's names both begin with Dan? What's with Dan?)

Well, he doesn't know how this particular planet will turn out. He doesn't know about any of them. And imagine, being all these different planets and stuff is really hard to keep track of, he kind of zones out or drifts off from time to time, and almost forgets what is happening. Like maybe his 'planet x' (aka Alison - hey you in back there, wake up!), forgets that her biggest moon had just settled into orbit maybe a billion years earlier. And that it is actually composed of the same cosmic stardust; Brahman kind of forgets some of the details. In fact, the further he gets from his first big idea - remember the BAM - the less he can easily remember.

So he brings his concentration to one particular planet in a galaxy he notices one day. It's as if he's admiring himself in a mirror, kind of looking along the galaxy edge - like it was a big pizza crust - all the stars lining up like a dense white cloud. It made him think of something he hadn't ever seen - a premonition of sorts - it looked a little like milk. Way like milk. (Ba dump bump.) Some day he might become a she-goat, and feed some kids, and spill some milk. (But we are getting ahead of things here.)

He feels the draw of this particular planet in the milky galaxy, like I said, and brings his full attention to it. Was it something I ate? he might think. Or, what is that bump on my back, could you tell me what it is, hon', I can't quite see it in the mirror? Well, the more he probes and prods, the more fascinated he becomes, imagining all the things he could turn into on this planet. There are all kinds of different atoms and elements he'd managed to become and gather together in this one place. He discovers that if he turns into two little hydrogens they would want to stick to one big oxygen atom. And man, this is a blast - he does it a gazillion times, then a gazillion more. Sometimes this combo gets cold and hard, sometimes cold and soft and fluffy, and sometimes all hot and steamy; but when his temperature is just right - a very narrow band of temperatures would do this - he gets all swishy and flows all over his planet self. Way cool. He does that a bunch. Till he is blue in the face.

But of course it gets old. What next he asks? This is pretty excellent, but I'm getting kind of tired having to think up new stuff to do all the time. His next idea is a real breakthrough, a game changer: in fact, it actually is a game - hide and seek! He thinks, what would happen if I let go and pretend I'm not really all this one big pulsing mass of energy and matter? What if I just hide? And little by little he does just that. But deep deep down, if he ever really wants to, he can remember what he is: everywhere and everything.

And gradually, the nitrogen, carbon, phosphorous, and some other elements start to mix around - as if by themselves, as if they are independent of Brahman. An amino acid - guanine - says "look at me!" Cytosine and adenine lock arms and counter, "big deal, look at us!" (Just a reminder from Biology 101, these are the building blocks of DNA). Things are really cooking now, and it isn't long - maybe a billion years or so - before single celled organisms are swimming around, multiplying, and eating each other up. These are Brahman's primordial soup and salad days. Warm and cozy, plenty to eat. And man, the free love! (Oops, this is supposed to be g-rated). But also plenty to get eaten by. Getting lost ever deeper in the game of hide and seek. Now picture the first flora, and fauna; the first swimmer, and walker, etc.

***

Fast forward some billions of years, and you can see how far we have gotten into this game. Right now, for example, you are sitting and reading some words on this computer screen (having made it well past the average reader who probably gave up after three paragraphs...the blogosphere is so unedited, it's embarrassing!); your fingers seem to be your one point of contact via the mouse to these words. You kind of ignore the floor beneath supporting your chair, and the desk; or the air flowing in and out of your lungs, occasionally steaming up the screen - oops, fell asleep again!; or the power from the sun pulsing through you, beating your heart, and powering the computer. And these are just a few examples of macroscopic overlap. The warp and woof of microscopic and subatomic interconnections are utterly mind expanding. There truly is no empirical point, or line, of separation - anywhere. Everywhere you can think, there is connection. But we can pretend to sever these connections as we tinker, organize, manipulate, create, and destroy: in our frenetic game of hide and seek. But wait, you might say, look at all the cool stuff 'we' can make! What power, 'our' science! True, yes, some amazing fun and games.

But also look how far we've gotten lost: some of us even believe very fervently - zealously, fanatically even - that god is 'up there,' or 'out there,' or inside of 'us.' That is, some entity other than what we see/feel/taste/think/sing/digest/etc. And some few extremists are so deeply mired in this game of hide and seek, they are willing to kill and die in the name of these external gods, created in their own images! Oh what a fix we can get in, the further we get lost in this game. A game at times buoyant and effervescent, at others miasmic, poisonous.

As with all religious doctrines, one could get lost in this Hindu one - and many do - spinning all sorts of anthropomorphic tales. And even weave in some sort of morality, or karma: e.g., Brahman doesn't enjoy the act of killing life so much as creating it. But the game continues to play itself out regardless. And all of our self- and group-justifications for the 'good' and 'evil' roles we play are like so much papier-mâché. But onward we pursue these roles, and onward we must: it was coded into the fabric of our being from the moment we - that is, the universe, or Brahman, took its first breath.

But this 'impartial' observer (hah, as if! Brahman chortles...), sees a world in which war and strife find their fiercest advocates in faith traditions which divide the concept of god from the self. In other words, dualism: god above, flock below. Witness the crusades - Christian v. Muslim v. Jew - and their legacy which continues to this very day.

Another 'impartial' observer (hah! again, good one!), might see little difference between this concept of god - or Brahman, or the universe, or everything - that it's one unified pulsing mass of seemingly differentiated entities: that this concept of unity, or everything is God, is at the end of the day no different from atheism; that perhaps there is no god. All god, no god - what's the difference? On one level maybe precious little difference; but with an ounce of belief suspension, I think they are quite a bit different. When I'm asked if I believe in god, my answer (in question form): does a fish believe in water? I think to leave god entirely out of the equation, even more than just removing it from the self (as in dualism), kind of leaves the world a bit stark. I think it's fun to put god in completely, make it the very essence of everything. I-god, you-god, we all-god: for god's sake!

And in my humble opinion, looking up at the stars on a clear night, or at a particularly beautiful sunset, or a violent lightning storm, or any moment that feels very big: I have a choice, that is, we all do, we can feel very small compared to the vast and capricious universe, or we have the option to feel it is all us, right here and now and forever.

I can't know for sure, so I'll go with agnosticism for now. And meanwhile jump back in, keep playing the game - hoping my 'good' roles outnumber my 'evil' ones - till I hear the roar: alle alle oxen free! And hearing this, return to the source - the thing that has been seeking and finding and losing me again all these 49 years of homo sapienism - Brahman.

Aaaaaaaahmeeeeeen!

Hole in one.

I'm not 'a golfer,' but I've shot the links a time or two with my brothers, some of whom are. And I usually discover the Zen koan that the game presents: the harder you try to nail the shot, the more likely it is you'll slice it, hook it, or most embarrassingly, barely dribble it past the ladies' tee - sometimes not even that far. Of course, practice, technique, and equipment all help - at least I'm told they do, not that I've ever tried. But at bottom is the fundamentally counter-intuitive fact that letting go will tend to make for a better swing and shot. Well, letting go figuratively that is - you don't want to brain your fellow golfers (or yourself) by letting the club fly.

Now I don't remember where I heard this golfing story, but with some considerable embellishments, here it comes again:

One day a middle-aged Zen Buddhist monk - Master Bopshong Sunim, nicknamed Bob - was playing a Master's Tournament in Florida. He was very good at the 'letting go' thing, and well, his golf skills were pretty dang sweet. He was tall and well built, especially for a Japanese man. With shaved head, saffron robe, and bare feet - he cut quite the figure. His irons were all a bit rusty - not from lack of use, they were just that old. And his driver's were actually made of wood, some of the grips duct-taped to their shafts.

It was a gorgeous day, palm trees waving, and Bob - at two points behind front runner Phil Mikelson, and one behind Tiger Woods - manages to win with a hole in one on the 18th, a par four! Phil and Tiger, seeing this, break their drivers along the shaft over their knees, and storm off the course. Bob is awarded the prize money - $2,000,000.

"What will you do with the money?" a chirpy ESPN reporter asks Bob, with a sort of knowing grin. A grin that says, why on earth would you even want that kind of money? And how about sharin' the love? He smiles wide and says, "first I will buy new drivers for masters Phil and Tiger. Sometimes we act impulsively out of anger - but so too, we all need forgiveness." "It's $2 million. What about the rest?" Chirpy asks. "Our monastery could use some work, I think. Maybe new mattresses." He scratches the bed bug bites on his hips, bows to the camera, and walks off with two young novices (who had been his caddies, walking the course carrying his bags). The three of them walk through the crowd, headed to the parking lot.

As they climb into a rented Hyundai subcompact, a woman rushes up to them. Bleach blond, halter top, a tan dark as mud - with the blond hair, she almost looked like a photo negative - and bloodshot eyes, she'd flicked a burning cigarette in the gutter before she raced across the pavement. "Master Bob, that was an amazing shot!" she blurts out, holding the door open. Bob bows his head, and smiles, his face lighting up. "But Master, I have been crying my eyes out all morning." She wrings her hands. "You see, my son, my darling new baby son, he was born with spina bifida. We have no insurance, his father left me months ago. I don't know what to do."

The monks confer in Japanese, the word 'spina bifida' bandied back and forth. Bob asks, "what can be done for the child?" "Well, the doctors at the hospital say there is no cure, but they can perform an operation that will ease his pain and suffering." She takes a deep breath. "And he'll need long term physical therapy - his whole life maybe." She wipes away tears with her wrist. More conference among the monks, then Bob asks, "how much will this operation and therapy cost?" "$930,750 for the operation. And the long term therapy - probably millions, I don't know." Her face crumples and she begins to weep heavily. "I don't know," she whispers, barely sniffing out the words, "I just don't know what I'm gonna do."

This is followed by more monk talk as the older of the two novices pulls out a purse, and counts out the remaining travel money they have: $1,647, and some coins. The monk gestures for him to put it back. Then he takes the prize check out of his tunic. The younger novice hands him a fountain pen. "Tell me please your name," he says. He endorses the check, and hands it to Sharon Conner. She thanks Bob, gives him a fat juicy kiss on his bald head - leaving a smear of bright red lipstick - then rushes over and jumps in a car idling nearby. Which immediately screeches burned rubber and is gone. Bob and the novices smile, sending prayers of lovingkindness for the mother and baby, who, even with this operation and therapy, will have a difficult life ahead.

Bob closes the door, starts to back out, just as a golf pro races up. He pounds on the hood of the car. Bob stops, and rolls down the window. "I'm sorry Mr. Bob, it was so crazy over there in the crowd - I mean that shot was amazing, first ever on that hole - I didn't see you had already left. I wanted to warn you about that woman!" The monk and novices look puzzled. "You see, she has been here before. Please tell me you didn't sign the check over to her, please please tell me you didn't!" He looks almost as forlorn as the woman had. Bob asks, "what do you mean?" The pro says, "that woman is a fraud. I don't know what story she told you, but it is just a con!" The novices look worried. Bob asks, "you mean there is no baby with spina bifida?" The golf pro is almost shouting, "no, there is no baby with - with what? - there is no baby with anything, there is no baby." He checks himself, lowers his voice. "There is nothing, I told you she is a con!"

Bob smiles, nods, says thanks, and backs out of the parking space. "Thank goodness," he says in Japanese to the novices, "there isn't a little suffering baby!"

Free Tibet!

Yes, an old message this one.

But having read the recent article in the New Yorker (October 4 issue) about the Dalai Lama, it's one that I am feeling very passionate about. Not that the article intended to incite passion or engagement on the issue. In fact, even His Holiness has used terms like 'given up' on the Tibet issue: I find this most disturbing.

And the thing is, China really deserves an 'embarrassing' international movement to restore at least true limited autonomy for Tibet - and allow its leader and people to return (the Dalai Lama is considered a 'terrorist') - what with its bullying economic tactics of late (currency devaluation, etc.) I don't care if they want to keep with their Maoist capitalism, but when they crush ethnic 'minorities' in the sovereign nations they have annexed, I think it's time somebody stepped in. And that somebody is me. Now. Are you with me on this? (Perhaps not quite yet, but read on.) If the Dalai Lama has found a deep sense of peace with his peoples' refugee status, more power to him, he is a remarkable bodhisattva. But I'm not, and I don't think many of us are. 'In your face, China,' I want to shout!

How effective were the Buddhist monk's self-immolations in the lead up to the war in Vietnam? This is arguable. However, the effectiveness of Gandhi's popular non-violent passive resistance is beyond dispute in shaking off the colonial British yoke. And the effectiveness of Martin Luther King Jr.'s leadership of African Americans and 'whites' in non-violent struggle against racism in America is also a matter of historical fact.

I think the participation by Caucasion Americans (for want of a better term) in the Civil Rights movement helped to bring the issue to a visceral level for the established. It became less simply a 'negro movement' and more of a struggle for the dignity and rights of all people. White and black shot dead, or hand-cuffed and dragged to the paddy wagon, made clear the hideous face of Jim Crow for all to see. And I think if Westerners and others from around the world were to march arm in arm with Tibet, a non-violent movement could not be stopped.

I attended the 'Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear over the weekend. Were there hundreds of thousands? It felt like millions to me, pushing my walker in search of the ADA seating area. Then I got completely bogged down by the crowd. Never even found my girlfriend who was to join me there. My cell phone was useless: everybody, it seemed, trying to call and meet up. The energy of the crowd was full of goodwill, and once resigned to my place (well out of view and earshot of the stage or a videotron, even if I stood up), I sat on my walker for a little more than an hour next to a small girl in a stroller wearing a tiger halloween costume. Her mom, also dressed as a tiger, was attempting to reach the ADA area, as she was a sign language interpreter. The two of us had soldiered on together for a good half hour before giving up the push through the sardine packed crowd.

Later, watching the event at my sister's after party, on her DVR, I have to say I was a bit underwhelmed. The music was great, but Stephen and Jon just didn't seem nearly so powerful as they do on their shows. I cringed a bit with embarrassment at their Peace-Crazy-Love train shtick. The point was clear, but I think it was overly labored, and I felt sorry for the artists, though they no doubt knew it was coming, and had already signed on. However, I was glad to have attended. Did it help 'get out the vote'? I hope so. Did it take energy away from getting the vote out? I hope not. Sanity or fear: your pick. (Yesterday's election results kind of lean in the favor of fear....)

The New Yorker issue I mentioned above also had an article about the role of new media in politics and democracy today. "The truth about the Twitter Revolution," by Malcolm Gladwell. The article drew a stark contrast between the 'strong-ties' needed to get people out in harm's way to effect social change, and the 'weak-ties' of the new media. He starts with the segregated Woolworth lunch counter 'sit-ins' in Greensboro North Carolina in 1960, and moves on from there. The 'weak-ties' that can be facilitated through Twitter, Facebook, the 'blogosphere,' (dare I draw attention to the 'fourth wall' here?), etc., the author maintains, could never mount such profound social change as seen in the civil rights movement.

He goes on to explore the role of these media in the more recent protest movement following the purportedly stolen Iranian presidential election. He cites how the news media were happy to follow events on Twitter, but in actual fact, such 'new media' were at best helpful on the ground once the 'strong-tie' forces got people out in the streets. He also writes, "the people tweeting about the demonstrations were almost all in the West." He quotes Golnaz Esfandiari, who wrote on this topic in Foreign Policy that "'There was no Twitter Revolution inside Iran.'" He quotes further: "'Western journalists who couldn't reach - or didn't bother reaching? - people on the ground in Iran simply scrolled through the English language tweets post with tag #iranelection,' [Esfandiari] wrote. "Through it all, no one seemed to wonder why people trying to coordinate protests in Iran would be writing in any language other than Farsi.'"

This is a bit harsh, I feel, and the letters to the editor in subsequent issues took the author to task with some pertinent examples of powerful new media accomplishments. However, I think his basic premise is sound. Yet I think it obvious that both 'strong-ties' and the 'weak' ones can and will be necessary to tackle the bigger issues of the day. The Fear/Sanity rally I think did not rank as such an 'issue' -nor did it claim to - but I think it relied almost entirely on 'weak-ties' to get it going (notwithstanding the strong-ties that bind me to my siblings, other relatives in attendance at the rally, and my girlfriend). As you might guess, I think one issue in need of a full-on 'strong-tie' and 'weak-tie' engagement would be freeing occupied Tibet from its oppressive Chinese colonists. (Of course, you will be quick to point out, there are many other big issues in the world.)

This blog is at best a 'weak-tie' attempt at raising the issue that has been raised so many times before. I'm like a very tiny David, with his even tinier sling, facing a vast and growing Goliath, China. What will it take to get millions of Tibetans, along with Buddhists and human rights activists from around the world to march from Dharamsala to Lhasa? I feel like just one word from the Dalai Lama would do the trick: onward! Book me a flight, let's walk peacefully - with our digicams and 'blackberries' raised in defiance - directly into the spray of machine gun fire!

Mr. D. Lama, we await your call...

Huh?

Was having lunch with my sister and niece a couple weeks ago, and suddenly I said I was thinking of going back to school. I think I was as surprised as my lunch companions.

For many years I have been encouraging/suggesting that my oldest son might want to seek a career in something that involved people, given the outgoing and friendly guy he can so often be. (During his teens this side of him is directed mostly to his peers - parents, teachers, and other grownups will often miss it.) A legal career (which would also make use of his considerable bargaining and argumentative skills), a career in psychiatry or psychology, political science, history, anthropology, or social work. The length of schooling and depth of commitment (read: high school transcripts) required for each of these kind of follows a slowly downward path, and reflects his gradual loss of interest in, and success at academics. Nevertheless, though 'father knows best' what his children ought to pursue career-wise (his younger brothers have also been hearing what they would do best at), my encouragement has been all but ignored.

However, turns out that somebody was listening: me! I'm thinking of pursuing a second career in social work, possibly specializing in grief counseling. I am looking for a nearby volunteer opportunity, a chance to see counseling in action, dip my toes in the water, so to speak. I just printed out a volunteer application form for the Wendt Center ("For Loss and Healing"), a non-profit located in northwest D.C. I took the boys there a couple times on the suggestion of a friend a few years back. They would also like to see a resumé. Time to dust an old one off, and add my longest job of all: fifteen years keeping my kids from killing each other, or themselves, 24/7.

Then again, maybe I could become a neurology researcher and figure this MS riddle out once and for all. Or, perhaps anthropology would be more my cup of tea.

Wait, need to focus for a bit, one thing at a time...

Dancing boulders

Sisyphus is cursed to push that big heavy boulder up the hill, though it keeps rolling back...

Seems that my curse - when I choose to accept it - is to try to slow the boulder's seemingly inevitable roll down the hill. As I keep hoping that it reaches the valley floor. But just as the sisyphian story can help us each to see the myth of relentless struggle and stress in our lives - that is, to give us the opportunity to pause a moment and see that there is no boulder - so too my struggles to keep the boulder from rolling away from me: can I pause and notice there is no boulder?

How do I meet each moment, each sadness, joy, or challenge? Do I make it as solid and resistant to rolling as a huge heavy boulder? Or turn the joys and happinesses into something like hot air balloons that I struggle to keep from floating away in the wind?It is these struggles to make the bad go away, or keep the good, that get in the way of just being with them when they are present to me.

The past couple days when doing my physical therapy, a line from my new and improved nightly MS metta (Buddhist prayer) meditation comes to me. I say 'new and improved' since I've edited it a bit. There were too many 'all sentient beings' and other such stock phrases, when I actually meant 'everybody,' for instance. But I added a new line, it goes like this: 'May I engage in daily physical therapy and exercise with a heart open to the beauty and perfection of the universe – and of this ailing body.' I read the prayer (covered in an earlier blog entry titled 'Both Sides Now') each night before turning out the light. I first tried it after turning out the light, but that didn't seem to work so well... But seriously, though much of the words are pro forma and obvious, they seem to bear repeating, even as solipsistic as the exercise might sound. The subconscious seems to work on them, and when I go about my day, they visit me on occasion.

Such as when I'm doing the balance movements of my P.T. session. Feet together, I look first straight up at the ceiling, then back down at my feet; then over my left and right shoulders. Then shake my head from side to side three times, and nod up and down three more - and since traveling to Nepal, nod also three times in the fashion common in the former Himalayan kingdom. (Also quite common in India, this nod is sort of a tilting of the head from side to side - imagine your nose as a pivot - a smile on your face. And these motions can throw off my balance centers in the vestibular glands of the inner ear, which is the point - to try to right your balance in spite of the feeling of losing it.) The phrase 'perfection in the universe - right here in this ailing body' is somehow very powerful. The P.T. becomes mysteriously lighter, less like a boulder, and more like a dance with life. Or life dancing through me.

Speaking of which, toward the end of the P.T. I will dance four or seven swing steps in a circle, then two or three lindy hops. I haven't been to the nearby swing dances - it's been too hot - but the weather has changed rather suddenly. And my girlfriend recently suggested we go back, so we will!

May your boulders melt into lindy hops...or lolly pops!

p.s. Happy Birthday to my hero, Gandhi!

The village: Shangri-la, and where we found it.

Warning, a very long post. Summary: Nepal? Been there, done that.

Didn't make it to 'my' village. But found 'it' in some unexpected places nevertheless. The second picture with Eli was taken on the side of the road that leads up to 'Daman,' the town where an observation tower was built many decades ago. Unfortunately I took no pictures there, only camcorder (analog) footage. Which someday I hope to digitize, categorize, back up, etc. with the other 50 hours of tape I've already got. This will hopefully happen in my lifetime, and before I'm a grandfather. Because once I'm a grandfather, I will be too busy filming again.

As mentioned in my last post, we attempted to find Palung, the village where my subgroup of water supply engineer volunteers went for further technical and more intensive language training. (We lived with individual families, and worked on a water supply project during the day.) We met with Shyam Shrestha (formerly a Nepali Peace Corps' staffer - the Peace Corps pulled out of Nepal during the more heated days of the recent Maoist revolution.)

We had Shyam to dinner at the Kathmandu Guest House restaurant. Affable and soft-spoken, he is Newar, which is the ethnic group native to the Kathmandu valley. He offers to take us to Palung or Nagarkot, a nearby town with views of the Himalaaya to the east, including Mt. Everest - that is, if the weather cooperates. This is very generous, as Palung is maybe a five hours' drive to the west of the valley. In our Nepanglish conversation, I accept the offer of a ride to Nagarkot, which is less than half the distance, and tell him we will make our way to Palung by bus - or somehow. Which is the kind of travel to which I gravitate, that is, well, you know what I mean (our recent hellride already fading into the further recesses of my memory...).

We have learned from the hotelier to go to the 'new bus park.' I remember the old one: basically a bare field, with diesel exhaust fumes and spilled oil to take the place of vegetation, and new or rusted out vehicles, parked without any discernable organization. I wonder how we ever found our buses.

So to the new park we go, and inform our taxi driver we'd like to find the bus that goes in the direction of Palung. The driver has heard of the village - a good sign - but he thinks we'll have to get a transfer. As we ride the clock is continuing to tick, and he tells us the bus has probably already left. He has a manner which has earned my trust, so when he begins to tell me that we would be better off taking a cab the whole way, I am inclined to believe he's not just trying to drum up business. In fact, he even says that he wouldn't drive us there, but he could call in a better cab for us.

After negotiating the price, we pile into Krishna's toyota (top picture), the switch made near the top of Swayambunath hill, seen behind Spencer. (So I did manage to get to the top after all...). And head off. We need to pay some of the money up-front to cover gasoline, then we are off. And are quite relieved to find Krishna is quite the careful driver.

We take a turn toward Palung, and drive ever higher into and out of the clouds then back into the mist till we pass over a ridge. The scenery is by turns breathtaking or prosaic. However, no thatched roofs. I begin to wonder if there is still such a thing anywhere in the country, though the existence of a road makes every dwelling we pass 'not village' by definition. Even when we pass through what looks like a village that our driver says is Palung, still no thatch. Or we could walk to Palung from this place - not a likely option. I don't recognize a thing, so we continue on. Occasionally off in the distance there seem to be brown thatched roofs, but my eyesight isn't what it once was. I'll assume such technology is still there - just beyond my depth of focus.

What happened here? On one level, I let go of trying to reach Palung. On another, I gave up on seeking a rather arbitrary indicator of what constitutes a village - thatch roofs. But still, I hoped to find some ineffable village experience, and for my sons to share it.

Our next destination was Daman, the town with the observation tower I had mentioned above. Shyam had mentioned it when we had talked about Palung, and I'd remembered it from the few days I had spent there as a kind of 'self-retreat' I'd taken at the end of my Peace Corps service. It was near Palung where I'd been to visit for a sort of leave taking.

And, of course, the place was still near. So we drive on up another ridge and come to the tower. Some development had occurred there since my 'retreat' 25 years ago. There is now a 'hotel' next to the place, but we learn of an even better hotel further up the road. Which we discover runs about $200 per room (we'd need two). It is a fair distance back from the road (I couldn't see it), so ask the kids to go check it out, see what the big cost was about. Their verdict: waste of money. It would also have been pretty far from the tower - a longish hike for me, and a few miles car ride. So I say let's see what options might lie ahead - there seemed a ridge top within view.

And there was another hotel. It was much more reasonably priced, had a nice interior (we didn't ask about wifi), but afforded views that were not particularly inspiring. However, I liked the proprietress, and wanted to give her some commerce for the time she'd spent showing the rooms, and besides, it was mid-day.

While we waited for daalbhaat to be prepared - took about an hour - Spencer pointed out the hill across the street, and suggested we hike to the top of it. Eli was having a teen moment - you know, kind of embarrassed that we were there to have lunch, and 'what a dumb hill to hike,' etc. - and was not interested, preferring instead to rest in the taxi. Miller was enlisted to 'help me get up the hill.' And carry the camera, which took the picture of me sitting with him above, having reached the summit. Spencer was very encouraging, and of course very strong helping me walk up the now quite challenging terrain. After our 'trek,' Spencer played with some very young children who were taking turns rolling a tire, teasing it along with a stick, letting it roll down hills, and generally whooping it up. I told Miller that's what he'd be doing if he didn't have tv/computer/laptops/etc. About to become a teen himself, he gave a grunt.

Spencer camcordered the kids, then played back the tape which they thought was hilarious. One child was fascinated with Spencer's braces, and pantomimed his interest in touching them, which Spencer allowed. This little roadside 'hotel/restaurant' was feeling like the Holy Grail at last, the slower we went, the more village-like it became.

Eli joined us for daalbhaat, and we all ate well. I remember he liked it ground up for him as a baby, as did Spencer. Miller on the other hand... He ate plenty of plain rice, and a dad required dollop of daal. Maybe I even made him eat a leaf of some kind of mystery vegetable.

Then we drove back down to look at the 'blue hotel.' The one by the tower. After negotiating the price, we moved our stuff in. Eli watched some TV - I think there was one English language channel, but Spencer came over to Miller's and my room for some cards. Krishna was there, in our room. Our trip negotiation included taxi only - no food or lodging. I had decided to feed him, but figured he could take care of his sleep. In the taxi if necessary - the weather was mild, it was nothing I wouldn't do myself - even nowadays, if it became necessary. (Not sure, but I think the hotelier found a 'free' spot somewhere in one of the buildings for him, he seemed well rested the next morning.)

Spencer suggested we play a game of cribbage - a game we'd played many times during the trip, making up and agreeing to new rules such as: if you actually get zero points in your hand (what is sometimes referred to as the 'big nineteen' since lore has it there is no way to score exactly 19 points in a hand), then you get one point, sort of a consolation prize; or, if the cards in your hand add up to 19 points - including the crib card - then you get nineteen peg points; or, if you start the 'play' with a card that matches the crib card, and say 'see one, play one,' you get a point. Which all must sound excruciatingly tedious to non-cribbage players (and maybe to those who play too!). But it was fun, good father/sons bonding time.

So we played, while Krishna watched. Spencer asked whether I could teach our friendly taxi driver to play, which I started to do, and he played a game with us. At this point, Miller wanted to join, and learn how to play 'kitty,' a nine card game. We'd seen people play this at the 'Casino Royale' in Kathmandu, the most inviting feature of which (for my sons anyway) was that there was no lower age limit - only lowest bet limits. My favorites were the free cups of chai, and at 6:00 p.m., free dinner. All told, we spent maybe $50 there, and had a very good time. The boys had the chance to see how 'the house always wins' (with my money anyway). Eschewing the games of chance, I instead flirted in Nepali (not really Dwan!), with the cute but bored looking chai waitresses. In our blue hotel, Krishna was more than happy to show us how to play the game (similar to the British game 'nine card brag' wiki just informed me). It's sort of an instant Rummy, 98% luck based, at least as far as we understood it. Miller was fascinated by it, and particularly by the way he (and most Nepalis) shuffle cards. (You can see how it's done here. Unfortunately, I didn't film Krishna doing it.) And they deal counter-clockwise, a habit Miller has happily adopted.

We went up later into the tower for some chai and naan, and the hotelier - nice young fellow wearing a blue polo shirt and green Chinese sneakers - joined us for some more 'kitty.' The clouds lifted at one point to reveal a couple majestic white peaks. Which would be the only we saw during the approximately 12 days of our time in Nepal. However, the rich cross-cultural experiences we had on this side trip definitely made up for that.

After returning to Kathmandu, I called Shyam to set up a time to head to Nagarkot. He borrowed a friend's car for this, and for such a mild-mannered guy, he seemed surprisingly equal to the rigors of the traffic patterns. However, the gridlock was so bad for so long, after two hours we were still in Kathmandu. We decided to change plans and go to Pashupatinath, the main Hindu temple on the Bagmati river. This is a very holy site, and only Hindus are allowed access to the inside of the temple; however, there are extensive grounds to cover, and sights to see. the fourth picture was taken at this site.

I sat near where this picture was taken, in a shaded alcove, as I was exhausted already to have walked what seemed the miles from where we parked. Maybe it was half a mile, probably less, but hey... In this comfortable alcove, I sat on a stair and chatted with like situated Nepalis, while Eli, Spencer, and Shyam went ahead to the temple. Miller sat with me, and began to lobby me to be permitted to buy one of the souvenir knives being sold. Though it didn't seem a very spiritual pursuit, I was gradually worn down. And, what the heck - he's a week or two away from turning 13. 'But you won't be able to bring it to school.' With the secret service presence there, I don't worry too much that he will disobey that.

I was talking to a young security guard in 'uniform' (blue shirt, black pants, a badge) about life, etc., when I smelled the strong aroma of burning hair. Just across the river their are several funeral platforms (biers?) where pyres are built and lit. In the picture you can see smoke rising behind us. The picture was taken by Shyam, but it's now obvious he should have been in the picture with us. C'est la vie. The guard also smelled the burning hair, which I mentioned, and he told me that is a very auspicious thing.

I realize the subtitle of this post sounds rather grandiose, and I have tried to do it justice, but ultimately the quotidian nature and slow pace of our visit can only go so far. In as much as our trip was laid back and natural, my idealized memories of village life were given some context - and also left unmarred by present day realities. I think the boys got a taste of Nepal, and a new appreciation for the comforts and luxuries of our middle class life here in the U.S. Numerous like moments were experienced while in Kathmandu. And Miller had plenty of opportunity to hang back at the hotel when he felt like it.

This post has turned into a marathon - and probably a rather jumbled one at that - and for that I apologize. Of course, so many more details come to mind, but I will leave them now. Like Shyam and me looking for a tailor to make a seersucker suit (couldn't find suitable - ha! - material anywhere); and our search for the apartment near the wooden temple that Loret had rented. We couldn't find it. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, or to the uncertain fate of my and my sons' memories.

Namaste, over and out.