keeping a lesson in a cloud

Fog over the Ganga, Rishikesh.

July 2010.
Just finished reading "The God of Small Things," Arundhati Roy's first novel- and by the last chapter, fully comprehending her meaning, I realized that I too used to worship that God. I used to note the tiny details, the small beauties and wonders. Green chili peppers in the grimy sink drain of a train. Neon green moss on a black lichen rock. Ashy pink paint chipping falling from an Ambuja cement building. Kohl around the eyes of a young baby boy.

Those little wonders never fully left me, but there was a definite time in which their existence was dull, imbued with suffering.

This is changing. I find beauty again in the little things- and the big. I sit in a cloud on a mountain with sweet spice chai and imagine the Buddha nature in the heart of all those around me. I try to see us, 'solid humans,' in the same way I see that fog- transitory, flowing, fluid. But with awareness. One of my big obstacles with Buddhism was this: If the mind is clouded by delusion, and we remove that, shouldn't the mind just be blank, neutral? Yet all the texts of all faiths talk about extreme bliss, ultimate peace... Then one teacher, a spitfire, foul-mouthed old nun, put it like this: "The way we see the world is a lie. Our delusions are a lie. We see solid existence, we attach- this is our deluded mind lying to us. So when we remove a lie, what are you left with? Truth."

Truth. Satyagraha. It's what we're looking for, isn't it?

So here's how it is at the moment: I'm relatively happy. When we go on perilous rides through windy mountain roads, I don't gasp and quietly panic inside, as I did last year. Instead, I legitimately enjoy the beauty of the surroundings- the terraced hills and the small homes. Women in red carrying bushels of green larger than their own bodies. I allow myself more joy. I wonder if the lessening of fear, the loose(r) grip of panic is due simply to time, or to all the bodywork and yoga I've been doing here- letting go of old traumas. It feels good to live with less fear, with less terror.

But then I contrast: last year, living under the paranoid and constant fear of death, I stopped making big plans for the future. Even living in New Orleans- its been hard for me to start building myself up, to start expanding my narrative to include things like career. When Miss Amanda brought her animal cards to New Years, I pulled a dolphin. Symbol? The breath. Quiet connection with the breath. Thats what my past year.5 has been. Unable to jump into action, unable to take on big projects or big schools or even stable employment. I focused on breathing, and learning to live simply and with peace and joy. And that was enough for me. The Laura of three years ago would have chastised my current illusory self for incredible laziness and lack of ambition. But its not like that. Sometimes we just need time. I couldn't run in that wheel anymore. I think thats why I was in that accident, in the end, because otherwise I would have jumped back into my old life--Ivy grad school and a suit. It wouldn't be bad, but it certainly wouldn't be dharma, satyagraha.

So there it is. That accident ripped me out of that world. It ripped my eyes open and that hurt deeply. But now I see myself starting to build again. The panic is gone; the constant reminder of my impeding exit has quieted down. In its place has grown stronger feelings of community, of sense and place in this world.

My fear now is that I could lose the lessons I learned last year- that, in my joy of feeling joy, I'll attach myself to people and places and beautiful things. That I'll attach to ideals of concepts of me and who I solidly am in the world. My challenge now, and the challenge for all of us, is to learn to live in this conventional world with compassionate action, while maintaining a wisdom that cuts through all of it.

I feel my time of action is building. Returning here, surrounded by so many devout practitioners, so much inspiration, I also have hope and determination to continue practice-to remember my lessons from this hill town in the clouds.

one month into india

and I remember why I stopped writing last year-publicly, that is. Back home, in the States, we share, we vent, we get our emotions out. Here, a different kind of wisdom says: "try silence." Try presence. So much flows through a mind, in a mind, and we try endlessly to seam those thoughts into a creation, literally to "get them out." Does that work, or do we just feed them?

I read a story once about Allen Ginsberg, who told his teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche how he would always keep a little notebook by his side during meditation, ready to record the prevalent haikus which drifted to mind during his practice. Trunpga asked for the book, and promptly tore it up or threw it away or slapped him with it, or something equally dramatic and Trungpa-esque. "The point of meditation isn't to cling to those thoughts!" he said. Non attachment, non aversion. Not "ooo, a pretty line to add to my narrative, the one that makes a stronger ME, a facet that solidifies and strengthens my persona as creator, artist, etc."

So what am I rambling on about then? Its good to be back. The first week was bumpy: food poisoning, dehydration, Delhi. But then I remember. The practice here:

Getting away from your ego. Being inundated in a community of practitioners who live their life with transcendental purpose. Its not about creating a pretty, balanced life story where the puzzle pieces all fit together. No. Its about awakening to the fact that our true nature is completely beyond that, beyond these narratives of self that we weave. Its so easy to get caught up in that, every minute. The ego even devours the spiritual path: "Ooo, now I'm practicing more. Maybe I'll do long retreat next winter. Yes, and then next summer I'll already be in India..." And there it runs.

Living here, surrounded by wisdom from so many paths: Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and all aiming to annihilate the ego, the self. For too long I dwelled on how painful that was, that annihilation. I framed it in the language of loss and cringed as I felt myself being cut up. Chod! Pulverized. Coming back to this path, however, I feel again the peace that is found when we step away from those narratives of self, when we give away "my" pain and "my" happiness, when we make the whole of existence much less personal.

I used to think of "Enlightenment" as a vague concept so distant from here. But as a friend Stacey said, you start practice *she pulls fingers at chest as if opening heart* and slowly slowly, you see there's more space. You wonder, "If there's this much space, this much room, this much growth *pulls fingers wider*, how much MORE is there?" And so its like that, slowly slowly. Slowly toward awakening.

good to be back. hard to be back. fun to be back. groups are great, work is good, inspiration is prevalent. Joyful for the opportunity to walk this path.

Eating India

I frequent a dhaba in Pahar Ganj, the dirty, dusty market road in central Delhi. Last year it had a sign, Snoba, or Snarku, or something like that, but this year the sign is gone. I questioned if it was wise to dive right back into the dirty dirty of Indian food, but this dhaba has never done me wrong.

The difference between a dhaba and a normal restaurant is that dhabas bring the kitchen out front. Several men stand about in wife beaters and longees, prepping nans and chipatis for the mud oven and then fishing them out with long metal sticks. A big fat man with a kind face and heavy mustache ladles out the curries and dals---huge pots of simmering, colorful, spicy goodness. Tonight I keep it simple-rice, dal, and a chipati. Its the Indian version of rice and beans.

The secret to this dhaba, and what keeps me coming back, is its the spiciest food I've ever enjoyed the hell out of. In fact, I could say it was on those torn black leather benches I learned to eat--to love--spicy food. At Snarbu, or whatever it is now, you moan a bit with each bite. Then as soon as you've finished the moan, the fire hits. *Oh, this is heaven, moan* *Ah- fire-ah!* Another bite soothes the fire in your mouth, until you've swallowed that one too, and then the fire comes back stronger. So my average meal here is devoured in under ten minutes. I leave with water in my eyes and a runny nose, first because I'm so grateful for such delicious nourishment, and second because there is fire in every part of my face. I like to think it is burning up the dust of Delhi and keeping my sinuses clear.

Does that sound like the top of an onion? "India, spice, dust!" I could add: color! mangoes! temples! Funny how the things we love about a place become so cliche. New Orleans- the music! The food! The culture! It's all true, but its the top layer of an onion. The longer you're in New Orleans, the more you get in there, to the hot middle of the music and the soul and the dance. Returning here, I feel the same. Its digging deeper into a damned big onion. A nation of bright red and lime green, where women where more sequins in a day than our city puts on for all of carnival.

Freaking you out

One week into a cleanse, and a week since a shaman/naprapath dug into my old wounds and adjusted my 'bodily' alignment, and I find myself trudging through an old mental swamp. Amazing how our minds and bodies are so intimately linked, and how trauma we think we process, we think we're over, can lurk somewhere under your shoulder blade or in your neck. So to fix my neck, said healer began aligning my body, a mix between chiropractic work and massage, really getting into the connective tissue. I was a mess that weekend, but even now, as the cleanse should make me feel lighter, I feel heavy with the pain and confusion I felt a year ago.

I've talked with quite a few people, now, slowly, about the wreck I was in last February. I didn't know how to talk about it then. I thought I would worry people. I felt completely in every atom and every way estranged from friends and life here in the US. Most close friends I tell will later come to me: "You really freaked me out." No, no, they insist, its not bad don't be sorry. Well how should I feel? Who do I tell? What should I say?

So I realize a year and a half later that my "keep quiet, keep humble, keep calm" method of handling trauma has managed to push all my fears into my connective tissue, down somewhere in the body mind ether where it can continue to pop up and scare the shit out of me. Since no one really knows about this blog yet, I'd like to take the opportunity to scream to the world what freaks me out.

I'm terrified that I'll die an abrupt and violent death while traveling. I hate flying. I hate trains. I hate buses and Indian drivers. I'm furious that I was in such a serious accident and felt so cut off from friends. I'm deeply hurt that I wrote to some friends from university who never bothered to respond. I thought, 'maybe its too much for them to handle, maybe they missed the email', and then they write me later, saying, "I want to hear all about India! You must be totally enlightened." :o No, I'm not enlightened you ignorant shit. I'm traumatized and where the hell were you? I hate that I felt so alone out there, that because I didn't want to scare people or freak them out or introduce the existential dilemma into busy American lives, I subsequently didn't get concerned phone calls, letters of support, or love.

I'm overwhelmingly grateful for the support I found in India. Friends, angels, and teachers gave me a new home. They gave me love, and more than that, a framework in which to understand what had happened to me, and what happens to all of us. I was able to process this mess in Bodhgaya, where the Buddha attained enlightenment, and one of the holiest places on earth. I had just converted to Buddhism several months before, and the accident truly forced me to examine my source of refuge: What and who could help me handle my overwhelming awareness and fear of death? Would it be my drinking friends of past? Would it be a cigarette? Would it be my family and friends?

I missed all those earthly refuges then. As an all time low, I started drinking Nescafe to substitute for my main addiction, good coffee. I ate too much chocolate and samosas and longed for the day when I would again dance in New Orleans. But in the meantime, I studied the teachings of the Buddha, was surrounded by kind practitioners, and practiced intensely. Those months gave meaning to my life that I had never before had. In light of my experience, I began to forgive, to let go of a great deal of judgment and pain from my past.

The difference here is that these earthly comforts, so abundant in New Orleans, are designed to cover over all our uncomfortable feelings. Of course its great here. I make elaborate costumes for carnival. I dance like a circus freak in the street. I garden and make good meals with friends. So maybe these things don't cover our pain, but we, obviously, focus on the joy. I needed that, and I'm so grateful to experience it now, here.

As I prepare to leave for India in a few weeks, my mind, and apparently my body, remembers that experience--the accident and how I felt after. The child in me doesn't want to go. She wants to stay here and drink gin and tonics all summer and lounge and listen to the blues. She wants to have craft nights with friends. She doesn't want to remember.

The difference, I think, in these different sources of refuge, of comfort, is that one is lazy while the other is challenging. Its the love of a dog versus the love of a strict parent. New Orleans, a dog, will love me no matter what. She'll let me relax and enjoy and play. The Buddha, the dharma in India, sees the reality of my suffering and the pain I cause, and makes me take grown up steps to cut that out. Yes, I had an amazing sangha in India. It was without a doubt the most meaningful year of my life. But it was also the most difficult. To quote Paramahansa Yogananda, in the Autobiography of a Yogi (51):

"I have long exercised an honest introspection, the exquisitely painful approach to wisdom. Self-scrutiny, relentless observance of one's thoughts, is a stark and shattering experience. It pulverizes the stoutest ego."

Thats what happens in India; you get pulverized. You become acutely aware of your mortality, of the tentative nature of your existence. Then the questions arise: Why? How, then, do I live? If there is a cause of suffering, how do I rid us of it? What does that look like?

Last March, I was exhausted. At age 22 I felt 40. I was lethargic under the weight of existence and fear. I came to terms with many things, and have been doing extraordinarily well for many months.

And now I'm going back.

What it means to heal

As life here begins to gain momentum, to rustle itself up from the subdued inertia of introspection, I find myself increasingly drawn to the healing arts. Since the fact that I, myself, am a conglomeration of misaligned scar tissue and hormonal/bacterial/you-name-it imbalance does not evade me, I ask the question, why? Why such an interest in well being/ayurveda, etc., when I'm such a wreck?

I'm then reminded of one of my first teachers in Nepal joking, "Are you depressed? An emotional disaster? Confused? Deluded? Great! You'll make a wonderful Buddhist!"

So in a way, I'm perhaps more interested in our collective view of "the bad." Sickness, depression, ailments, mental and physical- labeled as wrong and covered over--because that's what we do here. Instead of diving into our weakness or fear, using trials as opportunities to challenge ourselves, we cover them with painkillers and pills and churches that point the finger outside the congregation at "other".

Why am I drawn to healing? Because after a year of intense fear and confusion, the result has been immense, immeasurable, meaningful growth. Because getting sick, getting hurt, feeling 'bad', isn't just okay, it can be great. It can be the best thing ever. I'm not a sadist; I'm a realist. And the reality is that trials are a gateway, a wake up call: "HELLO!!!! You are a fragile, immeasurably precious being with infinite potential and opportunity. You can lose this in a flash. Tune in NOW. wake up."

Case study: I've had a bizarre throbbing in the veins in my neck for the past two weeks. You know, those arteries and whatnot that connect your heart and brain. Kinda important. My western doctor gave me a long name, said it was "spontaneous," will go away in a few weeks, and to take ibuprofen. I think- bullshit. My eastern teachers, more eloquent than I, would look on several levels: that all pain and joy we experience stems from our karma, and that obstacles we face are returning debts we owe for injustices and pains previously rendered. We can rejoice, then, when we get sick, and have the opportunity to purify negativity in this life. The healer I just saw addressed the many levels of health and sickness: past accidents, scar tissue, diet, lifestyle, etc. She isn't going to heal me; she's going to guide me in healing myself.

Real healing--emotional or physical--isn't a pill, and it isn't painless. It hurts. But when you understand why you undertake the struggle, when you can align your energy and purpose with a greater drive to realize wholeness for all beings, you can also find great peace and even joy in that pain.

Real healing is an opportunity to feel deeply the collective suffering of beings, as manifest in you and your particular issue, and to use that experience to gain wisdom and compassion. Real healing goes beyond the labels good and bad, and allows you to experience fully the challenge that is available to you in the moment, the lesson you have to learn. When I think of healing, I don't particularly think of myself, or anyone else, as one of those health nuts you see in a magazine who has a perfect routine and balance. Perhaps I could use more of that, routine and balance, which is on my plate for the moment, but to me its not the point.

When I think of healing, I'm not focused on "health" per say, as an outcome, but on the process of drawing value and meaning from our pains, ailments, and traumas. I think more of enabling people to make the healing process an intimate, meaningful experience that transcends self. To use the challenge as a message from --God, universe, Buddha, Guru,______-- that we have a specific lesson to learn, and are FULLY CAPABLE, in fact MEANT to learn and transcend.

That said, in this time of cleansing, digging into old scar tissues and reopening old pains, its easy to get flash flooded by frustration, agitation, and negativity. What gives hope is the shallow nature of these bursts, as compared to times past, when they are being pumped (to continue the metaphor) by meaning and channeled into growth. Does that make sense? That I could feel happy and miserable at the same time? That I might sound depleted on a certain day, but that the underlying gratefulness, acceptance, and general happiness are still there?

What a complex emptiness we inhabit.

SOHA!

Compulsion vs. Vision

So a year or so ago, after physically surviving a train wreck but finding my sense of reality and self still completely shredded, I received immeasurable kindness from many teachers and friends. One nun, Ven. Tenzin Chokyi, told me that there's always a period on the path when your intellectual knowledge, your vision of where you're going, is so far ahead of your karma, your habitual action. You begin to realize the new person you want to be; what morals you would encompass, what actions you would undertake. And as you ponder how great this new you, this new world, is, you are startled and horrified to find that you, and the world, have continued to run in the same ruts and painful patterns. "Dharma wisdom" is developing, but the bonds of karma hold tight.

So this is the path. You get a little wisdom, you put it into practice. You fall down. Remember your wisdom, put it into practice. You fall down. Do a cleanse. Purify. Connect, sing. Binge, fall back, fall down. You just keep going.

The path is the temple.