Indian Summer Post Script

It’s a beautiful rainy day in Halifax, and despite the low pressure, things feel uplifted, cheerful, and relaxed. We have safely navigated an immense visitation by more or less the entirety of the Ripa clan, and have continued to help maintain a restful environment in which the new Princess of Shambhala can begin to explore her world.

I also just returned from a week-long vacation, which was wonderful in every way. After the long visit in the court, it was a big breath of fresh air to step back, sleep, hang out with my wonderful girlfriend, and explore the breadth of Nova Scotia from the inside of a Hyundai.

My new-found passions include coffee and clothing. I would by lying if I said I did not stay up way past my bedtime last night thinking of various outfits I could don today. If I had a lot of money, I would spend at least half of it on clothes. With the other half I would invest in a start-up that makes ingenious little kitchen gadgets.

The fall is coming, and the leaves are changing, and the wind is reminding us all that we’re in Canada (as if Tim Horton’s wasn’t enough…) I have to confess that while I hate subsidizing healthcare with taxes when I seek to fulfill my materialistic desires to own more clothes, and I hate Tim Horton’s for petty selfish reasons (they only accept Master Card, and once I was super hungry and was denied my doughnut because I only had a visa), I actually like Nova Scotia. I’m not saying I’m planning on moving here any time soon, but it actually might not be so bad… Don’t tell anyone I said that.

Indian Summer, Godzilla, Bad Martinis

I am sitting in a deck chair, watching the ocean, and resting in the ridiculously pleasant air of midday Indian summer weather in Nova Scotia.

It is not supposed to be like this.

The absence of rain and the abundance of delightful weather makes me think that something horrible will happen any minute: a swarm of locusts, a plague perhaps, maybe Godzilla.

The storm on the horizon might turn out to be less like a reptilian, city crushing, sky-scraper-sized blender, and one of a more terrifying sort: the manifestation of the mind and retinue of another enlightened being descending to the Kalapa Court. His Eminence, Namkha Drimed Rinpoche, comes tomorrow for three weeks, and what was an already full house is about to overflow. It will be delightful and auspicious; and halfway through, I’m anticipating that I will want to run far, far away.

In related news, I got a haircut last week. I’m happy with the results, although I am still somewhat distraught by by having paid $50 to subject myself to an inane monologue; sweet and folksy, I’ll grant, but vacuous and self-absorbed to be sure. Add to that the ambiance: the hipness of the exposed duct work, rotting pine, and European dance music that made me feel I was grinding my teeth at 4am; altogether I should have gotten a good $20 shaved (sorry…) off the price for my patience and good humor. The haircut itself was rather good though…

Other thoughts:

Martinis in Halifax are crap. Universal health care is good, but so is a decent pour.
Halifax could learn something about recycling from Boulder.
Maggots, generally speaking, are pretty gross.
Bathing by filling a water glass is dangerous, inefficient, and highly unsatisfying.
Espresso and steamed milk is a delightful combination. I would drink it more or less continuously if my adrenal glands would allow it.
My suffering is unquestionably caused by my lack of willingness to surrender to the situation, but I am also resisting surrendering to that truth.
While most of this post is dominated by kvetching, things are generally resplendent, brilliant, and overwhelmingly beautiful here in Kalapa.

Timelapse

It has been a month since I’ve written anything. That’s not to say I haven’t been thinking about writing, but I know as well as you that that doesn’t count.

Anyway, since my last foray into the blogocasm, I have run at dizzying altitudes among beautiful mountain scenery, received the transmission that reveals the nature of mind, seen two moose, almost walked into a rattlesnake, celebrated the 49th day of my good friend’s passing, clothed myself in nothing but white for an extended length of time, spent approximately four nights with my girlfriend, walked into a tree, hugged another tree, and most recently ate a delicious piece of seared tuna, which I followed up with a room-temperature dutsi-filled beer.

Trungpa Rinpoche said something to the effect of: “If you can feel the pain and heartbreak of the setting sun, and simultaneously hold the vision of the Great Eastern Sun, then the warrior can make a proper cup of tea.” So here I am: tenderized like a piece of roadkill, and bursting with joy from the depth of my heart. For those of you who don’t get to serve that many cups of tea, I can tell you that this is the real deal. Your heart’s blood is the ingredient that will make one infusion of hot water and herbs different from another; it will make it glow with warm light of compassion.

If you can’t serve tea to anyone else, just make yourself a nice cup.

There is now a new addition to the Mukpo household: a beautiful baby girl. Jetsun Drukmo Yeshe Sarasvati Ziji Mukpo was born on August 11 at 10:24 am. She is a gorgeous little bundle of sweetness, whom no doubt will find new and profound ways to enrich and terrorize those of us lucky enough share her life.

Return to Great Highland Colorado Desert

7/1/2010

This morning we depart for Colorado, leaving a queen and her retinue to the sunny devices of the Halifax spring. After a whirlwind visit, and some well deserved (dare I say) time off, we are back to Colorado for some of the only teaching of the summer.

I think C and I are both pretty exhausted, and the prospect of a new being in the court and all the joy and duty that will bring is both daunting and inspiring. The afterburners will go on, the show will continue, and hopefully we can maintain our sanity in the midst of it all.

A few days ago, in the midst of one bout of frustration and exhaustion, I went on a long run along the water and through the woods, emerging finally at a small park where I was able to walk down to the ocean. As my mind churned and boiled, I felt a swell of sadness and tenderness well up. I remembered my friend Daniel, and for the first time in a week or so, allowed myself to cry. I am waiting to see him in a dream; hopefully he’ll tell me how he’s doing over there.

The inspiration to forge on comes at auspicious moments, and the reminders to do so cheerfully are like little jolts of happy lightning. I’m finding out that this is a very difficult job to do, and not just to do it, but to remember that the situation is nothing short of sacred. Realizing this sacredness is the gateway to seeing the world as sacred; relating to the environment and people with whom we live day in and out with an attitude of appreciation is an incredible reminder, and one that is not always appreciated in the midst of the occasional claustrophobia of the environment.

when you fly

it’s best not to think about it

and when the ground falls out from under you

there is no way to get it back.

amidst the echo of discursiveness

there is an intricately blooming

melody that bends in the rain

and rises as steam off the ocean.

the kindness of friends and mentors

is a precious jewel,

worth enduring unbearable sadness

and difficulty to enjoy.

the hole left in their absence

is like the space between

the nucleus and electron–

essential to the unceasing play:

the silence that makes the music.

with the joy of space,

while we will always be alone

we will never be separate

from the essence of our own

profound, vast, and

unshakable heart.

A Call to Arms, R and R, Death's Afterglow

the world is small within an airplane.

death is vast, even within a small mind.

getting here is a surprisingly long journey.


I am sitting in the airport on my way to Halifax, heading back from my first official bout of R and R. I haven’t posted in a while, as I the impetus for my return was the death of a dear close friend. I wrote two posts before I left, which are posted below; the first I wrote the night before I found out about Dan’s death, the second the day after. Having disposed with these apologetic formalities, I will commence with today’s observations.

When I heard about Dan’s death, one of the things that saddened me the most was that I would most likely be unable to attend the services. The thought of not seeing his family, and having the opportunity to grieve with the people who knew and loved him pained me deeply. Having the stars align for my return was a tremendous blessing. It gave me a vivid experience of the importance of the sangha, or community, in the grieving process. I didn’t have to explain to anyone how much Dan meant to me. I didn’t have to try to tell anyone why this crazy and self-destructive man was so brilliantly lovable. We just cried and sang and talked together, and it was beautiful, healing, and deeply nourishing. Although the initial shock and tremendous, gut-wrenching sadness has subsided, I still get teary when I think about him, and miss him terribly already. There is nothing I would like to do more than sit with him, having cooked a meal together (he having demolished my kitchen), smoke cigarettes, and drift into the cool breeze of a summer night’s effortless conversation.

From the clear sea of mind

ripples of sadness and waves of longing

dance on the surface

and in the depths.

The warmth of the heart

is occasionally unbearable,

but I hold within it my comrades:

when a hole opens

and one of us slips through,

we all stand together at the brink

looking down, all the way down–

our tears cascading down like a hole in the ocean,

giving us all a glimpse of

death’s beautiful intimacy.

Retroactive Post #2: 6/2/2010– Packing and Learning of Danny's Death

6/2/2010

Today the retreat closed. The closing of this monumental three months, however, has brought with it an event of incredible sadness.

The news of the passing of one of my dearest friends reached me today among the piles of clothes and maelstrom of dishes. I heard of his sudden and accidental death first thing this morning, and needless to say, I have carried him in my heart all day.

Rinpoche was very helpful. He did a prayer for Daniel and gave me advice on how to practice, in particular, tonglen. I am doing a fierce, almost violent tonglen, trying with all my might to send out brilliant white light and inhale with the ferocity of a lion taking its final breath all the negativity that may afflict my friend in this crucial time. Since it was sudden and in his sleep, Rinpoche told me to tell Daniel that he’s dead. I circumambulated the great stupa at Boudha and offered butter lamps. I am praying for him in every breath and with every thought.

I am so exhausted.

My dear friend, you have passed.

Before I embarked on my long, strange journey,

and you on yours,

you asked me to remember the angles and

the slants of light.

Now unable to tell you,

we will see them together.

You have dissolved into my heart

so that you can see all that I love

and hear all the things

I hoped to share with you.

You have passed:

and there will be great uncertainty.

But as you were my most loyal friend

so will you remain steadfast

in the sadness of my mind.

I offer whatever joy I have to you,

whatever cool breeze

may drift through the Dublin botanical gardens;

whatever warmth and safety we enjoyed

listening to your father’s LPs on the living room floor,

like the security I so often felt

wrapped up in your big arms.

Consumed as I was,

I disappeared into your embrace:

Big Dan, small James.

So now are you completely enveloped

by my heart, and if you would like,

we can just stay right here.

You have passed, my friend.

Go now to the Great Sun

with the same reckless abandon

with which you blessed your world.

Splatter the cosmic kitchen

with your culinary creations–

fill every pot in the universe

with the magical blood of your heart.

May the kindness you have shown,

and the joy that you have radiated

be your muse and guide

at this crucial time.

May your unflinching generosity

feed the hungry, those who

are starving for the nourishment

of your overwhelming love.

You have passed, my dear sweet friend.

Your journey has just begun

and there will be no turning back.

There is only your big, beautiful mind,

and your big beautiful heart,

and the love of all of who shared your joy,

your laughter, your food, drink, song, dance, words, thoughts

and your insatiable hunger for the enigma

of limitless and undying love.

Retroactive Post #1 5/31/2010– Leaving the Monastery

5/31/2010

It is our second to last night at the monastery. Things are definitely getting busy.

Where last week there was a feeling of heartbreak and tenderness, unnamable but ubiquitous, there is now a feeling of excitement– at least an approximation of it. These last days are beautiful in their finality, and I find myself saying goodbye to the places I’ve come to love; in particular the mountain up which I run most mornings, and the rooftop on which I sing and do laundry after I get back from the run.

I celebrated my 28th birthday a few days ago, and thanks to my far away girlfriend and my brothers in arms it was a truly delightful day. As I served breakfast to Rinpoche, he turned and looked directly in my eyes with a half-puzzled, half-curious look and said, “You look old today.” I’m not sure if he knew it was my birthday when he said that. If so, he didn’t let on. The remark left me cheerfully puzzled.

We are about to enter the maelstrom of intercontinental transport of a vajra master. Last week I was quite worried that the spaciousness I’ve been cultivating in my mind would be traumatized quickly from its complacency, but after a day of type-a ass busting, I’m feeling pretty confident about the transition and the tremendous amount of work it will no doubt entail.

I’ve read five books, had two bouts of food poisoning (one minor, one major), done close to 80 sessions of the Werma Sadhana, heard close to 3 million plays of Justin Bieber’s Baby blasting from every monk’s cell phone, bought 2 new suits, one white, one black, served countless cups of tea, received exactly 127 bites from small insects (mostly mosquitos), eaten more tukpa (Tibetan stew) than I even care to think about, sent at least five postcards that never reached their destination, taken no more than 10 hot showers, and enjoyed (nearly) every minute of our whole stay in this beautiful, completely foreign, and utterly fascinating place.

The Power of the Soft Breeze

I am am hosting an anonymous sort of heartbreak– really more of an openness through which the verity of impermanence is drifting. The provenance of this tenderness is unclear, and although this is a familiar feeling, it has taken me somewhat by surprise. That said, I think this heartbreak comes not from attraction or aversion, but from change itself.

There are many things here that I will surely miss; particularly the ineffable power of the place and the physical beauty. It is also incredible, when I remember to reflect, how amazingly fortunate I am to be in this environment, where the deepening of one’s understanding of the mind and its power is truly valued and encouraged.

As I write this, a cool evening breeze is blowing; the smell of a light rain wafting through my window. The low rumble of receding thunder rolls out over the foothills of the Himalaya as the eerily beautiful trills of jyaling music floats on top like a leaf on the soft ripples of a calm lake. I feel utterly alone, bearing witness to unspeakable beauty and contented to rest in this calm pool of tenderness.

the soft breath of the wind
has destroyed my entire home:
this fortress of resentment
no match for its
delicate touch.

the settling dust,
laid to rest by the rain,
paints pictures in the air as it drifts
back to down to the dirt.

afraid of the expanse
I make something out of nothing,
when all nothing ever needed
was nothing.

afraid of the heat
I make nothing out of something,
sowing destruction
as I attempt to un-cook the rice.

there is strength in surrender
and joy in defeat;
there are no other weapons
that do any good.

I owe this moment of strength
to the falling rain
and simmering thunder:
together they have unbound
the fear that feeds
on an open mind.

Untitled

painted like an afterthought in the ocean of clouds
floating like the morning sun suspended in the sky
hovering above the haze in the midst of the day’s first heat
the silhouetted giant holds the entire sky.

the ambassador of the sun
the general of the earth
the treasury of space:
the mountain maintains
its quiet, deadly dignity
as it ever so slowly
slips back into the sea.

the immovable
ineluctably abides
in the enclaves and
moments of space:
from the soft breath
of the morning breeze
I am spontaneously
born as the great mountain.

now I hold the sky
paint my figure on your eyes
invite the sun to ignite
and rest amidst and ocean of clouds.

what shall I do now?

Drive Slow, Accidental Area

Having spent five hours waiting at the airport (where the approximate number of seats in which one can wait for arriving passengers is 15, and the approximate number of people waiting for arriving passengers is 5.2 million), spending an hour fighting the bureaucrats in order to renew our tourist visas, and taking one cab ride where the cab driver wasn’t listening to where I wanted to go and instead took me to the other side of town; I was headed back to the monastery with a can of beer and my earphones full of rock n’ roll. On our way up, we passed a sign that said “Drive Slow, Accidental Area.” Rather than just alerting drivers to a potentially dangerous intersection (which intersections aren’t dangerous in Kathmandu?!), I had a vague feeling that this sign was actually referring to the whole of the city. It often has the feeling I would imagine one would have living in a warehouse run by the blind, constantly having more and more stuff haphazardly piled on top of you until there is nowhere to go and very little room to breathe. I also saw the lovely petals of the lilac trees resting gently in a ditch. These ditches are where garbage is thrown so that it washes downstream to the river when it rains. They reminded me of the flowers thrown at the feet of a bride or the queen, although in this case the queen is the trash that will soon fill the ditch, which will then fill the river.

According to my cab driver, Kathmandu is home to 1.4 million people (depending on the source, these numbers range from 600,000 to 1.4 million). Of those, 800,000 have jobs. Of those, only 100,000 have good jobs that can really support themselves and their family. Therefore, there are a lot of destitute people. I have no way of verifying his information, but it seems more than possible that he is in the ballpark. Apparently, the Maoists are persuading people that moving to the city brings with it the promise of a better life, so many of the people moving to the city have very little work skills beyond farm work and hard labor. I will not describe the process of building as I’ve witnessed it, but suffice it to say that one cement mixer could put six people out of work. The Maoists were holding a very big rally today, bringing in anywhere from 50,000 to 200,000 people (depending on who you ask) to the city for a massive protest. This promise of a better life is reminiscent of the flowers in the ditch; these elegant and beautiful ideas are empty promises that will soon be covered with with the grime of poverty and suffering.

Having shut down the city more or less entirely, there are some positive reverberations of the Maoist descent into the city. There is much less traffic, and thus less smog. From the monastery, you can actually see the city, which for me is unprecedented. Many, if not most businesses are closed, so there’s less strain on the grid, and hence more electricity. If they could make manifest hot water from the tap, I might consider joining their movement. If, however, they keep things shut down too much longer, we’ll be in trouble because we wont be able to buy food or water. Protesting the inability of the government to provide for its people by depriving people of their own ability to provide for themselves seems a bit off kilter, but maybe it will work out for them in the end. After all, you never know what might happen in an Accidental Area.

Ejection of Consciousness

I am more or less recovered from the gut-wrenching food poisoning of the night-before-last, but in its wake I feel tired and lonely, and my voice is shot, so I can’t even sing. Instead of kvetch any more, perhaps I will write a little poem, even though all I really want is my girlfriend, a hamburger, and a bathtub full of beer.
Some days are just more difficult than others. I don’t mean to complain, but I do. It just seems like some days the world is heavier, and the levity brought by the simple joys seem cruelly inaccessible. It’s been six weeks that we’ve been here, and this is the point where I am walking around all the time with a broken heart, and am having a hard time remembering to find the joy that makes the tenderness so beautiful. But there you go, just writing that I remembered! Those little moments of space can make quite a difference. I’ll take what I can get, as long as it doesn’t give me food poisoning again.
Here’s a little poem:

you know what you can do with that breakfast?
you know what you can do with that lunch?
you know what you can do with that dinner?
you can put them all in a bucket, I clearly have no use for them anymore.
just please do it quickly so I can get some sleep.

Cool Morning, Heavy Afternoon

4/20/2010
there is a whole in my chest
filled with glistening black ink:
the stain of space.
bathing in pristine capacity
I cry out
and the only sounds
are the billowing clouds at sunset
and the haze hanging over the trees
and the sadness inside that deep, secret
whole.
carefully I dissolve into the bright red breast
of that ink-black bird–
carefully so
my heart does not melt,
marking the earth
with the seed of space.
But it does, and now
this stain, this footprint in the rock,
cannot help but benefit
the lonely clouds and birds and haze hovering
about this profound, black
whole.

One Month at the Monastery!

4/10/2010
The retreat is one month in. This is retreat, so there’s no big revelations, no huge events, just the day to day permeated with the same sacredness we usually fail to notice. Today I had a hit of sadness, a hint that practice is working. The service team has dwindled; Tashi is in Kathmandu and Christoph is traveling far and wide. So it feels a bit empty, which is not necessarily a bad thing, it just takes a little sadness to get through.
There is a trail for running that is truly wonderful. It is above all the main roads, so there’s no traffic, and while you run into an occasional small village, it’s as close to nature as I’ve been able to get while in Nepal. There’s no trucks or vicious stray dogs, just goats, and the occasional pig on the road. And some beautiful birds. The trail is all uphill until you turn around and go down, so going up is really hard, and going down is no problem. On my way down this morning, I looked up and saw this small black bird with a brilliant red breast, and it felt like a cool breeze; my mind opened for a moment to that sweet sadness elicited by undeniable beauty.
There is this interesting mixture of joy and frustration that comes from being here. On the one hand, it’s a pain in the ass to not have running water when you get back from a run and have to bathe with wet wipes. But all the other things seem pretty workable. Washing clothes by hand is time consuming but great; I actually have time alone to sing and sit in the shade. Not having electricity is no big deal, although I must add that the monastery’s generator goes on from 630-930pm, which definitely makes things more bearable at night. Doing dishes with a headlamp is workable, just not fun.
I’m practicing at least two hours every day, which brings me tremendous joy. Sitting here in the valley where Padmasambhava manifested as Vajrakiliya, we are all practicing the Werma Sadhana, which feels very auspicious. For those of you who might not know, Padmasambhava is the being who brought Buddhism to Tibet in the 8th century, subduing local spirits and manifesting as the second Buddha. He buried treasure, physical and otherwise, known as terma. This terma is then revealed by an accomplished master at an appropriate time for the particular teaching. The Shambhala Terma was revealed by Trungpa Rinpoche, father of my Guru (and present boss, if I may be so secular), and the Werma Sadhana is composed from the Shambhala Terma. So essentially, we are practicing the teachings Padmasambhava buried 1300 years ago to benefit beings of this particular time, and we’re doing it in his back yard. Forgive the phrase, but far out!
We are reaching the halfway point, and while I occasionally long unbearably to be with my girlfriend, and to have a hamburger (that won’t make me puke), and a hot shower, I feel truly blessed to be here enjoying the continual currents of ordinary magic.

Sanitary Discrepancies

3/31/2010
Having stayed at the monastery for a while, it’s beginning to feel very nice. There is time to practice and write, and now that we’ve gotten a bit of a groove, there’s also time to run. The latter is an odd experience; most people don’t really even notice, as if you were just a goat or some other various thing on the road, and others just stare at you like a crazy person. It’s a nice reminder that I am a foreigner, no matter how much I would like to think of myself as otherwise.
It’s interesting seeing the places where the Western and Eastern cultures clash. I particularly notice it in the kitchen. In the shrineroom, things are pretty clear-cut; the Tibetans are clearly the authority in that area. In the realm of email and outer-world communication, clearly the Westerners are the authority. But the kitchen is where both groups feel that they have a wealth of experience, and resist mightily advances into their territory. Suffice it to say that, generally speaking over here, they do not posses our passion for the eradication of germs, and we do not fully appreciate their idea of cleanliness. It’s not that they are not tidy and responsible in relating to the cleaning of the kitchen space, but their methods, by Western standards, leave a lot to be desired. Most Westerners would not have any problem with putting their underwear and socks in the top drawer of their dresser. To a Tibetan, this is a clear violation of Lha, Nyen and Lu, or the principles that underlie the natural hierarchy of the world, and infuse the universe with the grounds on which to base dignity and respect. This is along the lines of ‘Don’t wear your shoes as your hat,’ or why it’s such a big no-no to point your feet at a shrine or teacher. The monks, however, seem to have no problem with sweeping the kitchen counters with the same broom used immediately before to clean the floor. Or to put clean dishes on the filthy rags used to wipe the counters after having been swept with the floor broom, etc. These sanitary discrepancies are giving me plenty of opportunities to relate directly to my desire to control things thoroughly and pervasively, and while scrambling to avoid sickness for my teacher and myself, I am ever so slightly learning to relax into the situation simply as it is.

Toxic Afternoon

lost in the haze high
on mothballs I tumble
into the peaceful grasp
of gentle space–
searingly settled space
feels so tight
I can hardly
even float–
over the cliff,
along with the sun
I fight the haze that
settles like fresh
dust beaten
from the soles
of the Guru’s
feet.
remember
how the rain
washed out the toxic afternoon?
And how the cliff
washed out the precious breath?
And how the mind
washed clean the blood,
splattered beautifully
throughout your veins?

3/8/2010
I am struck by the fact that while this world that I am witnessing obliquely, and for the first time in my twenty-seven years, is how most of the world lives. It is my world and not this one that is different, and both continue on all the time. As does life in every corner of the world, and this fact is somewhat unfathomable. Where a sidewalk needed to be torn up, a job left to the agile mass of a Bobcat in the first world, was being literally picked away at by one man with a chisel. As the busy, touristy streets of Thamel darkened, a pair of young boys no older than twelve snuck into a nearby alley to sniff paint from a plastic bag. Earlier, we were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of one of the very few undisputed Dzogchen masters, Chadral Rinpoche, riding in a car. And this morning, the two young daughters of one of the many families visiting the house, one who was no older than five, the other no older than three, both prostrated at the feet of the Sakyong. All these images fuse together, creating an emotional scenery that is complex and beautiful.

life is movement
is sound is
music is
life–
subtle syncretism
sending currents
thickly through the
smoky afternoon.
Strange music–
sounds not synched
rather ricocheting
violently as the
smog soot and
smoke of the day
seep and tumble
into the seedy
dusk as daylight
fades.

3/4/2010
Rigden is family
but family is not
necessarily Rigden.
One will lead you
without fail
to enlightenment–
while the other’s odds
are not so as good.
It is somewhat absurd
that among the filth and insanity
of the third world
we are creating the Palace of the Rigden.
Two things so distant in name
can be so very far apart,
two things so close in name
can be so very far apart.
kora means to circumambulate,
korwa means samsara–
either way one revolves
around and around,
but only one leads
home.

Arriving In Kathmandu

The last few days I've been feeling at times poverty-stricken, disenchanted, and utterly exhausted. This morning however; as Rinpoche and I waited in his room before taking the car to the airport, our conversation slipped into the realm of magic. As I knelt in front of him, my heart was beaming. Two days of difficulty and temporal plainness melted away as we sat and talked, and in this moment I was reminded of the absurdly good fortune of my servitude. As Bob Dylan says, “It may be the Devil, or it may be the Lord, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.” It is in these brief moments that the sacredness peeps through, and somehow it seems to dispel all the shadows of doubt.

Not being very used to Asian roads, taxi rides are still a relatively harrowing experience. Like the UK, drivers drive on the left side of the road, although this seems to be more of a suggestion than a rule. The idea of lanes and blinkers is more of a brainstorm than a solid concept, but that all too American maxim of ‘share the road’ is widely and wholeheartedly practiced, although ‘sharing’ too seems to have a rather loose definition. During our forty minute cab ride, traffic was slowed by many of the usual things: cars, pedestrians, and a man on a bike stacked full of 20’ lengths of rebar, going about three miles an hour and taking up the space of a semi.
The honking is another level entirely. Like the dogs that flood the night with their incessant yelping, the car horns bark like cross-eyed beagles at everything imaginable. For those of you who know me well, you know that I love dogs. You also know that there is one particular breed that eludes my affection: the beagle. These vapid animals bark either at everything or for no apparent reason at all, like semi-sentient alarm clocks with small sharp teeth. The horns of Kathmandu arouse in me similar feelings as would spending the afternoon in a kennel full of beagles; trade the smell of shit in the kennels for the smell of diesel and whatever else is in the toxic fog of the air in Kathmandu, and it’s pretty much a wash. Of the myriad meanings of the horns, a selection: “here I am,” “there you are,” “I exist,” “I don’t exist,” “get out of my way,” “don’t get out of my way,” “you’re in my lane,” “I’m in your lane,” “I’m hungry/sick/tired/huddled/happy/ready to dance.” For anyone counting, you can add this to my list of strong aversions, of which there are now only three: beagles, John Cougar Mellencamp, and car horns in Nepal.
Our residence, however, is an oasis in the middle of Kathmandu. Once we arrived, inside the brick wall of the compound we found a beautiful house with a marble entryway, leading into a living room with rich hardwood floors and brocaded seats. We were offered tea and rice– a lovely snack after a very long day. Shortly after arriving, we were greeted by a torrential rainstorm, complete with quail-egg-sized hail, which was said to be an auspicious sign. We are provided the occasional luxuries of hot water and electricity, but there is the consistent luxury of space and a sense of tranquility wafting like the juniper smoke that breathes through the compound.
Even so, not even our quiet home can provide a quiet sleeping environment. The dogs bark all night. The roosters begin at 4 am. And at six, the pressure cooker starts– it sounds like like a gas pipeline being irreparably damaged every thirty seconds, just as the morning cooking is happening with all the grace and gentleness of a jackhammer. Nothing a good pair of earplugs, a cold shower and a sense of humor can’t fix. I must say that it fills me with immense joy to be here, and I am beginning to feel genuinely excited to spend the next few months in the monastery supporting my teacher as he embarks on what promises to be a very powerful retreat.

The answer is that I cannot tell you.
Contrary to what you might have heard earlier, I cannot tell you.

Stolen treasures
in the British Museum,
I feel like a thief
walking among
such men.
No peers, lonely warrior–
no-one, I think, is in your tree.
It is good to be the king,
it is good to serve the king–
there is always
room for service.
When your heart breaks
at the sight of so many
beautifully shaped stones,
remember adamantine impermanence.

Entering Sacred World via Chicago O'Hare

Today I embark on a new journey. My clothing is immaculate. My luggage is overweight. My toothbrush is mournfully inaccessible. My girlfriend is far, far away.
My typing is laborious, like watching a two-year-old learn Arabic. Or watching a 27-year-old learn typing. The point is, I can’t tell the difference between a period and an m, an apostrophe and a semicolon. Good thing you never use a semicolon. My mom told me in high school to learn how to type, but I was too smart for her; I prefer learn through excessive suffering, not premeditated insightful effort.
More importantly, which you mightn’t have guessed by my introduction, is that I begin, at 7am GMT, my tour as Continuity Kusung for the Sakyong, Mipham Rinpoche. For those of you who might not know what that means, join the club.
Generally speaking, I will henceforth be somewhat of an ‘executive assistant’ (a term I recently learned, that might come in handy to those unfamiliar with the Tibetan style of self-eviscerating devotion). Therefore, I will do a lot of ironing, emailing, fetching of sacred implements, and tea-making. But there’s a twist, and it is in the motivation. You see, I am not doing this for the money. I am not that dumb. There is a greater purpose here. I am dallying on the edge of Mormon Mission stuff here, so I want to be careful. I am not here simply because it is my duty to the church (which I must say, I do not generally object to), but rather because I have experienced for myself two things: 1) the world needs a lot of help, and 2) the teachings of Buddhism, and for me, particularly Shambhala Buddhism, have a lot to offer to the people of the world who suffer (who, at the risk of stating the obvious, is everyone).
I think there are plenty of other ways to help the world, and I support every one of them. I also think there are many ways to think you are helping the world and actually hurt it (which I support the intention of, if not the means of carrying it out). There are also a myriad ways to flat-out harm the world and its inhabitants (through poisons and other weapons, etc...) that I do not support whatsoever.
Flat-out helping the world is great. But, as the song goes, ‘Nice work if you can get it.’ Flat-out harming the world is bad. But really, how many people justify what they do by saying ‘I’m hurting the world and everything in it through poisons and other weapons! My intentions are totally fucked up! Aren’t I great?!’ So really it’s all that in-between area, where there are good intentions that get lost in translation, so to speak. This is why meditation is good. That is what my role as ‘Executive Assistant’ or ‘Continuity Kusung’ matters to me. Because in my role, I support someone who I feel has a) the intention to better the world, and b) a means to do so. It’s so simple on some level: the experience of the world is completely dependent on the mind that experiences it, so if you change your mind, you change the world!
Here I begin. My journey to benefit others that is sure to be at times lost in translation. But with blogspace as my witness: I will do all in my power to be of benefit to the world, to not do harm, and to manifest enlightened wisdom on the spot! Ki Ki So So! ( That means: Right On!)

Mixed Emotions On A Snowy Morning

My time here is short.
I more or less have an actual departure date, which is a welcome change from the last three months. A little background: I have unable to travel to Canada since November, and having very little idea when and if I will be able to go, I have been residing in semi-anxious uncertainty– a quarter-year gloaming. My music has been stalled, gig-wise, as I have had no sense of when I might be leaving. I have, however, continued practicing in small but consistent dollops. I'm sure you're thrilled to hear that. I'm also learning to type. And I lost three pounds. Can you tell?

Comedy of Errors

Having failed to see Avatar in Imax, after a short drive through the quaint Colorado prairie sprawl, we attempted to navigate –via bad hair, custom shoes, and violated drums– a very large keyboard into a very small car. We were more or less successful.