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?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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