rapture

Well, this is it. The apocalypse is nigh and it just doesn't really feel very different from any other day. In fact, after having a couple of cups of coffee, walking the dog, checking my email, looking at the latest updates on facebook, logging into an online dating site, checking the Huffington Post, taking a few phone calls (all regular morning stuff), the idea of being lifted away in the never ending and loving arms of Jesus seems like a really nice thing.

Yes, my routine can become a little numbing, but lately I'm actually happy with what I've been doing. I'm glad that I'm able to be helpful to others, that I get to play a role in other people's recovery. I went to the Tombs last night, and the men there were grateful that I took the time to bring a meeting to them. I'm currently working with a newcomer who is as scared as he is enthusiastic. I'm also working with a recurrent relapser; frustrated, scared, and teaching me so much. Showing up for these guys allows me to feel useful, gives me a sense of purpose, and feeds my self-esteem. And while I'm not anxious or discontented, I am tired, lonely, desirous, frustrated, and I wonder if I'm ever going to feel like a settled grownup; a responsible adult with healthy relationships. I can understand how fanatical religiosity could be a welcomed reprieve from the disenchantment of daily life.

Last week I got together again with the fellow I mentioned in an earlier post. The tall, muscular, semi-regular sex partner with an awkwardly handsome nose who I was wondering if I might get closer with. We had our usual urgent and voracious romp, and then in the comfortable afterglow, he began opening up to me in a way that he never had before. He began telling me about himself, his feelings, etc. I welcomed it, but I also noticed myself shutting down. I was scared. And then, he began talking about other sex partners. A clear and loud mixed message of 'I like you but don't get too close.' Is this what I do? It was like a mirror. A painfully fragmented and cracked mirror. No, I don't talk about other sex partners with people I'm romantically interesting in, but I'm certain that I push people away in any number of other ways. Seriously, I'm a middle-aged man who feels like an adolescent (and often acts like one), and finally all this self examination is beginning to pay off. It would really be a shame if the world ended today right when I feel as if I'm on the precipice of some kind of personal transformation or breakthrough. Of course I know that this is all just practice preparing me for the next thing. I just hope that after all this laborious and painful work that the next thing isn't oblivion.

american exceptionalism

It's been two days now, and finally some of the fever pitch hoopla over Bin Laden’s demise has quieted a little. Of course, the media frenzy will continue for quite some time, but at least the shouting and dancing in the streets has stopped. I’m very glad that some closure has been brought to a very difficult chapter in our recent history. I'm proud of our President, our country’s intelligence agencies, and our brave servicemen and women who have struck a defining blow against terrorism. An undeniably evil man has been eliminated, and I guess that that’s as good as a rabid animal being put down. But the euphoric celebrations, and the righteous grandstanding have made me a little uneasy.

National pride, quiet contemplation, and prayer are not mutually exclusive. A sober and mindful reverence for all that has been lost might stand as a greater example of American exceptionalism than triumphant celebration.

So while I understand the knee jerk reaction of singing “ding dong the witch is dead,” I also know that hate begets hate, and rejoicing in the violent death of anyone, even an evil mastermind, might very well highlight the basest of human conditions among us.

dancing with myself

This morning I’ve been reading about the Ryan budget proposal, the President’s response, reality television celebrities posturing for Presidential bids, tornadoes ripping through North Carolina and all other matters of newsworthy events. I might have something to say about any, or all of these things, but I’m feeling more inwardly directed and self-centered today. Really, do my political musings make the slightest difference to anyone or anything anyway? Does anybody even read this stuff? It usually just feels like letting off steam, but that shouldn’t, and doesn’t matter. The strange and beautiful thing about a blog is the false sense of security and simultaneous presumed anonymity in a forum for public self-expression – a paradox of deceptive concealment and full accessibility.

And so, here it is the third week of this, the cruelest month. I sense the brewing and babbling of lilacs, and the unfulfilled promise of desire. Fruit trees are bursting forth with flowering new life, my steps lighten slightly, and my eyes are certainly quicker than my brain (something not exclusive to spring months). Romantic hope springing eternal, however, has previously set me up for disappointment. Just recently I’ve felt especially burned by my own desire and expectation. True, my choices have been... um... questionable at best – to keep doing the same thing and expect different results could be called insane – but I can’t help thinking that something may change, or that I’ve changed, so the results of such folly should at least vary.

I’ve been having an intermittent, ongoing sexual encounter with someone for a while; a dashing, tall and muscular chap with an awkwardly handsome nose, and a seemingly inexhaustible libido. We’ve met maybe once a month or so for the past year. That we’re sexually compatible is irrefutable, and the last few times we’ve been together there has been easy, fun and playful talk. For me, as far as casual sex things go, this should be considered highly successful. But, as rousing and enthusiastic as our meetings have been, I’ve been finding myself hoping that there might be more to explore with this fellow - perhaps something not so casual. Regrettably, the last time we connected, he made it clear (not in so many words) that things are just fine the way they are, and that he’s really not open for anything more emotionally investigative. Alas, a disappointment to be sure. But as fragmentary and emotionally frustrating as our intermittent romps may be, their excitement and animal passion are just too much for me to discard completely at this time.

Acknowledging this lack of emotional involvement has prompted me to turn my attention to the idea of dating rather than hook-ups. Now as one who has never had any success in this arena, the prospect is startling. The stakes are so much higher! If a hook-up goes wrong, you can just stop and say, “Ya’ know, this isn’t really working for me” and then you each go your own way, usually with no hard feelings. But dating? Oh boy, I just don’t feel like I’m prepared for that kind of potentially devastating rejection - all before there’s even been any evidence of a payoff. I realize that this is probably a very modern-male perspective, but considering that our society has been frantically rolling forward on the model of some kind of quick-edit-amazing-race-immediate-gratification-how-to-handbook, it’s really no surprise that I just want to find myself in a loving and successful reciprocal relationship without having had to do any of the footwork to get me there. That sex is so readily available doesn't make wanting to stretch my dating muscles any easier either.

And so, again, here I am in this cruelest of months, my birthday month, single, libidinous, slowly aging, lonely and longing for more. I'm not quite ready to give up the easy fix of the non-committed occasional romp, but I am now, more than ever, willing to risk some emotional investment and start learning how to date, even at this more advanced stage of my career. So I'll keep you posted. In the meantime I'll try to enjoy the newly lightened step and the quickening eye. And, as April showers fall, and the city's parks begin to bring forth a bounty of floral loveliness, I'll try not to slip too far into morbid self-reflection. Who knows? with all this blooming new life I may even find some new life of my own, rise to this new challenge, and surprise myself.

birmingham jail

I'm taking a class called Practicing Social Criticism, and in it we've been reading numerous politically charged pieces from various perspectives and viewpoints; journal articles, newspaper opinion pages, three different books on socioeconomic status and race, etc. This last week we were given Martin Luther King Jr's letter from a Birmingham jail to his fellow clergy, and were asked to write a short response to it. The professor asked that we direct our response to King himself. I was very challenged by this assignment. I mean, come on, the man is a martyred hero who will forever remain an icon of the civil rights movement, social justice, and American freedom. He has been sainted by the Episcopal Church, and even has a national holiday in his name, fer crissake! He means so much to so many, and his words have been read, reread and scrutinized for the last fifty years. What did I possibly have to offer that could add anything new to the dialogue about King or his work? It seemed daunting and almost sacrilege.

Well... I wrestled with it for a few days before I finally wrote it. I thought that some interesting stuff came up, so I figured I'd share it here as I haven't been so active online lately.



While I am certain that more judicious men than I have informed you of the importance and far-reaching impact of your recent activities, let me reiterate that your actions are undeniably wise and timely. Revolutions are never convenient, and, as has been observed by the great Frederick Douglass, “If there is no struggle, there can be no progress.” The power and beauty of the words in your letter to your fellow clergy are underscored by the resolute commitment of your carrying forward a gospel of social justice. Your words “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” are profound and stirring. As a preacher, I know that words come easily for you, but these are words that linger, and will resonate a message of truth for years to come.

I am writing to you from the future, and it is astonishing and shameful for me to think that only so recently was such marginalization and exclusion encouraged in this country. As I’m writing, I know that I am kidding myself – inequality is still the norm. You will, however, be happy to learn that the world has come a long way; integration is now standard, children of all shades and hues study and play together, just as their parents work together. Mixed-race marriages barely turn heads any longer, and denying someone employment or housing based on race is illegal (though of course, it is still routine). But, the planet, and this country, nevertheless, continue to suffer from regimentally imposed discrimination, and gross disparity between those who have and those who have not.

You will be pleased and surprised to learn that the President of the United States of America is a brown-skinned man. Yes, a man of color has attained the highest elected office in the land. Certainly this is reason to rejoice and measure the strides that have been made toward racial equality. The magnitude and impact of our President’s election marks an historic event and an unparalleled victory for civil rights. But, while our brown-skinned President rode to power on rhetoric that gave hope to both the disenfranchised and progressives alike, his policies have proven to be a continuance of the oligarchic plutocracy that came before him, and which continues to thrive. The disparity between the wealthy and the working poor of our country is greater than it has ever been, and continues to grow exponentially. The current gap between the income of CEOs and that of workers’ wages would make nineteenth century robber barons blush.

Everyday our President sits across from a bust of your likeness in our country’s oval office, and everyday your legacy is abused. The influence of your life and work continue to propel convincing testimony, but as long as we, as a nation, continue to value the rights and livelihood of the CEO over that of the worker, the true meaning of your message will not have been heard. As long as we continue to value the lives of Christians over Muslims your message will not have been heard. As long as we continue to value the lives and rights of heterosexuals over homosexuals your message will not have been heard. As long as we continue to value the lives of Israelis over Palestinians your message will not have been heard. As long as we continue to value the lives of civilians in Libya over those in Darfur, or Bahrain, or Afghanistan, or Iran, or The Republic of Côte d'Ivoire your message will not have been heard. The spiritual life is not a theory – it must be lived everyday. This is something that you know and something that you did.

Forty-three years ago this week you were gunned down and killed in Memphis, Tennessee. Painfully and ironically you were in Memphis supporting worker’s collective bargaining rights, an issue very much currently at stake, as a new breed of far-right conservatives attempt to strip union workers of their collective bargaining rights in the name of corporate greed. While today the issues of race are not central to the fight, an oligarchic institutional structure continues to oppress and intimidate the working poor as they threaten to lock inequality into law.

How prophetic too that your letter was addressed to clergy – today the Western world suffers from a spiritual malnutrition. Prejudice and hate continue to be preached from pulpits across our nation. Certainly there are men and women of faith who are committed to interpreting the teachings of Jesus as a call to social justice, but many who call themselves “Christian,” and claim the gospel of Christ also demand their own privilege and superiority. These Christians-in-name-only pervert scripture to further their own twisted agendas. Recently, one of them has publicly burned the sacred scriptures of our Muslim brothers and sisters, and many others continue to regularly incite hatred towards our lesbian and gay brothers and sisters, as well as provoke sanctimonious anger at immigrants who have come to this country in pursuit of the promise of the principles that our great nation was founded on.

“‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’ (Matthew 25: 40)"

Oh, how this most fundamental law of all sacred teachings has been squandered!

From as far back as Rabbi Hillel’s interpretation of the Torah: “"That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn.," up until today, the golden rule has always been the most vital and principal seed from which all religious teachings have blossomed.

Unfortunately today, many who claim him rarely follow the example of Jesus too closely. I would much prefer to see a sermon than to hear one, and your diligence and sacrifice have shown the world what it means to be Christian; not just on Sunday mornings, bowing one’s head to empty dogma and reeling in sentiment, but by living a life that was the manifestation of the living God of Love – a daily practice of advocacy, decency, courage, and compassion as basic values.

The fight to expose hypocrisy and injustice proceeds, and your actions continue to stand as the benchmark of personal accountability to virtue and benevolence. The unending resolve that you’ve demonstrated stands as a testimony to the fact that the life of one man is equal to that of any other. And your example of civil disobedience echoes the empowering message that a man’s back can only be ridden when it is bent – this message transcends time and resounds to the downtrodden, the disenfranchised, workers, or anyone else who suffers unnecessarily under a corrupt authority. Your work and your life are a living extension of the Blood that was shed on Calvary – Blood which was shed not solely for Christians, but for the extended family of man.

liz

The passing of Elizabeth Taylor saddens me. Few people have led more interesting or privileged lives than she did. True, she hadn't worked in front of the camera in years, nor had she been very active recently, as she'd been ill and infirm for the past few years. When she left this world yesterday morning she was wealthy, world famous, and surrounded by her family. Certainly, sadder and more tragic deaths happen every day. However, Elizabeth Taylor's death stands as a reminder that time is passing and the world continues to change.

Celebrity is everywhere, yet it seems to have less and less meaning. Elizabeth Taylor's face will forever remain iconic, just as her name will remain synonymous with the words Movie Star. Yesterday the world lost one of its brightest shining stars. In a time when reality television makes celebrities out of contestants, and anyone, anywhere has the ability to follow a “star’s” twitter feed, or watch movies on their hand-held devices, the era of the larger-than-life movie star is gone forever. Taylor was the product of another era - a woman who grew up in the spotlight, and lived under the weight of the enormity of her fame since childhood. When mediums and tastes changed, she didn’t recede into obscurity or use her celebrity for personal gain, rather she wielded her celebrity like a weapon, bravely and unwaveringly speaking out for people with AIDS when no one else would do it - when it was wildly unpopular. She fought tirelessly for AIDS awareness, leaving AMFAR as her legacy, an organization that couldn’t have happened without her. She was a beacon of glamor, humanitarianism, and compassion. She saved lives, she made people feel loved, she made a difference.

I’m not sad because a dazzlingly beautiful academy award winning movie star died. I’m not sad because the death of this great lady is a reminder of the impermanence of beauty and of the inevitability of decay. I’m sad because without the presence of this unique, shining spirit – the world is a little less vibrant today, a little less hopeful.

prayers for japan

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shame

I haven't written anything in a while because I feel like I'm really at a loss for what to say lately. It's certainly not that I don't have opinions about what's been going on in the world, but I'm so disheartened by the state of my country that I feel I might only be venting my anger and frustration if I took to the blog with my feelings.

The anti union bill that was illegally pushed through in Wisconsin last night not only wages a class war on America's workers, but is a travesty to American democracy. The Macarthy-istic hearings of Representative Peter King in Washington beginning this morning is an embarrassment in the face of our country's commitment to the freedom of religion and is no more than a legally sanctioned, thinly veiled witchhunt against Muslim Americans. The commitment of House Republicans to defend the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is a giant step backwards in terms of civil rights. I've signed numerous online petitions, posted countless articles and links on facebook to try and educate all my friends to these recent injustices, and yammered on with like-minded folks about how these transgressions of the right plan to strip our nation of the very principles on which it was founded. Heck, I've even emailed the White House! My feelings of powerlessness have almost overwhelmed me to the point of wanting to put my head in the sand, or at the very least overeat, and hideout in movie theaters all day, every day.

I am infuriated by the unjust, back-handed, and short-sighted moves of the "new breed" that have recently been elected to power. I'm also embarrassed and ashamed of my country. I am, however, holding onto the slightest sliver of hope that these recent sociopathic overreaches of power by the far right will backfire in their faces, and that the working poor who were suckered into supporting them by having their anger exploited will wake up to the fact that they've been used as pawns, and see these heartless creeps for what they are - criminals. Perhaps their anger and resolve, as witnessed these past weeks in Madison Wisconsin, will be properly directed and make a difference.

Well, I've broken the silence and I've gotten a chance to express why I've been so quiet lately. I don't want you to think I'm apathetic, just terribly, terribly frustrated.

don't be mine

Several months ago I flirted with a guy in an eyeglass shop. He was handsome and playful, and surprisingly, he was responding to me, so I gave him my number. Pretty bold move, I thought. At least it was the kind of move that I hadn't made in a long time. Well, he didn't call and I thought nothing of it. Then several weeks later I get a text message from some number I don't recognize. You get the picture.

So he starts texting me and sending me suggestive photos of himself periodically. Certainly I'm interested, as I've already mentioned, this guy is really handsome. But our schedules never quite work out and for one reason or another it doesn't happen. Earlier this week he gets really serious (or horny, as the case may be) and sends me a couple of photos that are more than suggestive, along with a few very specific text messages.

Up to this point, we haven't had anything more than the most cursory phone conversation; what's your work schedule this week?, This cold weather is way too much for me, stuff like that. So I call him. I tell him that I'm definitely interested in carrying on further, but that if we're going to be entering into an arrangement of this nature (notice how I can't bring myself to use the word relationship - interesting) he needs to know that I'm HIV positive. I'm very healthy and this isn't really a great concern, but for myself, I need to be honest and up front about my situation, and if this is a deal-breaker, I totally understand.

There was silence on the other end of the line - just long enough for me to be uncomfortable. So, I tell him that he doesn't need to say anything, I totally understand, I didn't mean to make him feel awkward, there are no hard feelings. But he stops me and says, no, he's positive too and he can't believe how honest I was being and that he's really surprised and really appreciates it.

Well, needless to say, I'm getting pretty excited at the prospect of this; handsome, playful, also HIV positive, appreciates honesty, libidinous. We arrange to meet during his next day off. I show up at the agreed upon spot at the appointed time, and he's not there. I give him about 15 minutes, then I text him. He's on his way. Fine. He shows up and tells me that it turns out he has to work after all. (huh? you couldn't have told me this earlier?) We sit down for a quick coffee. He doesn't seem to think that his last minute change of schedule, or the fact that he's possibly inconvenienced me at all is worth more than the most superficial apology, but he nervously rattles on about himself, his work, how he hates New York winters, etc.

Now, I don't know where or when I've acquired this skill, but I managed not to say much of anything. I actually listened, and while I was listening I realized that this guy is a completely self-centered flake, and not the kind of person I need to complicate my life with by entering into an "arrangement", no matter how casual.

I am very much aware that Monday is Valentines day, and I would very much enjoy being the object of someone's attention and romantic fantasies as much as the next guy. But at what cost? I'm so glad that lately I am able to notice my own personal growth. When after this rather rushed and disappointing coffee date (was that really a date), I experienced a wave of disappointment and self-pity, it was as if I had walked through a curtain, and once I realized what it was, I had already passed through it. This is a new and most welcomed phenomenon. There was a time, probably not too long ago, when I would have used this episode as self-pity fodder for weeks. The simple truth is that drama of that nature just doesn't interest me anymore.

So I may not be getting any flowers next week, and I'm not jewelery shopping for that 'special someone,' but things seem to be shifting, and my heart seems to be opening in ways I previously couldn't have imagined.

re entry

It's been almost two weeks since I've been home, and I'm finding that readjusting to my normal life is more challenging than I would have expected. Perhaps I wouldn't find it to be quite so troublesome if it weren't the dead of winter, but the relentless cold and ice isn't making my transition any easier.

I got back into town last Monday afternoon, and had my first class last Tuesday afternoon - the very next day. This is what I would call hitting the ground running. I'm glad that I didn't have a long period of downtime with nothing to do. This forced me to get over any jet lag I may have had, and also made me feel like I had some sort of purpose for braving the persistent bad weather.

I'm trying to hold on to some sense of the serenity that I found on my trip. Not that I was blissed-out the whole time, but I do feel that I did achieve some modicum of spiritual connectedness that had previously evaded me. Even though I continue to mindfully pause, breathe, and ask for Divine guidance, the challenge of finding a practical application for this practice in the face of everyday life seems, at times, almost insurmountable. When I fail, I try to forgive myself, and promise that I'll do better next time.

Being back in the daily swing of dog walking, school, homework, phone calls, meetings, service commitments, speaking engagements, and other people's drama could derail the most serene of Yogis, let alone someone with an imperfect and sloppy spiritual practice, like myself. I know that there are tools that I can add to my daily practice that might help me better maneuver my way through these difficult days.

I haven't located a yoga class yet, like I promised myself I would do, but that promise still stands. I have, however, continued my daily meditation and prayer practice, and I know that being of service to others always - ALWAYS - helps me to get over any personal hump I may be experiencing. So with this in mind, tonight I'm going to speak at the locked-down detox unit of a hospital, and a few days ago I went downtown to the Department of Corrections offices, in lower Manhattan, and spent a couple of hours filling out forms and getting fingerprinted for my new corrections commitment at the Tombs (the colloquial name for the Manhattan detention complex).

I recently read a quote that I thought was rather provocative and relevant to this topic of service, by the 20th century Taoist philosopher, Wei Wu Wei:

Why are you unhappy?

Because 99.9 per cent

Of everything you think,

And of everything you do,

Is for yourself —

And there isn't one.

pickles

After parting company with my Auntie Swamiji, I had few opportunities to socialize with wealthy Indians or Indians of the higher classes. Of course, young people and teenagers from all social echelons will go to parks, beaches, coffee houses, etc, but for the most part, wealthier and higher-class Indians do not go outside in the heat, or sit around in public places. Unless I was attending a special function or eating at an upscale restaurant, the majority of my encounters were with working class or poor Indian people.

I did have a most enjoyable encounter with a lovely lady from Andhra Pradesh. I was eating at the Saravana Bhavan in Munnar, when this lovely lady, who was traveling with her family, began sharing her delicious homemade pickles with the other diners at the restaurant. (Tomato, ginger, and gooseberry pickles - the ginger was especially delightful.)

Another time at another restaurant, a heavy-set woman in an ornate saree approached me and said,
"Where are you coming?"
Confused, I didn't answer, only caught myself staring at the cinnamon colored rolls of her belly peeking out from the side of her saree. She repeated herself more loudly as if I were deaf, "WHERE ARE YOU COMING?"
"The United States," I responded.
Satisfied, she said, "Obama," and turned away.

incredible !ndia

Sometimes in the mornings, before the cacophony of traffic horns begin, it is possible to hear the squawking of birds, the bleating of goats, and even the voices of the fishermen barely a block away. If I sit very quietly, I can even make out the sounds of dry bristles crossing stone, as women all over town sweep streets and door-steps. The acrid smell of sea air mixes with fish, burning garbage, urine, dust, and damp towels - surprisingly not unpleasant, it is thick and lingers over the pavement like a hat. Soon the heat will burn most of these smells away, and only the most intense of them will linger and grow as the day continues.

I am back in Fort Cochin, taking a few days to relax by myself before I head back home to school, family, cold weather, responsibility - the real world.

I've easily settled into the momentum of this lazy tourist town, and have managed not to let the Western tourists bother me too much. During the days I've ventured away from the center of things, explored, shopped, and at night I've come back to drink fresh lime/ginger sodas and play on the internet at cafes like this one, crowded with young Europeans, skyping, giggling, and facebooking in skimpy clothing, inappropriate for anyplace else in India but here.

I've happened upon a few really good places to eat; I ventured across the bay by ferry to Ernakulam a few times and had some really good, authentic Kerala thali, served on a banana leaf with the most delicious homemade curd (yogurt) I've ever had. I've visited and revisited two nearby veg hotels; one with consistently good dosa, chai, and a friendly waiter, the other with tasty sambar, loaded with green chilis, and spicy mango pickle. The latter is run by a gnarled old man who smiles at me through crooked teeth, and seems to spend most of his time angrily chasing goats away from the front of his shop with an empty plastic water bottle. I've even got some friendly banter going with a few of the local Kashmiri gift shop guys.

This afternoon, I went to the Jain temple in Mattancherry, and sat quietly in the peaceful, pigeon-filled garden of the temple courtyard. Jainism is an ancient, Indian religion that prescribes a path of non-violence towards all living beings. Its philosophy and practice emphasize the necessity of self-effort to move the soul towards divine consciousness and liberation. Apparently, it was the Jains that educated Ghandi in the concept of Ahimsa, the practice of non-violence. Something we might all benefit from studying further.

I have a very short time left here, and I'm drinking in as much as I can. I'm sure that just a few days in the bitterly cold streets of New York will make this sweltering backdrop of watercolored plaster and spices a feathery memory.

Seemingly everything about this country is a paradox: The country is as filled with natural beauty as it is with garbage. Cows and other animal life is sacred, but cats, goats, and dogs go hungry, cowering and scurrying between careening rickshaws and motorcycles. People are courteous and friendly, yet there is no sense of personal space, orderly conduct, waiting one's turn, or traffic rules. You will never hear someone say, "excuse me" if they have bumped into you or pushed you aside. But that very same person will say in the most archaic, and overly polite book English, "I hope that you are having blessings through the day, and that God brings you to your family with much safety and happiness."

One afternoon, while I was walking in Pondicherry, wearing a short sleeved T-shirt (something I've rarely done since then), a man walked up to me and, nodding toward my tattooed arm said: "Excuse me, Sir. Is it possible that I might capture your arm inside my camera?"

the hills are alive

I am in Munnar, in the hill stations high in the Western Ghats, among the tea estates and cardamom plantations. The landscape is unspeakably beautiful, but characteristic of India, its beauty stands in sharp contrast with the trash along the sides of the twisting roads, and the painfully fractured infrastructure of the region.

It is easily thirty degrees colder here than down by the coast where it was blisteringly hot during the day and humid and uncomfortable at night. I walked about six-hundred meters down the twisting road to a "veg hotel," where I had a fresh lime soda and a lovely South Indian thali served to me by an angel-faced boy of about sixteen. I mashed the rice and vegetables around with my fingers, trying to form firm balls of food that wouldn't fall apart as I brought them up to my mouth. I mixed the last of my rice and sambar mixture with some spicy lemon pickle and curd, and was finished. My round metal plate was cleared by another angel-faced boy of about eleven (probably the older one's brother), who shyly giggled and avoided eye contact with me as he expertly balanced the ten or twelve stainless steel cups atop the round plate, along with the soda glass.

I left the older waiter a tip of ten rupees, the equivalent of about twenty-three cents, and he beamed at me, and slightly bowed with his right hand over his heart. It is embarrassing to me how such a small amount of money can mean so much to some of the people here. I've never been more aware of how entitled I am, or of how much I take for granted.

Even colder after dinner, I wrapped myself in my shawl and walked back to the inn along the side of the twisting road. Looking up, the stars appeared as diamonds on a black velvet sky. A crescent moon hung dangerously close to a nearby mountaintop. Like a jolt, I thought of Frankie. How she would have been entranced with this country and this trip. I thought about where I was a year ago. Holding her hand and talking to her as she slowly and delicately slipped away - further and further each day until there was nothing left. The stars twinkled. It was as if she knew, as if she was winking at me.

travels with my aunt

Saradananda and I parted company yesterday. She is off to an ayurvedic clinic for two weeks and I am now traveling on my own. I feel I've been given the best possible introduction to Indian foods, behavior, etiquette, tradition, etc... and am now able to manage most Indian customs on my own.

I arrived in Fort Cochin yesterday afternoon by ferry. Fort Cochin is the old town, on a small peninsula, in the port town of Ernakulam. A hub of the Malabar coast spice trade since the time of the Egyptians. It was colonized in the 1500s by the Portuguese. Fort Cochin's Portuguese colonialism is to India's southern west coast what Pondicherry's French colonialism is to India's southern east coast. Proud, aging, Portuguese colonial architecture and churches stand in beautiful decay from countless years of sea-air and humidity.

Unfortunately, when I stepped off the ferry, it was painfully clear that this is no longer an authentic Indian town. The streets are literally teeming with rickshaw drivers saying, "Sir, need a room," "Good cheap room," "Air condition room." And the little side streets are chock-a-block with Kashmiri gift shops and restaurants where I wouldn't trust the food.

Surprisingly, I've seen few Hindus here in Fort Cochin. The majority of the people here seem to be either Christian or Muslim. I woke up early this morning and took an exploratory walk in the opposite direction from the tourist trade, but even there on the Indian side of town, the orientation seemed to be predominantly Christian and Muslim. Of course, this being India, I saw a shrine, in front of a Catholic Orthodox Syrian Church (huh?), where a man was offering flowers to a statue of the Blessed Mother. Everyone in this country is in some state of worship - it's really rather wonderful.

This afternoon, I will walk across to the other side of the peninsula and check out "Jew Town," the site of the oldest Synagogue in the British Commonwealth (Jews on the Malabar coast have roots dating back to the time of King Solomon). Tomorrow, I will head up to the mountains with a new friend and be glad to say goodbye to tourist-ville.

I have a deep sense of gratitude to my Aunt Swamiji, who has prepared me well for traveling in this remarkable country.

temple town

The other night, Swami Saradananda and I went to the temple on the other side of the mountain. Arunachaleswarar temple in Tiruvannamalai is one of the oldest temples in all of India. It is located at the base of Mount Arunachala, on the opposite side of the mountain from the Ramana ashram. Mount Arunachala, as I've written in earlier posts, is the sacred hill thought to be the earthly manifestation of the Lord Shiva. Swami Saradananda arranged for a priest to show us around the temple (she really does have connections). There were very few other Westerners there. Of the HUNDREDS of people there, I think I saw 3 or 4 Westerners, but many, many people on pilgrimage. Families sitting inside the temple grounds eating, children playing, and, oh yes, monkeys climbing atop the tall towers above the temple squares.

The temple is unbelievably huge - 24 acres! It is a Shiva temple (being at the base of the sacred mountain, this only makes sense), but before we went into the center section of the temple, it is a series of concentric squares, we made an offering to Lord Ganesha of flowers and coconuts (Ganesha is present at every temple, he is the remover of obstacles and the son of Shiva). The coconuts are smashed as a symbol of smashing one's ego before God! and the coconut water inside is poured over the shrine. Oil lamps illuminate the shrines and the priests rub burnt sandalwood ashes on your forehead and ground hibiscus on your third eye. And this was only a smaller outer shrine!

The priest then took us inside the main center temple, a extremely rare opportunity for Westerners (Westerners have a history of disrespecting others' traditions; not dressing appropriately, taking pictures of sacred things, etc... I've also been told that there is the recent concern of terrorists entering the temples). He led us past the very long lines of people waiting to "see" the God, opened the gate of the inner sanctum itself and allowed us inside (unheard of!).

The indescribable beauty, the intense energy, and the heat inside the sanctum is unimaginable. There, we offered flowers to Lord Shiva, ate prasad (prasad is food that has been offered to the gods and blessed, their nutrients are not needed by the Gods, so they are given back to the people), had blessed coconut water dribbled over our heads, and had garlands of flowers laid around our necks!
Then, as if that wasn't enough, we were brought to the separate shrine of Shiva's wife Parvati - a smaller, but equally impressive ancient stone shrine inside the same temple, just beyond Shiva's large center shrine. There, we were also brought into the inner sanctum past hoards of pilgrims and worshipers.

The priest was telling us how the old traditions are being lost to the new ways of the west - that young Indians are leaving their traditions to go to Europe and America for opportunity. He said it was a joy to be able to show these traditions to Westerners who were interested in the old, sacred traditions of India.

I am aware of what a rare and special experience I am having here, and I know how truly blessed I am.

Then the priest said, "It is not for you to decide when to go to see God, but rather when God decides it is the right time for you to see."

uphill journey

How could I remain in Tiruvannamalai and not take advantage of the rich spiritual tradition of this town? Well, I couldn't. So, this afternoon, I had my own small pilgrimage up Arunachala to the cave where Ramana Maharshi spent seventeen years, and attained moksha (an enlightened state of detachment from all material things in life, beyond caste or suffering).

I climbed the long and rocky path up the sacred hill in the afternoon heat, wearing only my cheap, Chinatown flip-flops (a.k.a. chancletas, or chappals in India). Sweat dripped in my eyes and ran down my back as the red dust colored my feet a rich terracotta. Wild dogs spotted the path, some lounging in the shade on the side of the path, scratching themselves or sleeping, some chasing each other across the rocky trail. I also passed numerous other spiritual pilgrims; a few Westerners in T-shirts, like myself, but most in dhotis or full saris.

About forty five minutes into the walk, monkeys began descending from the trees and converging on the path. These were not the small mischievous monkeys I'd seen before, but rather, slower, lumbering, relaxed monkeys the size of ten year old children. Black primate faces with silver-gray, spiky Mohawks atop their heads. I was frightened and slowed down, but then I saw an Indian couple walk by a large one who just ignored them as they passed. Nervously, I sidled past the long tailed, lazy fellow, and he ignored me too.

I stopped to admire the view of Tiruvannamalai and the temple below, drenched and wishing I had brought water with me. As I escalated, the monkey population increased, and the dog population dwindled. Finally, I reached the cave, walked through an archway where, above, mischievous little monkeys were eating banana peels and picking things off each other. I removed my chappels before climbing the few steps to the cave (it's called a cave but it's really more of a stone dwelling built into the rock-face on the side of the hill), and entered a cool and peaceful little stone hut where a number of people were sitting in silent meditation before a flame and a picture of Ramana. Flowers lay before his portrait, offerings as if to a deity or god. I joined the people in the cool dark room and sat silently as my wet T-shirt stuck to the trunk of my body. My perspiration slowed, so did my heartbeat and my thoughts. I felt an unexpected peace wash over me.

When I allow myself to concentrate on the absence of thought, I can feel my breathing slow and deepen, the awareness of my physical condition becomes heightened, and I get closer to achieving an incongruous combination of self-awareness and freedom from self. I can quiet the mind and watch thoughts float by and linger momentarily, like notes of a melody played from a neighboring house, then just as easily they float away.

After a while, maybe a half hour, maybe more, I respectfully bowed to the image of the enlightened one and left the cave. Cooler now, I started down the rocky trail towards the ashram below. Now, chappals in hand, I stepped carefully in my bare feet. More monkeys, and a flurry of contradictory thoughts. These were not the floating thoughts that easily come and go like gentle breezes, but rather stubborn, nagging reflections. Had I not just had some kind of spiritual experience? Why now was I thinking about the young British boy from yesterday's yoga class? I had talked to him for only a few minutes, and quickly assessed him to be about as intellectually keen as a box of hair. Sweet, age-inappropriate, lovely to look at, and almost painfully simple; the exact type of fellow that usually sets me salivating like a hungry predator. Earlier in the day he'd waved at me from across the main road in town, a vacant idiot grin plastered across his pretty face. Would I see him again? Might I invite him to sit and have some chai, and then? My mind kept snapping back and I wrestled with these needling thoughts as with a recalcitrant umbrella. The visual details from yesterday's class burned into my memory and repeated; his lean flexible body, soft blond beard, the gentle curve of his throat, the arch of his feet.

Noticing physical beauty is one thing, not being able to appreciate the present moment because of some sexual preoccupation is another. I don't even think my preoccupation was necessarily sexual. It may have just been a persistant old idea. Here I am, descending the path of a spiritual pilgrimage, having just meditated on sacred ground, surrounded by nature, beauty, and even monkeys!, yet I remain enslaved by an old sexual idea.

Is this ever something I can be relieved of?

I pray daily to be relieved of the bondage of self. I know that to be happy, joyous, and free I must be willing to "let go of my old ideas absolutely." Knowing this, being willing to do it, and being able to do it are concepts that remain distant from each other, long rocky trails apart. I may visit the location, but moksha, even a temporary encounter with it, remains elusive.