"Life = Dukkha/Suffering" // Meritable life lessons

In Buddhism, the first of the Four Noble Truths brings an awareness to the reality of dukkha. It says "All life is dukkha," which is often translated as "All life is suffering." Sounds pessimistic, right? Albeit however difficult life can be, I've always had a qualm with this specific translation. Is all life suffering? Or is it our fixed perceptions, expectations and habitualizations which bring about suffering?

The original use of the word "dukkha" referred to the center of a wheel, such as a potter's wheel or a chariot wheel. If the center was not quite centered, the wheel did not spin properly, and that is dukkha. If the center was right in the middle of the wheel, the wheel spun nicely. That is called sukkha, which is often translated as happiness.

Life is just a series of different happenings, or passing memories. There are times when things will happen that disrupt us on our path (unsatisfactoriness). That is dukkha. How we react is what creates our suffering. But life itself isn't suffering, because there is always an option and always the opportunity for liberation. You have to let the wheel spin however it is intending to spin. It is when we resist the spinning of the wheel that we create suffering.

This feels especially relevant to me today because I finally feel like I've found a comfortable rhythm to my life. Sometimes the ride is extremely bumpy, but there is still a rhythm present, and I feel I've been given the practical tools of sitting with this rhythm through all of its comfort and its discomfort.

It's funny: growing up, I always thought that the way we accumulated knowledge was like brick being stacked upon brick. Clear lines of demarcation. Different levels of achievement. In contrast to that now, I've come to find that the way we accumulate knowledge is this: each lesson morphs into each other to make up our own individual experience. The line between each is blurred. It is a part of us.

In honor of my birthday today, I wanted to share 10 of the most valuable life lessons I have learned that have shaped me as the individual I am today. These are just some among many, in no specific order:

1.  You can't take the suffering from another man.
This was one of the more difficult tasks I have encountered (and still continue to work with). As sensitive, empathetic human beings, it doesn't feel very good to see somebody else suffering, especially when it is somebody we deeply love and care for. But there is a difference between being there for somebody (comfort) and wanting to take their suffering away (control). When we have certain ideas of how someone else should be operating in the world, we are building up unreasonable expectations and our sympathy becomes less about them and more about ourselves.

2. Money is not actual wealth.
Surprising, right? But money is a social convention. And money is not the most interesting thing you can bring to the table. I don't care how much or how little money you make. I am interested in what inspires you, what lights you up, and when you are alone with yourself do you enjoy the company you keep? Some of my happiest times have been when I've had absolutely Zero dollars to my name.

3. Goodbyes are for those who love with their eyes. (Rumi)
It is so hard to say goodbye to those we love. But it becomes easier once we can see that the love we have is there inside all along.


4. We all share the most basic things in common: We are all born, and therefore we all die. And we all just want to be happy.
Religion. Race. Economic class. Hair color. Height. Weight. Sure, if you look closely, you'll see individual differences between human beings, but these are all distinctions for the mind. Aside from that, we all share the most basic things in common. Close both eyes to see!

5. Forgiveness isn't actually something you give to another person. It's something you give to yourself.
I was resistant to forgive for so long, but when this dawned on me, I realized the only possible way I could overcome childhood traumas was to offer forgiveness to myself. We are funny beings...we get so reluctant and resistant to forgive somebody who hurt us because we think, "This person hurt me. Why should I give them anything?" But forgiveness actually has little or nothing to do with the other person; it's a pertinent thing we have to offer ourselves in order to heal anything.

6. The way of transcending anything is to use your experience as a right of passage rather than a badge of honor.
 I think this is one of the most difficult ways of approaching life: to use our life experiences as a right of passage rather than a badge of honor or something we identify ourselves with. I think our more negative experiences-- especially traumas-- often make us harden up, which teaches us to walk around with our guard up and this sense of pride that's like "Yeah, I survived that." And this way of viewing our experience actually works to keep us stuck in it. In order to get unstuck, we can see that not only did we "survive" a thing, but we also transcended it. That is the right of passage; the only way to move forward.

7. Always meditate on whatever provokes resentment. (Pema Chodron)
Pema says that "whatever arises is the fresh." When you are angry/anxious/afraid/lonely/depressed/etc., use it as an opportunity to wake up. Sit with it no matter how uncomfortable it may be. Even if your meditation seems to be going horribly, that is just the "housecleaning." The best measure of how your meditation is going is how you feel afterwards.

8. Memories are distorted.
Because memories are present traces of past experiences, they are inherently distorted. When they come up, we think we are experiencing the thing itself in its truest form. But it's equivalent to witnessing a bird's footprints on a beach; we're not actually experiencing the bird walking. What we are actually experiencing is a present trace of a past experience. Our memories don't have to control us.

9. For the things you have no power to change through your will alone, surrender. (Corina Benner)

 The distinction between "will-power" and "surrendering" is something my teacher Corina brought up in a Yin Yoga training. Willpower is necessary to help us effectively make decisions and plans. But if there is something you are consistently stuck on, think to yourself: is this something I can change with my will alone? And if not, perhaps the only solution is to surrender. Whatever happens is the fresh, right?

10. Trust yourself.
We are sometimes so ugly to ourselves. Have more faith in yourself. Seriously. You can do anything. And you are beautiful. Period.


Life has certainly been challenging, but now I am quite glad to be alive. To the agreeable and to the disagreeable. And I am grateful to all the friends, family, strangers and lessons in my life that have helped to shape me and move me forward.

Here's to the next revolution around the sun.....
  

There is no name for that feeling

There is no name for that feeling.
For that feeling of no longer becoming infuriated
by something that used to light you with rage;
That used to steal your breath
That used to be very close to you
That used to consume you
Energetically, physically, emotionally,
But now you can laugh with it.
What could they possibly call that?
Distance?
Contentment?
Lightness?
Forward-looking?
Touching God?
There is no name for that feeling,
for words don't suffice in place of
honest feeling.
Don't let the sun go down on your anger.
There is nothing in a void
which cannot be destroyed.

Occupation: Pilgrim (Mani Mahesh, Upper Bhagsu Nah/Dharamsala)

I have just returned the other night from a 3-day pilgrimage with my new friends and instructors from the yoga teacher’s training program I am doing. What a test of my stamina it was.

We—Indian, American, German, Hungarian, and Spanish—took a 6-7 hour drive on the first day to a city northwest of where I am located in Himachal Pradesh. When people comment on the “colors of India,” this is the place they must mean. I have literally never before witnessed mountains so tall, greens so green, land so spacious. The drive was magical; jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring magical.

The only camera I had were my eyes and my memory; my eyes like a shutter speed to control exposure and motion; my memory the aperture to account for exposure and depth-of-field; a mental image I will not forget.

The first night we slept outside at a location that had 84 temples. I kept joking with Yogi Shivam (my instructor) that I only counted 83 temples. He laughed but in sincerity said, “No, there are 84.” We all slept at one of the temples just to catch 2-3 hours rest, and in the morning we were awoken by bells ringing, people praying, and fires burning in dedication to Shiva. After breakfast was when we were to finally begin our trek up the mountains; a destination 4500 meters tall; the tallest altitude I would have ever been at.

We began the trek, and very early on I felt the consequences of little to no sleep. My mind and body were out of sync, and the ascend up the mountain was very steep and painful. At one point, I became confused by which way the path was headed. I made a wrong step onto a rock which was incredibly slippery, and it took my feet from underneath me. I fell backwards beside the ledge; half of my body on the rocks, the other half amongst the shrubbery off the edge of the cliff. It was one of those movie moments where your hiking stick falls below you into the rapid waters, and you know that if you also fall, then you die. My friends Fran and Bima rushed over to come pick me up. I am pretty sure they saved my life.

It was so early to make a mistake like that; I knew I had many hours left to go in our journey. Truth is, we wound up hiking that day for nearly 12 hours. I went through so many emotional states of frustration, anger, bliss, absolutely wanting to give up, etc. We traveled through all different types of weather as well. When we began the journey, it was quite hot; the sun was shining, and we cooled our heads in the cold river. By the end of our journey, it was pitch black, the moon was shining, and we had reached a freezing cold height with snow beside us. I picked up snow to form a snowball with my bare hands; an experience of nearly having arrived; body so sore I could have collapsed there for the night.

When you have hiked a steep mountain for an entire day and all you can feel is the freezing cold air and the pain of your body, you just want to proclaim, “I am tired!” But at that point, there is no “I” in the equation anymore; in fact, WE are all tired; we are all in pain; we are all cold and hungry. There is no distinction between the suffering of one man and that of another. Everyone is going through the same motions, and it is a force which certainly keeps you going.

Perhaps if we can drop the “I” in our personal endeavors we can see we are all going through similar motions; we all experience pain, sadness, suffering; we all just want to be happy. We are not victims to our suffering. Our suffering is actually a blessing in disguise; it is the teacher of our own experience. As Rumi says, “Welcome and entertain it. It is a guide from beyond…it may be clearing you out for some new delight.”

We spent the next two nights sleeping outside in the mountains; drinking chai to keep warm, and covering ourselves with dozens of blankets. They say Mani Mahesh is one of the five holiest places in all of India. After having climbed approximately 25 km, spending two nights outdoors, making music and witnessing the magic with strangers, I can honestly say I understand why this place is considered holy. The trek was exhausting, but there is a savior in every stranger’s smile.

I am grateful that my fried Niai sent me these pictures from our trek. They are magical. I wanted to share them. Enjoy!

 Bima and Ravi at the place of 84 temples

 Jordy and I at the temple

 Before we began our trek, we walked up this mountain to take a holy bath

 Only the men were allowed to bathe, though; the women had to go in the dirty, closed, dark showers

 Enjoying the view before our long trek

 Niai, me, Ravi, Jordy, Fran, and our driver who's name I forget

 Freezing cold river. Felt so refreshing in the hot sun

 Ravi and I

 Ravi, me, Jordy. Don't know why Jordy's celebrating; we had a lot longer to go in our trek

 me, Niai, Jordy

 Jordy and I

 We finally reached the snow many hours later; it was freezing! I was wearing a skirt

 The holy lake at Mani Mahesh; again, only men can bathe, but it's okay because it was absolutely freezing outside

 Making music and singing Shiva songs in the tent where we slept. Bima on drums (trashcan)

 The moon greeted us on arrival

 So cold, but they provided us with many blankets

 When we returned, we gave ourselves a day break before yoga. We were exhausted!

 There are only 4 of us in the teacher's training program

Occupation: Pilgrim (Amritsar)

Amritsar (7/14/12-7/17/12)

Having explored Hinduism and Jainism is Dehradun and Varanasi, Buddhism in Bodhgaya, Islam and Sufism in Agra, I was now headed to Amritsar, Punjab, to make the major pilgrimage for Sikhism at the Golden Temple.

Punjab is the only state in the world whose people are pedominantly Sikh. Throughout history, the Sikh community has been very affluent and successful-- even after the brutal ruling and tortures inflicted on them by the Mughal empire. Thus, there was a huge contrast between the culture of Punjab vs. the other states I had been to (Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Haryana). In Punjab, people are generally taller and have much more girth, and there is not as nearly as much begging. These are all a result of having the resources to eat properly and to properly take care of oneself; in the other cities I have been, massive starvation is a huge problem.

We arrived at Amritsar quite late in the evening after an entire day spent on the train. When we arrived to our guest house at 2 AM, we were greeted by several SIkhs who were very excited to share their tradition and culture with us. Even at 2 AM they were headed to the gurdwara to take a ritual bath. As tempting as that was, we were exhausted from our long travels and just wanted some rest.

The next morning, we went to the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib). We took our shoes off outside-- as is tradition-- and put them in a pile with others' shoes. The Golden Temple is one of the most beautiful temples I have ever seen, surrounded on three of its sides by a large body of water where people take a ritual bath. The temple has been standing for about 500 years, around the time Guru Nanak founded the Sikh religion; the Sikh religion is relatively young.

There was a 4-hour queue waiting to get inside the actual temple; thus, I walked around the perimeter of the temple and the body of water and just observed. Matt and I were greeted with endless hospitality by many people. People wanted to come up to us just to say hello, shake our hands, ask our names, or "have one snap" (photograph) with us. Nobody had an ulterior motive. Nobody asked us for money. How refreshing!

After observing the temple and Sikh rituals, listening to the live Punjabi music and exploring the Sikh museum, the sun was beginning to take a toll on me. Fighting the feeling of faint, we went to go get some food. First, we went to collect our shoes at the gate where we had left them. To my surprise, my shoes were no longer there. They had been stolen.

I was standing on the hot cement-- feet burning-- thinking, "Well, what do I do now?" I had to laugh because there is literally nothing else that can be done in that situation; where do you beging to search for your lost shoes in a foreign country? Besides, every time you lose something it is a good opportunity to exercise and practice not caring. I was just grateful that the Sikhs at the main entrance to the temple had given me a replacement pair of shoes that fit. They friendly laughed at me, and I took notice of the sign which read, "Do not leave your soes here." So it goes. I hope whoever is wearing "my" old shoes is very comfortable.

When Matt and I went back to the guest house, we were surprised to see our French friends who we had met on our first pilgrimage in Varanasi. What a coincidence we had all reconvened at the same guest house weeks later in Amritsar. That evening, we four took a shared jeep to the Indian-Pakistani border, where they hold a ceremony each night of the changing of the guard. Again, we fit more humans into the jeep than one would ever dare to in the West; Matt and I both had to squeeze up front with the driver, the gear stick placed conveniently between Matt's legs. He had literally become  a part of the driving mechanism. I think I prefer not sitting up front and being able to see everything that happens on the road, as each time you get on the Indian roads it feels like 7 years are being taken from your life. "Oh, here we are on the other side of the road. There is a bus driving directly towards us." And then swerve away just in the knick of time. There is a method to the madness, I am sure. I don't quite get it, though.

We reached the border where Punjab meets Pakistan. Outside the security checkpoint before you enter the ceremony, vendors are selling popcorn, fried corn on the cob, burgers, etc. It feels like a sports event, and in many ways it is; after you walk through the two security checkpoints and approach the actual gate that separates India from Pakistan, there is stadium seating in bleachers. Foreigners are even given "VIP" seating.

The ceremony itself is the most comedic event imagineable. On the India side of the gate hundreds of people are cheering "Hindustan! Hindustan!" Many are waving the Indian flag. Some are parading with the flag to the border. On the Pakistan side, people are cheering, "Pakistan! Pakistan!" while also waving their respective flag. There are no "VIP" foreigners on their side, though.

India's side was definitely more animated and had more "fans." They were chanting loudly until Pakistan turned on music through their speaker system. Then, India turned on their music. Seconds later, Pakistan turned up their music louder. India combatted that by turning up their music even louder. It was comical.

When the actual ceremony started, the process of changing the guard was long and drawn out, as is everything in India. Each side cheered for their respective country. The guards from each country-- men and women dressed in uniform with guns-- paraded to the border and did what can only be properly described as a dance-off. The whole ceremony with its music, dancing, cheering, rituals and the fact that it is held every single night of the year makes it difficult to imagine there being a way between Pakistan and India. Who'da thunk? At the end, they even shake hands.

That night, and what would be our last night in Amritsar, we returned to the Golden Temple to participate in the langar; the free community meal that is held 24 hours a day. There is no caste system within the Sikh religion, and it is their philosophy that everybody is one, everybody is equal. Thus, for 24 hours a day every single day of the year, they have a kitchen where people from all religious, financial, ethnic backgrounds can come to share a free meal together. Anyone is also welcome to sleep at the temple; they provide beds and floorspace for anyone who wishes to sleep there or who has no place to call home.

The entire temple itself and its premises are up-kept by Sikh volunteers. Each day they clean the entire temple and surroundings, which helped add to the overall experience of the place. It is magical to see a community of people coming together because it matters to them.

The Sikh philosophy and community is very beautiful. Under the premise that we are all one, we are all created equal, and every one of our religions is attempting to reach the same destination, the community is entirely non-exlusive. They hit the nail directly on the head: ethnicity, financial status, caste, religion are all irrelevant in terms of life matters.

As the Sikh poem goes, "If your eye does catch 'pon a difference in style, just look to your heart, see the one, and you'll smile."

Occupation: Pilgrim (Agra)

Agra (7/11/12-7/14/12)

We were to be at the train station early again for our train's departure to Agra at 6 AM. We asked the guard at the Buddhist centre to do us a favor and knock on our door in the morning at 5 AM as, again, we have no clock. But as a back-up plan, we drank plenty of water before bed in the hopes our bodies would just wake up themselves. This worked well, except my body decided to wake up at 3 AM. So I thought, "Well, what do I do now?"

On the train, there were a group of people seated adjacent to us who were particularly interested by us. Being white in India is what I am imagine it is like for a movie star: people think you are important. They get giddy and awkward and often ask to take a picture with you. It is a bizarre phenomenon (and inflation of the ego).

The one guy in the group was the only one whose English was proficient, as so he was cockily showing off to his friends by conversing with us. He told us he was going to find us in the next city were were headed by using a telescope. When he got off the train he said to me, "You thirsty? Do you want me to drink you?" Perplexed, I said, "No thanks." He said, "No...it would be my pleasure to drink you." I cannot say anybody has ever offered to drink me before; not sure whether I should be honored or concerned. For my own amusement though, I joked, "We just met, let's take it slow." He didn't get the joke.

We arrived in Agra to the home of the Muslim family we were staying with at night-time, just in time to have a wash and a late dinner; a proper way to unwind after an Indian Railways experience. Beforehand, Agra was the city I looked forward to lease. Being situated nearby Delhi, I expected it to be a miserably hot and crowded city. To my surprise, Agra only has a small fraction of the amount of people Delhi does, it was not too unbearably hot because the rains had cooled the area off, and there was actually a lot of greenery. Agra had quickly become one of my most enjoyable experiences thus far, in large part due to the fact I had gotten along quite well with the Muslim family I stayed with. They were lovely.

In the morning, Matt and I walked to the Taj Mahal; an experience I did not initially plan on having before arriving to India. I am glad I gave in to my inner-tourist, though, because the Taj Mahal is a timeless piece of beauty which certainly does not disappoint.

Islamic geometric art is profound and magical. There is something about perfect symmetry which relaxes the mind; it is like the perfect uniformity allows the mind to temporarily rest and turn off from its constant decodings, discursive motor reasoning, and confabulations. Even the minutest details of the Taj Maha-- ones smaller than the size of your fingernail-- are in perfect symmetry. It is relaxing.

But even more than the obvious external beauty of the architecture and design of the Taj Mahal is the silent beauty which is emanated from the very experience of being there. I walked around the perimeter reading a book of poetry by Rumi, and thought about how this monument has been standing for nearly 400 years. Having been created by a man in memory of his beloved wife who passed away while giving birth to their 14th child, I thought about the force which drove this man to have a monument built for his wife. A force of love and perhaps fear too. Transience and mortality freak us out. We want to have something left behind in memory of the lives which we've led.

I sat by the river Yamuna in silent observation of the Taj Mahal and continued reading Rumi, and I was reminded of his one poem entitled "Story Water." It goes like this:

"A story is like water that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire and your skin.
It lets them meet, and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.
A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen to shield and
partially reveal the light that's blazing inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body, all the things we do,
are mediums that hide and show what's hidden.
Study them, and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know and then not."

Rumi had it down to a science, and this was some several hundred years ago. Beauty surrounds us everywhere, but usually we need to "be in a garden" or perhaps beside the Taj Mahal to recognize it.

When I was walking around Agra before I even entered the Taj Mahal gates, there was a tour guide trying to sell me a tour of the Taj Mahal for 1000 rupees. He was so persistent in selling me a tour that he was even willing to "cut me a deal" and give me the non-white people price: 500 rupees. Uninterested, I denied him. I think he was shocked I did not want a tour, and he said in full seriousness, "But ma'am, how will you understand?"

How will I understand? I think I will have an experience and understand that quite well to be my own experience. I do not need to be told what to look at, told how to feel, or told what are the most important aspects of the monument. I wonder if the busy-bodies getting tours and taking pictures ever stopped to notice how musical the monument can be; that if you stand in the mosque and tell a secret through the wall, someone on the other side of the room can hear it by pressing their ear to the wall. When Matt and I discovered this, we were absolutely amazed. You can hear one another perfectly through the wall, but not in the room. What a great way to tell secrets.

Later that day I returned to the home I was staying at for dinner. A massive rainstorm came through, which we each took solace in because boy has it been HOT in India. The father of the family seemed so happy it was raining; he took me to the rooftop of the home overlooking the city of Agra, and he gave me a giant hug with a huge smile on his face. For no reason at all. It was such a kind and hearty gesture that I nearly forgot I was standing in the monsoon rains on the top of the roof.

Overall, my stay in Agra was peaceful and wholesome. I loved sitting on the rooftop listening to the Muslim call for prayer. It is beautiful. I was bummed to be leaving the family after a quick, short few days, and we all exchanged hugs in goodbye. Their motto was "Come as a tourist. Stay as a family. Leave as a friend."

That sums it up nicely.

Occupation: Pilgrim (Bodhgaya)

Bodhgaya (7/07/12-7/11/12)


During our last night in Varanasi before our journey to Bodhgaya, we shared a boat with two others down the Ganges River to enjoy the presence of the moon and the presence of thousands of humans gathered at the Ghats to celebrate the Hindu festival. We four people were American, British, Japanese, and Russian. We quickly found out that we were all headed to Bodhgaya early the next morning and decided to share a rickshaw. This was especially helpful because Matt and I have no alarm clock, and we were wondering how we would make it to the train station by 5 AM for our train's departure.

Our Russian friend knocked on our door in the morning to wake us up; though, she has to knock for 20 minutes before we woke up and were conscious of what was happening. I was so tired that the knocking has become part of my dream.

The hot, sweaty, dirty, and cramped non-AC sleeper train was yet another peculiarly inviting experience. The AC sections of the train not only have the luxury of an air conditioner, but they also have the luxury of not being hounded by beggars. In order to properly convey the experience one is met with on the Indian Railways, it is best to pain a visual.

So imagine this: every single minute or every few minutes of the entire journey, there is somebody walking down the aisle. Some are yelling, "Chai, chai, garam garam chai." Others are selling various snacks or food items. Sometimes young children come around and sweep the flood and then return to ask for money. Sometimes lady-boys come around in high heels, clap loudly, stick their hand in your face, and demand money (to which you ask yourself at what point did this person arrive at the conclusion that aggressively clapping in my face would ever entice me to give them money?) Sometimes people walk by playing the flute, beating a drum, doing a trick, for money. And very often there will be the poorest of individuals-- some with disabilities-- walking by pleading for money. The latter is perhaps the most difficult to swallow and digest.

These human beings will approach you and do anything it takes to even get a single coin from you. Some are blind, some have missing legs or arms, some have no legs at all and are making their way down the aisle with just their hands and torso. The encounters are quite endless, and these humans will openly stick their deformity or  handicap in your face to increase their chances of getting money. When they do so it is as if they are saying, "Look at me. Look at what I have to live with." And when they nag your shirt and desperately plead and sometimes do not stop or leave for literally 5 minutes (or what feels like a lifetime), it is as if your conscience is also nagging at you asking, "Well, go on now, how honest are you?"

So I had been thinking a lot about that question and realized there are two ways which we typically choose to handle the situation of someone approaching us for money, both of which can be potentially dangerous. The first is completely denying or ignoring the person. This can include pretending you do not hear the person; maybe deliberately looking the other way as you pass them. To which one can only wonder what are you hiding from or what are you afraid of confronting? Denying them can also include telling them you do not have any money. To which one should ask themself, "Do I really not have anything to give?"

The second manner in which we handle the situation is giving the beggars money, even if it is just a coin. This can also be as equally dishonest, depending upon the intention. Are you giving money just to alleviate the stress inflicted upon you; just to get rid of the person so they stop nagging you? Are you giving money because it personally makes you feel better about yourself? Are you giving money so you can tell your friends how you gave money to a homeless person today?

These are all questions that should arise when getting honest with ourselves. And the answer lays solely in the  individual intention. To be brutally honest, I have played both sides. After being continuously asked for money all day, it physically, mentally, and emotionally gets exhausting. And I am quite guilty of having sat on the train, noticing ahead that a beggar was approaching, and then pretending I was asleep when they came. Maybe they would nag on my shirt anyhow or shake their bucket of coins in my face to wake me up, but if you are dedicated to "sleeping," they will eventually leave. I have also been glad when I did have coins on me so as to avoid the language barrier and the incomprehension that arises when I say I do not have anything to give.


But just as when you repress bad memories or avoid things that have been left un-dealt with, they always resurface. You can temporarily "get rid" of one, but one or the other returns. So why not get honest instead?


Truthfully, giving our money and our belongings has little or nothing to do with it. What are our possessions anyhow but things which we fear we will need again tomorrow? Physically, I have nothing to give to the amount of beggars that approach me each day, but that is irrelevant. I have the ability to share some of myself instead. So now more honestly I can say to them I have no money to give, but just as I am externalizing that, I am likewise looking them straight in the eye, acknowledging them as a human being not separate from me, and sharing a bit of myself with them. It is all one really has to give.


When I went to Bodhgaya, I was staying at a semi-monastic Buddhist centre called the Root Institute, which is conveniently tucked away from the aggression of the city and is its own little private paradise amongst the farmland of the beautiful state of Bihar. Needless to say, when I first arrived I was thankful to be separated and to be able to come back to myself for a moment. In fact, I considered staying there for the rest of the money.


It only took me until the next morning to remember that was not the point of my trip; again, it is the journey that matters, not the destination. So why would I want to rob myself of the journey or the challenge of coming to the "root of the root of myself"?


It is very easy to separate oneself from the stresses of life and then come to be the idea you have of yourself. But the real challenge comes from transcending the spontaneity of one's surroundings; the unpredictability of life in all of its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy.


At the Root Institute, we were provided with a bed, an outhouse with a shower, a dining room with 3 hot meals a day and chai anytime we wanted, and a meditation hall. It was convenient. It was pleasurable. I was thankful for it. But the outside world-- in its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy-- still ran parallel to my reality, and who was I to pretend it went away?


The real challenge and real test of one's character; the best opportunity you have to become the idea you have of yourself, is by fulling submerging yourself in the madness of life. As the saying goes, live like a lotus flower. Do not renounce the world. Instead, live within it but above the temptations, meanness, and other manifestations. Treat everyone honorably. This may not be the easiest method of settling into oneself, but I think it is the most honest.


So whatever un-dealt with force exists inside-- the one that makes it easy to ignore or dismiss another human because we see them as separate or inferior-- should be honestly welcomed, confronted, and overcome. In a poem, Rumi said, "Close both eyes to see with the other eye." Close the eyes that catch upon physical differences, upon likes and dislikes, upon our everyday standpoint of good and evil and right and wrong, upon our social constructs of class, caste, ubermensch, untermensch, and open the other eye that sees there is no real difference.


Everything is different, but the same.

Occupation: Pilgrim (Varanasi)

Varanasi (7/02/12-7/07/12)


We left Dehradun for the next destination of our pilgrimage: Varanasi. Varanasi is considered to be the holiest city of India and the oldest city in the world. What kept us from our destination was nearly 900 km of distance, or what was to be a 21.5 hour train ride. We had tickets in the Sleeper section of the train which was un-airconditioned,. They did provide us with fans, though; however, they are really only good for making noise, not keeping you cool. When we got on the train, we set down our belongings and made space for our bodies amongst the other humans; space we would all share for the next day to come.

A light meal was served around dinner time, and I spent the time both before and after engaging in dialogue with those around me. Night approached, and the moon was full, close, and bright, and I spent hours in conversation with the older man who I was sharing a bunk bed with. He told me about his children-- that his son is his best friend-- and the arranged marriage with his wife, and we compared traditions and lifestyles between that of America and India. He said in many ways he prefers the American mindset as it places a higher emphasis on individuality. In many ways, though, I feel I prefer the Indian mindset as family lie is more heavily regarded. The middle path...

Night was quickly passing and my body was growing tired, so I decided to lay down and attempt to get some rest. Not much sleep was to be had, though, given the circumstances. Even just sitting down your body gets drenched in sweat.

Morning came, and all the while I was thinking to myself that there are two things which escape me: time and space. Time in that I had no physical method of recording such. Thus, I had no idea how long I had been travelling for or how much longer was left to go. Space escaped me in that I was unaware of my geographical location and the distance which kept me from my planned destination. When time and space drop, life manifests itself in many other ways, and each moment is pristine. My mindset was never, "This is what I will do when I finally get to Varanasi." Instead, it was, "This is what I am doing at exactly this moment."

Night approached again and soon enough we had arrived in Varanasi (about 25 hours after our departure, we soon learned). Matt and I arrived in Varanasi with several thoughts on our mind. 1) we had not slept or eaten. 2) we needed to figure out how to get to the guest house we planned to stay at. 3) this just might be the hottest place we have been in India yet.

With no phone, no watch, and no address to the place we would be staying, we walked from the railway platform observing the happenings of this new city. A rickshaw driver approached us, asked where we were headed, and said he would take us there for 200 rupees. I had gotten quite good at haggling, though, and told him the house was only a few km away so we would pay him 100 rupees to take us there. He agreed.

The rickshaw driver, Krishna, was full of energy, singing and rhyming to us and trying to sell us things. It was quite overbearing for having just sat on a train for 25 hours. He told us, "You don't want to go to that guest house. It's my uncle, he's no good. I'll take you somewhere else." We persistently told him that's where we were headed, that the family was expecting us. But he refused to take us and said, "It's no good" and that he wanted to take us to his "brother's" place (i.e. the place he had a commission with). At that point we did not care too much where we stayed; we just wanted to get there. So we gave in to Krishna's persistence and let him drive us to his "brother's" place.

When we arrived it was nearly pitch black, and we had to walk through alleyways to get there. We had been taken away from the main road, so there were not as many people around anymore, and we were blindly following this crazy rickshaw driver through these narrow streets. Truthfully, Matt and I were just waiting to get robbed; our surroundings were literally that from the movie "Taken". Krishna took us to the house safely, though, and we felt glad to have arrived. We showered and were served dinner on the rooftop. Finally, we could relax. We looked forward to seeing what this city looked like in the light the next day.


We spent 4 days and 4 nights in the holy city of Varanasi. We took this time to explore the pilgrimage sites for Hindus and Buddhists. The city itself is a major pilgrimage site for Hinduism, with the Ganges River, the burning ghats where cremations are held, and many temples including the Monkey Temple, Durga Temple, Golden Temple, etc. We walked along the Ganges River where dozens were bathing at any moment. The idea of cooling off our bodies in the river amongst the scorching heat was a refreshing idea; but we kept in mind all of the trash, excrement, and human remains that were tossed in to the river everyday. Needless to say, we did not bathe or swim.


We explored the burning ghats where cremations are held. At these sites, the deceased are wrapped in a white shroud and are set on fire until just the bones remain. In Hinduism, it is a duty of the family to correctly prepare their loved ones for the afterlife; the burning of the body allows the soul to be freed; and mourning should be avoided so as not to disturb the soul. As a spectator, it is quite interesting to watch; you can see the feet and the head of the human protruding from the fire.


We made the journey to some of the temples in the area, though it is a process we have become quite jaded by. There is such a culture of beggary at the temples, shoving, pushing, acting solely for one's own benefit. The most spiritually sound experiences we have are never at the temples themselves.


We made a pilgrimage to Sarnath, the site where Buddha gave his first sermon after Enlightenment. It was a beautiful place, though absolutely taken over by consumerism. Tired from being asked for money everywhere we went in Varanasi, we headed back to town to get some chai and to rejuvenate. 


Recently, all of India has been very dry and farmers have had a difficult time since the monsoons are several weeks late from their expected arrival. But finally, the monsoons had arrived! And they came at a good time because it was hot, hot, hot. We walked around, giddy on the streets, thankful for the cool rains, thankful for the time spent in this beautiful country. Within no time, the water on the streets was up to our knees. Kids were swimming, rickshaw drivers were walking their vehicles through the un-drivable roads, others were taking refuge in the shade. I walked along getting soaked and cooled, trying not to remember that during the day these streets were used for cows and humans to "relieve" themselves; now I was walking in it up to my knees. So it goes.


All in all, our time in Varanasi was well spent, but we were quite ready to leave after 4 days. Because Varanasi is such an attraction for tourists, we were just getting hounded left and right by people asking us for money, people wanting to sell us drugs, people wanting us to buy the fancy silk their wives made, people wanting to give us "tours" and then demand money. We were jaded. The life had been drained from us. In a city as aggressive as Varanasi, it is a real test of your character, a real test of your patience, and a real difficulty to pursue your dedication to mindfulness.


When you are consistently being trialed in each endeavour you encounter, you really have the opportunity to come to the "root of the root of yourself," as Rumi says. Our routines may have been challenged and altered in some ways, but this gave us the opportunity to make each simple task meaningful. Brushing your teeth is a meditation; eating is a meditation; walking is a meditation; your encounters and your dialogues are a meditation. Any activity can be a meditation and an opportunity to come to the "root of the root of yourself." 


Take advantage of it.