Simplicity in a Colorado Campground

This morning at our campground outside Durango, Colorado I sat on the green painted wooden picnic table just outside our RV.  I watched the Lazy E ranch across the green field.  There were four horses grazing on the fenced in ranch land.  They were each a distinct color.  But they twitched their tails like they were performing a synchronized dance. The tan and off-white pair didn’t part from one another.  The burnt orange horse stayed at the top of the hill.  The black one moved around and neighed often.  There was a brilliant white mare pacing in the corral.  She tossed her head and shook her mane as she walked around and around, her body’s response to taming perhaps.

While I was watching the horses, Bisous sniffed bushes, peed and ate grass.  He had just wandered back to the picnic table when we saw two mule deer following the path about 50 yards in front of us.  I silently beckoned Bisous onto the table next to me, where he sat, eyes never leaving the deer.  The pair, one mother, one teenager, stopped and stared at us.  Fully still.  Not even their breath was detectable.  We stared back.  I could feel Bisous’ heightened breathing under my hand.  The mother deer shifted her gaze forward and began her saunter again.  The younger one followed.  Their ears, the size of garden shovels, stood tall and twitched.  Their white rumps looked like giant, hairy abalone. They slowly faded into the trees.

Now the squirrels or chipmunks scamper around the trees.  The ground constantly moves and shifts with pinky-nail size fire ants and flies. Birds flit from tree to tree, sometimes touching down to a bush or the ground, while hawks circle the skies, wings spread wide, riding subtle vortices of winds. The gentle breezes are cool and the sun is hot.  

Joyous Melancholy

Each utterance evaporates
when pen scratches paper
like a bubble floating in moonlight
popped by little fingers -
giggles echo in darkness,
wiggles ripple in this
Divine Play. Oh joy!

Then-
Creaking swings are abandoned
and sway longingly,
empty in tendrils of cool, damp breezes.

These words won't be revisited:
Adoration, divine, surrender,
hunger, longing, desperation.

In each speak they release,
transform, rebirth unknown.
Like bats they flit exuberant
or melancholic from my heart cave.

In the dark cave, you are now a remnant
of an echo of a giggle-
fleeting but precious.

I am a joyous, bittersweet roar
resounding from deep within your groin-
exploding forth from a mouth of compassion.

This giggling child dies.
The roaring monster dies too.

Like drowning fish, we speak now.  Slipping
from tongues, through fingers,
into abysses of seldom perceived realms.

"I love you," roars me.

"I love you," giggles he.

Or forever hold our piece
Of the true story
Of how these beasts danced
in Divine play.

Travels in India: Reflections on the Yoga Sutras

Yogas chitta vrtti nirodhah.

The restraint of the modifications of the mind-stuff is Yoga. (1.2)

This is the goal of yoga. In his commentary on the Sutras, Sri Swami Satchidananda says it is the chitta vrittis that disturb our peace and create the differences we see in the world. He says, “The entire world is your own projection.” In Buddhism, this is called emptiness.  If we work from the inside out, we can heal ourselves and the world. As Gandhi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”  If we can master peace within the mind, within ourselves, we realize the problem was never “out there” to begin with.

The Lake at the Sivananda Ashram, Neyyar Dam

Of course, I haven’t mastered chitta vritti nirodhah. So far, I may have experienced only brief moments of total awareness and silence - the kind that comes when one thought stops and another hasn’t yet come.

A practice of sitting meditation offers strength and awareness for the rest of the day. For example, traveling in India my first time here is a perfect opportunity to practice.  

Abhyasa vairagyabhyam tan nirodhah.

These mental modifications are restrained by practice and non-attachment. (1.12)

At Trivandrum railway in southern India, there was a six hour wait for the 4 am train. Weighed down by luggage and unwilling to wander outside the station looking for a decent hotel so late at night, I decided to sleep in the station. I found a waiting area marked ladies only. It was pungent and filthy.  Ladies and their babies sprawled out on the dirt-covered floor on sari scarves and newspapers.  Flies buzzed around them. I sighed, but tried to think of the positives like how nice that there was an exclusive waiting room for women or the fact that, contrary to what I had expected, it was perfectly acceptable to lay out on the floor for a sleep.

Trivandrum Railway Ladies' Waiting Room

Vitarka badhane pratipaksha bhavanam.

When disturbed by negative thoughts, opposite [positive] ones should be thought of. This is pratipaksha bhavana. (2.34)

Keeping this sutra in mind, I left the room to get a juice. On the way, I saw a sign for beds in the train station. Approaching the counter, the worker said, “I have one lady bed left”.

“How much?”

“$150 rupees for 12 hours.”

“I’ll take it!”

Once I made it to the Madurai train station, I was told I had to walk four kilometers to the bus city bus, then take a city bus to the state bus station. Once there, I learned  a road had been washed out by monsoon, meaning no direct bus to the Bodhi Zendo Ashram where I wanted to go.

Prachardana vidharanabhyam va pranasya.

Or that calm is retained by the controlled exhalation or retention of the breath. (1.34)

So, focusing on my breath, I asked around until someone offered a way.  I took a bus for three hours to one town and changed to a crammed bus. I was exhausted at this point and starting to get a little cranky so I happily slid into the last remaining seat, hoping for some sleep on the three-hour ride.

Once we took off, a woman near me began complaining about not having a seat, I didn’t understand her reasoning, but I stood and offered her my seat.  I stood the full three hours on a windy-mountain-sorry-excuse for a road, with little room to even adjust my feet. At times I thought I would throw up. To stay calm, I worked on rejoicing in those who had seats. I redirected my thoughts to good, chanting one of my favorite mantras, which comes from the Yoga Sutras: “Om Maitri Ahum, Om Karuna Ahum, Om Mudita Ahum, Om Upeksha Ahum”.

Maitri karuna muditopekshanam sukha duhkha punya-apunya vishayanam bhavanatash chitta prasadanam.

By cultivating attitudes of friendliness toward the happy, compassion for the unhappy, delight in the virtuous, and disregard toward the wicked, the mind-stuff retains its undisturbed calmness. (1.33)

Finally, I got dropped off a juncture with two road signs and a couple of cows and their tenders.  Luckily, a local teacher that had been on the bus called a cab and I got the local price to the ashram.

All in all, just from one rail station to an ashram, it was an intense journey of 20 hours and $500 rupees ($8 USD or so). The idea of stilling the mind was with me as often as I could keep it there.  I was able to mostly stay rooted in the present and focus on my breath or the comfort of those people around me when I got to be overwhelmed.  Like this, I feel more doors were opened to me and I was present on the journey, without focusing just on the end goal.

In this way, I’m working toward Yoga. In working toward restraining the modifications of the mind.  This practice is making my life not only enjoyable and helping me be less selfish, but it’s offering glimpses at divinity.  

Om shantih, shantih, shantih.  

India Trip Coming Up

My first trip to India is coming up in less than a month.  It's been a long time coming as I've been drawn the culture for a long time.  I'll be staying at three ashrams for meditation practice and then going to teacher training at an Ayurveda center. I may have some time for writing while I'm there.  We'll see!

Death of a Bird

The california ocean is shocking in the late summer. I was covered in goose bumps as I came out from the water.  On shore, I realized a handful of women were looking down the beach at my dog, Bisous.  He was playing- jumping around a black bird with a long neck.  Earlier, the bird floated like a duck in the ocean close to shore.  Now, it was stationary on land, pecking in Bisous's direction.  Kensi, Nathan and I  started calling, “Bisous!”  He paused mid play-pounce and Nathan ran toward him.  When he got there, he motioned for us.  Something was wrong with the bird.  

“He’s hurt?” Kensi asked as we approached.  

“Something’s definitely wrong with him,” Nathan replied.

The bird was wobbling like a drunk. Nathan squatted and leaned in for a closer look.  This scared the little guy and, trying to back up, he toppled forward, beak stuck in the sand, waves lapping onto his face.  I reached down and tried to sit him up again, but he wouldn’t stay.  I wrapped my hands around his wings and carried him like a delicate football away from the waves, so he wouldn't drown.

“Kensi we have to call someone,” I said, “Do you know who to call?” I hadn't lived in the States for years and never in Cali, so was lost about who to contact.

“I know what animal rescue will say,” Kensi said, “We’ll just have to bring him into the center in Goleta.”  She wrapped the bird in our tie-dye sarong and began to carry him.  He was trying to nip at her hands.  Then he started writhing at the neck, moving it in culvusive circles-- like he was trying to disconnect his head from his body.  It was a sickening, demonic-like image. Kensi squealed and released him.   We both turned our backs to him and began to cry.

“He’s dying,” I thought,  desperately wondering if BIsous had hurt him, or if it was his time and he was just trying to die in peace.  

“Nathan, is your phone here?” Kensi asked.  

He nodded and Kensi followed him to his bag.  I stayed and watched the bird struggling as he lay face down.  His webbed feet were pushing at the sand, his neck was lolling and his wings were spread taut.  I was sobbing now. I felt helpless.  He was dying and I didn’t know how to save him.  

I overheard two women talking to Nathan and Kensi. “Your dog didn’t touch the bird,” one lady said.

“Yea, he was so cute,” added another, “He was just dancing around the bird like a sweet little thing.”

I let this sink in. Bisous hadn’t touched the bird.  He was just dying.  The words he's dying kept rolling through my head. Like the waves lapping at the shore, the phrase echoed in me and created a sense of calm.  I squatted down beside the bird and raised the sarong in the wind, blocking the sun from his dark feathers.  I offered him shade and began to pray.  

I remembered earlier that morning when I sat on my cushion for meditation practice and an obstacle arose.  The antidote for that particular obstacle is Death Meditation, which I put into practice. In death meditation you think I will die tonight. This reminds you of the importance of practice and how little importance trivial matters hold.  After meditating on your very imminent death, you can experience the day in mindful kindness.

This bird was actually dying now. As I crouched watching him, praying for him, I realized this was the first time I had seen someone die.  The death was uncomfortable for the bird and for me.   It was a struggle. It was ugly. It was sad. But it was also true and common.  I felt death’s presence vividly and finally saw- no finally felt,  what fate awaited my transient body. I felt it like the feeling of the sand between my toes. There is no time to waste I thought as I watched life fade from the bird.

May the bird and all beings find peace and happiness.  Om Shanti.

Howard, the Dead Head

My favorite area in Koh Panang, Thailand is home, temporary or permanent, to some of the brightest beings I’ve met.  Last week, while there, I was reminded of another shining soul that Kyle, Kensi and I met on our road trip last summer when we were visiting our grandma. After a few days with her, feeling stifled by the Louisiana heat, we sought respite in bayou waters. It was there we met Howard.

Deeply tanned, the man sank into the water with a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon held high. I guessed he was anywhere from 40 to 60 years old.  Behind a goofy smile, he had three grey teeth, triumphantly hanging onto red gums. Scraggly, dirty blonde hair fell past his shoulders, held out of his face with a pink bandanna tied across his forehead. Sending ripples our way, he moved toward us.

As he joined our circle, knee-deep in the murky water, I nodded at his upper arm and asked, "You a dead head?” The band’s skull logo and the words, "Greatful Dead," were inked there in time-worn colors.

"Yesm'm," he twanged, drawing out the syllables.  From his voice, I knew he was from the backwoods, his roots running even deeper than ours.

Kneeling in warm water, sipping warm beers, insects playing in the background, we learned Howard had a passion for stories. He talked for over an hour but we gathered close for the duration. He drifted through tales of following the Grateful Dead on tour, of dinner with Jerry Garcia, sleepless nights with the ladies, and the acid trips - one of which he was on when he got the tattoo. "I was so high," he giggled, "I didn't even know the guy was spellin' it wrong. ‘Supposed to be G-R-A-T-E-F-U-L. I’ll be damned…"

When the sun fell behind the trees, we seeped like molasses onto land. Howard offered us beer with his buddies on shore. The moon was high and bright when he mentioned he was terminal with seven months to live. Thyroid cancer.

He leaned in close as we sat on a picnic bench toeing at the sand.  "The doctors told me I should go for chemo. But I decided that ain't no way to go out," he whispered. Giggling,he added, "I mean, I ain't got no teeth, but this head of hair is to die for." Having revealed another piece of his life puzzle, he shrugged. Then Howard grasped my hand and I caught a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

Howard lived twenty minutes from our Grandma and we went to see him the next night.  We pulled up to a once-white trailer on bricks. Howard had lived here with his mom since quitting the road. Inside, we siblings perched on the edge of a plaid couch with stuffing escaping every corner. On a wooden box across from us, Howard rolled a joint, mixing heady green with bits of cheap tobacco before sealing the paper with spit. We traveled a few places down to Howard’s friend’s, passing the joint under the starry sky.

When we were all seated in plastic lawn chairs, the kind you buy at Walmart, Howard leaned into Kensi and fingered her prized hand-made rainbow earrings. "These are gorgeous!" he exclaimed with a flick of his wrist. Without pausing, Kensi removed them and pressed the earrings into Howard’s palm. Solemnly, Howard nodded. Gazing into her eyes, he ceremoniously removed his rusted Grateful Dead earring that hung from his left lobe and placed it in Kensi's hand.

Howard stood tall as our blue sedan backed out. And as Kyle pointed the car forward, our friend saluted and then balanced peace fingers elegantly in the air. I turned and held his eyes with mine until we were off the gravel drive. Kyle, Kensi and I exchanged glances. We wouldn't see Howard again but we would share his story.

A SoCal Weekend: On Silence

"Pay more attention to the silence than to the sounds.  Paying attention to outer silence creates inner silence: the mind becomes still... Every sound is born out of silence, dies back into silence, and during its life span is surrounded by silence.  Silence enables the sound to be.  It is an intrinsic but unmanifested part of every sound, every musical note, every song, every word.  The  Unmanifested is present in this world as silence.  This is why it has been said that nothing in this world is so like God as silence.  All you have to do it pay attention to it." -Eckhart Tolle

Silence.

As the harmonium fades to a whisper and voices cease to be, all I hear in this great hall is... Nothing.  A profound silence echoes so loudly in my soul that I finally understand the meaning of, "The silence is deafening." 

No, it's not that there's an awkward pause in a conversation between acquaintances. Nor is it two lovers at a rift who don't know what to say to one another.  That's not a deafening silence I've ever experienced. This emptiness, this lack of sound, this silence is deafening.

After a fifteen minute kirtan session with Krishna Das, after chanting the name of gods until my mind is not thinking, after the drones and bows of the ocean-like currents of beautiful notes fade into nothing, there is just silence and  it is ringing in my ears. 

Kirtan with Krishna Das is almost indescribable.  For when your mind stops and your body becomes nothing but winds of breath traveling in a vacuum, there's not much to say.  Das tells a story of love, a story from his time with his guru, Maharaj-ji. This quote sums it up:  

"Meditate like Christ.  He lost himself in love." -Maharaj-ji