18,000 words in

My First Quarter Century: Searching for Meaning and Purpose in South-East Asia
Climate Change: Long Beach to Loa; Thailand to Teasdale
My Heart's Journey Home
Buddha in the Marketplace
Prologue
Statistically, given enough time, a monkey could write this novel. I've got the month of November. See, it's the NaNoWriMo challenge. Produce 50,000 words (about 175 pages) of original fiction composed between November first and November thirtieth and you win! There are no limits on the number of winners (I like this part), and no one judges the quality of the work (unless you show your manuscript to friends or family or potential publishers, etc.). It's all about volume, baby!
I tried many fits and starts worth of fictional bits. Just randomly whatever came out of my head. But I never got through more than a few paragraphs, maybe a few pages, before the ideas fizzled out and my energy to continue typing waned. Distraction has been a major problem. I have discovered a latent love of spider solitaire (last indulged in while writing my undergraduate thesis, as I recall). My real interest is in telling my own story. I want to document and share some of what I've been through in the last few years of traveling back and forth between the states and south-east asia. My spiritual journey from the homeland of my birth in this body (southern California, USA) to Thailand, which I suspect was the homeland of my birth from a former life. The search for meaning in this existence that took me on a 200 mile bicycle journey (six days of sleeping on the side of the road, often in the snow) from about 2500' to 7000' across the state of Utah for a job I didn't get hired for. What a healing community I found there. As the next step on my healing journey, I was guided to go meditate in Thailand. Ultimately, this led me to ordain as a Buddhist nun. I liked ordained life. The simplicity suited me. Many things in the Thai Therevadan teachings didn't make sense to me, though. The intended year in robes became shortened to seven months as I decided to come home for my dad's wedding. It was his third and she's a friend of mine. Who knows if he's got it this time, but he seems to have done some seriously positive spiritual growth and he is my dad after all. My journey to Thailand began as the fruit of a quest to heal my relationship with my father. Seems like coming home for his wedding was a good way to honor the growth in both of us and to offer us a chance to grow together as adults.
Here are a few anecdotes from my life of the last several years. I hope you enjoy it, and maybe decide to embark on a heart's journey of your own. It is impossible to predict what blessings will manifest for you when you follow your heart. Good luck!




Chapter One
“Shut Up!”
“Mom, she's touching me!!”
“Dammit, you two, can't you get along for two minutes? I'm not always gonna be here to rescue you from each other.”

Ah, siblings. I feel so blessed never to have endured such emotional atrocities with my brother. He's seven years older than me and was often out of the house, so I often felt like an only child growing up. I vaguely recall one argument between us looking back over the last 27 years. It happened when I was about 12, but I don't remember what it was about, so it can't have been too traumatic. We quarreled now and then in small ways, as young people do. Testing boundaries, trying on value systems, expanding limits. I mostly settled into the role of subservient, go with the flow little sister. Most of my formative years were spent in his shadow—he was tall, blond, self-confident, popular. He was the first in our family to take martial arts, ride a motorcycle, become an environmentalist, adopt a vegetarian diet. I was on his heels in all these pursuits. It wasn't until I ordained as a Buddhist nun in Thailand that I stepped out into my own.
It's rough being in sixth grade. Not knowing who you are. Not knowing who you can trust. Especially coming from an abusive background. My mom carries a lot of regrets from how I was raised. And true, perhaps it was not the wisest decision to return to work, leaving her three month old newborn in the care of a hopeless, helpless, unreliable blackout drunk with pedophylic tendencies leftover from his own abusive childhood. But hey, we all get dealt issues to resolve in this world. I haven't met anyone without trauma from their childhood. I figure we are in this world to learn. Here's my story.
One example of the cruelty manifested in my sixth grade life: the elementary school playground. One day, walking back in from recess, I divulged a dear heart secret of mine to three girls I thought were my very good friends: I wanted to earn a 4.0 grade point average. They all achieved this feat of scholasticism on a regular basis and met my aspiration with hearty guffaws.

"You? A 4.0? Hahahahaha!"

I felt lower than dirt. Was an A in social studies really such an impossible goal? I wanted to sink into the black top and disappear. My eyes welled up and over flowed. I burst into tears as my heart broke and my body tried to run from the scene. Caught by our teacher on the way back into class, she asked why I was crying. I struggled through sobs and snuffles to explain the source of my trauma.

"I told my friends I wanted to earn a 4.0 and they laughed at me!"
God that sucked. I don't know which was worse: my friend's reactions, my own emotional blow-out, or having to confess my heartbreak to the teacher. She reassured me somehow, planting seeds of the life lesson that living by the opinions of others would only lead me to suffering. I somehow managed to stuff my feelings back into my torso and gain enough control of myself to return to class, but it was a lasting traumatic event in a verily pock-marked childhood.
You know what's funny? These three friends and I all went to the same magnet program in high school and it wasn't until we went our separate ways for college—they to their high end, high price tag private schools, I to my local community college honors program en route to a higher education I could afford—that I earned my first 4.0. When I finally met my sixth grade heart's goal, I was beaming with pride and joy. A few years later, for some college scholarship application, I think, I had to submit all scholastic transcripts, including elementary school. You know what it showed? My last semester at St. Joseph's elementary school—my eighth grade year—I had earned a 4.0! I was flabbergasted. Turns out I carried an emotional chip on my shoulder for nothing for six years. Silliness.

Chapter Two
Fairly early on in life, I began to realize the world is not all soft and fuzzy. Not everyone breathes to be honest and loving. I found quickly that a lot of things I felt are important to quality of life (beauty, freedom of choice, health, prosperity, generosity, peace in the heart) don't even enter into the conscious awareness of many folks. This same year, the dreaded sixth grade, I began to wonder if the world I can sense with my eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin, and mind is all there is. I was attending a catholic elementary school and got my A in religion every semester, but what I learned in school did not match my view of the world. I mean, when my catholic principal taught us that humans are superior to animals because we are made in God's image and have immortal souls that will one day return to our creator in heaven and animals don't, I said no way! My horse is every bit my spiritual equal—perhaps even my spiritual superior. Chucky knew how to live content with simple things: clean water, fresh hay twice a day, and a simple job in life: take care of a 9 year-old girl. No way could I buy that this magnificent creature was not also made in the image of God.
I mean, come on—humans destroy one another in conflict over natural resources, sexual pursuits, greed (also known as a false belief in the illusion of lack), etc. How many other species engage in such behaviors? Why are these behaviors categorized as superior? Is our violent turbulent world really made in God's image? What Omnipotent loving God would allow such atrocities among his children? Something more must be going on. I began to question a lot of what I was being taught in religion class, and in many of my classes, quite frankly. I felt many questions rooted deep in my soul that went completely unaddressed in school and in my peer groups. Why was I born? What is the point of this life? The sun rises and sets every day. I eat, move around, learn stuff, excrete waste, make friends, breathe, play. But so what?
So what, indeed.
By eighth grade, my best friend and I had devised several alternative models for the structure of the universe than what we were being fed in school. Like, what if we are all just part of a complicated science experiment from an alternative realm? Or worse yet, a simple one! Or what if this world is really just a hologram--nothing is solid nor real; we are all just energy bodies interacting according to certain rules and spatial restrictions. What if we could change these holograms at will?
Would it matter? Back to So what, again.

[This question still perplexes me. At 27, it seems like maybe loving and living in line with honest guidance from my heart makes a lot of sense. Harmonizing with authenticity, as a dear friend put it.]
Chapter Three
In the magnet program at my high school, I met all manner of intelligent kids. I was certainly still a misfit, but at least there were lots of us misfits and we could be misfits together. The rigorous scholastic program kept us so busy we hardly had time to notice social ineptitude. Somehow, previously consciousness consuming spiritual questions drained to the periphery of my awareness. Many kids in my classes and even many teachers were atheists. My tenth grade biology teacher took the cake in this department. A die-hard Darwinian evolutionist, he would often get into red-faced arguments (shouting matches, really) with one particular Christian student, attacking the intolerable ignorance of his Creationist beliefs. I didn't think this was right—how could my professor be so sure science was right? I was far too shy to speak up with this contrary opinion. I didn't want to get yelled at and unlike my Christian classmate, I didn't have a religious faith with a large following supporting me in my beliefs. To speak up for the possibility of alternatives was just too scary at the time. Seriously though, what if this world is bigger than what we can see and measure and scientifically quantify?
Feeling so bound in with little room for spiritual expression, I just went with the atheist/agnostic flow at my high school and did my best to keep my head afloat in the turbulent academic waters of Advanced Placement classes, singing in many of the school's award winning choirs, and practicing my sport and physical education replacement: horseback riding. And so passed the high school years. I graduated with honors in the top 10% of my class and achieved the state championship in my division in California's Pacific Coast Horse Show Association, but I still felt this icky and unrelenting sense of lack. I kept living and doing what I was told more because obedience was ingrained in me at this point rather than because anything I was doing made any sense to me.
Chapter Four
Even in college, I was dogged by a desperate sense of lack and longing. Missing a sense of purpose, I kept myself so busy with school and horses and work and club involvement, I barely noticed the years rolling by. My heart longed for more. Where to turn? Sex? Drugs? Rock and Roll? Well, abuse very early in childhood (probably prior to recollection) created a deep sense of distrust and strong feelings of fear and disgust around sexuality, so I was a late bloomer there. Release in that arena did not come till much later in life. Alcoholism runs in my family, so at about 12 my dad had a seminal conversation with me about impairing one's consciousness with intoxicating substances: Any time a person spends with their mind altered by the influence of drugs and alcohol is time that person is not really alive, and that time can never be gotten back. This is a lesson that has stuck with me ever since, so drugs as a spiritual diversion were right out. Music allowed some release for me, but mostly the grunge rock of the 1990's fed my sense of lack and general depression and seemed more useful for commiseration than relief from misery. Several hundred dollars into a Columbia House CD club membership (this was back in the days before mp3s and i-tunes), I realized I might have something of a problem and decided to quit.
But again, back to So what?
I finished college by the skin of my teeth—with honors of course (if one is going to do something, do it right!). But felt no closer to a life of purpose.
Chapter Five
One amazing trial-and-reward-rolled-into-one from my college years was my first and (so far) only serious, long term relationship. He was German. We met at the stable where I kept my horse—he was the barn hand, in charge of feeding and watering the horses, cleaning their stalls, fixing fences, and generally keeping an eye on the place. His English wasn't very good at first, so we didn't have much to say to one another. I was busy with school and he was busy, well, shoveling shit. Turns out he was also babysitting for one of the boarders's kids for spending money. She's a trail-riding buddy of mine, who in turn decided to encourage me to hang out with him. Just as friends, you know. He's such a nice guy and what a sweet heart and he's so lonely so far from home....Etc., etc, and so on. As the only person at the barn anywhere near his age (most of the boarders were women in their 40's-50's), she repeatedly encouraged me to make friends with him. For whatever reason, the opportunity was slow to come up. Then one day about two months into his three month stay, he was biking up the stable's driveway as I was biking out and we stopped to chat a bit. I apologized for not being friendlier sooner, but I've been busy with school and felt a little shy about his language skills and excuse excuse excuse...he said no problem and asked in broken English if I wanted to go to a free show with him over the hill in San Jose that weekend? He was riding the bicycle to save up the gas miles so the barn owner would let him drive her truck. I love music and he was really quite handsome up close and seemed very sweet. I was quickly wishing I had begun talking with him sooner, but such as it was. I accepted his invitation. And so it began.
The show was mediocre, but the drive over and back was fun. He was a punk rocker—he even had his own band back in Germany. I'm not into punk music. It mostly sounds like screaming and noise to me. But as an environmentalist and activist, I appreciated the anti-establishment lyrics and the “straight-edge” philosophy of vegetarianism and clean-living.
Our next friendly adventure was to Point Lobos Marine Reserve—a gorgeous stretch of California's protected coast line just south of Monterey. We brought a picnic to share. He made a strange macaroni salad with mayonnaise and peas and corn, but it was quite good. We visited and hiked around and enjoyed the views and took funny pictures. He taught me how to say “sticky monkey flower” in German. It's one of my favorite California native plants and he found its name infinitely amusing. It became a running joke for the duration of our relationship. We began to preface names and things with “sticky monkey.” Jake became my sticky monkey horse (or more often, sticky monkey poopie, as this is the primary level he related to the horses on). Dreaded classwork became sticky monkey homework. Our favorite place to see shows downtown became the sticky monkey club. It was one of those fun little silly things we laughed about together.
At the end of the night, I ended up in front of my computer doing some homework assignment or other, he went home to his little closet of a room in the back of the barn owner's garage. But then I got a phone call. It was him again. Less than two hours after spending all day together, he called me. In the cutest, sweetest voice, he said: I think I love you. Aw, how sweet is that! I replied that I loved him, too. We spent the next night together and shortly became inseparable.
Well, it was a tearful departure when I dropped him off at the San Francisco airport just a month later. We promised to write and he said he would try to come back soon. That he loved me and didn't want to be apart. We had known each other less than a month, but this life we were creating together sure felt good. I felt loved and appreciated. Able and excited to love and appreciate him. Granted, we got on each other's nerves at times, but we liked so many of the same things. Enjoyed seeing nature together. Walks on the beach. Cooking together. Complaining about the state of our political world. There was a lot of room for beauty between us. And so we tried.
At the end of the summer, he decided to take a semester off of school and came back to the states on a six month visa. About a month in, while living together and working at the same stable together so we could afford rent in this overpriced college town, I noticed we didn't seem to be talking as much. I was no longer entranced by his foreign mystique. His English was a lot better, but somehow our communication seemed to be getting worse. My heart rejoiced in the woods and the mountains. His belonged to the city and the beach. I was a dirty hippie. He was a punk. If he had been American, I would have broken up with him right then. Another sad chalk mark on my litany of one-month relationships. But he was German. He was there for six months. He could not legally work. We were living together and if I broke up with him, he would have no place to go.
So we talked about it. We worked through it. Turns out, he was feeling really sad—estranged from his family and friends and his band and soccer. Neglected by me. He did not understand what it meant to come visit me while I was in school. He thought if he did all the poopie work at the ranch, that I would have more time to spend with him, but there always just seemed to be more school work. We struck a deal: I would get up early and feed so he could sleep in (that was his least favorite part of the job—parting from warm blankets and his warm lover at 6AM in the foggy coastal chill was just adding insult to the injury of also working two hours shoveling shit every day), then he would come up and clean the pastures later, while I was in school, and we would have evenings together. Suddenly, we were talking again. Opening to compromise with this man I loved created space for a happiness I had never known.
We passed the next several months frequenting the beach, the forest trails north of campus, punk shows in town and in the city, touristing around San Francisco and the rest of California. We went to Yosemite together (a native Californian, I had never been), drove through northern California's majestic redwoods to Oregon's Crater Lake (in the snow) and back through the desert. He met my parents in LA and my grandparents on a road trip to Las Vegas. He was my first consummate sexual partner and we made sweet love nearly everywhere we went. Numerous cities, all different biomes, even at a hot spring once, though the heat from the water trapped the heat from our bodies and neither of us could finish.
Anyway, when his visa ran out and it was time to go home, again, we had weathered some pretty intense emotional storms and I had some doubts about us lasting through this next separation. But another tearful departure and further promises to write and stay in touch, and once again, absence set about making the heart grow fonder.
To be honest, I cannot now recall if he returned for a third visit, or if our next reunion was after I finished school and I finally ventured across the pond to meet him on his native land. We'll skip to that part anyway.
I was 23, just weeks clear of finishing the 5.5 year bachelor's degree, and adrift in a new world. Up to now, most of my life choices had revolved around direction from my parents (especially my mom—a second generation worker's compensation lawyer and the breadwinner for our family) about where to take my next step towards success in this world. I was unhappily trundling along in the upper-middle class white track towards success. You know, excel in school, go to college, get a degree, get a good job. Ok, check, check, and check. That next step into the good job, however, presumed that I had figured out in my college days what a good job might be. This was not the case. I never lacked for money in any serious way in this life. I always had plenty to eat (often too much!), decent clothes on my back, and funds enough to entertain myself and get around in this world. For whatever reason, I therefor decided a simple life of few needs was more “good” than a high paying job that sucked the life out of you, like my mom's 80 hour work weeks often did. I have always enjoyed being of service to others, but most of my experience in this realm was as a volunteer. The idea of a career in that field didn't really cross my mind. The idea of a career in anything was pretty daunting actually. 40 hours a week doing the same thing for years and years and years? Forget it. So I went to Europe.
Chapter Six
This was my first trip over seas. Like many young southern Californians, I had visited Tijuana, Mexico, once, but that was back when I was about eleven. That one rather depressing day walking the streets among vendors, beggars, cheap toys, and dirty streets was the extent of my international travel. I had just gotten my passport earlier in the summer, actually. At 22, I joined the meager 27% of Americans that hold passports. Flying out of Pennsylvania where I had visited an old friend to carry on a Thanksgiving tradition born in our northern California college years, I landed in London unable to walk! 15 hours on the plane trapped in the window seat except for two trips to the bathroom, I had underestimated the importance of those little stretching exercises described in the shiny pamphlets located in the seat-back pocket in front of me.
I am so grateful for the eight hour layover in London. I didn't know anyone, but at least my initial foreign travel experience as an adult was in a country where I could read and basically understand the language. My first purchase in London (after the tube ticket to get from Heathrow Airport into town) were about $5 worth of Godiva chocolates...yum! And so my journey began. I wandered the cobblestone streets, explored St. James's park, saw Buckingham palace, contemplated the meaning of life while sitting to rest beside the polluted Themes River. It was exhilarating. I almost bought an “I Heart London” tee-shirt for 5 pounds (forgetting the currency conversion, I thought this was a great price!), but bought a deli wrap instead. After lunch, I walked to see the equine guards and took the quintessential British tourist photos next to the red phone booth and the double-decker buses. It was generally a very enjoyable stopover and my hopes for the next three months were flying high.
Just three hours after the return tube journey (carefully watching my step off the train and Minding the Gap), another extensive post-9/11 airport security screening, and the last leg of my overseas flight, my boyfriend met me for a joyous reunion at the airport in Cologne (or Koln, on the German maps). I felt a bit bleary, but we hugged and kissed and I followed him mindlessly through yet another airport to baggage claim to collect my 100 pounds of stuff, then out to his car. We drove for about 45 minutes through some rather dark, menacing woods at disappointingly average speeds on the famous German autobahn to his small flat in Essen. Grateful to be firmly planted on solid ground, we climbed the four flights of stairs (did I mention I had brought 100 pounds of stuff? What was I thinking...having never traveled before, three months in the winter over holidays and away from home, I thought I would need a lot more than I did) to his little room, unpacked my essential belongings, made eager reunion love after many months apart, and went to sleep.
In the morning, my boyfriend gave me the bus/train pass he had bought for me and showed me how to get to his university to use the internet and to the local park to walk around. Unfortunately, Essen is a shit town, really. Primarily industrial and rather old, the whole city is grungy and gray. Top this off with the fact that it was December, my boyfriend was in school most of the time, and he didn't really want to show me around his hometown. Frankly, it didn't interest him. This was a painful role reversal and I quickly developed sympathy for him visiting while I was in school. But at least in the states, he had the cute college town of Santa Cruz to explore, the beach to enjoy, and he could read and speak the language, sort of. I was essentially illiterate for the first time in as long as I can remember, and my inability to communicate verbally on my own was very frightening. If I went out on my own and wandered somewhere I was not supposed to be or did something accidentally illegal or culturally inappropriate or got lost, what then?
For the first few weeks after my arrival, I mostly slept and ate and occasionally walked my housemate's dog in the local park. The sky was dreary and gray and drizzly. A few days, it actually snowed and carpeted the ugly streets and dingy rooftops with white crystals. I found some solace in the quiet after the snow and my southern California heart rejoiced in the fluffy precipitation associated with family vacations in the Sierra Nevada mountains back home. My house mate thought I was nuts to enjoy the stuff. I enjoyed his grumpy company, but grew increasingly disgruntled and short-tempered with my boyfriend. I felt so isolated and sad and far from home. We played board games a lot and that was fun. But that was pretty much the extent of our fun. I found a holiday concert of Handel's Messiah I wanted to see, but he wouldn't be caught dead there. I decided to go anyway and when he told his parents, they drove down and took me. Neither of them speak much English, so that was a bit awkward, yet the language of music transcends. We enjoyed our time together.
After the holidays at his parents' house, we went to Berlin—our first major touristy journey together. I was very excited. He wanted to show me around and I wanted to know what we were going to see. I was pigheaded and difficult. He was more laid-back, but still frustrated with me. After our fourth fight that week, I broke up with him. At about 11PM. On new year's eve.
And so I began traveling in Europe alone. I ran for solace to another friend's apartment in Munich (she had also been a stable hand in Santa Cruz and we had become very good friends). With her help, the freedom to explore the city alone and for free on her bicycle, and 10 days apart from my first lover in a foreign land, I slowly recovered from the pain of extracting myself from my ex: our union and our conflicts. I came to own my part in our relationship's difficulties and began to see how silly my expectations were. We tried to remain friends. I even stayed a few nights more with him before leaving Berlin and again on a return trip to Essen between touring Eastern and Western Europe in the depths of loneliness and homesickness. Once again, my unrealistic expectations ended in disappointment after colliding with the real world.
I grew a lot on this journey through Europe and the depths of my own heart. With a small, six years out of date guidebook I found in the small English-language section of a used book store in Berlin, I toured many of Europe's most famous cities, visiting cathedrals and exploring new foods like pickled cabbage, dumplings, strange soups (keine fleische, bitte!), and orgasmic Italian gellato (nothing I've had in the states even begins to compare). I walked foreign streets at all hours over cobblestones, concrete, asphalt, and dirt. I rode buses, subways, and trains for hours on end. Simply traveled with one foot placed in front of the other again and again. I went to concerts and plays, ate delicious French pastries and subsisted largely on dense German bread and foreign cheeses, like emmentaller, gauda, jarlsberg, and real swiss. I ate chocolate everywhere I went and made sure to buy a little extra to bring home so I could share a taste of my international experience with friends back home.
There were astonishing views, especially on the train over the Swiss alps on a clear day just after fresh snow—the mountain chalets look just like the ski lodges back home. I wandered the grounds of more ancient castles than I can now name, their austere stone facades still standing hundreds of years after the hostile, feudal political climate that birthed them died away. What of the things we build in our “modern age” will still stand 500 years from now? 200 years? 20 years?
Yet through all these adventures, and after all the emotions I experienced in these exciting, uplifting, disappointing, humbling lands, a hollow place remained in my heart. What am I doing this for? Again, So What? Still nothing seemed fulfilling.
Chapter Seven
Europe wrapped up fairly well. Three months and about $6500 later, I returned to my friend's house in PA to recuperate and plan my next move. One evening not too long after my return, I got a phone call while watching TV with my friend and her husband. It's my dad. Odd, why would he call?
He asks me: Are you sitting down? Um, yeah. Thoughts of what disastrous news might be on the way immediately began to race through my head—could something have happened to my mom's horse? Or perhaps my mom herself? Maybe my grandparents had fallen ill? Or a friend of the family was in trouble? A silence rang on the other end of the line. The answer, when it finally came, was not even on my radar of imagined possibilities. Your mother and I are separated and I'm filing for divorce.
I reeled. Immediately, I thought of my dad's comments about a friend of mine from a few months earlier that seemed boarder-line inappropriate. I had dismissed them as ridiculous. An impossibility. Well, I guess not.
My parents had been married 32 years. Turns out, this union began the day before my brother was born and ended about the time I returned from Europe. I felt partially responsible for the break-up. Like my dad was waiting until I grew up enough to ditch my mom and the family and pursue his own happiness for a change. I did not even realize my parents had problems. There was one occasion when I thought my dad might leave us for a friend of the family who had recently been widowed, but I guess she wouldn't take him, so he stayed.
This final separation felt like such a monumental betrayal. If my parent's marriage can fail after 32 years of what appeared to be happiness, what of my puny disgruntled life? My dad was very matter of fact about it. As gentle and sensitive as possible under the circumstances, he did not mention relations with my friend as the cause of the break-up, but it didn't really matter. I had lots of friends with divorced parents—never a fun experience—but I never thought I would be one of them. A few years back, my mom and her brother were actually writing a book together about how to maintain a long-term marriage in this day and age. Guess there's a reason the project fizzled out.
After the phone call, I spent a few hours crying on my friend's shoulder and a few days moping about their house. Ultimately, I decided to return home and see what was really going on.
It was very strange to return to the house I grew up in. Just back from Europe, I felt more like a foreigner here than in that strange land. This was the home I grew up in, but I felt out of place—no longer welcome. I tried staying with my mom at her new apartment, but she was so emotionally broken, it felt like my presence was only making things worse. I ineffectively sought solace for a few weeks at a friend's house where I had spent most of my high school years and then moved back to Santa Cruz for the summer. I cast about for meaning and purpose by working in fund raising—canvassing door-to-door for Environment California garnering support for legislation to protect California's oceans. I was good at this job and enjoyed it, but it was draining, and again the question of my life: So what? Maybe I can reach 5 or 6 people a night and convince them that giving me $25 to help protect our environment is a worth-while use of their resources. This was not a career for me, though. I turned to the internet for guidance. Perhaps Google can turn my life around? I did a search for "outdoor jobs" and found a bunch of intriguing and fun sounding options, but nothing I felt qualified to apply for. But then I noticed a paid advertisement sidebar for the Aspen Achievement Academy, a company doing wilderness therapy for troubled teens. I can hike, I reasoned. And I can listen. Perhaps this new turn in life will bring me direction? Purpose? A life of service to others—back to a way of being that increases the joy in the world.
I applied on-line, traded e-mails with the recruiter, addressed some logistical concerns I had with the job (safety and warmth in harsh desert weather? vegetarian food options? hiking on bad knees?), and had a one and a half hour phone interview to go over my resume and assess my suitability for the job. On the basis of my paper qualifications and this interview, I was invited to their eight day experiential field interview. I got a $600 Wilderness First Responder certification and added about $1000 in gear to my bicycle for the 220+ mile journey across Utah from the Greyhound station in St. George to the remote town of Loa (population 525) that AAA calls home. Except after crying every day for about 5 days, it became apparent I'm not qualified to guide for wilderness therapy either. Shit. Now what? I biked 220+ miles to be here. I have $1000 in credit card debt and no moving stipend and no job. Shit.
Chapter Eight
After the training, I had to come to grips with my situation. I was homeless, jobless, and alone in the world. Nothing in California I wanted to go back to. Nothing in Utah seemed to provide me a reason to stay. But amidst all the tears and emotional instability I encountered in the days after the training as eight out of eleven of my fellow interviewees completed the hiring process, I decided I had been called here for a reason. Wilderness therapy might not be it, but I decided to buck up and stick it out. Just over the hill, 4 miles away, was The Aspen Ranch, a residential program for troubled teens run by the same parent company. I interviewed over there and was hired immediately. After a month of training—two weeks with one mentor on one team, and two weeks with another mentor on another team—I was on my own. Single staff with twelve teenage girls to manage. And not just any teenage girls. These young women were alcoholics, crack addicts, meth users, former gang members, prostitutes, adoptees with abandonment issues. Nearly all of them were habitual liars and manipulators and most had poor emotional skills. I learned a lot and quick. Several nights I would bike home from work in an emotional dither of my own. I can definitely see why I was not hired for the field program, but I did my best to listen and learn. To hold firm boundaries and be fair. To build honest, healthy relationships with these girls and help them function both as individuals in this world and as positive contributors on their team. It was a good theory, but trying to manage this single-staffed on a team of twelve? It felt physically and emotionally unsafe both for them and for me. After about five months, I hit residential counselor burn-out. I tried substitute teaching there for a while, but shortly realized I just needed out of that whole toxic environment. My financial debt had long been paid and now I embarked on the next phase of my life. What now? A guided Vision Quest in the desert bears fruit: Go to Thailand for 6 months.

Chapter Nine
Nearly two years after my three month trip to Europe and I again face a travel experience. Memories of the pain and anger and fear endured on that journey arise more prominently than the beautiful sights and growth experiences I had. I wonder if I really have to go to Thailand. Friends that have actually been there say it is a wonderful country with kind, helpful people and delicious cheap food. My heart fears it is an under-developed disease pool of tourist sharks. I worry about being so far from home, about having to get all sorts of strange vaccinations, about diseases I cannot protect myself against, about sexual temptation, about how long my money will last, about my ability to communicate, to get a job if need be and to fundamentally survive there. I wonder if perhaps working on an organic farm in Costa Rica would be an acceptable travel substitute? Airfare is considerably cheaper to this destination much closer to home. And at least I have some Spanish language background (even if it was an 8AM class for only one ten-week university term which I mostly slept through).
Well, as the universe so often does, it was made clear to me that this was not an appropriate substitute—Thailand or bust. And so the travel odyssey continues.
I booked myself a six month open return flight and two nights at a Bangkok youth hostel in early January, just in time to escape the worst of Utah's winter. Arriving at my terminal at LAX, I see that I finally get to fly on a double-decker 747(?). I'm just in the economy seats, of course, and remain curious about what flying upstairs is like, but I have long watched these huge planes destined for far-away exotic locations while waiting to board tiny domestic planes to cross California or travel to Utah or Pennsylvania. This time, I'm in the air with the big boys and it feels amazing. This trip, I remember to stretch and manage to land in Bangkok with ambulatory abilities intact. Stepping off the plane at midnight into Bangkok's thick smog, draped in a blanket woven of 95% humidity and 90 degree heat was intense. I take my carry-on backpack and breeze past the crowds waiting for checked bags into the foreign night. My meager Thai language skills help negotiate a slightly less price-gouged taxi fare into the city, though it turns out I have no seat belt and about five minutes down the western-style free-way I see two people climbing out of an over-turned Mercedes. How they flipped that vehicle I'll never know, but I held my breath for the rest of the 30 minute ride. After hunting several of Bangkok's small side streets trying to locate my hostel, I finally figure out from my map that I'm just a block down the street, pay my taxi driver, and walk safely through the late night, check in, and crash out under a thin blanket on the thin mattress on the only remaining bed space—a top bunk in the six-person air-conditioned room. Noisy and too cold, what a blessing and a relief from the hot smoggy world outside.
About four hours later, the streets begin to buzz with noisy morning traffic and I am up, smelly from my journey and eager to shower and begin to explore. I had heard about Asian squat toilets and the absence of toilet paper (bring your own and put it in the bin if the built in kitchen faucet-sprayer bidet is not clean enough for you—I preferred to use a pocket bandanna for pee wipes, and thus averaged about 4-6 squares of toilet paper per day), but I was unprepared for Thai showers: there is no separate shower stall. Their bathrooms are tiled all the way around and the shower head just sprouts randomly from the wall. I was grateful for my Chacos river sandals. Who knows what kind of grossness I was standing in.
Cleaned up and dressed, I stepped out into the busy morning at about 7AM. Street vendors hawked fresh fruits, barbecued animal flesh, rice and curry. I saw men repairing sandals (Thailand's national footwear, apparently) and women diligently sewing. In front of a huge bank building, I saw my first lotus pond and stood in awe at its beauty. Locals brushed past me, wondering what I was so taken in by, but the newness of it all was enough that I didn't care.
I found a cheap food stall near my hostel and bought some rice and eggs and veggie stir-fry. I asked how much? (Tao-rai, ka?) and the man answered 40 Baht (about a dollar at the time). I meant to say it was a little to expensive and could he give me a discount (mostly just for the bargaining practice), but I accidentally said it was a cheap price! Oops. I paid, took a fork and sat down to my breakfast. I soon realized he was looking at me kinda funny. I looked up and he offered me a spoon. Oh yeah, I remembered I had read that Thais use a spoon and fork at each meal, and took the proffered additional utensil with a shy foreign chuckle. I proceeded to push my food onto my fork with the spoon, eating the delicious breakfast quite happily, until another man sat down at another portable plastic table near mine and used his utensils the other way around. Oops, I'll get the hang of this yet. The spoon goes in the mouth, the fork shovels morsels around. Got it. (Note: chopsticks are only used for noodle soup in Thailand)
A full day of exploring began with a walk through the financial district along Silom Road where my hostel was located. The noise and traffic and smelly exhaust was enough to make me sick. I was so grateful for the respite of exploring Lumpini Park. It happened to be International Children's day and they were having a free film festival of shorts made by children. There were some really well-done pieces and I very much enjoyed the glimpse into their culture [be more specific: what did I learn from the films? Describe feelings...] and the free air-conditioning in the auditorium where the screening was held.
After wandering the park, I headed to the Royal Palace where I paid an exorbitant 250 Baht (about $6.50) foreigner's entrance fee to explore the Palace and see Thailand's most prized Buddha image: The Emerald Buddha. About three feet tall, this Buddha is carved out of a solid Emerald and stands on an ornate shrine pedestal surrounded by numerous gold Buddhas high up and far away from the numerous devout worshipers and curious tourists come to pay respect or at least to gawk at its beauty. I waited politely while many crowded in front of me—Thais are not so keen on lining up for things. This was difficult for me to adjust to, but I did my best to go with the flow. The temple building that houses this image is ornately painted, but ultimately just a big rectangle. It reminded me a lot of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.
Outside the temple, I get offered a free Tuk-tuk ride around many of Bangkok's central sights and temples and shopping opportunities. I have no interest in shoping, really, but this quintessentially Thai tourist experience (plus a day's free transportation!) interested me. Ok, I figure. What difference does a little extraneous shop-looking make. Time, I've got. Money? Not so much. At the end of this day of sight-seeing and exhaust breathing, again I check in with my confused mind and the question resurfaces: So what? What am I doing here 9000 miles around the world? A tiny insignificant being on a tiny blue and green and (increasingly) brown planet circling an insignificant sun in the corner of one galaxy among trillions (accurate?). What am I doing, yo? My “free” tuk-tuk ride takes me to a Tourism Authority of Thailand office (the infamous TAT, professional ignorant tourist rip-off establishments) and I book a package deal for my first three weeks in Thailand, as well as my visas to visit Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Well, ready or not, here I come.
I saw the beautiful beaches of Krabi and some of the smaller islands in the Andaman sea. Went snorkeling amongst the slowly recovering coral reefs decimated by the 2004 tsunami. Saw more temple ruins than I can now differentiate amongst in the ancient capitals of Ayuttaya and Sukothai. Sampled my first Thai massage and experienced several night markets. Got lost in the labyrinthine alley-streets surrounding the old city of Chiang Mai in the north. Did a five-day trek to see Northern Thailand's remote (yet highly commercialized) hill tribes, including an elephant ride (probably the saddest experience on my journey as our elephant driver kept harshly striking our poor animal's skull and hooking him in the ear to steer. I felt bad for both the animal and his keeper. Neither seemed to be getting much compassion from this world) and a bamboo rafting trip (a refreshing and fun experience to cap the journey).
I crossed the boarder into Laos via a two day boat trip along the Mekong River. What a memorable journey. The forty tourists on our boat spent six to eight hours together for two days. Many fast friendships were made over card games, photos from home, stories shared by those longer on the road than I, attempts at learning essential phrases in Laotian (just as my brain was acclimating to Thai...good thing there are many similarities. I still got a funny headache for the first few days as my brain literally rewired itself to function in the new language). Numerous bottles of Beer Lao were consumed by others (I don't drink), often purchased out of drink and snack baskets proffered at sporadic village stops by teenagers who looked like they barely weighed more than the baskets they carried.
[more on Laos, the people, the absence of vegetarian food and food hygene, my shy visit to the english school in Luang Prabang, the river journey with Air, Park Lay and its absence of Pepsi banners and white people (except the two amazing travelers I met on the boat to Vientiane), the shock of my white presence at the temple during the morning meal, wandering the dirt streets, being greeted all over with laughter and people shying away from my camera lens...etc, crossing into Vietnam in spite of my screaming heart and various technical difficulties, the time with Smaus in Sapa, esp the motorbike journey, the cave, the few days on the DMZ, hitch-hiking, the rip-off pedicab ride, prolific art galleries, amazing embroidery, Eddie Murphy and the Easy Rider adventure, the effects of Agent Orange and chemical defoliants from the war 30 years ago still apparent today, my English students and our conversation about homosexuality and transgender vocabulary, crossing into Cambodia and loving it...meeting Caitlyn and getting my Thai teaching job, meeting the French woman and being reminded about Goenka and learning about his centers in Thailand, getting inspired on the beach, experiencing true awe in Siem Reap, the joyful reunion with Tani, falling in love with Ti, WWOOFing in Thailand, realizing I shouldn't have left! my Vipassana experience—nearly a meditation failure, then discovering some peace of mind, emotional stability, and joy, living at the temple and changing to “right Vipassana,” making friends and gaining monk students, plane ticket running out and going home. selling stuff, moving, back and forth to Utah (twice), the bike journey, buying return ticket postponed, military coup (turns out it doesn't matter), finally returning, cush retreat at Suan Mokk a la hot springs yoga and unlimited evening hot chocolate (wooden pillows, concrete beds...), back to Wat Phradhat, finish basic course, ordain!]
Chapter Break
After my heart breaking, mending, and warming experience in Cambodia, crossing the boarder back into Thailand was a tearful event. I definitely noticed I was the only one experiencing my emotions. I felt like a piece of driftwood alone at sea. It's always hard to part with a lover. The tenderness and intensity of that connection is unmatched in my experience on this planet. Knowing I may never see him again, I left his country just before Khmer New Year. I had applied to sit a ten day meditation course at a Goenka center in Prachin Buri, Thailand near Bangkok and felt compelled to honor this commitment.
I was not sure how long the bus ride from Thailand's capital to the center would take, so I arrived about two hours early (directions on the internet specifically requested we not arrive early, but I figured better early than late). I walked alone, bag over one shoulder, through the hot tropical sun 1.5 km from the bus stop on the main road along a well-paved asphalt road between rice fields and tropical gardens of bananas, papayas, taro, and vegetables. The center was beautiful. The simple architecture of the dining hall and the separate men's and women's dormitories seemed planted squatly amongst the teak forest. Ringed by a lotus filled moat, and split down the middle by a path to the main meditation pagoda, the grounds exuded peace and tranquility.
Upon my early arrival, I was greeted by a slightly surprised, yet supremely calm and friendly Thai woman who asked in decent English if I was a new or an old student. New student, I replied. She handed me the appropriate paperwork and gestured to one of the small, individual fold-out tables facing the dining hall windows where we were to take our meals in isolation and silence for the next ten days. I set about filling out the paperwork. Name, age, address at home, how did I learn about the Goenka center, previous meditation experience if any, history of medical issues—mental and physical. It was quite an application.
Once this novel was finished, the friendly assistant (called a Dharma Worker—she would be one of the few people the practitioners would be allowed to speak with over the next ten days) showed me to my room where I was allowed to rest until the 5PM orientation at the main hall. I began unpacking my clothes and arranging my simple room—one desk, one small plastic stool, two inch thick twin mattress on a simple ply-wood platform, two shelves at the foot of my bed. I hung my sarong over my window for some privacy and laid down to rest. A few minutes later, the Dharma Worker came back again and asked me to please turn in my cell phone for the duration of the course. I replied that I did not own one, and so had nothing to turn in. She looked at me with shock and I laughed. Am I really the only person in this country without one of these electronic leashes? Oh well, she asked again to be sure, recovered her composure and bustled back down the hall to attend to the other 100+ guests in her charge. I went back to resting, trying to recover in mind and body from the long, traumatic journey from Seam Reap to here. Unfortunately, I fell asleep and did not hear the bell calling us to orientation. Crap, I kicked myself, looking out the window into the darkening evening sky. Everyone was lined up and waiting for me so we could enter the meditation hall as a group. I hurriedly smoothed my shoulder length hair, straightened my clothes, and tried to look a little less like I had just been sleeping for the last several hours. I tried to brighten up my face en route to meet the others. I passed a dharma worker in the hall who had come back to the dorms looking for me. What a way to begin.
Finding my place toward the back of the line of women meditators, I felt a shift in my energy. Noble silence had begun. The time of internal reflection was upon us all. For better or worse, for the next ten days, we would venture together into the recesses of our individual minds. A supremely unique endeavor for each being present, it was somehow extremely comforting to be embarking on this journey with company and support. The golden stuppa glowed under modern illumination in the soft tropical evening light as we walked up the staircase to the group hall for our first meditation instructions. Crickets began their song and cicadas buzzed along with them. The occasional farmer on a motorbike would buzz by periodically, reminding us this quiet oasis was just an island in the midst of civilization. Annoying at times, it was also a comfort to realize we were not so far from the comfortable developed world. That this space of peace and asceticism, like all experiences, was transient. Make the most of it, our teacher implored us from his audio tapes and DVD lectures. Bring your attention to the triangle beneath the nostrils. Watch the breath flowing in and out past this point. Does it pass through both nostrils? Or the left more? Perhaps the right? Can you feel a sensation in this small triangular space? The movement of air? Tension and release as the breath flows in and out? Perhaps a temperature difference—a slight warming of the outbreath compared to the in? Just sit, alone. In Noble Silence. Direct the mind to this small triangle and breathe in. Direct the mind to this small triangle and breathe out. Just this. For an hour.
Right.
After about half-a-breath, my mind is off to the races. Complaining about the pains in my legs, knees, back, arms, shoulders. Wondering what's going on at home in the states. What my previous lovers might be up to. No, mind! Cut it out! Hold still!! Just this breath. Right. The sensation at the nostrils. Just this small triangle...I wonder what that sound was. I wish everyone would stop sneezing and coughing so I can get some peace and quiet around here...argh! Mind, come back here. Just this breath. Sensation at the nostrils. Why does my breath only flow through the left nostril? I never noticed that! Dang it, mind, no judging (wait, that's a judgement!)—just this breath. God, will this hour ever end? It's probably been about 2 minutes. This is what I signed up to do for the next ten days? What was I thinking...
And so it went. The second day, I really thought I was losing my mind. Watching my thoughts all day and squirming around in agony after hours and hours of just sitting, I began to see how little sense ny thoughts made. This was very disconcerting. I also realized I had to sit on the inside tables in the dining hall. Sitting at the windows facing the street was too big a temptation to run. Run where? I had no where better to be. Nothing better to be doing. I knew that if I left the center, this restless mind would just come right along with me. The meditation was not causing this restlessness, it was just allowing me to see it for the first time. Painful to see the monkey mind, swinging here and there at a whim of seemingly random design (if any).
By the end of the second day, I really thought I was going insane. I wanted to cry. I didn't want to see anymore. I just wanted it to stop. But I figured I had made a promise to stick it out. See what this process might have to offer. I had heard there was a lot of peace to be discovered and developed using this technique. From good friends that I trusted, not just random testimonials on the internet that could easily have been written by diabolical sadists that just liked to see people suffer...Real people I had spoken with in person, who I knew had real problems in this world, had found solace in this technique. Problems of aimlessness and restlessness and general dissatisfaction, depression, angst, just like me. These people had been through this process and came out lighter. Freer. Happier. I stuck it out. What did I have to lose?
The third day was worse than the second. I was beginning to feel accustomed to the pains in my body, but they still seemed to be getting worse. The aimlessness of my mind seemed only increasing. At least the beginnings of indifference were dulling the emotional pain of failure to master the simple task of watching the breath at the nostrils. I just resigned myself that I was a meditation failure and it didn't matter. Seven days to go. If I could make it through three, surely another few wouldn't matter?
The fourth day, Goenka spoke in the evening dharma talk about the difficulties many meditators have on the second day. Turns out, all my feelings were normal! He said that on his first meditation course he had wanted to run away the second day. Argh! Why didn't he tell us this before we began?? But then I wondered if maybe he did during the orientation I slept through? oops. Or perhaps there's a method to the struggle—let us all be with whatever comes up in the mind. Maybe it's not a struggle for everyone? Maybe a warning would be setting us up for more difficulties? Oh well, here it was, day four, and we finally begin Vipassana Meditation. Turns out watching the breath at the nostrils is a form of anapanasati—developing rudimentary concentration of the mind in preparation for the Vipassana practice. Like prep-work. Once we began the actual technique of Vipassana, sweeping the body for sensations and refining our awareness, I felt much better. Don't get me wrong, there were still tough sitting sessions (especially the 4:30-6:30AM two-hour marathon sit in our mediation cells...when you are just beginning and managing concentration for one-half-breath is a tremendous success, sitting alone in stillness for 2 hours might as well be eternity, especially in the cool pre-dawn on an empty belly). Sometimes it would seem all the sits sucked and entire days would be tough, but at least my mind had something to do during the sessions, now. At first, it was like Goenka told us to stop playing with the past and the future and just dwell in the present. This is like taking all the toys away from a two-year-old and telling them to be still and quiet. Yeah right! My whole life, I've been able to either sit still or be quiet, but not both. Now, at 26, I am supposed to be developing this skill out of thin air. Well, I like being in my body, so at least the sweeping technique made sense to me.
The ten day retreat came to a close, we learned loving-kindness mediation to close each session by sending open-hearted, compassionate thoughts to all beings, the silence was broken, a delicious feast of green curry, stir-fry vegetables, and a full dessert bar, including coconut ice cream and sweet sticky rice. We began chatting with one another. Seeing where everyone was from and what people did outside these meditation walls. How quickly the mind returns to judging and past-future games. I found myself irritated with people gabbing about their experiences, then laughed at myself when I began doing the same thing. Goenka encouraged us to make a strong commitment: meditate with this technique for an hour in the morning and an hour at night every day for the next year. Then come back and do another course. He advised us that those who made and honored this commitment walked farther much faster along the path to liberation and enjoyed a life of more peace and tranquility than their aimless minded-fellows. Good luck! Persevere! May all beings be well. May all beings be happy. May all beings dwell in peace.
So this was my introduction to Vipassana Meditation. Seeing things as they are as taught by Gautama the Buddha, the enlightened one, the perfectly self-awakened one. When I left the center and went back to regular touristy traveling, I shared a hostel room with a meditation buddy and we sat together most mornings and evenings for the first few days. Then I moved on to WWOOF and got a little lazier with my practice, but for the most part I kept it up. It helped that the owner or the WWOOF farm I went to work on was a meditator and a Buddhist, too. We talked about the dhamma (Thai spelling) and supported one another in trying to live in this world, take care of ourselves and our families, and still be honest, compassionate, and kind to one another.
Chapter Break
After the WWOOF farm, I interviewed and was hired to teach English to affluent Thai children at a small private school in Central Thailand. With my meditation practice continuing, I wondered if I could visit the local temple in town and maybe even live there to experience monastic life. The British man who ran the school was married to a Thai woman. He was a scientist at heart and had a hard time with the Buddha's teaching. We talked about it a lot. The Buddha taught detachment from self, giving up identification with form, forgoing the comforts and pleasures of this transitory world in the interest of realizing eternal truth and getting liberated into nirvana—ultimate bliss, pure happiness beyond any human emotion possible in this sensory world. My boss seemed more interested in keeping the joy and bliss he knew in this realm, thank-you-very-much, rather than enduring hardships that made little sense to his highly rational mind. He tried to discourage me from living at the temple. I'm not really sure why. Fear, perhaps, that I would get too involved in temple life and not fulfill my duties as a teacher? On the contrary, I felt the continued meditation training helped my mind work much more quickly and efficiently. I had about seven years experience tutoring math one-on-one and in small groups, but I had very little experience managing a classroom. I made my share of mistakes, but I feel I helped a lot of those students and even after only six weeks, I could already see improvement in their language skills, self-confidence, and teamwork. It was a really fun job, and getting to live at the temple was like icing on the cake.
See, in spite of my boss's reservations, his wife was gung-ho in support of my practicing the dhamma. She took me to the temple and introduced me to the abbot, asking his permission for me to visit and possibly to stay there. They had never had a foreigner there, so I think they did not understand my interest. They appreciated it, certainly. Many people in the markets were very impressed at my tall foreign form, dressed all in white, being led around by the hand by the head nun. On some of our outings, I often felt like an exotic pet. Many native Thai people are no longer interested in practicing meditation—it's just too hard, many told me. I figured life without practice was pretty damn hard, too. Seems like the discipline could only help.
I loved the temple life. The head nun was very kind and funny, and I became fast friends with some of the other visiting Thai meditators. We would have Thai-English charades-style language exchange while hand washing the dishes after meals. Early rising was not always easy, and many mornings I was late to the 4:30AM chanting, but chanting and meditating to greet the sun every day was such a beautiful ritual. And then to clean the temple all together—some nuns swept and mopped the mediation hall, some swept the walk-ways between our small simple sleeping rooms (think concrete box, about nine feet by nine feet, ceiling fan, overhead light, and a small toilet room in the back with a scooping basin and a drain hole in the wall for the shower), some swept the grounds just outside the nun's quarters where the monks would walk by every morning to go out on their almsrounds, while still others prepared the morning meal. We ate rice and curry and stir-fry vegetables with fruit for dessert. Sometimes there would be soup. Sometimes they would go out to the vegetarian restaurant for me. Sometimes they would make pad-see-ew, fried wide rice noodles, because they knew it was my favorite. The meals were served family-style and breakfast leftovers became lunch. Boy could I eat! My body was so happy on the rice-based diet (I am among the many humans with a mild wheat intolerance, so typical carb-heavy American fare does not sit well with me). The head nun often teased me about how if I stayed at the temple a long time, I would get “fat, fat, fat!” She always used hand gestures to demonstrate a growing waistline and puffed out her cheeks with a laugh for emphasis. I just laughed right along with her and said I rode my bicycle to work teaching everyday, I was not worried about getting fat. It was not until much later that I realized these little jokes were her Thai-style indirect way of trying to correct my inappropriate eating habits. Oops. Live and learn. It was hard for me to grasp that the polite thing to do was leave some food on your plate to show you had had enough. I do not like waste on general principal, so seeing so much food bagged up into plastic and thrown away every day was really difficult emotionally for me. Eventually, I learned to swallow my culture and conform to their way of life. As my mom has often told me, it's more of a waste to eat food you don't need or that would not be nourishing to the body than to just throw it out.
One thing about temple life was really challenging for me, though. See, I arrived at the temple with my Goenka practice intact. I felt like I was making good head-way towards peace and equanimity through the practice and although emotional trauma and psychologically stored regrets came up in the practice, I could just sit and observe the sensations in my body and return relatively quickly to a state of peace. However, when I arrived at the temple, they taught me my practice was all wrong. They said that what Goenka teaches is a good beginning meditation, observing bodily sensation is just samatha, or concentration, meditation. They said that too much sitting was not good. That I must learn walking meditation and always balance the concentration of sitting with the effort of walking. I felt very confused. Goenka says he teaches Vipassana in its ancient, pure form. The monks I met said this was not Vipassana at all—that vipassana was acknowledging. They yanked my hour morning and evening sits and began re-training me to observe the rising and falling of the abdomen (which Goenka taught was a very crude meditation object, by the way, in case my confused mind needed more to be divided about), to slow down my movements throughout the day, to be aware of the mental intention to perform any act before doing so, the sensation in the body of each motion, the consciousness at each sense door whenever I became aware of hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, touching, or thinking. Just acknowledge. No reaction. Train in morality. Develop concentration and neutrality. Create space for wisdom to arise on its own. It was quite a shock to my mind to have to undergo such a harsh training reversal. Since most of what I knew about Buddhism I had learned in Thailand, I decided to take these monks' word over Goenka (a lay person) that this was the correct teaching and give it a shot. One problem, though. The monk in charge of meditation teachings did not speak enough English to teach me, and the head nun did not speak enough to translate for me. It's a far cry from daily communications about food and chores and travels to being able to report internal experiences of the mind and emotions in meditation practice.
Fortunately, the era of cellular phones is raging in Thailand, and for pennies a minute, I was able to call another monk—a friend of the teacher—at another temple in northern Thailand for about twenty minutes each day to report my progress, ask my many questions, and receive new instructions. What a trip.
[get into my decision to go meet my teacher for 4 days, the honor of reporting to the abbot directly, meditating in a new environment, being exempt from daily chores, seeing the same Buddha image as at my home temple and learning the story of how it came to be there and knowing I was in the right place to deepen my practice, going back to my home temple to practice some more, doing another Goenka course to see which practice I liked better, the difficulty in returning to sensation sweeping after nearly 6 weeks of acknowledging/mental noting, ultimately deciding to return to my teacher's temple and get established in one practice before taking my plane ticket home to take care of business and return with the intent to ordain (after inspiration from meeting the Canadian monk)]
Chapter Break
Like Christianity, people have messed up the teachings of the Buddha over the years, but the good news is it appears that careful study of the human heart is actually all we need to get liberated from suffering in this world. I decided to give it a try. Through the confusing study of multiple meditation techniques, including two versions of vipassana meditation which both stipulated that mixing techniques could be dangerous, I began an inquiry into the workings of this body-mind. Interestingly enough, it was only though ordination as a Buddhist nun at a northern Thai temple that I came back around to curiosity about the teachings of Christ. I was baptized into Catholicism at about four--it is one of my first memories, though I had little idea what was going on and the ceremony felt mostly scary and confusing rather than spiritually significant. I attended mass for many years and took religion class from kindergarten till eighth grade, but I do not believe any of this imparted to me an honest sense of Christ's true teachings.
Chapter Break
Failible human that I am, I entered my ordination experience with expectations. I thought becoming a holy person would entail a very pure way of life in a community of like-minded individuals. I thought I would easily rise every morning with the 4AM bell, efficiently and mindfully fold up my bedding, straighten my room, take care of the morning needs of the body, and attend morning prayer and meditation. 6AM breakfast would always be satisfactory and filling, whatever food was offered. Morning chores would be completed daily and with ease. Many hours each day would be devoted to walking and sitting meditation so that I might realize my true essence. My true nature. Wearing the simple nun's robes, keeping the eight training rules, behaving well in accord with the temple's code of conduct, shaving my head and eyebrows each full moon to more easily see my original face. All these trainings I expected to guide me down a straight and narrow path to truth and liberation from suffering.
Expectations are shit. What I found was that women are second class citizens in Thailand, and in Thai temples especially. The sangha was not a family of dhamma brothers and sisters, it was a group of people in funny outfits professing to follow a pure lifestyle while maintaining rich business affairs. The women did most of the work running the temple, served the monks, and hardly had time to mediate. The many social outings to “make merit” were fun, but very distracting and reminded me of the historical Catholic procedure of donating to the church to appease one's sins before God. Devout Buddhists came to our temple once a week to prostrate to the Buddha, listen to the monks' teachings, offer flowers, candles, and incense, and pay homage to a truly great man and spiritual teacher who lived 2500 years ago and taught morality, virtue, concentration, and wisdom as the foundations of realization and ultimate freedom. But then they would go back out to the streets and their daily lives of whatever degree of morality seemed fitting to sustain their survival. Even within the temple, gossip reigned supreme. People were afraid to do the right thing if it might make someone angry. The motive to do the right thing often arose out of desire to avoid gossip and ridicule rather than a desire to do the right thing for its own intrinsic good.
Probably the most important thing I learned at the temple was all these expectations were contrived in my own mind, and that I am the creator of my entire world. When I suffered, it was because I had made a wrong choice. If there was chaos at the temple (groups of noisy school children running around, playing games, or splashing in the showers between meditation instruction sessions), it did not take much introspection to find chaos in my own mind. When I consistently cultivated calm, peace, and tranquility through loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity with my thoughts and surroundings, the temple miraculously enjoyed a respite of peace and quiet. As I grew and changed the patterns of my mind, the temple construction projects banged and hammered away. During rest periods between cycles of growth, construction would often stop. Synchronicities abounded. I learned that my degree of engagement in the holy life was up to me. Habits of laziness would not automatically stop on their own, it required practice and effort. Just because others didn't want to meditate in their spare time did not prevent me from doing so. Temple outings were not required—I could easily choose to stay home and work rather than go sight seeing and distract the mind.
Many of the teachings grated on my western mind, such as socially ingrained gender inequality, the absence of a creator God, and idolization of the Buddha images, to name a few. It seemed to me the Thai Therevadan teaching of developing equanimity in all situations as a way to dwell peacefully in the present moment as just one tiny step that we can make in this lifetime on the incredibly long journey towards distant liberation just doesn't seem right. The Buddha taught that bliss and rapture were factors of enlightenment. My teacher told me they are finer fetters that will keep one's mind attached to this world. Ok, maybe that's true, but before the ultimate release, rapture is to be developed, not shunned! The Buddha taught that through present moment awareness in every moment for 7 years, 7 months, or 7 days, anyone can attain enlightenment. To me, this means we can all realize our true unborn nature embodying equanimous joy in all circumstances at any moment. It does not have to be a long painful slog up a steep rocky road of toil and hardship and deprivation. Self-restraint and discipline are useful tools to break old habits of reaction and molds of fear. But they are just tools. They are guides along the path, not the goal itself. Joy in the present moment at each step on the path is the goal!
While ordained, I attended a large Dharma talk given by the acclaimed Vietnamese monk and peace activist, Thich Naht Hanh, or Thay (pronounced “tie”), as his respectful students affectionately address him by the Vietnamese title for teacher. He sat stone still and spoke patiently and kindly for three long hours. I tried to be patient and still and attentive, but I was far less successful. Pains in my knees and back from sitting in the polite Thai so-called angel posture with your feet tucked behind you to one side. I did a lot of switching back and forth. Sometime during the second hour, I realized it made little difference how I sat or if I shifted. The pains were there anyway. It was just habit of restless mind to keep trying to alleviate the pain. Much of Thay's speech was not well received, for his teaching is one of joy. Two concepts from his talk stuck with me, and helped me grow in confidence that the way I was studying was not the only way to see the truth of this experience. He said if there is not joy on the path, there is a problem and the path needs to be adjusted. And he spoke one specific line that struck me: There is no path to enlightenment; Enlightenment is the path. To a group of Therevadan monks who believe austerity and pure equanimity are the way to purify the mind of its ancient ingrained defilements of greed, anger and delusion, this man exhaulting loving-kindness, compassion, and sympathetic joy as the keys to the way was not well received.
This evening only fueled my fire that Thailand's teachings were not guiding me on the path to liberation, but only entrenching me more deeply into subservience and pain. It's funny, really. I fought so hard for so much of the journey through my ordination, yet I continued to be the best nun I could be. I hated the meditation practice—rising, falling, sitting, touching for hours and hours every day was so boring! Why does release from attachment have to come through realization of pain, fear, terror, and desire for deliverance? What about endless joy as a motivation to get liberated from suffering? Why is the ultimate meditation experience one of cessation—essentially controlled physical death so the mind can be free? Many aspects of the teaching bothered me, but I could see increased compassion for myself and my fellow suffering beings on this planet the more that I meditated. I felt less emotionally volatile and better able to dwell peacefully in the present moment with each additional meditation course. As my spiritual insight grew, my physical and emotional vision cleared and I could more easily see the true nature of other beings. I gained insight that death is not the end of this cycle—changing bodies does not end suffering any more than changing geography does. The only way to get free from suffering is to align consciousness with the objective observer. Create some space between my small ego self and her habitual wants and desires and sufferings and observe how I interact with my world. To see how the choices I make in each conscious moment every day impact my environment, both internal, external, and relational. To see the way I move and transfer energy in this world and how that impacts the bigger picture. The meditation work was frustrating to the hilt at times. I often crumpled to the floor in fits of rage, sorrow, and/or fear. Many times during walking meditation I had to stop and lay down to avoid punching the walls or screaming in anger. I had no idea so much fear was pent up in my being.
I lost about 30 pounds during the course of my ordination. I was the thinnest I have been in my adult life (skipping dinner in accordance with the Buddha's training rules to live simply, eating only until I was full, counting the number of bites I took and paying attention to the flavors, textures, temperatures, and smells associated with each morsel helped tremendously to release old habits of greed and self-medication with food). I had long over-eaten to avoid feelings of pain and lack and sorrow. Now I was learning to just be with these feelings. Use mindfulness in the present moment to watch and observe as these feelings arose, stayed for a while, and, without the fuel of conscious reaction, then always passed away. My analytical mind wonders if some of the emotions I released and processed in Thailand were stored in the body fat I burned, and that is why I went through so much pain and anger and suffering there. Perhaps the “problems” I encountered at the temple were only manifestations of past thought patterns bearing fruit. I am ultimately very grateful for the safe space that temple granted me to explore the depths of my being. To explore and release what I found there that was no longer serving me. I am especially grateful for the unending patience of my teacher, regardless of how rash or irrational I was being in any given phase of my meditation practice.
During my ordination, I felt very aware that it was temporary. This is a fact that often surprises people: In the Thai tradition, ordination is not necessarily for life. In Thai culture, before marriage, men are expected to ordain as a monk for at least one rain's retreat—the three month period between the full moon of July and the full moon of October when Thailand is barraged by the monsoon rains. As Thailand grows increasingly modernized and westernized and more people are making their livings in business and working desk jobs instead of making a subsistence living from their lands, this expectation has become more lax. Men come to the temples to ordain with whatever time they have. I even met one man who had only nine days to live at the temple and study meditation, but he was granted permission to ordain and learn to live the life of a monk. Sometimes, it was actually more inspiring to watch the rains monks, because they knew they had a limited time to study and meditate and live the holy life and make merit for themselves and their families, so they took their studies more seriously. It seemed that after a while of ordination, most people stopped following the rules so closely. Perhaps this was another source of my irritation? I was among the short-termers, and thus wanted to make the most of my limited time, but felt stymied by the less serious and less dedicated holy people who enjoyed the prestige (for it is considered a difficult and honorable thing to ordain) but were not whole-heartedly invested in the work.
Part of my short-term status included a desire to incorporate sight-seeing into my life at the temple. This is a somewhat sticky situation. As ordained people, we have gone forth from the home life, and we theoretically strive to forgo the pleasures of this sensory world in seeking the highest bliss of release from all attachment. Wanting to go sight-seeing pretty much flies in the face of this practice. Fortunately, it is acceptable to go visit other temples for a change of environment to practice in. One place I went to practice for a week was Wat Doi Sutep, one of the most famous temples Thailand. It is located near the top of a mountain just outside Chiang Mai (Thailand's second largest city, located in the northern part of the country). In approximately 1390, the king at the time placed a very famous and highly prized Buddha relic (bone fragment—they looked more like little pebbles to me, but I guess when you finally attain full enlightenment and become an arahant, you become so pure, parts of your skeleton crystallize and when your body is cremated, these little crystally pebbles are often left behind) on the back of a sacred white elephant and let it loose. It wandered 11 km up the side of this mountain (Doi Sutep), and on the place where it stopped, this temple was constructed to house the relic. It was a beautiful temple, with many large ornate Buddha images and a gold-plated stuppa (an architectural formation that looks kinda like a gynormous contoured bell of a building with a spire on top, reaching up to the heavens) about 30 feet tall to house the Buddha relic itself.
One woman I met there was a British nun. She had been ordained for about two years and we became fast friends. She began her meditation studies with the Canadian monk at Wat Phradhat Sri Chomtong whom I respected very much. I talked to him while I was still a beginning meditator in 2006 and he convinced me it was both very possible and beneficial to return to Wat Phradhat Sri Chomtong and ordain. She also had her share of doubts and although she ran the international center at Wat Doi Sutep and gave the basic instructions to new students, by the time I was getting to know her, she had largely chucked the practice for herself. She had turned instead to studying The Secret and the universal law of attraction for an explanation of the workings of this universe. She was also attuned to give Reiki energy healing and ultimately introduced me to her teacher, who gave me my first and second level attunements. We also discussed A Course In Miracles and watched David Hoffmeister on video google. He travels the world and speaks about his enlightenment attained through study of ACIM. He exudes joy. When I looked at the photos of the revered Thai masters in their shrunken, shriveled bodies with their hardened expressions and piercing beady eyes, and then I looked at David Hoffmeister with his strong, healthy body, open face, and clear loving eyes, there was no contest. This man had what I wanted, not those monks. As I was visiting her, this 40 year-old woman was in the process of leaving—she asked her abbot for permission to disrobe and go home while I was there. He seemed surprised at her request and hoped she could help find someone to replace her in the international office. She had been there two years, after all. The six days I spent with the British nun were pivotal in my own decision to disrobe and go home. It was kinda funny, because while I was there, I was still trying to hang on to the practice I had learned. I found myself arguing with her in support of the practice we had learned in light of the growth I had experienced in spite of the doubts and my cultural criticisms. She pretty much won out. The philosophy of pure joy as a way of life in the present moment seemed a lot more appealing than equanimity with all conditioned phenomena and sensory stimulation reactions.
I returned to my home temple and she made her final preparations to fly home for her parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. Once back at my temple, while meditating in the main hall with the most ornate Buddha altar, I heard a directive in my heart. It was a very quiet, steady, firm voice. It said, “Get out of here.” I felt very confused. It was not immediately clear whether “here” referred to Wat Phradhat Sri Chomtong, Thailand, Therevadan Buddhism, or just my negative fault-finding state of mind. The message was very clear and repeated itself: Get out of here. It was a very strong compulsion and made me want to go back to my kuti that minute, pack up my few belongings, book a flight, and get home to the states the next morning. But I had an inkling that such a spurious reaction might be over-doing it. I did get up and leave the hall with the promise to wait three days and see if the “here” question would be clarified. It was. Three days later, the same voice came back to me and spoke simply, from a very centered place in my heart: “Get out of here. Japan.” Japan? I did visit Osaka for a few hours during my Bangkok-Los Angeles layover last year and it was so beautiful and the food was so nourishing and good. But how could I possibly afford to live there? And what would I do there? My sense was to go and meditate. Try the Zen path. I had read some koans in a Buddhist magazine my neighbor gave me, and it was very clear my mind did not process on that level. I totally didn't get it and I wanted to. It seemed the more neutral I got and the more practiced I became in the Therevadan Vipassana practice, the harder it was for my mind to remember things. This was a very frustrating development for me, as I have always been a quick learner and had a good memory.
Another draw to Japan is that it would complete the second half of my vision quest directive to unfold the process of healing my relationship with my dad. Ultimately, I discovered and joined the organization WWOOF Japan (the Japanese chapter of the international concept World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) for $55. I had WWOOFed in Thailand in 2006 for ten days and had a wonderful time. This took care of what I would do in Japan and how I would afford it, as WWOOF connects organic farms and organically minded businesses and hostels with willing workers from all over the world. So now I just had to get permission from my abbot to travel, and hopefully to get permission to disrobe and go home for my dad's wedding. I naively expected this would be a simple process. Permission to ordain was reasonably simple—I just had to bring my abbot written permission from my parents and show him I had a sincere heart and a desire to contribute to the temple and to grow in dhamma as a meditation practitioner. However, the reason I had to bring permission from my parents was that as an ordained person, the abbot became like my father. He took on responsibility for my safety and well-being. If I wanted to travel somewhere over night, I had to ask his permission and preferably travel with another female companion. As an independent American, used to traveling the world alone, this was quite a shock. But this is just a sensical safety precaution following the Buddha's directive from 2500 years ago after one of the nuns in his sangha was raped while living alone. Permission to disrobe, however, was a bit more difficult to obtain. I had to ask three times, in fact. The first two times I went to his kuti to ask permission to disrobe, huge mountains of doubt rose up in my mind as to whether leaving was the right thing. I mean, this heart directive felt the same as the directive that brought me to Thailand in the first place. It was the same voice that had tried to get me to go back to Thailand last year when I was in the south of Laos. When I defied this voice and traveled on to Vietnam and Cambodia, I encountered numerous problems and challenges, and by the time I returned to Thailand, I realized I didn't have half the time to experience everything I wanted to experience before my plane ticket ran out [be specific: more meditation, WWOOFing, PADI SCUBA certification, exploring other regions and more remote areas, more time on the islands in the south, teaching English]. What would happen if I did not follow this voice this time? And what if I did and it turned out to be a rash decision spawned by temptation? My intent was to ordain for a year and then travel to Myanmar, India, Sri Lanka, Tibet, and Nepal over the course of the next 3-5 years. Explore Buddhism across these cultures and compare the experiences. Was this returning home happening too soon? So many doubts reared their ugly heads, and then my teacher's guidance was so off the charts from what I expected, I didn't know what to do!
When I asked permission to disrobe and go home for my dad's wedding the first time, my abbot told me that marriage leads to grasping and clinging in this suffering world and that as an ordained person I should not condone such things. He also pointed out that I should consider the emotional impact it would have on my mom for me to support him. This was such a shock to me. Although I can see his point and believe successful marriages are extremely rare in this world these days, weddings are still cause for much celebration in my culture, and it seemed like a good opportunity to spend some time with my family. I wanted to be there. He also said the voice in my heart was still deluded by greed, anger, and confusion and that I should not follow it. That it would only lead me to pain and suffering. That I would be better off staying at the temple and continuing to practice. His advice threw me for such a loop, I became willing to bow to my doubts about leaving and stay on to think about what he taught me and to continue to mediate and practice present moment awareness to try to purify the greed, anger, and delusion out of my mind. For I admit, I fought the growth process, but the results were obvious. Wisdom came to me much more easily. [more benefits]
[my heart's directive to “get out of here” and go to Japan before returning to the states for my dad's wedding, how this would complete my Vision Quest directive as a path to healing my relationship with my father; the doubts in my mind as I asked to disrobe and go home, the three attempts, how I finally at the end of my time saw how this path may be one that could liberate one from suffering, how my return to the states was not a departure from spiritual growth, but just another step on the path, the promise to continue practicing (even if I was wanting to find a different form), leaving the temple on good terms with an open door to return in case Thai Therevadan Buddhism is the path I choose to return to at some point in the future, immense gratitude, increased neutrality upon the return home, but slipping back into old habits so quickly]
Chapter Break
These bodily cravings were long forgotten. Buried by a promise of celibacy—in body and mind. How quickly I return to old habits. Seeking fulfillment without for the vast scary spaces within. I have just returned from eight months living in a Thai Theravadan Buddhist temple. How quickly old habits resurface. Old patterns of being unfold in the presence of old friends. There is a still, quiet undercurrent of love and patience that was not there in my past confused ego-centered lifestyle. I dwell more consistently in a space of compassion for myself and others. Forgiveness comes more naturally. This progress was not won easily, but I am so grateful. Many intense feelings were processed in the safety of the monastic setting—anger, fear, rapture, joy, hatred, attachment, callous indifference. However, lust-objects were few and far between living at the temple. There were a couple crush-worthy monks, I will admit, but the sheer lunacy of craving intimacy with a monk (especially while living as a nun!) was often enough to curb crush-y feelings. However, now I have renounced my monastic vows and I'm back “in the game” as they say. Back in my home culture—over-sexed America, in the company of friends that share my culture. In the company of friends I once shared a bed with. New friends I share intense interests with. Keeping a healthy physical distance and good emotional boundaries would nurture health and love, but the mind wants to break through so badly.
There are no words for the extacy I experience at thoughts of your touch after a year of celibacy. This mind manifests a deep urge to find fulfillment in a partner. Joy wells up with a noticeable shadow of shame, sorrow, selfishness, and ancient neglect. Does this mean our partnership is invalid? Incomplete? Inappropriate? Primal urges take over, wrenching self-control from the socialized ego and plunging me into wreckless abandon. I become the seductress I have so often longed to be. You are putty in my presence. Is this taking advantage? Who over who?
Chapter Break
The internet cafe. More of a street-side patio, really. Three small computer stations next to a tourist shop that always seemed closed. During meditation retreats, this place was off limits, but after 10 days couped up with just myself in my little kuti, I would be ready for a little outside world connection. Often to the tune of 5 hours straight. Looking back, this probably didn't look so good—The internet obsessed American nun. How can one pursue a holy life in seclusion while spending hours and hours e-mailing friends and family back home? These machines felt like a life-line for me sometimes. Unreliable as the media can be, it gave me some context of the unfolding of world events. Some explanation for the truck loads of soldiers I sometimes saw rolling down the street, caravan-style. For the military fighter jets flying in formation overhead. I would occasionally mention news tidbits to my teacher during reporting. He was generally non-plussed. If he couldn't see it with his own eyes or hear it with his own ears, it did not seem to matter to him. I often wondered what it would be like to live in such a small world. Would it be more peaceful? Carefree? Mostly, it seemed like it would be maddening to lose all sense of context.
Chapter Break
The return to Wayne County is complete. I have moved into my friend's beautiful adobe home. Not unpacked just yet, but I've been living a transient's life out of my backpack for most of the last two years, so this does not make me feel much less at home. Tonight was a dance party to celebrate thanksgiving and the tradition of the fall harvest. To offer thanks for the abundance always surrounding and supporting us. It was a beautiful gathering. This is my opinion of what a friend of mine may have been thinking as we interacted tonight.
She tromps in from the cold, shedding her down jacket and warmly greeting those in the entry way. She's been away long enough, she introduces herself to someone she already knows, neither recognizing the other. She is stunning, dressed in white head to toe. I don't think she recognizes me, but the only empty seat in the room is beside me, as fate would have it. This is more than the familiar crowd and she scans the room with minimal recognition. Her long flowing skirt swishes romantically around her ankles as she approaches the big leather couch. Taking the seat beside me, a flash of recognition finally illuminates her face. A brief knee touch gestures familiarity—“I thought you were gone already!” She exclaims. An I'm really happy to see you is implied.
“Nah, tomorrow.”
Idle chatter about the usual. I have an unusually high tolerance for this conversation tonight. Perhaps the Thanksgiving occasion and the air of gratitude encompasses gratefulness for banalities among unusual acquaintances.
See, I've known this woman off and on for about two years now, I guess. We've had only a handful of conversations, but there's a strong sense of kinship between us. Wounded hearts? Probing minds? Some deeper connection.
The evening unfolds. The potluck feast is blessed and enjoyed. An ear of blue corn descended from traditional Native American harvest becomes a talking staff for a circle of gratitude. A dance party blows out, glow sticks adorn, poi spinning and baton twirling light up the Wayne County evening. My friend in white wears a glow-necklace halo. Truly an angel.
The evening grows into night and the energy winds down. There has been much dancing and much to celebrate. A few remain on the floor, bodies expressing the music each in their own way. I return to the corner seat on the couch, entranced by the chartreuse glow stick tracing a ghostly circle at the end of a string in my hand. She sits next to me again, perhaps closer than necessary, but it's not uncomfortable. More conversation. Mostly shallow words, yet a deeper kinship is felt. This woman longs to make connections. She brings up an old friend I hadn't thought of in years. Didn't know he was still around, in fact. A recluse like me, I wish him well, but leave it at that. She asks about some other friends dear to my heart where conflict has created distance. That's not yet been healed. I don't even know where to begin, but appreciate her check-in. Again, under these words, there's a deeper sense of connection. A longing for one soul to join another. Or perhaps, like she said—we feel one another across space and time because everything and everyone is God.
A comfortable tension wells up—there is an unspoken question in her eyes and body language, but the departures have begun and another dear friend comes to say goodbye. I may not see these folks again for a while.
When it comes my time to part, I circle around to this woman. Well wishes are exchanged. I am leaving this healing red-rock desert of solitude to re-enter scholasticism and hone my writing. Seven years off and on here, I feel like a grandfather to these wilderness therapy programs. I've done my time in solitary. Now it's time to resocialize and earn the degree. She went the other route: paper first, healing second. She has returned to this desert from an intense year of introspection as a Buddhist nun in Thailand, seeking here solitude and rest. Fitting that we cross paths again trading places.
We hug goodbye. The depth of our connection surfaces as energy flows between our bodies. Standing close, we fit well together physically, but the more noticeable fit is between our spirits. We stand together well beyond the realm of a normal acquaintance's exchange. Neither of us are eager to let go. It's a long one. Pure. Gentle. Loving? Rare to find such an exchange and I tell her so. I wonder if she sees the shift in my eyes. A few more comments, but the words feel pale compared to that embrace.
I say my goodbyes to others. She hovers behind me, swaying almost shyly to the last shreds of music (in great contrast to her movin' and shakin' and holdin' nothin' back style from earlier in the night).
In the entryway, I put on my coat and shoes in the dark. She materializes again, extending open arms. “I'd like to give you another hug—it may be a long time before the next one.” I think even a fool would not pass up such an opportunity. This embrace is as close and tender as the last. “I love you,” she says. “I love you, too.” I am surprised to hear this reply, but it feels right. A few more endless moments in the safety of her arms, then I tell her I'd like to see her beautiful space for the winter, but I'm feeling the timing of my departure may preclude it. This rush to leave suddenly seems so arbitrary. The original plan was to be around till December. Ah well, tomorrow will take care of itself. For now, it is time to step out into the cold November night, truly grateful for this community and this strange dance party exchange.
Chapter Break
For some reason, I don't feel like writing my story. I am fresh back from the journey, and nanowrimo sounds like a great idea. I have committed myself and I will finish this thing I have started.
Chapter Break
Wan Phra, the Buddhist Holy Days. Every new, full, and both quarter moons, people from all walks of Thai society come to the temple to offer food to the monks and listen to the dhamma.