Himalayan Spirit

It’s almost as if I can feel the mountains breathe, these Himalayas. Geologically speaking, they’re new. The most recent mountain range on the planet. They’re still rising, and maybe it’s this newness that makes them feel so alive. They are green and vast and they soar and dip in a never-ending cascade of valleys and peaks as far as the eye can see. I am in love with these mountains, with the raw, primal joy of simply being in their presence.

I came to Tashiding on a narrow road that brought me even deeper into this enchanted land. When I arrived, I was met by Phurba Tshering who will be my interpreter for the next ten days as we travel to the Lepcha and Bhutia villages of Sikkim. After dropping off my bags at the guest house, he whisked me to the mountain top to Tashiding Monastery to chant the vajra guru mantra with the villagers who had come for the puja. The monastery has been badly damaged in the recent earthquake so the puja is not taking place in the main temple, but in one of the smaller buildings. Several ancient stupas also lay crumbled on the ground.

On the way back down the mountain Phurba, who spent several years as a monk at Tashiding Monastery, and I talked about God, mountain spirits and what Buddhism means to us. “We’re Bhutia people and are Buddhists because our fathers and grandfathers and theirs were before them. We’ve been Buddhists since Padmasambhava brought it here in the 8th century. Buddhism is in our blood; it’s just who we are. But in the West you choose Buddhism because something in the four noble truths and the eight-fold path speaks to you. You may not know its history like we do, but you intuit its truth.”

And I have found something in Buddhism. Maybe it’s simply a more soulful, joyful way of living, of connecting with the world in a way I’ve never been able to before. I’ve come to love the sheer ordinariness of daily life. I relish simplicity whereas in the past, I over complicated so many things.

Back at the guest house, the lights went out, so I walked out on the balcony to better savor this Himalayan night. Fires and here and there a flashlight dotted the darkness. I knew somewhere a gibbous moon hovered only because I had seen it earlier. The Durga puja continues with chanting and drums, the occasional firecracker exploding in the darkness.

I feel both happy and sad. At peace with myself and the world, yet deep down a sorrow because no matter how long I live, it will never be long enough to experience all that I want to on this amazing planet.

The Daily Lives of Monks

Walking down the dirt road in Namchi, I hear a car barreling up behind me at breakneck speed. Hopping out of the way, it passes in a cloud of dust. It’s filled with young monks. American rock 'n roll blares on the radio. One of them has rolled the sleeves of his robe up to show off well-sculpted shoulders and arms. As they pass, he leans out the window with a beatific smile and gives me a thumbs up just as the car turns up the road to the monastery.

 

In a land where the hills are steeped with Buddhism, I’ve had to let go of this idea that monks are somehow more serene or spiritual than the rest of us. Last week in Gangtok, I saw two of them haggling over the price of a television. Another morning I passed one pissing on a bush. Even when I visited the sacred Enchay Monastery, the spot blessed by the notorious flying monk, Lama Drupthob Karpo, from the living quarters I heard men cheering a cricket match on TV. 

 

A few years ago in Thailand I remember watching a brawl between two young monks on the temples steps. One sect was heading up, the other going down, when one monk flipped the other off. It ended in a fist fight with the older monks pulling the two hot-headed youths apart. 

 

Watching the daily lives of monks has been both entertaining and illuminating.  My image of monks as sequestered, spending their days in prayer and meditation doesn’t fit. And sometimes it’s the ordinary people who seem to be taking the path more seriously. Shopkeepers count rosary beads. People on the street chant mantras under their breath. I like the sheer humanity of people going about their daily lives with a dash of spirituality thrown in. It’s a good reminder for me, Buddhist slacker that I am, that we’re all only human with our many flaws and our moments of grace, doing the best we can. 

Back to the Source

This is the third time I’ve ventured into the Himalayas and the magic gets stronger with each encounter. The last two times were both on the China/Tibet side of the slopes. This is the first time I’ve come at them from the India side and the vibe is decidedly softer.

It’s only two weeks after a 6.8 earthquake rocked the area and the road from Siliguri to Gangtok, which even in the best of times is not a great road, are now in parts nearly impassable. Army crews are out clearing landslides and in places huge chunks of the road have dropped into canyons that seem to disappear into the center of the earth. Not that it stopped the sumo taxi driver from passing along the narrow ledges.

The further we drove into the mountains, the more it began to feel like leaving time and the world behind.

Along the roadside, hundreds of monkeys perched on boulders or clung onto the cliffs. Mother monkeys nursing their babies and young ones rolling around together. Large males strutted along the shoulder and juveniles tossed pebbles at the vehicles. Whenever I see monkeys in action, I’m more convinced than ever that Darwin was right.

Something about these mountains moves me and I feel so at home here. Maybe it’s just that they are so stunningly beautiful; it’s like walking into a myth. Waterfalls around every bend, some like silvery spiders’ webs threading through the rocks while others thunder down the mountainside for hundreds of feet.

And now from my third floor window in the Fujiya Guest House, Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, shimmers in frosted white. Tibetan prayer flags flutter on rooftops and this morning I woke up at dawn to a procession of monks chanting in the street below. It’s easy here to believe that monks can fly, flowers fall from the sky and yetis roam in the wilderness. It reminds me that the world is still full of mystery.

When It Rains

There’s something about nature at her theatrical best that makes me want to give her a standing ovation. And the storm tonight is truly mythological. I don't think it's a monsoon, because I thought monsoons were just rain and this storm has thunder--real thunder, the kind that cracks the sky and sounds like the roar alone could tear up mountains. My little cottage is shimmying like a belly dancer as flashes of lightening surge through the rooms. 

 

Yet, here in a city that needs no excuse for power outages, the power is still on. I have lights, a computer and am washing my clothes. We’ll see how long this lasts.

 

I love dramatic weather. One of the things I always missed about Ohio were the summer thunderstorms. When I would visit my parents, I used to feel cheated if there wasn’t at least one good storm while I was there. 

 

This storm reminds me of my father who has been gone 10 years now. A storm would be a good metaphor for him. Unpredictable. Angry. That was my dad. He was also generous with a very big heart, but I didn’t appreciate that till long after I had left home. 

 

My memories of childhood are of fear. My father wasn’t physically violent, but there’s a violence of the soul that can also leave wounds and I remember breaking glass. Plates shattered against the wall. Loud, mocking words. A temper that could explode at the least provocation, or sometimes none at all. Every day he came home from work and kicked my dog across the room, sending her yelping under the couch. I never understood why each day she ran with wagging tail to greet him. Then he would mix a drink and disappear into himself.

 

I’m sure he loved me, but I always felt he was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t a boy. Although, I preferred the outdoors to inside, it was to climb trees and create my own private fantasy world, not to hunt or fish. Worms on hooks made me squirm. When he tried to teach me to shoot, the kick knocked me on my ass. My one redeeming quality seemed to be that I was good with boats and much of my childhood memories are of navigating the green channels of Lake Cable. 

 

And then he got old and he got sick. The man who had so terrified me shrank and diminished and eventually died. I began to see the man with lost dreams, who didn’t care that I was girl. Who loved my sons, who loved my brother and sister, but could never really express it. And so I forgave and learned to live my life without the ghost of an angry father haunting my footsteps. 

 

Celebrating Banned Books

September 24-October 1 is banned books week, encouraging everyone to take a stand for the right choose what to read, even bad books, and maybe especially even badder books. According to the ALA (American Library Association) the three main reasons books are challenged are:

 

• Too sexually explicit
• Offensive language
• Unsuited to any age group

 

So who decides the criteria for this? Naturally, the group doing the challenging. All kinds of groups have tried to ban books over the years. Nazis. Fundamentalists of all types--think Salman Rushdie with a price on his head. PTAs. Any organization who feels they have the moral authority to decide for the rest of us what we should or shouldn’t be allowed to read. 

 

I decided to do a quick Google search of books that have been challenged or banned over the years. So a quick run-down of some of my favorite banned books. Not all of these are currently under fire, although they’ve all made some list at some time: 

 

Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger. No surprises here. This is probably the most oft banned American book of them all. Clearly, horny adolescent boys have no place in literature. 

 

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. Makes sense. Someone might get the idea that the justice system isn’t always just.

 

The Color Purple, Alice Walker. Incest. Lesbians. A little reefer. Need I say more? 

 

Anything by Toni Morrison. Her books seem to consistently show up on banned book lists (way to go, Toni!). The reasons? Probably, she’s just too damn good. Anyone who writes like she does must be possessed.

 

The entire Harry Potter Series. Wizards and witchcraft. Elves in bondage (hints of S&M perhaps). So what if they’ve turned an entire generation onto reading again? If they’re going to be devil worshippers, better to keep them ignorant. 

 

Even Christian writer J.R.R. Tolkien doesn’t escape the censor’s net. Lord of the Rings has also made some lists. It’s filled with satanic hobbits.  

 

Call of the Wild, Jack London. WTF! Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I read this, but seriously? Call of the Wild? Can someone please tell me what a sled dog could possibly do to upset the censors? 

 

Bridge to Terabithia, Katherine Paterson. Okay, I’ve never read this book, but I’m pleased to see that something Walt Disney turned into a movie is on the hit list. Apparently, it was banned in some places because of the disrespect children show adults as well as combing fantasy with reality. Obviously, whoever decided this never had children or if they did, they must have kept them bound and gagged until they turned 21. 

 

So, if anyone is reading this, what’s your favorite banned book and why? And thanks to the ALA who has long been at the forefront of keeping reading material available for all. 

Why Does the Sikh Wear Underwear?

 

My epiphany for the week is that I’m something of a spiritual whore. Always have been from the time I got down on my knees and became born again at age 14. Even back in those days I surreptitiously used to read forbidden, non-Biblical literature as well and tried to decipher the metaphysical poems of William Blake. As a result I’ve spent a good deal of my life building altars, gazing at crystal balls, dancing in circles under the stars and most recently, sitting and staring at a wall. I sample religions like some women eat chocolate. 

 

So India has been great for me--a virtual smorgasbord of faiths to try, and all within walking distance. Most recently I’ve been sitting in the Sikh temple which is conveniently located just a few steps from where I live at the Catholic college. Most evenings there are musicians playing and I love the music. But another true confession: I think Sikh men are sexy. Maybe it’s that scene from An English Patient where Naveen Andrews oils his long, black hair with olive oil, or maybe it’s because I like men who think and there’s something about those turbans that gets my curiosity going--what’s underneath them? 

 

But now it has changed. On the front of the temple are posted the four rules for Sikhism and one of them is to wear underwear. Now I have nothing against underwear, but does it really need to be a rule for spiritual discipline? I’ve heard Mormons wear long, wooly things, and well, it just seems a little extreme. 

 

So last night while I sat there listening to the men play the dilruba and jori drums, instead of wondering what was under their turbans, I found myself trying to imagine their underwear. Boxers or briefs? Do any of them have hearts or teddy bears on them? Are they bright colors like red or orange or do they go for the more modest white? Do their wives or mothers make them or do they buy them in packages of three or six? 

 

And does it really help them live more chaste lives which is the reason given for the rule? Somehow I think it takes more than briefs to curb desire. 

 

I think I’m learning something about my own spiritual tastes these days, and while I plan to keep sitting, I probably lean more towards the rowdy pagan than the celibate nun. 

 

Well, the rain has woken me up in the middle of the night, but  thoughts of sikhs and underwear are keeping me awake. 

Virgin Mary and Buffalo Poop

I sit in the principal’s office of the Don Bosco Catholic School in Cherapunjee and wait for him to introduce me to the class I’m going to talk to today. The school and church are in the heart of a Khasi village and the priest is Khasi, so I look around the office searching for some glimmer of the old faith among the iconography, but see nothing. There are plenty of crosses; I’m glad only one is a crucifix as I’ve always found them a bit morbid. A serene Madonna and child sits in an altar, a beautiful and comforting symbol of what is good about the church. I focus on that. There are also several vases of plastic flowers, a bronze plate with three engraved pinecones, a small flag of India and a small TV. 

 

Outside, next to the school, the brand new Don Bosco Shrine has recently been erected.  With chandeliers, stained glass windows, and a ceramic mosaic of Jesus, it probably cost more than the annual income of several village families put together. Surrounding the church’s compound are homes without water or electricity, entire families crowded into a single room. There is no hospital, although the Ramakrishna Mission does provide a free clinic for the people. The Don Bosco Shrine is kept padlocked except for mass. 

 

In the classroom of around 60 students, I ask how many are Christian and all but a handful raise their hands. Then I ask how many have parents or grandparents who follow the old faith. Maybe 10 students raise their hands. We talk about the sacred groves of their villages, and I ask them to write something about them and this is where the stories pour out. In the myths and legends, the family traditions, some of the old ways live on. But they are like shadow figures flickering in and out of imaginations that would rather be listening to rap music than telling me about the forest god or river goddess. 

 

When I leave the classroom, I wander outside. One of the sacred groves borders the church property. Even though Cherapunjee is advertised as the rainiest place on earth, massive cumulus clouds billow in a sky blue as a robin’s egg and the sun seems to follow me wherever I go burning my neck and shoulders. A graveyard decorated with crosses sweeps down to the very edge of the sacred forest and I wonder how many trees were cleared to make room for the graves. I wander around and notice that some of the grave sites also have bowls and plates that I imagine were once filled with food offerings to keep the soul from getting hungry on that long passage to the other world. Ah. So when it comes down to matters of life and death they still make sure to cover all bases. 

 

These virgin groves are the most alive places I’ve ever been. The whirring, buzzing and vibrating of a million insects reverberates through the air. It’s the only sound, but it’s loud as a chainsaw. 

 

The afternoon is getting hotter so I seek the shade of an old church at the edge of the property erected in 1906 by the Salvatorians--Order of the Sacred Heart. One of the priests told me earlier that it’s now only used to house the dead before burial. But the stone entryway is cool and it feels good to sit on the cement steps. Two of India’s feral dogs, known as Pariah dogs, race by, nipping at each other. The incessant buzzing continues to make the world vibrate. I feel perversely pleased to see a pile of steaming buffalo shit in front of the door.