experience express train

Posted on December 22, 2007 by sol

My travels through Punjab and Rajastan have passed like the views through my window seat on the express train. Even the experiences themselves have been faster than than the time it takes for me to take out my camera. While I haven’t caught up to the words, I have managed to snap a few shots of the elusive beast and while I’m still hot on the trail, photos will have to suffice: 50 new pictures in the India album.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

being & becoming

Posted on November 23, 2007 by sol

“To a western observer our civilization appears as all metaphysics, as to a deaf man piano playing appears to be mere movements of fingers and no music.” - RABINDRANATH TAGORE, India’s greatest poet, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913

“If a man can realize his divine nature with the help of an image, would it be right to call that a sin? Nor, even when he has passed that stage, should he call it an error. To the Hindu, man is not travelling from error to truth, but from truth to truth, from lower to higher truth. To him all the religions from the lowest fetishism to the highest absolutism, mean so many attempts of the human soul to grasp and realize the Infinite, each determined by the conditions of its birth and association, and each of these marks a stage of progress; and every soul is a young eagle soaring higher and higher, gathering more and more strength till it reaches the Glorious Sun.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

“Science is nothing but the finding of unity. As soon as science would reach perfect unity, it would stop from further progress, because it would reach the goal. Thus chemistry could not progress father when it would discover one element out of which all others could be made. Physics would stop when it would be able to fulfill its services in discovering one energy of which all the others are hut manifestations, and the science of religion becomes perfect when it would discover Him who is the one life in a universe of death, Him who is the constant basis of an ever-changing world, One who is the only Soul of which all souls are but delusive manifestations. Thus it is, through multiplicity and duality, that the ultimate unity is reached Religion can go no father. This is the goal of all science. All science is bound to come to this conclusion in the long run. Manifestation, and not creation, is the word of science today; and the Hindu is only glad that what he has been cherishing in his bosom for ages is going to be taught in the more forcible language and with further light from the latest conclusions of science.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

“To the Hindu, then, the whole world of religions is only a travelling, a coming up, of different men and women, through various conditions and circumstances, to the same goal. Every religion is only evolving a God out of the material man, and the same God is the inspirer of all of them. Why, then, are there so many contradictions? They are only apparent, says the Hindu. The contradictions come from the same truth adapting itself to the varying circumstances of different natures.”- Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

“The Hindu religion does not consist in struggles and attempts to believe a certain doctrine or dogma, but in realizing – not in believing, but in being and becoming.” - Paper on Hinduism, At the World’s Parliament of Religions Chicago, 19th September 1893

the guts to look inside

Posted on November 19, 2007 by sol

At this very minute, scouts from every major city in India are making their way to the site of the recent natural disaster in Bangladesh. There, they will pick through the rubble of the dead and displaced, in order to find, lure, trap and/or steal young orphans and make propositions to the parents of those that have no other options, in order to secure and move a fresh lot of women and children into India’s sex, slavery and human trafficking trade (that includes over 3 million victims in the country).

Ajeet-ji, founder of GURIA, an organization that fights against trafficking and prostitution in India, spoke to my student group on the subject. Quoting him as quickly as I could, here are a few snippets from that discussion:

AJEET: “Prostitution is not the problem. Poverty and starvation are the problem. Women do not seek a life of prostitution. They are forced into it. You free the world of prostitution when you free the world of starvation.

And you should think now like a child, “What is this?” “Why that?” “Why not?” Why, if we can put a human being on the moon, can we not feed people that are starving for food? This is a simple question. Do not think politics. Do not look into all the rationalizations. Just think like a simple man; “Should a person die of starvation? Is there any reason why?”

This is not a question of charity. This is a question of justice: how do we make a humane world? Trafficking of human beings refers to the movement of people, against their will, for prostitution, slavery, organ transplants, beggary and manual labor. Trafficking in India is, after drugs and arms dealing, the largest market of crime in India. Of the three, it is the most violent and deadly. You can’t just take a child out of the network. Everyone is involved, from the police, to the law, to the pimps, to the mafia, to politicians. Yes. I’ve had many death threats for saying this.

Education and health care are good, but they are not the goal. If you educate a prostitute, then you just have an educated prostitute — who still lives under the same thumb and power of her oppressors. She is still controlled by the system. For change to happen, the structure itself must change. We have to minimize the dependency of the woman on the system.”

ME: “But what do I, as a Westerner do to help? Do I sponsor a child with donations and give your organization money? Do I legally adopt the infant of a prostitute as my own child? Do I write the story and give it to the press? Do I stand and wave banners in protests? Do I go back to my own country and raise money for the cause in India? Do I go back to the US and work with the prostitutes that walk the streets of my own city? Tell me. How do I help?”

AJEET: “Ah. So you want to know where to catch the snake: by its head, tail, or by its middle? That’s a complicated question with an easy answer. Don’t try to find the answer in textbooks — that’s a limited framework within which you’ll only find more limits to your thinking. You want to know how you help?

You have the guts to look inside.

You have the guts to look inside and then you walk within your heart.

What you should know is that you will always be alone. You are only one person. So you will always be a minority. You have to put the world behind you. And you have to have the guts to walk alone. This is the problem you will always face. You’ll be isolated and ostracized. Your greatest opposition will be your family. And then society. But don’t think of what others will think. These groups, they should not destroy you; they should service you. So begin by asking yourself the simple questions. And then, work to create a humane world. Just create a circle wherever you are.

I don’t know the answer to your question. But you do. So go inside your heart. Walk there. Listen there. And there you will find your answer.”

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From the GURIA phamphlet: “GURIA has been fighting the sexual exploitation of women and girls, especially those forced into prostitution and trafficking, which has further become severe and complex due to sex tourism and the spread of HIV & AIDS. While responding to their immediate suffering, we are focusing on the root causes of prostitution — inequality and poverty. We strongly believe that it is not charity that is wanting in the world — it is justice to make a humane world where all beings co-exist in harmony.”

For more information on Guria, visit its website: www.guriaindia.org

a few faces of india

Posted on October 29, 2007 by sol

I’m too busy to type. So instead I invite you to Page 3 of my photogallery to meet the faces and friends with whom — and frames within — I’m currently living life…

chai with Agam-ji

Posted on October 21, 2007 by sol

*picture from our 2004 chai sessions*

This is not my first cup of chai with Agam-ji.

While the kinship I feel for him might well transcend centuries, Agam has already become a revered character in one of my many lifetimes within this one; I studied the art of silversmith under his mentorship, three years ago, on my first trip to India. But in our many hours sitting cross-legged in the tiny carpeted studio attached to the shop showcasing his craft, I spent far less time melting, hammering and buffing than I did sipping, listening and laughing. And while my silver may have laid battered and unbuffed, my understanding of India was shaped and polished by Agam’s stories; of his beautiful arranged marriage, of his father’s life work and its distribution among his sons, and of his business, art, love and skill – silver – all in one.

Agam was the first star I found in my evening sky of India; my first friend born of the country. And on my last day in Banaras, I ran into his shop and asked him to mark our memory of times together, to which he agreed, as always, with a humor-her chuckle. He took out one of his tiny silver earrings and sharpened its blunt end to a piercing point. I stood with my back flat against the wall and when he told me to take a deep breath, as he’d instructed the hundreds of Indian women before me, I filled my lungs and exhaled my complete trust in him. What remains is the little star-like stud, on the left side of my nose, which I wear to this day.

Today, three years later, I find myself again in Agam-ji’s shop, wafting on the memories that the scent of silver dust in the air has yanked from past to present – as the smells of all the best stories do. And now, with a night sky full of Indian friends, I recognize just how lucky I was to have found such a North star: his character is un-faded by time; his charm as luminous, and wisdom striking, as the day I met him…

I look up over my chai cup and shout my surprise, “Agam! Look at all the little birds sitting above your shop door! That must be auspicious!”

He tips his wire-rimmed glasses up from the tiny earring that he is shaving with a hair-thin wire and with a chuckle says, “Well, yes, it is. And I am also feeding them!”

I laugh, stand up, and walk over to the doorway. I move slowly, but the dozen little finches and sparrows, in one great wing of wind, scatter to the tree across the street.

Agam laughs out loud and says, “They don’t know you!”

“Do they fly away when you go through the door, Agam?”

He laughs again, as he does with every response, and says, “well of course not!”

He instructs me to reach up and feel the top ledge of the metal door and as my fingers scope out inch-deep divide, I feel, with the tips of my fingers, a thick layer of seed lining the length of ledge.

“One day,” he begins as he holds up the earring for inspection of his work…

“One day, a bird came to my store. It was May. A very, very hot day. In the hottest month of the year. Everyone was hot and thirsty and this little bird came to my store. And it opened its mouth like this, breathing without closing its mouth, doing this, what is that called? Panting? Yes. Panting. It was panting and I thought to myself, “this bird is thirsty.” And I had a glass of water by my side and thought, “it does me no harm and it will make this bird happy if I give it water.” And so I put some of my water in a little dish and this little bird flew right to the dish and drank the water. And then I thought to myself; I wonder if this bird is also hungry? It will do me no harm to feed this bird and then the bird will be happy, isn’t it? So I went out and bought a bag of birdseed – which, in the market – it costs nothing. Only one rupee a day and this bird will be happy. And so I put the seed on the top of my door and the bird came back every day to eat and drink and it made me happy to see his bird happy. Then one day another bird came. And the two birds were happy and came back every day. Soon a third bird came. And the two birds did not like this one, and chased him away. They are very fun to watch; how they get along with each other, just like we do. But the third bird came back, and then a fourth came, and now they are many. Sometimes there are thirty or forty. They come for lunch at 11:30 and they come for dinner at 5:30. Everyday, they come at the same times. And they are very happy. Do you hear them singing? They are happy knowing that if they can not find any food that day, they can always come to my shop and have food. Do you know what it’s like to be very, very thirsty? Or very, very hungry? I am very happy to know that when they are feeling this, they come here. And that when they receive food, they give me their blessing. And this blessing is the blessing of a thousand. Because when you are very, very thirsty, or very, very hungry, your gratitude is of a thousand. And it is good karma to have thousands of such blessings sent into the world each day.”

He continues…

“Some people, they come into my shop, and they complain that the birds leave seed on my doorstep or their shirt– they say the birds make things dirty and ask me why I feed them. But I ignore them. It is nothing to me. I only need to clean just a little bit every day. Every morning I only need to use a rag to wipe the ledge and a broom to sweep the step, and it is so very little work for me to make the birds happy, isn’t it. Just a little bit of work every morning. Human beings are so selfish. We do not want to give, even when it costs us nothing. Only 1 rupee a day and look how many birds we can make happy. Look how many blessings we can have. And they chatter and sing and are beautiful to watch and they are happy and they are free.”

The smile fades from Agam’s face as he puts the piece he is working on down and raises his voice with an edge (not of anger, but of strength) that I have never heard before…

“Now, I go sometimes to a person’s house and I see a bird in cage. And I ask that person, ‘What are you doing! What are you doing to this bird? This bird is not happy!’ And that person says, ‘Well, I’m feeding it, aren’t I?’ And I say, but that bird is not free. Look at it. That bird is not singing or playing or fighting or flying. That bird is very unhappy! Why do you have to cage it to feed it? Your bird is unhappy and you have only one lonely and unhappy bird. Why only have one unhappy bird when you can make many, many birds happy and they will come to you the same, but they will sing, and fly and be happy and free?”

He puts the finger down that he was using to make his points in the air and picks up a soft cloth and starts to softly buff the silver while at the same time softly explaining…

“So this is my rule. Every morning. The first person who walks into the door of my shop. If it’s me, or one of the workers, or my trainee; no matter who it is, if you walk through the door first, it is your job, first, to clean the ledge and to sweep the step and to feed the birds. And if he, who comes through my door first, does not do this….”

Agam looks up at me above the wire rim of his glasses and says with a winking smile,

“Then I do not give him money for his breakfast either.”

moutain thoughts

Posted on September 29, 2007 by sol

I’m back from the Himalayas!

It’s been three weeks, so give me a minute to gather myself, upload photos and compose my mountain top thoughts…

peace,

sol

un-tethered time

Posted on December 25, 2006 by sol

You know that sometimes my only clues to an ongoing holiday are the icons that dance around the Yahoo and Google front pages? The funny thing about holidays, which I think is only taken into account in their absence, is that they act as anchors and effectively pin down a year into some semblance of cyclical time that would otherwise wander un-tethered.

So here I am, in a Hindu nation, where the concept of reincarnation is a matter of fact, and a single birth of a human god, fiction. Ah. These twists in the perspectives plot bring me much joy. As they throw black and white, wrong and right, out the door, and humble my definition of “reality” to a tiny place in my brain, essentially linked between the hands of individual experience and personality. I cannot possibly define what’s real and what’s not. And I am happy to be relieved of this self-imposed and unnecessary duty.

On Christmas Eve, I wandered down the streets of Pondicherry. As I watched this cherished elephant outside a Hindu temple distribute blessings to an adoring crowd, I wondered if, without seeing, I could ever have preconceived of it. I decided not. And took a quick video clip to share with any of those wondering, how some of the rest of the world is experiencing your same eve…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iOFmCQIwFco]

I think the soundtrack is my favorite part of this clip. Because it resonates surprisingly in tune to what I heard going on in the background when I called home this morning and the phone was passed around a boisterous room of near and extended family.

So I suppose I can always draw a line here, and connect one place to another with the shared term, “spirited community.” And by this definition of “holiday,” I’d like to put my wish for you on record: I hope that to-day, among many, you feel yourself encircled by the presence of spirited company and wish that your holiday cheer extends beyond this date to encompass all seasons and in recognition of an even greater shared sibling-hood with those that experience and express your same joy, through different means, on all sides of the world.

unasked answered

Posted on December 18, 2006 by sol

This week, on the streets of Pondicherry, I was blessed by an elephant.

And she raised her trunk to deliver, upon my forehead, a sacred thump, a story that I always felt compelled to compose, but never found the time to type, came back to mind. So please pardon the travel, and we go back in time, to…

Rishikesh, North India Spring of 2004

After turning the last page of my book, Living With The Himalayan Masters, I take a walk with one of my students along the Ganga to visit the part of the ashram where we make our morning mediations. As we stroll along the banks of the most sacred river in India, I share with my student some of my comments and thoughts left open on the book that I have just closed, “…he tells a story of when the elephants ate the roof right off the hut they were meditating in. Can you imagine? In this same exact place, only fifty years ago, wild elephants strolling the streets and taking meals of roofs where they please?!” Neither of us can imagine these dusty and motor-rickshaw-ridden streets being graced with anything more wild and savage than the Kashmiri merchants, and so we sigh and fancy the vision only.

We arrive at the ashram, spend an hour in guided mediation, and share breakfast with the community of teachers and students. After cleaning our dishes, my student says she’ll go to the bathroom and be right back. I wander out towards the gardens to wait for her.

As I’m taking a picture of the lotus pond, I notice an Indian man, and by his appearance (clean and modern) evidently a guest, look out the door of the kitchen and scan the area in search of someone. Settling on me, he approaches and finishes a conversation we’ve never started, “You wanted to see the wild elephants, yes? You sit on the Ganga, directly outside of this ashram, and at sunset they sometimes come to bathe.”

I put my hands out to steady the world as it spins around me for a second, and by the time I’ve found my balance, the man has said goodbye and is gone, and my student is back.

Sensing something off, she inquires, “Hey, are you okay?”

I look around and wonder the same, and then, thinking for one second that I still might be in reach of my reason ask, “I think so, but, hey… did you just tell someone about how we were talking about elephants this morning?” Her head cocks and her brow furrows, and on the slope of these doubting angles the rest of my sanity slips through my fingers like sand.

“What are you talking about?” she says with a squinted and suspicious eye.

My eyes dodge around as I scramble to string the pieces, and at the same time, a coherent sentence, together. But I’ve never been good at doing two things at once, and what comes out is a jumble of pauses and over-punctuation. “This man. He just came up. And said the elephants. The elephants! He said. Yes, wild elephants. Here? At sunset. Wait. You really didn’t? How’d he know? Do you think? Wild elephants?”

As the instructor, I really shouldn’t let my students see me in such a state. She gives me a look I remember giving my mother; one of those, “I’m gonna let this one slide” looks, and I, still unbelieving myself of what has just transpired, am all too happy to take her up on the subliminal offer.

When we meet up with my co-leader and the rest of the group, disregarding how I came upon the knowledge, I put out the proposal for a riverfront rendezvous at sunset. One of the less faithful students blurts out, “Wild elephants? Yeah right. Who told you this? I don’t believe it for a second.” Even my super trusting co-leader gives me a little side nudge and lowers his voice to say, “I’ve never seen any wild elephants here. Are you sure someone wasn’t playing a little joke on you?” Actually, I do feel like someone is playing a big joke on me, but I don’t think it was the man who told me about the wild elephant, and neither am I ready to laugh quite yet. So I tell the students I can make no promises, but the invite remains open.

I’ve never seen the Indian sun weak, but today in particular you can actually see the heat shimmering and sweating off the skin of the river. At a prime napping hour, and with a heavy yawn, I glance at my watch and easily understand why neither my students nor my co-leader have walked up the Ganga’s riverbank to join me. But that’s okay. Anyone who has ever witnessed a sunset over the Ganga knows that it’s always worth the watch and like no other sunset; it’s thicker, deeper, longer and lingering. It’s like the sun is loitering on the Ganga, and why not? If you were being worshiped by the earth’s largest congregation of followers who were all throwing arms and alms up into the air with offerings of carnations and candles and prayers, while chanting, singing and requesting of your sacred blessing, wouldn’t you also lollygag around just a little longer than usual before retiring?

iv style=”text-align:left;”>

At this spot in the river, there are not many revelers. But lit candles in banana leaf boats and orange, yellow and white wreathes of flowers float gracefully downstream in belated evidence of the presence of worshipers upriver. I pull out my journal and scribble some setting thoughts, but as the sun goes down and the light softens, I begin to scan the other side of the now backlit shore.

Suddenly, and to my jaw-dropping astonishment, I see a huge dark mass push its way through the trees on the far bank. Since everything is backlit, it’s only the outline of a shape that I see, but the mass shifts its weight, from one foot to another, in the telltale shuffle of the largest land-walking beast that still roams our planet. I can’t believe it. I rub my eyes. But I still can’t believe it. And as if it senses my doubt, the elephant slowly turns exactly ninety degrees, and with certain, clear and curving lines, presents one of the most identifiable shapes in kindergarten classes worldwide. Its trunk swings. Its ears flap. It shifts back and forth. And then it turns ninety degrees more, and disappears into the same shadows from which it emerged.

I want to cry. I want to cry because of the man who answered a question I didn’t ask him. And I want to cry because of the existence of an unnamed mover that used him to deliver the message. I want to cry because the elephant existed. And I want to cry because it was wild and free. I want to cry, because I’m all alone. And only by witnessing alone, could my faith have solely been owned. I want to cry because if it’s possible for such a sequence of events to pass, then any other sequence of pure magic can too. I want to cry because I don’t understand, but don’t need, or even want, to. I want to cry, because Life just paused, and bothered to take a single second of its time, to turn around and wink back at me.

My eyes well up as I raise my own silent song and alms in praise and appreciation for the sacred blessing not asked for, but so gracefully received.

——————————————— *sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

midnight monsoon

Posted on December 11, 2006 by sol

pouring. drenching. pounding. drowning. rain.

When I was in Pune, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Mumbai, when you were there?” When I was in Goa, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Pune, when you were there?” When I was in Kerala, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Goa, while you were there?”

And every time I cocked my head, eyed the clearly barren sky behind me, and thinking I was stating the obvious, replied, “no.”

In fact I have not seen a single drop of rain for six weeks. Still chewing on the grit of Senegal’s sand and coughing on the fumes of Mumbai’s million motor rickshaws, a powerful thirst I have felt myself building for exactly such of cocktail of Earthly element. And so it is with hesitant optimism that I follow the eyes of the locals as they search the horizon while asking me these questions of the temperament and mood of the house and home (the North), from which emerges their revered monsoon. Shadows of history and habit must darken (only) their sky, for as I follow their narrowed eyes, I find that not a single cloud lends like credibility to the claim of daily rain. They tell me that Monsoon has yet to leave this Season’s house; that it stormed, in fact, just the day before. But as I look around for this phantom whose presence still clearly haunts, it seems I’ve arrived only in time to hear the echo of the Monsoon’s last knock on a now-closed door. Yet I do not doubt that I am, indeed, on the heel of the annual and auspicious guest, clearly evidenced by its footsteps freshly left: the dust is still matted and sticking softly to the ground, the palms and plants are hues of green made so only by months of overindulgent drinking, the driver – incredulous to clear skies – puts the roof on over our jeep, and we don’t see any animals in the wildlife park because there’s no need to visit the watering holes when faucets run freely from the trees.

But this week, for the first time in three months, I put my backpack down with the intention of staying more than three days in just one place. Noting the pause in my pilgrimage, the Tempest of intense, rugged and relentless experience that chased me over the Pyrenees, across Senegal, and down the Southern coast of India has taken this opportunity to make up lost ground in haste. As the sun goes down, my hair curls up, a clue as clear as any that the humidity of a storm’s wet breath is now breathing down my neck. Exhausted and thus unsuspecting and unguarded, I go to bed. But I am startled awake when Monsoon’s midnight footsteps approach my window and, at the same time, the reading lamp under whose light I fell asleep, with all the electricity, goes out. Blindly feeling my way out of bed, I approach the full-wall-window frame that holds not glass, but only a screen, between myself and a jungle of second-story limbs of trees. And here I search in the darkness for that which boldly stares back at me, while unseen clouds grumble angrily and the softly padded footsteps pick up deliberate speed. My heart races, not with fear, but only to match the anticipation of the whetted air. The Monsoon gasps, as it claims its long awaited prey, and at the same, I sigh, in willing surrender to this welcomed fate.

pouring, drenching, pounding, and drowning,

indiscriminate and immobilizing,

stripping, purging, purifying, and anointing,

on the altar of the blessed and resounding,

rain.

Replenished and revitalized, I feel my way back to the bed. But the same rhythmic song that normally sings me to sleep, tonight, keeps me awake. Perhaps it’s the dark hidden eyes, still staring in my window and surrounding me, and the case of being “watched” that brings with it insomnia. Of unknown origin this energy that ties the sheets in knots around my tireless feet. So like I did the storm, I simply surrender to knowing that, this night, I will not sleep.

And that’s okay. The monsoons of rain and experience have, in perfect time, caught up to me. And there is no better place, than in this darkness, to begin the work of digging through and digesting what I’ve seen, done and been to reflect, relive and revise, the ever-evolving script of my life.