If the heart is stilled, where then do you seize the passions? Do not tire yourself by making up discriminations, and quite naturally, of itself, you will find the Way.
Línjì Yìxuán
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Just be still
Wat Po paintings
Everyone who's been to Bangkok has been to Wat Po. It's known for 2 things: the giant statue of the reclining Buddha, and its massage school.
It's also got some great chedi (or stupas).
As well as outstanding mural painting, only about a third of which is visible to a person walking on the floor. For the rest you'd need a ladder or a scaffold.
a motif running around the room at the bottom of the murals
And then there are the beautiful ladies . . .
It's also got some great chedi (or stupas).
As well as outstanding mural painting, only about a third of which is visible to a person walking on the floor. For the rest you'd need a ladder or a scaffold.
a motif running around the room at the bottom of the murals
And then there are the beautiful ladies . . .
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Monday, March 9, 2009
Fukuoka ghost
Returning to Japan wasn't the experience I expected. China Airlines pulled a stunt I last saw at the Indian border. At that time two young guys tried to strong-arm the foreigners into paying additional baggage fees. This time it was a cute young lady at the check-in counter trying the same thing with a smile instead of muscle. That encounter fairly ruined my morning; for my anger I have no one to blame but myself.
I had mostly cooled off by the time I got to Taipei, where I spent a couple of hours diddling around the new terminal of the capital city's airport, about as interesting as the old one, only cleaner. But while waiting at the gate for my Fukuoka flight I had an enlivening encounter with a couple of dozen high school girls returning to Kumamoto from their school trip to Taipei. When they saw me sitting byn the window they came to talk and find out who I was. I showed them pictures from Nepal, they showed me pictures from Taiwan. Their interest, enthusiasm, and smiles were a cool breeze that blew out the last embers of my anger. They called out to say goodbye when we boarded; they came to see what I was doing while we were waiting for our bags to be unloaded; they called out farewells as I left the luggage carousel.
I thought then that my meeting them, and our immediate rapport, might be a sign, a sign that perhaps I should be back in the classroom with kids like them.
It feels strange to be back here in Fukuoka. It's like visiting my old self, the self that used to have a life here but which seems to have vanished somewhere along the way in Nepal and India. I don't want to find that person. I'm happy to let him go. The disconcerting part is the memories that pop-up, memories associated with Fukuoka, with my neighborhood, with my apartment, with a smell, a sound, a taste. They remind me of what was. They invite me back into that world. And I don't want to go, don't really want to have anything to do with that person or that life. I'd be happy to leave them for good. But that is not to be. At least not yet. There's a bit of work to do yet to clean up some of the bits that have been left lingering, including an apartment full of 10 years of junk.
I had mostly cooled off by the time I got to Taipei, where I spent a couple of hours diddling around the new terminal of the capital city's airport, about as interesting as the old one, only cleaner. But while waiting at the gate for my Fukuoka flight I had an enlivening encounter with a couple of dozen high school girls returning to Kumamoto from their school trip to Taipei. When they saw me sitting byn the window they came to talk and find out who I was. I showed them pictures from Nepal, they showed me pictures from Taiwan. Their interest, enthusiasm, and smiles were a cool breeze that blew out the last embers of my anger. They called out to say goodbye when we boarded; they came to see what I was doing while we were waiting for our bags to be unloaded; they called out farewells as I left the luggage carousel.
I thought then that my meeting them, and our immediate rapport, might be a sign, a sign that perhaps I should be back in the classroom with kids like them.
It feels strange to be back here in Fukuoka. It's like visiting my old self, the self that used to have a life here but which seems to have vanished somewhere along the way in Nepal and India. I don't want to find that person. I'm happy to let him go. The disconcerting part is the memories that pop-up, memories associated with Fukuoka, with my neighborhood, with my apartment, with a smell, a sound, a taste. They remind me of what was. They invite me back into that world. And I don't want to go, don't really want to have anything to do with that person or that life. I'd be happy to leave them for good. But that is not to be. At least not yet. There's a bit of work to do yet to clean up some of the bits that have been left lingering, including an apartment full of 10 years of junk.
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Friday, March 6, 2009
Riding easy in Bangkok
There are 227 rules of conduct for Theravada Buddhist monks, some them very minor, such as not having your robe washed by a nun unrelated to you, or accepting a rug made of black wool. (The Buddha on his death asked the minor rules to be relaxed; unfortunately, no one could figure out which rules were minor and which major, so nothing was changed).
Basically, ordaining as a monk means giving up life as an "ordinary" person, or putting away personal desire and personal comfort.
So it came as something of a surprise to find on the Bangkok subway that monks are a preferred class to whom healthy, "ordinary" persons should relinquish their seats. Unless the monk is ill, elderly, or otherwise incapacitated, I would assume that he should not be sitting while others stand and that should he need to sit the floor would suffice.
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Thursday, March 5, 2009
The root is branch
Yesterday while waiting for Mutsumi to do a bit of shopping, I wandered over to the magazine rack, where I found the 30 year anniversary issue of Shambala Sun, in which I found this lovely piece from Ajahn Chah consoling someone approaching death.
The things you can find in supermarkets. ;-)
The things you can find in supermarkets. ;-)
As soon as we are born we are dead. Our birth and our death are just one thing. It's like a tree: when there's a root there must be branches, when there are branches there must be a root. You can't have one without the other. It's a little funny to see how at death people are so grief stricken and distracted and at birth how happy and delighted. It's delusion, nobody has ever looked at this clearly. I think if you really want to cry it would be better to do so when someone's born. Birth is death, death is birth; the branch is the root, the root is the branch. If you must cry, cry at the root, cry at the birth. Look closely: if there was no birth there would be no death. Can you understand this?
Don't worry about things too much, just think "this is the way things are." This is your work, your duty. Right now nobody can help you, there's nothing that your family and possessions can do for you. all that can help you now is clear awareness.
So don't waver. Let go. Throw it all away.
Our Real Home
Ajahn Chah
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Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Appreciating what you don't have
On the way from a lecture about meditation, on the way to a yoga class, we passed through Central Department store. On this Sunday afternoon the displays of clothing, cosmetics and designer food were teeming with chattering people searching, inspecting, weighing, evaluating, hungry to fulfill cravings for beautiful things, to hold, to own, to possess, to smell, to taste, to be attractive, satisfied, satiated, that for a moment fear of impermanence, of decay and death, may be put aside.
Nepalis are only human and would not behave any differently if raised under the same conditions and given the same opportunities. Circumstances, though, have presented them with a different reality and at that moment I missed their simple ways, their ability to live free of modern marketing, the tyranny of over-abundance and the need to choose.
Nepalis are only human and would not behave any differently if raised under the same conditions and given the same opportunities. Circumstances, though, have presented them with a different reality and at that moment I missed their simple ways, their ability to live free of modern marketing, the tyranny of over-abundance and the need to choose.
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Monday, March 2, 2009
Bangkok wedding
The ceremonies began the day before with a visit to the Bank of Thailand. It's not that Thais or our Thai friends are especially money-minded, though both families do carry on a bit of the Chinese-merchant tradition, especially when it comes to finding a bargain, such as a rent-free hall. The bride's mother is a long-time employee of the bank and as such has access to what serves on weekdays as the institution's cafeteria, but what would serve in the evening as the reception hall.
Apparently employees have in the past taken advantage of this particular perk. One couple, the legend goes, planned their reception very carefully, being attentive to all the details but one. They ignored the advice of the elders to offer prayers to the local spirits. And on the day of their wedding there was a great storm, with high winds and heavy rains that fairly ruined the reception.
Perhaps that's just a story that's told, like parents tell children, to frighten the couple into doing what they might otherwise ignore, or even disdain. The wedding couple, of course, would rather just have a casual party and skip the formality, but to please the parents, they go through the motions, as did our friends Krit and Knot, who offered prayers at a number of shrines to the former royal occupants of the grounds that now house the Bank of Thailand. One room featured a glass jar about the size of a coffee cup containing a tablespoon of ashes said (though hardly likely) to be those of the Buddha.
The prayers and visits to museums about the history of the Bank, Thai commerce and coinage, and a walk through some of the beautifully preserved colonial-style houses around which the more modern structures have been raised took up most of our afternoon. After dinner we retired early, as the official wedding ceremony would begin the next day at 06:00. It's not clear yet why it's necessary to start so early, but apparently this is the tradition. At least with such an early start there's plenty of time in the day to do everything that needs doing. Fortunately for Mutsumi and I, we were staying in the hotel where this would happen, so we didn't have to get up even earlier to travel across town.
The morning ceremonies included the presentation of the dowry and other gifts from both families, including ceremonial jewelry, food, and stacks of fresh currency, as well as the exchange of rings. The function was presided over by an old man whom no one seemed to know, a man hired for the occasion whose presence was intended to lend social credibility. Our friends, the bride and groom, had never spoken with him before and knew him only as a business acquaintance of the groom's parents. The rest of us knew him as the guy who looks like Lee Teng-hui.
After all the relatives and friends had their photos taken on the sofa with the bride and groom, there was a small break for food, followed by a blessing from a group of nine monks, who chanted a sutta, sprinkled some holy water, and were served their morning meal by Krit and Knot. After a short bit of post-meal chanting, the monks filed out and the morning ceremony concluded with close family and friends piling into cars to visit the bride and groom's new home, where we ate more ceremonial food, took more pictures, and killed time chatting while waiting for the ceremonial noon meal, the first one in the new home as a newly married couple.
Most of left before the meal was served, largely to catch up on sleep before the evening reception, which began at around 18:00 and without any formal announcement, just an invitation from a family member to go ahead and help ourselves to food and drink. As guests arrived they greeted the new couple and their families and each was photographed with the new couple. While the rest of us chowed down on bowls of noodles, sushi, stewed fish guts and pork blood, rice and steamed veggies, and plates of cocktail snacks, Krit and Knot spent most of the evening in front of the camera.
Around two hours later two of their classmates took the stage to introduce the new couple to several hundred people, most of whom Krit and Knot said they didn't know and had just met that evening. After a short Q and A session in which the couple talked about how they met and gave a brief resume of their lives and relationship, there was the ceremonial cutting of the cake and at last a chance for the bride and groom to step out of the spotlight and relax with friends.
It wasn't long after Mutsumi and I were escorted back to our hotel and with hardly anyone having said anything about our clothes. The looks during the evening were often noticeable, though as a foreigner you can be sure that there will always be looks, no matter what you're wearing. Except comments from Krit's family members, no one said a thing about Mutsumi's kimono or my kurta – at least to us. They were, it turns out, talking to Krit and Knot, who told us about it when we met them two days later.
For myself, it was the first time to see Mutsumi in a kimono. The first. Not the first in a few years, but the first time ever. It was quite a pleasant surprise. I hope we find more occasions for her to dress up.
with former President Lee Teng-hui
Apparently employees have in the past taken advantage of this particular perk. One couple, the legend goes, planned their reception very carefully, being attentive to all the details but one. They ignored the advice of the elders to offer prayers to the local spirits. And on the day of their wedding there was a great storm, with high winds and heavy rains that fairly ruined the reception.
Perhaps that's just a story that's told, like parents tell children, to frighten the couple into doing what they might otherwise ignore, or even disdain. The wedding couple, of course, would rather just have a casual party and skip the formality, but to please the parents, they go through the motions, as did our friends Krit and Knot, who offered prayers at a number of shrines to the former royal occupants of the grounds that now house the Bank of Thailand. One room featured a glass jar about the size of a coffee cup containing a tablespoon of ashes said (though hardly likely) to be those of the Buddha.
The prayers and visits to museums about the history of the Bank, Thai commerce and coinage, and a walk through some of the beautifully preserved colonial-style houses around which the more modern structures have been raised took up most of our afternoon. After dinner we retired early, as the official wedding ceremony would begin the next day at 06:00. It's not clear yet why it's necessary to start so early, but apparently this is the tradition. At least with such an early start there's plenty of time in the day to do everything that needs doing. Fortunately for Mutsumi and I, we were staying in the hotel where this would happen, so we didn't have to get up even earlier to travel across town.
The morning ceremonies included the presentation of the dowry and other gifts from both families, including ceremonial jewelry, food, and stacks of fresh currency, as well as the exchange of rings. The function was presided over by an old man whom no one seemed to know, a man hired for the occasion whose presence was intended to lend social credibility. Our friends, the bride and groom, had never spoken with him before and knew him only as a business acquaintance of the groom's parents. The rest of us knew him as the guy who looks like Lee Teng-hui.
After all the relatives and friends had their photos taken on the sofa with the bride and groom, there was a small break for food, followed by a blessing from a group of nine monks, who chanted a sutta, sprinkled some holy water, and were served their morning meal by Krit and Knot. After a short bit of post-meal chanting, the monks filed out and the morning ceremony concluded with close family and friends piling into cars to visit the bride and groom's new home, where we ate more ceremonial food, took more pictures, and killed time chatting while waiting for the ceremonial noon meal, the first one in the new home as a newly married couple.
Most of left before the meal was served, largely to catch up on sleep before the evening reception, which began at around 18:00 and without any formal announcement, just an invitation from a family member to go ahead and help ourselves to food and drink. As guests arrived they greeted the new couple and their families and each was photographed with the new couple. While the rest of us chowed down on bowls of noodles, sushi, stewed fish guts and pork blood, rice and steamed veggies, and plates of cocktail snacks, Krit and Knot spent most of the evening in front of the camera.
Around two hours later two of their classmates took the stage to introduce the new couple to several hundred people, most of whom Krit and Knot said they didn't know and had just met that evening. After a short Q and A session in which the couple talked about how they met and gave a brief resume of their lives and relationship, there was the ceremonial cutting of the cake and at last a chance for the bride and groom to step out of the spotlight and relax with friends.
It wasn't long after Mutsumi and I were escorted back to our hotel and with hardly anyone having said anything about our clothes. The looks during the evening were often noticeable, though as a foreigner you can be sure that there will always be looks, no matter what you're wearing. Except comments from Krit's family members, no one said a thing about Mutsumi's kimono or my kurta – at least to us. They were, it turns out, talking to Krit and Knot, who told us about it when we met them two days later.
For myself, it was the first time to see Mutsumi in a kimono. The first. Not the first in a few years, but the first time ever. It was quite a pleasant surprise. I hope we find more occasions for her to dress up.
with former President Lee Teng-hui
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Saturday, February 28, 2009
Adjust again after initial failure
I have forgotten how the world works. The rest of the world outside Nepal and India.
For some reason when I checked in at the Kathmandu airport the Biman agent gave me a boarding pass for only the Kathmandu-Dhaka flight. By the time I realized I didn't have a pass for the Dhaka-Bangkok flight I was already through immigration, so I let the issue go until I arrived in Bangladesh. The layover there left me plenty of time.
When I stepped up to the transit desk in Dhaka and explained my problem, the agent asked for me by name. My boarding pass was ready and had been waiting for me. I was left momentarily speechless, but when my faculties returned I expressed as sincerely as I could my thanks for the attentive service I have received both times I have flown Biman.
In Nepal or India I suppose I might have had to spend a good part of my layover sorting out this kind of problem, but now here I found myself with two hours until my boarding call. I sauntered through the Dhaka airport, which both times I have visited has seemed exceptionally quiet and uninhabited. There was one customer in the restaurant, a few watching television, and no one in the shops. The local telecom agent has provided computer stands and free internet access, but no one was using them. Except me, of course. I had thought of doing the same in the Kathmandu airport, but didn't feel like paying the $2.00 fee just to write a couple of emails.
To Biman's credit, both flights departed and arrived on schedule. The only cock-up was in not having enough vegetarian meals on the Dhaka-Bangkok leg. There was the most minimal of queuing at the Bangkok immigration counter, the bags arrived within 10 minutes of getting through immigration, and as always customs in Bangkok was a breeze – no forms to fill out, no interviews, no spot checks. Just pick up your bags and go.
As I was walking through the airport to my hotel pick-up spot, I noticed a counter selling mobile phone SIMs and stopped to inquire. Only 199bht, about US$5.00, for a SIM and 100 minutes of local calls. I took out my phone and asked the girl at the counter if the SIM would work in my phone. By the time she answered “yes” she already had the SIM card in and activated. I was again left dumbfounded. I told her that in India it had taken me half a day to do what she just did in a less than a minute. She looked like she thought I might be pulling her leg.
The guy driving the hotel shuttle van was probably not in a hurry to do anything. He just liked to drive fast and the open roads at midnight gave him the opportunity, the fastest I have traveled over land in the last six months. It is simply impossible to move at such speeds over the potted streets and dirt roads of Nepal and India.
When I got to my room, I didn't have to ask if hot water was available. I didn't have to ask for a candle or inquire about when the electricity might go out. But when I finally got down to breakfast I did have to ask someone to help me sort out my mobile phone, which was not allowing me to make any calls, even to the provider's call center. I discovered in the booklet that came with my SIM that the provider did not include a contact number that can be reached from outside its network. My most immediate need, though, wasn't the SIM itself as it was contacting my friend Krit, who was going to come by and pick me up on the way to the airport to pick up Mutsumi as she arrives from Japan. The hotel had a land line for incoming calls, but not outgoing. So to call Krit to let him know I arrived safely and was waiting for his pick-up, I had to buy a phone card for one of the public phones installed in the lobby. Except that the hotel had sold out of domestic phone cards.
Now that's more like it, I thought. This is the kind of craziness I've gotten used to. Fortunately the girl at the front desk was kind enough to let me use her mobile to call Krit and I sorted out the problem with the SIM when we went back to the airport to pick-up Mutsumi.
The blog post comes from a dictionary entry, the photos from Wat Lat Krabang, located just across the canal from the hotel where I spent my first night outside Nepal/India.
For some reason when I checked in at the Kathmandu airport the Biman agent gave me a boarding pass for only the Kathmandu-Dhaka flight. By the time I realized I didn't have a pass for the Dhaka-Bangkok flight I was already through immigration, so I let the issue go until I arrived in Bangladesh. The layover there left me plenty of time.
When I stepped up to the transit desk in Dhaka and explained my problem, the agent asked for me by name. My boarding pass was ready and had been waiting for me. I was left momentarily speechless, but when my faculties returned I expressed as sincerely as I could my thanks for the attentive service I have received both times I have flown Biman.
In Nepal or India I suppose I might have had to spend a good part of my layover sorting out this kind of problem, but now here I found myself with two hours until my boarding call. I sauntered through the Dhaka airport, which both times I have visited has seemed exceptionally quiet and uninhabited. There was one customer in the restaurant, a few watching television, and no one in the shops. The local telecom agent has provided computer stands and free internet access, but no one was using them. Except me, of course. I had thought of doing the same in the Kathmandu airport, but didn't feel like paying the $2.00 fee just to write a couple of emails.
To Biman's credit, both flights departed and arrived on schedule. The only cock-up was in not having enough vegetarian meals on the Dhaka-Bangkok leg. There was the most minimal of queuing at the Bangkok immigration counter, the bags arrived within 10 minutes of getting through immigration, and as always customs in Bangkok was a breeze – no forms to fill out, no interviews, no spot checks. Just pick up your bags and go.
As I was walking through the airport to my hotel pick-up spot, I noticed a counter selling mobile phone SIMs and stopped to inquire. Only 199bht, about US$5.00, for a SIM and 100 minutes of local calls. I took out my phone and asked the girl at the counter if the SIM would work in my phone. By the time she answered “yes” she already had the SIM card in and activated. I was again left dumbfounded. I told her that in India it had taken me half a day to do what she just did in a less than a minute. She looked like she thought I might be pulling her leg.
The guy driving the hotel shuttle van was probably not in a hurry to do anything. He just liked to drive fast and the open roads at midnight gave him the opportunity, the fastest I have traveled over land in the last six months. It is simply impossible to move at such speeds over the potted streets and dirt roads of Nepal and India.
When I got to my room, I didn't have to ask if hot water was available. I didn't have to ask for a candle or inquire about when the electricity might go out. But when I finally got down to breakfast I did have to ask someone to help me sort out my mobile phone, which was not allowing me to make any calls, even to the provider's call center. I discovered in the booklet that came with my SIM that the provider did not include a contact number that can be reached from outside its network. My most immediate need, though, wasn't the SIM itself as it was contacting my friend Krit, who was going to come by and pick me up on the way to the airport to pick up Mutsumi as she arrives from Japan. The hotel had a land line for incoming calls, but not outgoing. So to call Krit to let him know I arrived safely and was waiting for his pick-up, I had to buy a phone card for one of the public phones installed in the lobby. Except that the hotel had sold out of domestic phone cards.
Now that's more like it, I thought. This is the kind of craziness I've gotten used to. Fortunately the girl at the front desk was kind enough to let me use her mobile to call Krit and I sorted out the problem with the SIM when we went back to the airport to pick-up Mutsumi.
The blog post comes from a dictionary entry, the photos from Wat Lat Krabang, located just across the canal from the hotel where I spent my first night outside Nepal/India.
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Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Passing
Coming to the end of days in Kathmandu, packing, throwing away, saying goodbye, I found experience reflected in this selection of a 3rd century sutra.
All things conditioned are unstable, impermanent,
Fragile in essence, as an unbaked pot,
Like something borrowed, or a city founded on sand,
They last a short while only.
They are inevitably destroyed,
Like plaster washed off in the rains,
Like the sandy bank of a river -
They are conditioned, and their true nature is frail.
They are like the flame of a lamp,
Which rises suddenly and as soon goes out.
They have no power of endurance, like the wind
Or like foam, unsubstantial, essentially feeble.
The sage knows the beginning and end
Of consciousness, its production and passing away -
The sage knows that it came from nowhere and returns to nowhere,
And is empty of reality, like a conjuring trick,
The sage knows what is true reality,
And sees all conditioned things as empty and powerless.
Lalitavistara Sutra
trans AL Basham
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Farewell to old friends . . .
. . . and old shoes. The guy downtown on Sunday insisted he could fix these for me. I know better than to argue with the touts but I was perhaps in a good mood. “I don't need them fixed because day after tomorrow I'm going to throw them away.” But I can fix them for you. “No you can't. Besides a torn heel there are wholes in the sole” I can fix that.
I realized then he wasn't interested in conversation.
So, here they are today, my last look after 11 years of service. I bought them when I first came to Nepal in 1998. They walked thousands of kilometers across this country and several others. Their last great journey was my walk around Shikoku last summer. Since then they've just been hanging on.
Back in December when the Iraqi reporter threw his shoes at George Bush, I thought about sending one each to George and Dick to congratulate them on their retirement, but that gesture has in only a few months become passe.
I feel like I should offer them to a ceremonial fire, but I suppose instead I'll just drop them in a garbage bag.
I realized then he wasn't interested in conversation.
So, here they are today, my last look after 11 years of service. I bought them when I first came to Nepal in 1998. They walked thousands of kilometers across this country and several others. Their last great journey was my walk around Shikoku last summer. Since then they've just been hanging on.
Back in December when the Iraqi reporter threw his shoes at George Bush, I thought about sending one each to George and Dick to congratulate them on their retirement, but that gesture has in only a few months become passe.
I feel like I should offer them to a ceremonial fire, but I suppose instead I'll just drop them in a garbage bag.
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