Thursday 2 February, 2012 One of my first lessons

A long time ago, in a part of my life that seems far far away, my beloved teacher gave me this early lesson:

"One day you will remember this day. You will remember me telling you that some day, you will be in meditation. On that day, in that meditation, some part of your mind will notice a mosquito, delicate as it is, alighting on your arm. Some part of your mind will observe as it inserts its proboscis into your skin. Some modicum of awareness will note the sucking of your blood. And it won't matter."

Today I remembered.

This morning's Ayurvedic massage leaves me with happy feet. The rest of me feels relieved when she stops. The more Energy Kinesiology work I get, the less my body tolerates deep massage. And she works deep, for such a little thing. The table's as high as her ribs. How is she able to apply this much force? Unfortunately, as much as she has strength, she lacks intuitiveness, the ability to read the body's unique needs. She's just working by rote, following her textbook protocol. Plus the room is cold, the thin gauze sheet doesn't stay in place on the plastic slip cover, and where are the wonderfully fragrant Ayurvedic oils? All in all, disappointing. I'm glad for having had the massage in Rishikesh, a much fonder memory.

Lunch finds me back at Be Happy. Can't pass up another Greek Salad whilst I have the chance! I spend a few hours just hangin,' meeting & chatting with sojourners from around the world, and writing for y'all. Russia, New Zealand, Germany, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand. Weaving the world together.

Late afternoon is about being happy: alone and wandering from temple to temple; sitting; tuning in; bliss.

Dusk leads me back to the Mahabodhi, enthralled by the interior icon. About halfway up the east-facing wall of the temple which marks the spot where himself sat, an illuminated statue of Buddha sits deep within the obilesk. It's not accessible save visually, at night, when within the lighted chamber he seems to levitate, suspended in inner space. It's intense. I stand there for awhile, then turn to begin the thrice circumambulation. A soft tap on my arm pulls me from revery. A monk. Unusually tall, broad shouldered, handsome, with a soft, deep voice: "Who are you? Where are you from?," as we walk. "From the US. You?" "Tibet." "Come here often?" "Every year." " I hope to come again." "Good, see you next time," he drifts away.

Third time 'round I pause again just across from the floating image and easily slip into gazing meditation. As murmuring monks stream by, the crescent moon plays with the floodlit spire, and drumming and 3tone chanting broadcasts from the ground-level courtyard. I cease to breath. I'm being breathed.

Some part of me notices the mosquito.......