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.......

Saturday 28 January. Time to simply BE

Characteristic of many emerging countries, there's a resourcefulness and resilience that belies western sensibilities. I first noticed it at one of the shrines, when I realized that young men were recollecting the flowers placed on the tombs along with plastic bags disgarded at the door by the piglrims and repackaging them for the next wave of visitors. Empty water bottles are gold, used for everything from selling Gangas water to carry for puja, to one man's ingenious system of piping 'drinking' water from a public faucet across the stone sink into a 40 gallon jug on the ground, three liter sized bottles cut and formed to a temporary water duct. Fabrics are repurposed from sari to quilt to pillow cover or window shading as sections wear thin. And this morning it took three explanations for me to understand that "no, I cannot give you or even sell you a 'go cup' for your unfinished coffee," because the boss reconciled cups with register receipts.

Mornings there's an American migration down the trail to a 'real' coffee shop. It's nice to sit in the shop window looking across the road to the river before returning to the hotel for provided breakfast: oatmeal, vegetable paddies, onion pakora and jellied toast with the omnipresent masala chai. If you oversleep it's gulp and run or sip and take half back with you. So OK, I bought a second cup to go in cardboard and will bring the empty paper back with me for tomorrow's fix.

Today I prefer to be alone - not easy with so many warm and friendly companions, new and old, eager to share adventure and experience. After breakfast I did a balance for a fellow journeyer, then set off at a liesurely pace for my coveted Ayurvedic massage appointment. I'm really picky about who I allow to work on me, so apprehension followed me in the door of the tiny reception area of Baba Center on the hill. A tiny sprite of an Indian woman leads me through a curtain into a dimly lit and richly fragrant room and bids me strip and lie down on the floor mat. By the end of the hour I'm a convert. With hands, elbows and feet she expertly massages my whole body with specific oils for various areas from the top of my head (ecstatic) to the very tip of each little toe (pop!). A good dose of accupressure and tai massage completes complete relaxation of every twinge and complaint.

Rounding the bend back towards the German cafe I pick up another yoga pant and t-shirt - this one embroidered with the flower of life. Then I spot it. A 'real' back-packing back pack for US$55 that in the states would run in the hundreds. I'll need a second bag to check coming home to carry my hoard of pashmina gifts and hand-made paper journals. This bag's a find in a couple of days of 'finds.'

I write to you now from a German Bakery (the best of several here) on the east bank of Luxman, northern edge. There's a music and drum ritual going on across the river, visitors and expats come and go throughout the afternoon. The sun shines across my lap as I spill forth these memories for you, the peace of the day wrippled by the occasional beep of a scooter horn or hierarchical squabble of monkeys on the bridge below. There's so much to see and do, but today is a day to BE so I'll sit here awhile longer, until it's time to climb the hill for sunset yoga on the roof once more.