"A sum of money is a leading character in this tale about people, just as a sum of honey might properly be a leading character in a tale about bees." - Kurt Vonnegut

Friday, August 27, 2010

Transition

On my last night on Bali, Gabriel, my Spanish friend from China showed up.  He had a new job and with it financial security, so he brought a liter of Johnny Walker Black with him.  I've sworn off the purchase of such extravagances until such time as my travel-values begin their inexorable change back to working-values, but that doesn't mean I could possibly refuse to enjoy one of the worlds finest upper-middle-price-bracket blended scotch whiskeys.  And enjoy it I did.  Oh lord.  

After two flights and a twelve hour bus ride, I'm in Chang Mai now, waiting for a ride out to the farm.  I feel like I need a break from the easy holiday of Bali life and the farm is a perfect solution.  I'm find myself looking forward to shoveling chicken shit and building callouses.   It's been too long.     

Sunday, August 22, 2010

This Is Your Burning Hand

Back in Nepal, at the meditation center, during those times when the pain of extended sitting was pretty well under control, my assigned task turned to "labeling" my thoughts, observing them, and trying to "understand their nature."  The effort required to do this was almost more frustrating than the pain of sitting, due in no small part to my mistaken belief that since it was, after all, my own mind I was dealing with, it should be easy enough for me to, if not control it, then at least organize it.  It was disturbing for me to be made aware of the relative independence of my thoughts and the apparent contradiction that goes along with that fact; how can my thoughts be independent from me?  If I am not running the show, then who the hell is?  As I sat there, eyes closed, cross-legged on a pile of pillows in front of a golden statue of Buddha, I would attempt to focus on the rise and fall of my breathing, but my mind constantly turned to the future. I’ll get out of here on Friday, stay in Lumbini at Garden Lodge, catch the bus to Pokhara, check my email, move back to The States, get a job in Thailand, take a motorcycle journey from Boston to Portland, learn to speak Chinese, re-read Gravity’s Rainbow….. Somewhere in this stream I would stop, label the action, “planning”, observe it, try to know its nature, and return my attention to the rise and fall of breath.  But by Day Three my mind had gotten used to this trick and discovered that it wasn’t necessary to wait long before getting back to planning; it could start again the instant I finished labeling.  I mentioned this maddening frustration to The Monk during our brief, daily meeting, and as always, he responded as if he expected the question and had heard it quite often, which were both most likely true.  “First, your desire for success, and the associated frustration, is itself an object, which you should label, observe, and know its nature.  Next, do not be concerned if you are planning.  Simply label it each time.  If you must label it one thousand times in an hour, then do so.  Don’t try to wrestle your mind for control, just observe the most dominant object, whatever it may be.”  As always, The Monk’s advice had a profound simplicity that I thought was both obvious and wise.  I endeavored to follow his advice, and found a small measure of success, but still my mind rebelled, and again and again I would find myself floating with my stream of thoughts, completely without awareness, planning some inconsequential part of the next hour, or day, or year.  The struggle against Planning, along with its less persistent cousin, Remembering, filled my entire world during the second half of my week at the Panditarama Meditation Center.  By the time my last day arrived I was exhausted and couldn’t wait to walk out the door and finally let my mind do as it pleased.

These last days in Indonesia, I am planning again.  My mind is in the future; a day, a week, a month, a year, five years.  Yesterday I sat on my hotel bed and tried to focus my mind in the way I had practiced nine months ago, but I lasted only eleven minutes before it all fell apart.  I am aware that having a plan is necessary, but also that this type of mental itch-scratching is useless and even counter-productive; and still my awareness of this futility does nothing to slow down my mind, and I find myself again wondering about this conflict between me and my thoughts.  I wrestle with the problem on and off throughout the day, until I realize, thankfully, that I’m not a monk.  So I will plan to walk up the ridge to look at the rice fields today and then I’ll have a beer with a new friend tonight and then I’ll work on the farm in Thailand and I'll fly to Boston and then Portland and I’ll find a job and I’ll take a deep breath and try to relax and let those moments come.    

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Slide

I can’t see how I could have avoided it.  Maybe I don’t know enough about operating a motorbike or maybe the conditions were such that the tumble and the resulting minor injuries were inevitable, but either way, I cannot see how I could have acted differently - coming down a steep gravel road (a wrong turn, we would later find out), carrying my friend, her fully-loaded pack, and my fully-loaded day-pack, saying aloud, “I thought this road was supposed to be paved?” at the same instant as the brakes locked and the bike kept skidding forward, the back wheel slowly sliding to the left - to prevent  myself and my passenger from ending up lying in the dust next to the bike, both anxiously checking the severity of our wounds.  I reached this conclusion in the immediate aftermath, as my unscathed passenger found and made use of the first-aid kit that she had conveniently brought along, and I looked with curiosity at my shaking hands, a side-effect of adrenaline for me that has also been known to manifest itself when I win a big hand at Texas Hold-Em.

I tore the skin off of the tip of the big toe on my right foot, sustained some minor scrapes and cuts on my right shin and right elbow, and scraped enough skin off of my right palm to compel me to compulsively turn over the hand and stare at the wound during any idle moment.  My passenger, apparently as a result of careful planning and visualization, had thrown her feet and hands in the air and come to a soft landing squarely on her sizable pack, escaping without even drawing blood.      

Monday, August 16, 2010

The Sound of Inevitability

Expenses continue to run high here in my rarified little corner of paradise and try as I might I can’t find the willpower to put a halt to it.  Although my friend has come to believe in the divine power of nasi campur with almost the same fervor as I do and thus we have shared some one dollar meals that caused us both to question the merits of the entire restaurant industry, the fact that we both love to drink a beer in the afternoon and another in the evening, or perhaps even a (more expensive) cocktail, especially if there is a table and a panoramic view of the ocean where said drinks can be brought to us, has sent my daily budget up to and over the 20 USD mark more times than I am comfortable with.   That being said, I’m having a fantastic time, while struggling mightily to avoid thinking about the ramifications of that time. 

Perhaps part of the reason why I have felt able to loosen the proverbial purse strings in the last few weeks is that the end of my travels is starting to become visible on the horizon.  I’ve bought my ticket back to the United States, and as the man says, all that is left to do is to take the ride.  I’ll sojourn briefly in Thailand, revisiting the farm, saving some money, and shedding the layer of physical softness that has grown in direct proportion to The Balance’s rate of decline.   The plan is not yet complete and there are many more decisions to be made, but the fact of my return to the world of day-to-day work and responsibility is more or less certain.  I find myself intensely aware that the money I spend now directly impacts my remaining period of freedom, but nonetheless, I know for sure that I will not be destitute, that I will manage, and so another beer with a friend in a beautiful setting is manageable, even if it is not necessarily prudent.         

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Things We Own: Part Three

"Have you lost your riches?" said Govinda.
Sidhartha answered, "I have lost them, or they have lost me.  I am not sure.  The wheel of appearances revolves quickly...The transitory soon changes."  Herman Hesse - Siddhartha

Since I lost my phone in a taxi in China, I have taken to carrying my iPod in situations where I feel the need for a time keeping device, in addition to the usual situation where I just want to hear some music. There is a degree of paranoia that comes with carrying my most expensive possession and I find myself often checking and rechecking for it, confirming it's place in my zipped pocket, especially when I'm riding the motorcycle.  But somewhere along the road I lost this habit, or at least cut down its frequency, and some time after that I dismounted the bike, wandered down yet another dark alley in search of a vacant guesthouse, wondered about the time and, in reaching for the iPod to check, found my pocket unzipped and the device absent.  

As faithful readers know, I have experienced the dread of losing this possession before, in Nepal, early in my travels.  At that time, the combination of its newness and the prospect of my entire remaining trip without music broke my heart, all the way up until I discovered it hidden in the pocket of the pants I was wearing.  This time, there will be no moment of salvation, but I am more prepared for the loss, can tell myself that it was just a thing, not something that is a part of me, but an object, transitory, meaningless.  Still, there is a part of my mind that tries to prevent the loss, that seems unaware that the ship has sailed, retroactively correcting the mistake; zipping my pocket, checking more frequently during the ride from Padangbai to Ubud, slipping it into my pack on the ferry, noticing it dropping as I climbed on or off the bike somewhere; trying to solve the problem like it's a Zen Koan, except without the peace that comes from the lack of an answer.  

My travels have been fairly painless so far.  I have lost an old, cheap phone, a towel, a t-shirt, a flashlight, and a 160GB iPod packed with playlists and music that I am irrationally fond of.  I can tell myself, intellectually, that possessions are of little value, that they end up owning me and I should examine my attachment to them rather than mourn their loss; but there is still a part of me that is wounded by the missing item, and perhaps more by my carelessness in allowing it to slip away.  There is a metaphor there somewhere that applies to my not too-distant past, but I will ignore that for the moment and focus on the task of forgetting my silly little toy.