Leaving a Legacy

I wrote the following on February 28th, 2010, a day before my mom died. Her name was Vicki Simons. She had kept a blog at http://vickicancer.blogspot.com/ long before I ever imagined starting one or traveling the world. At the time, I wrote this as an entry for her blog, but somehow it never felt right to post. Here is what I wrote:

My mother can no longer write, so I am. I have been here (up from New Orleans) for the last 10 days now. For much of this time, I have sat at her desk, working remotely. I have always felt that my work, the majority of which is currently growing a New Orleans-based non-profit into a regional organization that develops more than 10,000 youth leaders across the American South each year, connects to me to my mom. I remember discussing my parents’ dreams with them when I was a teenager and trying to figure out what impact I wanted to have while I was here. And I remember them saying that at some point, they chose to raise children and invest their dreams and the changes they wanted to see in the world through us, as their children. So, it was nice last week when she would listen to my phone calls and interview me about them when I got off. She told me how proud she is. I was supposed to fly back to New Orleans on Saturday but found that overnight Thursday, her health had worsened. At that point, I realized I would have to say goodbye and I wasn’t ready to leave. So I have had the last few days to sit with her, tell her I love her, and say goodbye as best I can. It seems like she has been cataloguing her life in preparation to die. For months now, we have been going through old photos and sharing stories and memories. She told me the other day how cute I was in my striped shirt watching my big brother, Jayson’s Little League games when I was three. And in my process of saying goodbye, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and said, “that is your sad little boy face!” Jayson called from Colorado this afternoon. He is coming home tomorrow night and I told them that he probably missed his window to have a face-to-face conversation with mom, and asked me to put the phone next to her ear. I don’t know what he said, but she said, as she has to each of us so many times before, “I love you, sweety.” What a blessing it has been to have these last few months with her. A few months ago, one of my friends told me that even after my mother is gone, she will continue to live through me. I will see her in myself more than ever. I am beginning to see the truth in that, even as she is in her final days. I am seeing her everywhere. Today, a home health aide came for the first time. Her name was Victoria. She was incredibly helpful. And when we needed liquid forms of her medications, a warm and friendly hospice volunteer brought them. Her name was Vicky.

Transitions

The transition home has been rough. Rough in the sort of way that only comes after living a year experiencing things most of the world doesn't in a lifetime. Luxurious rough.

We flew into New York with our traveler's minds. We had a general direction, ideas about a timeline, a few things we knew we wanted to do. Just like our arrival in any of the twenty countries we visited this past year. Eat steak at my dad's. Pick up my car. Call the car insurance company so that I can legally drive it again. Road trip South, visiting family and friends along the way. We lingered in Brooklyn longer than initially planned. Same in D.C. Perhaps it was to savor the final bites of our year-long international feast. Perhaps it was the children—Charlotte and Arabelle in Brooklyn, Amos and Amina in D.C.. They seem to emit a gravitational pull far beyond their small mass. Or perhaps, after a year when best friends are simply somebody we had met before—spent an evening or two with on one or two continents—it was just nice to spend time with people I have known for decades. Yes, people we have known for decades and somehow get to meet newly again after our travels, as each of us has grown slightly.

It was glorious to reconnect with family and friends and discover how funny years are measured—the length of our hair, the emerging mobility and language of a child, and that great American identity marker: new jobs. I would be lying to say we came home simply to see our family and friends. We came home because we needed to make some money. If we didn't, we would probably still be traveling on through Southern Asia, New Zealand, Australia and Tierra del Fuego north through South and Central America. Instead, we put those places on the future travel list. But even as we approach two months since we were greeted to America by George W. Bush's airport legacy greeters (TSA security), it seems that might be more of a bucket list than a continuation of our travels.

Our efforts at ellipses seem to have ended in an exclamation point. We drove south with all the same questions we have asked ourselves in a year. Could we live here? Time and again, the answer seemed to be yes. Ultimately, we have learned we could live anywhere. And, for now, New Orleans is our anywhere. And that is where it started to get rough.

Two large dresser drawers full of mail—far more bills than checks and more junk than anything. Termite infestation. A house that seemed to require active reclamation from our house-sitter and the unchecked sprawl of a year's worth of stuff. Last year's taxes to be filed. An empty apartment to be rented. Cleaned, repaired, advertised, then rented. Tenants that seemed like they missed me. Hugs upon my return soon became calls about things that were broken, not the least of which was the charred stove hood and charcoal dusted walls of a minor kitchen grease fire. It must have happened when I was in Malawi and took the tenant a few weeks of my being home to get up the courage to tell me amidst promises of repairing it herself that I quickly dismissed. The bamboo grove that had taken over my backyard and starting growing inside the house. Its a far cry from the bamboo I admired in southeast Asia. Bamboo that you could make into anything with little more than a machete: houses, food, glasses, toys. Nope, here bamboo and its sprawling root systems are a pest. An itchy infectious pest to be removed from the urban landscape, except for in a few lush decorative patches on somebody else's property.

And then there's all of our stuff. After a year of living with what we carried on our backs, 1,500 square feet of stuff seemed absurd, especially the stuff that has been tucked away in closets and attics for years. So we spent our first days cleaning and throwing things away, while we had fresh eyes and unattached bodies. Three days and a dozen contractor bags later, it was time to turn our focus to the inevitable: this whole business of finding a way for our bank account to increase rather than decrease before the comma disappears from the current balance.

In this, there were some pleasant surprises. An escrow overage check from the mortgage company tucked in amongst credit card offers and brightly-colored mailings from collection agencies about bills I never knew existed. Never mind that the check was no good any more. It had expired more than 100 days ago while we were on a boat in the backwaters of Kerala, India. We had bought cell phones as our first stop in New Orleans—before we even laid eyes on our house. I could call and get them to issue another one. And call the collection agencies and explain, negotiate, and pay with a credit card at the beginning of its billing cycle to buy a bit more time. And there were other ways to get money in the mail to us. Phone rebate. Traveler's insurance reimbursements. Tax returns, hopefully, some day when I can get past the mental hurdle of this tiny word. Perhaps it is the x at the end that evokes the repulsion. One letter (x) that contains the sounds of three (cks) and seems to evoke more discomfort. Maybe that is why hammocks aren't spelled with an x. Too comfortable.

Our plan was simple: work together as consultants for local non-profit organizations. We even had potential work here in New Orleans that we had begun to line up while we were still in South Africa. But what it would actually look like and how much work there would be was uncertain. And uncertainty at home feels far more uncomfortable than uncertainty abroad. Perhaps it is America, where we make it our business to predict and be certain about everything. Perhaps it is the certainty of the mortgage bill, our new phone bill, the car payment, insurance bills—our predictable monthly payments to protect us from an uncertainty that most likely will never happen. So, amidst our cleaning and unpacking and showing the downstairs apartment, we started to line up meetings. Meetings to say we are back, share a story or two from the road, eat a meal at somebody else's expense, introduce our new business, and look for opportunities that will lead to income. And, while we aren't in a place to be picky, ideally that income would be generated from exciting and meaningful work that supports our hopes for a new, healthier, more balanced lifestyle than the one we remembered.

“How was your trip?” “Where did you go?” “What was your favorite place?” were soon replaced by harder, more unfamiliar questions. “What services do you provide?” “How are you marketing yourselves?” After a year of only buying, here we are trying to figure out how to sell again. How to sell ourselves, even as we are sorting out who we are now and what exactly we want to sell. As consultants, we soon discover, what we sell are relationships, experience and expertise. After a year of emptying our heads, coming closer to the acceptance, wonder and peace of knowing nothing, we would have to know something. Not just know something, know it well enough to want to tell other people how they should do it.

But, I guess it is like riding a bike. Muscle memory kicks in. The suit comes out of the closet. And clients emerge. And so, we try to savor the last moments of unemployment. We pay a weekly visit to the local farmer's market that we always wanted to try but were too busy. We try new recipes and cook in our own kitchen. We discover a great Johnny Winters album that my mom bought almost fifty years ago in our newly acquired record collection from my dad. We leave on Thursday for Annette's parents in Mississippi and don't come back until Monday or Tuesday. We go blueberry picking. We do yard-work at two o'clock on Thursday. We aspire to make a living without sacrificing the peace, presence of mind and focus on the important things we found this past year.

Coming (Home) to America

I wasn't sure if we were going to make it around the world. After four hours of sleeping in Saigon airport and another eight hours on a plane, I found out. A Jewish guy from New York interrupted his ramblings about his suicidal children to answer my question. “Are we flying east or west?”

“North,”he answered. “North and east. Over Alaska.” And so the success of our year-long trip around the world rested on the flight path of a China Eastern Airlines 737. And the parent who didn't seem to feel any responsibility for both of his teenage children attempting suicide confirmed it.

Despite spending nights and days on buses this past year, I found myself quickly growing restless on the plane. Even the buses stop every few hours for bathrooms and food. On those buses, we are buoyed by the excitement of a new place at the end of the ride. This plane was taking us back to where we started. Back to JFK airport, where the international leg of our trip started on a July 6 Iceland Air flight to Paris via Reykjavik. But also back to the comforts of family, reunions with friends, and all the things we learned to love and miss about our lives in the United States. Things like my dad's steaks, baked potatoes, North Mississippi blues, Miss Annie's barbecue pulled pork sandwiches, Tuesday night Kermit Ruffins performances at Bullet's in New Orleans. The list goes on.

We are greeted by the impatience and complaints of New Yorkers in the customs line. It doesn't seem to matter to them that, as U.S. Passport holders, we get our own line. Our taxi driver is from Delhi. He owns multiple properties in India and manages to spend at least two months a year there. I understand how he has the means as I watch the meter creep up incrementally to $57. And we barely crossed one borough. The two of us rode across three states of India in a sleeper train for half that price. Welcome to America.

We sleep intermittently in the comfort of my sister's family. I wake at 4 a.m to walk the empty streets of Bay Ridge. Robins hop around slowly under their fat rusty winter coats. Water beads on the tips of maple buds. Dryers vent into driveways with the scent of fabric softener and a puff of steam in the cool air. Trees paint the sidewalks with white and yellow and pink blossoms. Tulips neatly garnish front walkways. I walk past the monstrosity of Fort Hamilton High School, where I can smell the moisture of the pool. I look over its shoulder into the chilly wind that blows steadily from the river as it descends past the Verrazano Bridge, Staten Island, and the edge of New Jersey before it meets the Atlantic Ocean. I wander on in no particular direction. I notice the house next to the school. It reminds me of Gaudi's Hansel and Gretel house in Parc Guiell in Barcelona. I half-expect a hobbit to wander out of it. But it is 5 o'clock Saturday morning. New York and its hobbits are still asleep. I walk on where I recognize the park where I went sledding with my brother-in-law and nieces after a huge New Year's snow storm. The park came to life as children rejoiced in the snow and New York parents relished the opportunity to introduce their children to the wonders of the winter outdoors. I realize now the memory will stay with Uncle Ham long after my cute little nieces grow up to become worried adults.

As I walk, I reflect on our last stops in Cambodia and Vietnam. Mostly, I think about the atrocities. Atrocities that merit far more than a blog entry and end up being far less. Pol Pot killing one fourth of his nation's population in four years with crude farming instruments in the name of claiming power for the peasants. And the atrocity of the international community recognizing Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge as the official government of Cambodia long after they had been thrown from power and retreated to the hills. I think of the stately tree in the Killing Fields against which babies' heads were smashed. And how peaceful the place feels today, despite the bone shards, teeth and pieces of clothing the ground secretes like tears struggling to express a pain that is beyond words.

I think of the school in Phnom Penh. The school that looked so much like so many schools whose exterior halls I have walked in New Orleans. As I walked those hallways in New Orleans, I was struck by the atrocities of a failed education system built as ramparts against the crumbling of Southern legal segregation before it gave way to a newer, more modern era of school segregation. There in Phnom Penh, the school became a torture center. It's classrooms are empty except thousands of photos. Photos of emaciated bodies strapped to iron bed frames. Thousands of faces, some as young as four years old, as they were checked into the S-21 torture camp. Some were smiling. I wondered if they smiled because they didn't know what was going to happen to them. Or did those smiles signify rebellion, or resolute faith? Or was it simply years of training that you smile for photos, almost unconsciously, in their last days of consciousness?

I think about the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. What I grew up calling “The Vietnam War” there is known as “The American War.” I quickly recognized familiar names like Dow and Monsanto beside horrifying images of the impacts of napalm, and a rainbow of chemical agents, of which orange is only the most famous. Most striking were the images of children born in the last decade with major birth defects, four generations after Vietnam was sprayed with chemicals to remove the very jungles that appeared to be defeating the Americans. I cried at a well-crafted letter to President Obama from a young crippled woman referencing his letter to his own children. She was appealing for compensation from the American chemical companies for these persistent health problems, an appeal the U.S. Supreme Court denied the Vietnamese people as they wrestled with the results of these untested chemicals half a century later. I remembered my former life, wondering what non-profit communications person helped her craft her appeal.

After two hours of walking, the combination of the damp cold and reflections on humanity's transgressions have chilled me. I hasten back to my sister's for much anticipated New York bagels and lox.

My sister and brother-in-law made a year-long around-the-world trip of their own more than fifteen years ago. We welcome their advice about what to expect upon our return. We welcome their cooking, their two beautiful girls. My brother-in-law, Rob, even helps me identify a song I heard at the end of a rainy night in Amsterdam at a warm pub with a cat in the window. There we ate old cheese and sausage while drinking Belgian beer and welcomed the wind down from a long night. It's Eddie Harris and Les McCann, “Compared to What.” The song's rhythm had been meandering along just below my consciousness for the better part of the past year. I had come to feel like that song was a stately entrance way to some place special within me. Rob identified it with a few mumbles hinting at the rhythm of the lyrics and my belief that it was a live recording.

We soon discover that not much changes in adults in a year. A year is better measured in the lives of children, who are noticeably taller. Little girls that loved Justin Beiber now hate him. My nieces who never wore anything but dresses now only wear pants. My nephews who were boys when we left are now clearly young men. Apparently, puberty happens in a year. And swaddled babies now walk. Babies who uttered a few words are now toddlers who speak in full sentences. But mostly, my American friends and families are as busy as ever, bound up in their own lives. Surely, it won't be long before we join them in a tightly scheduled world of our own.

Cambodia in Photos - the beautiful side

Life on the Banana Pancake Trail

Our time in Cambodia sums it up. But it started back in Thailand, where our guest house crowds us into a minivan to the next guest house in the next town. All of them serve banana pancakes. All of them subsidize their cheap rooms by selling beer, transportation, tours, and banana pancakes. The guidebook corroborates. If it isn't on the banana pancake trail, it's not in the guidebook. It might as well not exist. Or else it lives on some other trail for those with more money and less time than your typical southeast Asian backpacker. Perhaps their trail is creme brulee. Once you are on the banana pancake trail, it is hard to get off.

So, we took a guesthouse-booked boat to a guesthouse-booked bus from Si Phan Don, the southernmost point on Laos' banana pancake (and happy pizza) trail. Despite promises that we wouldn't switch buses at the border, we soon found ourselves waiting four hours with a busload of British and Australian college students content to alternate drinking beers from two countries at the border while bantering about their sex lives and how many milligrams of valium they took this morning. Finally, Annette and I move our backpacks to sit with the two older French couples under the shade of a half-complete new border post. The tollhouses are there, but children splash in a mud puddle where the road, perhaps, will eventually be. There we wait next to our bus, which sits inexplicably empty and driverless with us outside for more than three hours. The bus ride that was supposed to be fourteen hours with one stop and one bus ends up taking eighteen hours with four stops and three different buses.

At the bus station in Siem Reap at 1 a.m., Annette asks a tuk tuk driver if he knows the location of the guest house we picked from the guidebook. Yes, he answers her, before taking us to a completely different guest house. But, it is 1:30 a.m., the rooms are nice, wth cable TV and A/C and a swimming pool for ten dollars. So, we don't bother protesting.

We wake to find our tuk tuk driver working behind the hotel front desk, trying to sell us a tour of the temples. Siem Reap is the home of Angkor Wat, the eighth wonder of the world. People come here to see the temples, just like they go to the 4,000 Islands to see the irawaddy freshwater dolphins, Vang Vieng to go tubing, Kung Lor for the caves. On the banana pancake trail, one can't help byt feel like our lives have been pre-determined. Somebody has already charted where we will go, what we will do, how we will travel, what we will eat, how we will spend our precious dollars.

We decline the tuk tuk and allow ourselves to wander around Siem Reap's French Quarter. It's main strip is Pub Street instead of Bourbon Street. We shop around tuk tuk prices. When we show up at the hotel in a tuk tuk for a change of shoes before a trip to see a temple, last night's tuk tuk driver (and this morning's hotel receptionist) raises his voice in expressing his dissatisfaction. Our tuk tuk driver balked at the originally-negotiated price. Possibly a misunderstanding in a world of limited English twenty consistently has three syllables. The extra syllable is squeezed between the N and the T. Possibly part of the hustle. But, alas, we agree to three days of temples in a tuk tuk with last night's driver. After fighting to be our tuk tuk driver for our time in Siem Reap, he passes us off to a 22-year-old for our 75 km journey to Beng Melea--a temple of ruins overcome by forest. The day is great as we ride through rural Cambodian life at 30 km/hour to a temple in the woods that is off the main tourist circuit.

The hotel makes a good metaphor for our time. We didn't ask for it, but it was nice enough for us to stay. Really nice at first impression. But then we notice the little things. The wireless only works in the lobby. The bathroom is moldy. The drain doesn't work. And the first step on the second flight of stairs is markedly higher than the others. It wasn't until my third time tripping on it that I noticed. And it wasn't until our second time passing the Pink Paradise next door that we noticed it was a strip club. It feels like the whole four-storey hotel was constructed to make a quick buck off the Angkor Wat tourist boom. And that the whole thing will crumble in fifteen years. On the banana pancake trail, they promise you whatever you ask for and trust they will never see you again, and that the wellspring of backpackers will keep pouring forth new suckers. Our eight-hour semi-sleeper bus from Siem Reap to Sihanoukville turns out to be thirteen hours and two buses, neither of which is a semi-sleeper. But I take comfort in knowing it is all infinitely more comfortable than our travel through most of Africa. And Koh Rung Island that awaits, is paradise, with only four hours of electricity a day.

Lao-wy Wowy

Our first sunset in Laos.

Heaven is in the Luang Prabang night market.

Somebody's heaven, I suppose.

Vang Vien

Happy Hawaiian Pizza

Buddha Park

The Mouth of Kung Lor Cave

Kung Lor Cave from the inside.

The view from the only road in Kung Lor Village.

Sunrise in the 4,000 Islands.

Laos got off to a slow start. The border official almost sent me back across the Mekong because I didn't have a full blank page in my passport for my Laos visa. Eventually, I convinced her manager to put it on the inside back cover, promising I would go to the U.S. Embassy in Vientiane for more pages. Even then, as we settled in for a night in a dingy border hotel, we wished we were still in Thailand. The Thai side of the border had street markets selling fresh fruit and spring rolls and charming quirky little restaurants and guest houses.

At our Laos guest house, I had to wake the proprietor dozing on a lobby couch in front of a competitive billiards broadcast. He lit up a cigarette before greeting us, gave us two choices of dingy rooms with electric blue walls, and promised us a great sunset on the roof with Beer Lao when we discussed looking elsewhere. We accepted, worn out from our first day navigating the world after ten days of only navigating our minds and emotions, a formidable task of its own. The sun disappeared into the haze long before it met the horizon. We sat on the rooftop as we disappeared Beer Lao like we had just spent ten days in silence. Meanwhile, ash rained on us periodically in long strands and bunches like Spanish moss from a brush fire upwind and down river. We reflected on our lives and discussed our hopes and dreams with the tranquility and space remaining from the retreat. We watched the Mekong meander, knowing it will shape our lives for the next month until we return to the mighty Mississippi.

Nam Tha

We wake, anxious to move on from Huay Xai and shake the hangover it left us. One dollar plate of fried rice with egg on top assists us. Windy roads past dusty wooden houses on stilts doesn't. But eventually, we are deposited at a bus station near Nam Tha that feels like it is in the middle of nowhere. We crowd into a tuk tuk with chickens and old women with scarves and defunct Lao coins on their heads for the bumpy twenty minute ride into town.

We find our way past eco-trekking companies to our guidebook recommended guest house. Private bathroom, king-sized bed, small verandah with sitting area, and hot water for $7.50. We soon find an old tribal woman trying to sell us jewelry that reminds me of Tibet. When we don't bite on the jewelry, she tries to sell us opium. No bites there either.

We settle on a two-day, one-night trek in the Nam Tha National Protected Area. It starts with a creek crossing in a leaky boat and proceeds through a bamboo forest. Twenty-meter branches of bamboo hang over the water like baited fishing poles awaiting a nibble. The trail is steep, steps cut into the mud in wetter days like a well-broken snowy mountain trail. Our tiny guide with flip flops smaller than his feet pulls his pant legs up past his calves to reveal nothing but vein and muscle. The bamboo sways and rustles in the breeze. I think about my father-in-law and a generation of 19-year-olds who spent their days in combat in jungle much like this one. This forest and trail are challenging enough without the added omnipotent threat of war. And in such unfamiliar territory, where every bamboo stand could cover a killer—human or otherwise. Fighting in foreign forests like these. I would write home too, tell them not to wait for me. Tell them I might not make it back.

The dusty bamboo forest turns to old growth trees—huge silk cottons and banyan(?) trees entangled in roots. These latter are spirit trees, our guide explains, sacred to the animistic hill people of Northern Laos.

We sit on a small log for lunch. Banana leaves are unwrapped to reveal a feast of sticky rice, pork, green beans and pumpkin. Our guide tosses a small ball of sticky rice in each direction off the trail for the spirits before we dig in. There are two of us and two guides, only one of whom speaks English. As I watch them ball the sticky rice in their palms, I am struck by how universally the world eats. The grainy staple is balled in the palm the same way, be it fufu, banku, nsima, injera, or rice.

As we settle into our raised bamboo hut camp for the night, we are joined by a third guide who speaks no English and carries even more food. We drink lao-lao (homemade rice whiskey) out of shot glasses our guides chop freshly from bamboo. We nap and wake to water buffalo being chopped for dinner. I retreat a few hundred meters down the hill to dunk my head in the coolness of the creek trickling through a bamboo pipe four feet high for showering. This is my first time being guided on an overnight hike. At times, it feels luxurious. At others, completely unnecessary.

We walk slowly the following day, Annette hobbled by a newly sore knee. The smell of our guides reminds me of Bradley, one of the Wongatha people we worked with almost a decade ago in rural Western Australia. It smells like a week of sweat, dirt, and the blood of wild game killed in the last 48 hours. We linger at the creek, swimming and sunbathing leisurely only to find the road closed for construction. We wait in a small village by the dusty roadside, befriending two Canadians and an older couple from New Hampshire for more than two hours. I listen with my left ear and write about the retreat with my right hand. If we had left the river five minutes earlier, we would have made it through while the road was still open. But, we have no place to be.

Luang Prabang

The road to Luang Prabang is even windier and longer than the one to Nam Tha. We are dropped at a busy bus station. It's a bustling town of motorbikes, household goods markets and auto repair shops. More than anything, I notice the smoke and the haze. It is a few minutes past four, yet an eerie twilight envelopes the city. We ride a tuk tuk across one river to the junction with another. Our guidebook-chosen guest house proves a disappointment. So, we begin another afternoon guesthouse crawl in search of some nicer digs. Annette's knee groans as two more from the guidebook turn out to be full. After declining several offers from passing motorbike and tuk tuk drivers to show us “good guesthouse,” we finally and reluctantly accept one. He points past a parked tuk tuk and down an alley alongside a construction site of some sort. We settle in quickly to a classy room with dark stained wood walls, huge crown molding, recessed lighting, and a private balcony for $15. Luang Prabang is a sleepy, charming town. Hardly the city I expected. We fall in love with it as we sip Beer Lao along the Mekong. We wander past faded temples through the candlelit night market to find lemongrass stuffed fish and plates of vegetables and barbecued meats for less than five dollars.

Vang Vien

We are enchanted by Luang Prabang and leave only for the promise of happy pizza, river tubing and caving several hours south in Vang Vien. Our pace has been quickening these last few weeks as our March 30^th flight from Ho Chi Minh City approaches. I wake up to find our van stopping amidst limestone cliffs and a series of seven roadside stalls. I get out to find baskets of crabs, shaved rats grilled between chop sticks, and furry tails that look like they come from a ferret. The Chinese tourists in our van lad the photographic feast, the only feast in which we indulge. But soon, we are in Vang Vien.

The guesthouse crawl is aborted by a boisterous proprietor with a huge smile. The rooms are affordable, nice, and have incredible views over the limestone cliffs to the west. Having dropped our bags, we explore the town. We wander down to a restaurant overlooking the river for a few Beer Laos and a snack. Bicycles and motos rustle over a rickety bamboo bridge across the river nearby. A young couple in kayaks floats into the beach, all smiles. I hear the rumble of a motorcycle engine followed by a crash and a splash. I look up to find two white people and their small motorcycle in two feet of water. They fell off the bridge, maybe six or eight feet. They seem unhurt. The man has dreadlocks and is pale as a ghost. He is maybe twenty-two. The woman is skinny and stunned. Together, they look like zombies. Several people quickly jump to assist them, helping them and their bike out of the water.

As we finish our beers and walk through town, we realize these two are not the only zombies. Menus have special pages with happy pizza and shakes, which the guidebook says is enhanced with marijuana. But the menus all have mushrooms, opium, Valium, and countless other drugs on them, usually handwritten. Often the page says, “no photographs please” at the bottom. All this is illegal, of course. And it all adds up to a charming small Laos town amidst a dramatic and beautiful landscape with white zombies roaming the streets. Well after dark, we find barefoot, topless tourists, tattoos scribbled on their arms in permanent marker, wandering the streets, inner tubes and beers in hands.

We try the happy pizza. The bill comes with four fat joints wrapped in notebook paper tucked underneath, which we soon discover we absolutely do not need. Soon, the streets all look the same. Every bar, restaurant and guesthouse has televisions broadcasting one of three shows—Family Guy, Friends, or European football. Each show draws a slightly different crowd. We opt for Family Guy to find opium on page one of the menu. We look around to realize everybody is horizontal on cushions. One scraggly guy walks past our table. He is beyond stoned. Looks like he has been here for weeks, maybe months. I vote against ordering even a beer in search of another place. There we make it through a Family Guy episode and a beer before needing another change of scenery. It reminds me a bit of Amsterdam.

My body sweats as if it is a foreign entity. We stop at a shop that has a four-faced silver Buddha. Sadness, anger, happiness and bliss. The eyes express each emotion, wrinkling at the edges. Perhaps happy pizza helps one see the bliss in Buddha. Tomorrow morning I will be sure we saw this Buddha in Luang Prabang, not in one long slow-motion night in Vang Vien. We walk some more until we find a few high and drunk Australians. “Are you lost too?” one asks. “Don't go that way. We went that way. It is definitely the wrong way.”

“OK,” I respond. We walk the way he told us not to go. Indeed, it does lead us back to our hotel.

We wake the next morning to rent inner tubes from the only game in town. It feels like a family cartel, operating out of a garage. For $7 a person, they rent you an inner tube and give you a tuk tuk ride five kilometers up the river. “It takes three hours to get back....without stops,” we are told. The stops soon make sense. The river feels like Bourbon Street with rope swings, water slides and harder drugs. And replace the strippers with bikini-clad college girls, whom as far as I can tell, keep their clothes on. It all feels extra strange in a Buddhist country where women swim fully clothed. We are given free shots before we set a toe in the water. Several people lounge on a deck in their tubes with drinks. They seem to have no intention of even entering the water. We decline further drinks to let the river lazily push us down the river.

Soon we find an empty water bottle in our lap. It is tied to a rope, which was thrown from a nearby bar. He yells something about drinks and dancing. It is definitely before noon. And all of the bars feel empty. Perhaps it is because it is early. Perhaps it is because it is low water. Perhaps it is because this is not high-tourist season. We float on, finally stopping at several covered bamboo huts with Laos children splashing, families picnicking, college-age Laos kids swimming, eating and drinking. We stop for lunch and a few beers before floating on. The current is slow. But we meander our way back to where we started by mid-afternoon and on southward to Vientiane.

Vientiane

In Vientiane, we indulge in modern urban pleasures—sushi and a U.S. Embassy. I arrive well before my appointment time, booked online from the comforts of a Luang Prabang hotel room using the embassy's online scheduling system. A security officer stops me as soon as I turn down the street, even before I lay eyes on the stars and stripes. I show my passport twice, pass through a metal detector, hand scanner, three locked doors through which I am buzzed until I am face to face with a man behind a glass window. Moments like these make me realize just how much we live in a security state in the United States. In all our travels and border crossings, we have seen machine-gunned fatigued military personnel, razor-wired borders, but nothing like this.

While I wait for them to magically double the size of my passport, Annette reads Family Circle and I browse the bulletin board. Article upon article reports on the horrors of Vang Vien. Mostly non-American media. One Australian disappears in the river, his body appearing four days later. Another 19-year-old and his girlfriend are found dead in a hotel room with bottles of prescription medication at their bedside. Another died falling from the slide into the river. I am unclear exactly how. The message from my government—be scared, be very very scared. The message I receive—don't be stupid; Be glad I didn't know Laos existed when I was seventeen. Thirty minutes, four news articles about dead Australians and 82 dollars later, I have 24 more pages in my passport, each with its own quote by some famous or unheard of American or another. That afternoon, we spend three hours wandering amidst huge concrete statues in the Buddha park. We buy two Beer Lao and sip them slowly in the cafe, marvelling at the place.

Kung Lor Caves

Less charmed by Vientiane than Luang Prabang, we continue our journey south, seven hours on a windy bus ride to the village of Kung Lor. There, we are deposited in a tiny village of tobacco farms below rocky cliffs on all sides. The valley is maybe a mile wide. We walk one kilometer to the end of the road to discover a beautiful emerald pool below a small pool. We cross a small bamboo bridge with a two-by-four across it and walk up river a few hundred meters. There lurks the darkness and mysticism of Kung Lor Cave. It is five miles long. Everything is quiet now. In the morning, we will ride a boat through it and back. Three hours seeing only what our insufficient headlamps will allow us. Mostly listening, jaw open, as we pass through an entirely different world than any I have known. Just Annette and I and an Italian man we met, and two guides with headlamps in a small flat-bottomed wooden long-tail boat. It is magical. And massive. One hundred meters high in parts. No more than five meters in others. Stalagtites and stalagmites drip and puddle like candle wax in parts. And through it all, flows the beautifully clear waters of the Ban Hui River.

Si Phon Don

From the caves, we hitch a ride in a mini-van as far as we can get before transferring for a bus. We make it for a late night and early morning in the small Mekong town of Savannahket before continuing onward. The following evening, we are floating across the Mekong in darkness to the Four Thousand Islands. The darkness yields only for several bright stars and a few lights on Don Det, the island of our destination. The mysticism quickly disappears as we crawl past Vang Vien-ish dreadlocked college kids to find the first seven guesthouses are full. Eventually, we find one with a view over the water that we won't truly discover until morning. In the morning, we also discover the entire island is run by 11-year-old girls. Every guesthouse, every restaurant. You want something, ask the pre-teen. Even happy pizza.

We ride bikes to more rural parts of the island, take a boat to see the irawaddy dolphins, the only freshwater dolphins in the world. They look more like manatees than dolphins. No bottle nose. More elephant-face without the trunk. We ride bikes to a massive waterfall, where the mighty Mekong squeezes between rock cliffs. Water pours forth on three sides. We swim in a small pool below the falls, careful of the current. The high water line is twenty feet over our heads. I can only imagine.

Then, we head for Cambodia and the end of our trip.

I leave thoroughly puzzled by Laos. On the one hand, it is a charming country. Small and quiet. Shaped like Italy with her boots off. Feels like it too. Smiling people offering greetings of saibaidee as we pass, always open for laughter and conversation. On the other hand, their beer and bootleg are named after their country. And for good reason, given the number of locals I have seen licking lao-lao shot after shot. There is clearly an underside to it. Tourism for sex and drugs. Was this created half a century ago by the GI presence in Vietnam? Or did it exist long before that?

Cracking My Head Open: Ten Days of Silence and Meditation

Cracking My Head Open: Ten Days of Silence and Meditation

The Thai woman with the Tennessee husband informs us the train is running two hours late. We will arrive in Chiang Mai at 9:30 .m., the time Phra Chaibodin told us to arrive at Wat Ram Poeng, a half hour's ride from the train station I expect. No time for the leisurely breakfast among a waking Chiang Mai that I had imagined. Straight to Wat Ram Poeng it is. Straight to silence.

When we spoke with Phra Chaibodin on the phone from Bangalore for all of four minutes, he asked us if we had any questions. His English was broken and he laughed at us, playfully mocking our questioning minds with a “knowing, knowing, knowing.” He told us to be here on February 22^nd at 9:30 a.m. I didn't ask why. Instead I asked about the weather three times before he understood. “It's Thailand,” he said. “Nice weather. Sometimes warm, sometimes cold.” I would later consult the Internet to see if I should include thermal underwear in my repertoire of all-white clothing. Ultimately, I decided against it.

I reach for the Thai map I printed from the Wat Ram Poeng website. We quickly find a man with a red truck with bench seats in the bed under a canopy—a Thai shared taxi. The driver knows Wat Ram Poeng. As we climb in the back, his seven-year-old daughter climbs up front with him. We watch the morning haze of Chiang Mai go by. It is less mountainous than I expected. More urban. I guess that is why they call this part of Thailand “hill country” and not “mountain country.”

It is close to 10:30 when the truck drops us inside the gate of Wat Ram Poeng. I expected a peaceful temple in the hills. This can't be more than 500 meters from the main road. We stumble out of the bed of the truck with bent backs, bumping the tops of our backpacks on the low roof. There are several signs in Thai and we wander around clumsily with our packs until we find a few suitcases outside of the “Foreign Meditation Office.”

Phra Chaibodin is a slight man. No more than 5 foot 2. Maybe 110 pounds. He wears monks' robes of burnt orange and hair that was probably shaved a month ago. He seems unsurprised to see us, unmoved even. He sits with two men and a woman before him—two Ukrainians and a short balding man, Italian perhaps. He sits us down outside his office and asks us to read the pamphlet we had already copied off of the website and read several times. I skim it, re-reading the daily schedule. 4 a.m. wake up to alarm clock or bell rings. Practice. Approximately 6:30 a.m., breakfast. If you are late, you will not eat, as prayers are said before every meal. After breakfast, clean outside of foreign meditators' area. Practice. Approximately 10:30 a.m., lunch. After lunch, clean room and sweep balcony area. Practice until reporting. Reporting is not time for socializing. Practice. 5:50 p.m., evening hot drink. Practice. 10 pm, can begin sleeping. This would be the schedule of my life for the next ten days. The most schedule and routine I've had in over a year.

The sign on the office is two 8.5 x 11 inch pages with computer type. The first says, "Open 8 am to 5 pm." The second says, "10:30 am - 12:00 pm, closed for lunch." A clock inside says 10:48. Our cell phone says 10:50. I wonder if we will miss lunch, but try to keep my attention on what I am reading. I read the translations of the opening and closing ceremonies. We wait. My wondering turns to worry when it is 11:15. We skipped breakfast in our haste to get here. No possibly we will miss lunch. And no dinner? Uh oh. That's a far cry from the six meals a day Annette and I agreed we would eat to get an appropriate sampling of all of the deliciousness and intricacies of Thai cuisine. I read the packet again while I wait.

The Teaching and Practice at Wat Tapotaram (Rampoeng) is based on the Four Foundations of Mindfulness:
1. Contemplation of the Body
2. Contemplation of the Feelings
3. Contemplation of the Mind (Thought)
4. Contemplation of Objects of the Mind

I try to remember the rules: Wear clean white clothing at all times, even when sleeping. Keep our rooms tidy so as not to destroy living creatures. Don't talk about our personal experience and don't compare our practice with others. Don't mix this practice with other techniques. Only smoke in our rooms, if we insist on continuing this filthy habit. No touching others. No sun-bathing. Lock the door when sleeping and bathing. No visitors in our rooms, especially of the opposite sex. No socializing or gossiping. No reading, including Buddhist books. No writing. No electronics or computers. No telephone. No leaving the monastery without permission. No sleeping. Turn off all electrical appliances when not in use, including lights and fans. Pay respect to the teacher at the end of the course; make a donation. Don't damage temple property. Return what you borrow. Pay for what you break. Join the Buddha Day ceremony by walking around the pagoda three times to worship the triple gem at 8 pm on Buddha Day.

I wonder how these rules came about. Some seem rather random. Was somebody sunbathing on their meditation retreat? Is that why they had to add that one into the pamphlet? I am impatient, but do my best not to be. After an eternal ten minutes Phra Chaibodin calls Annette and I to the chairs in front of his desk then disappears outside.

When he returins, he gives us two forms to complete—an application form and a daily reporting form. I answer the one question on the application, “Why are you doing this meditation retreat?” by quoting the Oracle of Delphi, “know thyself.” I find two passport photos we took somewhere in Ghana to accompany the forms. He gives me a key with an elephant on the key chain—M 1. Annette gets W13. He gives us each a pillow and a sheet. Then he gives us each one white blanket and one thick brown wool one, reciting “sometimes warm, sometimes cold,” as if it is a mantra as he places the blankets in our arms on top of the pillow and sheets. He asks the short balding man to show me to my room. I find it simple, spotless and cool. I change into wrinkled but clean white, down to my new tighty-whiteys from a Bangkok market.

I report back to the Foreign Meditation Office to wait some more before six of us are gathered in silence. Phra Chaibodin slips on his flip flops and shows us to the store and the cafeteria. We walk past Westerners dressed in white, silent, stepping slowly, eyes on the ground in front of them. It feels like an insane asylum. Meditators, patients, both exist on the edges of most of our daily realities.

Phra Chaibodin shows us to a covered outdoor area with huge wooden tables in rows and plastic chairs. The tables are cross-sections of a tree, ten feet long, three feet across. At the end of the first row is a small plastic basket with several stiffly laminated sheets of paper inside. He hands them to a few of us. “This is Thai. This is English. This is Pali,” Phra Chaibodin says abruptly. It is a prayer that begins, "We must contemplate the food before eating it." “Tell the old man,” he says to me. “He doesn't understand my English.” I repeat Phra Chaibodin's explanation. “So, this is English?” the man asks. “Yes. And this is Thai. And this is Pali?” I repeat before looking up. The old man has a sarcastic grin on his face. He understands just fine. Understood the first time. He is from California, maybe in his early sixties. He has freckles on the back of his neck that remind me of Tim Cannon, one of my best high school friends.

We are shown to a stack of round metal plates with five separate compartments. There is a table with a tray of rice covered by a thin white scarf and two huge bowls. Both have mushrooms, tofu, veggies and sauce. Both are delicious. We are told to eat mindfully, not to take more than we can eat, that it's OK to go back for seconds, to sit down when we drink, and after noon, only to eat yogurt without fruit in it. And we should buy one now while the store is open just in case we are hungry this evening after practice at ten. I have many questions, but I don't ask them. I just notice my desire to know. Instead, I do as I am told and buy a yogurt for five baht.

“Come back at 2 p.m.,” Phra Chaibodin tells us. “Rest now.” So, I go to my room, make my bed, and lie on top of it on my back. I doze and drool but don't dream. The white Penang-bought timer wakes me at five minutes to two. I splash water on my face and walk roughly to the Foreign Meditation Office scraping my feet on the concrete path. “Waiting. Waiting. Waiting,” Phra Chaibodin says. “One more is coming. Come back at three. Rest now.” So, I go back to my room and lie on top of my bed in a light sleep for another hour before returning to the Foreign Meditation Office. There I am told to read the pamphlet again. I am beginning to sense that this is part of the practice. I read and re-read when I have noticed that my mind is elsewhere. It reminds me of Landmark training, where we were asked to read and re-read until we could “generate” what is written as if we were the author. Like then, I often found myself tuning out most to things I have read many times, my mind dismissing what's on the page as something I already know. Like then, it is after I notice this dismissal and return my mind to the present moment, the words before me, that they become infinitely richer.

Now I notice newly the discussion of practice, the six harmful emotions, each with ts own corresponding image. Restlessness has a meditator with three heads and arrows of motion from head to head to head. Sloth has a slouching meditator in sleep, it seems. Hard to imagine being comfortable enough cross-legged to sleep.

After several minutes, Phra Chaibodin asks us to follow him. He walks us next door past a trickling fountain and a jungle of orchids. My face brushes dangling branches that feel like pine needles. Perhaps they are bodhi tree roots reaching for shifting soil. We walk past a cluster of carefully-removed shoes, adding to them two by two, and through a sliding door. There is a bench on either side of the door before a double french door that is propped open by two sea green porcelain elephants. This is where we go every day for reporting, Phra Chaibodin explains before disappearing inside. He returns to tell us, "Opening ceremony later today."

Then we are shepherded back to his office and asked to give up our cell phones. Our's doesn't have a working SIM card. I hesitantly surrender it, trying to convince myself I won't need the alarm on it. My Malaysian timer has fresh batteries. It will be enough. I take the phone back moments later to turn it off. Might as well have some juice in it when I get it back in ten days.

The Ukrainian couple doesn't give in as easily. He wears a short Mohawk and says he will take the SIM card out and use the phone as his timer. Phra Chaibodin insists he cannot. “It is too easy to use SMS. And not be silent.” They argue quietly, but ultimately the Ukrainian couple gives in and spends seven dollars each at the temple store on a timer with a string for hanging around their necks

He hands us each a tri-fold maroon meditation cushion, maybe one inch thick. The man from California has his own cushion. It is twice the size and pretty, golden stitching in the fabric. Phra Chaibodin makes some remark about that being OK for him because he is an old man. He seems to be a bit brash, kind of hard on the guy. But I keep my thoughts to myself, my mouth shut, my eyes to the ground. Phra Chaibodin measures his office with a few strides and some words in Thai before deciding we should go elsewhere. “Meet around back,” he says, pointing us out. I lead to the left of the building, past what looks to be an arts and crafts area to a big room with a wooden stage, a Buddha at one end, empty tile floor shining most of the way.

“Always start with prostrations,” Phra Chaibodin begins. “Stand on the edge of your cushion. Standing. Standing. Standing. Do like this.” He grabs his robes at his thighs and lifts slowly, moving from his feet to his knees in one motion, toes bending underneath, heels pointing skywards. My knees crash to the mat. The soles of my feet stretch painfully, toes cracking under my weight and the angle. “Kneeling. Kneeling. Kneeling. Touching. Touching. Touching.” He motions for us to place palms against our thighs, mid-way down our femur bones, fingers pointed toward our knees. “Right hand first,” he says. “Lifting, lifting, lifting,” slowly moving his right hand until the back of his thumb presses against his sternum. “Touching. Touching. Touching,” He repeatedly pushes his thumb to his sternum, looking around the room, until he is satisfied we have all followed his instruction. “Now left. Lifting. Lifting. Lifting. Touching. Touching. Touching.” He moves his left palm against his right, fingers pointing up in supplication. “Rising up, rising up, rising up,” he says, moving his hands slowly to his forehead. “Touching. Touching. Touching,” pressing his thumb knuckle between his eyebrows. I look around. We are all following awkwardly. My ankles and toes hurt. I want to adjust them. But I grit my teeth a bit and keep following. “Lowering. Lowering. Lowering.” He says it with three syllables, accenting the middle one. He moves his hands back to his chest. “Touching. Touching. Touching.” Hands pressed to chest. “Lowering. Lowering. Lowering.” He bends towards the floor. “Right hand first. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering.” When the fingertips of his right hand touch the floor, he repeats, “Touching. Touching. Touching.” His hand karate chops the floor in slow motion. “Closing. Closing. Closing,” he says as he touches his right palm to the floor. He then repeats the motion with his left. We follow like shaky-bodied beginners in a yoga class. “Lowering. Lowering. Lowering,” he demonstrates, touching his forehead to the floor. He then walks the room, pointing out that our elbows should be touching the floor. There we wait, like ostriches, butts up, heads down. He returns to his place before us. “Lifting. Lifting. Lifting.” He lifts his head. “Opening. Opening. Opening.” He raises his right hand to his finger tips. “Lifting. Lifting. Lifting.” Right hand to chest. “Touching. Touching. Touching.” Pressing it to his chest. Then he repeats it with his left, rising upright while lifting his left hand. Then it is all repeated two more times. As we push ourselves back up to our feet, a pain shoots through my feet, the release, relief, of a stretch deeper than my feet have ever seen.

Phra Chaibodin is both patient and pushy with us. But I will soon learn that I am those ways myself. “Do this four times every day. After sleeping,” he places his palms together next to his ear, tilts his head and closes his eyes. “After breakfast.” He moves his right hand towards his mouth in an eating motion. “After lunch.” He repeats the motion. “After reporting.” He lifts his right hand next to his mouth and opens and closes it like a hand puppet talking. He quizzes us, ensuring we repeat the four times. When he is satisfied he moves on to teach us walking meditation.

“Always start with prostration. Then walking meditation. Eyes down at 45 degrees. Hands behind your back like this. Left first. Then right. Standing. Standing. Standing. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Right goes thus,” he says, slowly lifting his right foot, moving it six inches forward and placing it on the floor again.. “Left,” he lifts his left foot, Achilles stretched. “Goes,” he moves it forward. “Thus,” placing it six inches in front of his right foot. He asks us to follow. A plane roars above us. “Hearing. Hearing. Hearing. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing.” Then he returns to his feet. “Right goes thus. Left goes thus.” We repeat and follow like second graders. Not quite in unison. I find myself taking big steps. He corrects this gently but firmly, and shows us not to lift our heel first when we step.

As we reach the glass wall at the end of the room, he repeats, “Stopping. Stopping. Stopping. Intending to turn. Intending to turn. Intending to turn.” He rotates ninety degrees on his right heel. “Turning. Turning. Turning.” Following with head, body, left foot, until we are all facing the golden Buddha at the end of the room. Then we do this again, another ninety degrees. “Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. Right goes thus.” Plane flies over head. “Hearing. Hearing. Hearing. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing.”

Mindfulness, it occurs to me, is simply doing one thing at a time. Doing it fully, with complete attention. Fully present. “Thinking. Thinking. Thinking,” I think to myself. Returning to my feet. “Right goes thus. Left goes thus.” He sets the timer for fifteen minutes. We walk, mindfully, slowly, back and forth, back and forth across fifteen feet of tile floor, until the timer beeps.

Then he teaches us the third meditation practice that will fill our lives for the next ten days. “Sitting. Sitting. Sitting.” There is not much instruction here. “Follow your abdomen. Rising. Falling. Rising. Falling.” He teaches us how to sit, kneel, cross our legs, rock back to our butts. Slowly lift left hand from knee. Lifting. Lifting. Lifting. Move it towards abdomen. Moving. Moving. Moving. Rotate it at wrist so palm is facing skyward. Turning. Turning. Turning. Then lower into lap. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering. Then follow with the right hand until it sits in the left palm, thumbs touching at the fingertips. Lifting. Lifting. Lifting. Moving. Moving. Moving. Turning. Turning. Turning. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering. Touching. Touching. Touching. Close eyes. Rising. Falling. Rising. Mostly, though, I look around at the posture of others. Am I doing it right? Is my back straight? Neck bent? Are my legs right? They hurt a bit. I look at my timer. Thirteen minutes left. This is going to be a long ten days.

When our timers go off one after another like popcorn kernels popping. Phra Chaibodin calls us back to his office. There he gives us each a slip of paper and asks us to copy another piece of paper. I am surprised he is asking us to write. I thought it was forbidden. “Namascan Pra Ajahn Supan.” I don't know what it means. Then “Respect Buddha x 3. Respect teacher x 3. Respect translator x 1.” Then “Nam namascar pra ajahn supan. Kalp kun kip.” Then “To translator Kalp kun kip.” And two images. One of the profile of a face, hands in supplication before it. Underneath it is written, “respect.” A second of a face smiling, the word “smile” written underneath it. I leave my questioning mind to its questions and copy the paper as exactly as I can. Since that phone call from Bangalore, it has been clear that knowing has no place here. So, I try to do what I am told, leaving my mind to wonder what or why.

Phra Chaibodin shepherds us next door where we sit and wait. After ten minutes, we are called in for the opening ceremony. Mostly I repeat words I don't understand and forget the translations I read earlier today. It is long, with lots of bowing and kneeling. My knees and back and feet and ankles hurt. But our retreat has officially begun. We practice silently as a group that night until 10:30. I fall asleep lying on my back, hands folded on my chest, in a matter of minutes.

4 a.m. comes quickly. On the train from Bangkok two nights ago, Annette read me a passage from an Osho book we picked up in Kochin. He explains why we wake up at 4 a.m. for practice in ashrams. The world is still asleep, he explains. And so is our mind. So, it is easier to practice then. In my grogginess, I take comfort in these teachings and prostrate and walk and sit with a beginners' mind--short on conceptions, but still thinking, thinking, thinking. The minutes move slowly and the hours move quickly. For long periods while I walk back and forth the sixteen feet of beige tile that is my room, my mind wanders. I think in pictures, like a slide show of the past year. I see a park in Barcelona near the port where we watched skateboarders and try to recall just where in the world and the chronology of our travels that was. It wasn't Africa. Somewhere before that. Not Northern Europe. Somewhere in the south. Croatia? No. Italy? No. Spain? Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. I think about Quim in Roses, Spain. How people call him grandpa for how slowly he drives. How good he was to us. The dinner spread he had waiting for us that first day. And the way he pronounced shitting, as if it starts with the “ch” in cheese. I think about staying in Chinatown in Paris. How exotic that felt. How many Chinatowns we have seen since that first week overseas. Stop thinking. Stopping. Stopping. Stopping. Intending to turn. Intending to turn. Intending to turn. The words spoken silently in my head begin to feel automatic. It seems I have to strain to stay present. I wonder if I am doing it right, if I remembered it right. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing. Sure enough, as I begin to get restless, 6:30 comes.

A bell rings in the distance. A bowl of rice breakfast soup awaits. It gets cold while I wait for everybody to be served. I sip a mug of warm Ovaltine served from a huge pot while I wait. I think of my mom's mantra, “Don't wait with hot food.” I find myself impatient and frustrated while I wait. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing, I remind myself. But prayers are said. I do my best to follow along. I try to eat slowly, make sure I am not the first to finish. I drink the Ovaltine and my water so that I put my spoon down. I follow everybody else, trying not to get caught making eye contact or even watching as I wash my dishes and place them on the rack.

If I remember correctly, after breakfast, I am supposed to go sweep the courtyard outside my room and water the plants if it is not too hot. By the time I get there, there is plenty of activity. A huge bald Asian man is watering the plants. It is hard not to look at him. He must be six foot six. Broad-shouldered. Looks like he plays in the NBA. His head is shaved bald. He's maybe thirty something. Maybe some mix of Chinese and a huge European race—Teutonic perhaps. Reminds me of the way my college ancient history professor, Dr. Harl, used to speak about how the Romans must have felt when fighting the Gauls, the Visigoths or the Teutons—these huge people from the North, a head taller than their opponents. That is how I feel now. So I get out of the way of the hose spray. I find a small feather duster of a broom hanging on a screw by my window and sweep in no particular direction. I focus more on keeping my white pants clean than on sweeping the walkway. I look around. Others have much sturdier brooms, the kind even a fat witch could ride on. But I know not from where they come. Leaves are swept into dust pans and dumped into large plastic buckets that appear and disappear. I just sweep mine into the bushes and wait for eight o'clock, the time Phra Chaibodin told us to meet in his office.

“Follow me.” We follow in silence and confusion. He shows us a building next door and recites the hours it is open. It is marked by a sign in a foreign language with the English word “Library” on it. “If we aren't allowed to read, why would we go here?” I stammer. “To practice,” Annette says. She seems to understand the monk's broken English better than me. He leads us across the road to a thirty-meter-tall stupa. “You can practice here too. If you turn on the lights at night, be sure to turn them off after.” Then the temple. “Open eight o'clock. Close five o'clock. You can practice inside. Take your shoes off. Don't use this entrance; it is only for monks.”

He tells us to meet him at the big tree. There, behind two short fleur-de-lis adorned metal gates that roll to the side is a square pad of moss-covered stone. An altar sits on each of the four sides of a huge bodhi tree wrapped in gold and orange fabric. He directs us to take a straw mat. Tall people should take two. He interrupts the two people clad in white from their meditation, asking them to sit on the other side of the tree. He is teaching here. He sets us on our way in walking meditation and disappears. Right foot thus. Left goes thus. I find out here in the open I am more self-conscious. I compare my walking to those next to me, those on the other side of the tree who I determine are a class ahead of me. I have always looked up to the upperclassmen, looked to see how they do it, to know how I should. Even an action as simple as walking. That is no different now. A cascade of beeps marks the end of our fifteen minutes, each a few seconds from the other. I find the other timers annoy me. I don't yet know the sound of my own timer. I find myself looking at it whenever I hear a timer beep, no matter how far in the distance. When mine goes off, I look to stop it quickly so as not to disturb the others—within two or three beeps—which makes an abrupt transition from meditation to non-meditation, nothing like the smooth and slow motions Phra Chaibodin taught us.

As I sit under the bodhi tree, I notice my fear. Every itch I fear is a mosquito biting. Every movement nearby a snake approaching. Everything that drops from the tree seems it would be painful if it fell on my head. Seems I should flinch. Every buzzing near my ear is a bee poised to sting. When did I become so scared of nature? I wonder. My life is dominated by fear. Literally, nearly every moment, every action is driven by fear. It takes effort to not move when my mind moves me with fear. Inauthentic fear. Not fear for more life. Just fear of what could happen. These insights are the booby prize, I tell myself. For it is still my mind at work. That huge super computer, presumably somewhere between my ears, in my brain. Thinking, processing, working. The true prize, I think, are those moments of no mind. No thinking. Just pure experience. The processor shuts down for a moment or pauses at least. Pure unprocessed experience. This, I imagine, is the state the Buddha lived in. This, I imagine, is enlightenment. Is this the monks experience? Or is it just suffering? And they are simply happy not to be meditating? That serenity, that apparent bliss, perhaps it is the humility that comes with a life of suffering and austerity.

Thinking. Thinking. Thinking, I think to myself and try to find the rising and falling of my abdomen with each inhale and exhale. My back hurts. My legs ache. I straighten my back but it only hurts more. I look at the timer. Seven minutes, twelve seconds. I adjust my legs slightly. My left heel is pinched under my right knee. Seems my foot may fall asleep. Fearing. Fearing. Fearing. Is that an emotion? I try to recall the pamphlet. Weren't there five or six bad emotions? Bad wasn't the word they used. Harmful? Was fear one of them? Or is that just more thinking, thinking, thinking? Can I do permanent damage to my legs or back just sitting? I feel the sun on the side of my face. It feels warm. Birds chirp and alight in the tree above. It is beautiful here. My legs remind me of their discomfort. Or rather my mind does. Agitated, impatient, I look at the timer again. Three minutes twenty seven seconds. Three eternal minutes. I think of Phra Chaibodin. How he insisted we smile, pointing to his own with two blinks, when we talk to the teacher. And how he asked us at the end of meditation, “What is your experience?” preparing us to report to the teacher the evolving answer to this lone question. “Pain and discomfort” was my answer last night. It is no different now. Perhaps I should mention the fear, I wonder. But I think that is just the booby prize, one of those insights along the way. If we stop and savor them too long, we will merely be feeding our mind, which runs counter to what I imagine to be the ultimate goal: enlightenment. The experience of no mind. Where the mind works but we are not attached, not governed, not dictated by it. We just notice it like a babbling brook beside us. I imagine that is what the Buddha found under a tree very much like this one in a posture not unlike my own. But how did he get past the pain? Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Relief.

I turn off the timer and look around. Most of the rest of the group has disappeared. Now there are four of us under the tree. The old man from California. A skinny long-haired kid with glasses, maybe mid-twenties. He reminds me of this kid I went to high school with—Dan Badiak—who I remember to be kind of geeky. But that's all that's in my mental file under “Badiak.” And there is a skinny girl with poofy long hair in a loose braid behind her. Like all women here, she wears a white sabai across her upper torso like the sash of a beauty queen.

I stand, reset my timer to fifteen minutes, start it, drop it in my shirt pocket and begin. Hands at my back. Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Standing. Standing. Standing. The stones feel cold under my bare feet. Glance 45 degrees in front of me. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Don't forget to breath. Intending to walk. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. Slow down. Breathe. Right goes thus. I think about the sweeping this morning, my time here so far. How I have always come to know by reading, by asking, both methods not available to me. How I have made an identity, made a life by being smart. How that is "mental development" in the West, not the kind the pamphlet discusses in its definition of Vipassana insight meditation. Here, that sort of mental activity is the enemy. Back in India in Amma's ashram, I remember seeing a quote that said, "the goal of meditation is to eradicate the mind." Eradicate? That's strong language. Sounds final solution-ish. Extermination. Wipe it out of existence. Can't we just learn to live with it, turn it on and off now and then?

Eventually, 10:30 comes. It sems an eternity. By 9:30, I noticed myself wondering what is for lunch I have known for a long time many of the ways in which my mind uses food. Comfort. Security. Pleasure. Solution to boredom. None of these have anything to do with physical hunger. But here I am again, longing for lunch. Marking my days into convenient little segments, manageable portions bookended by meals. The bell rings, eventually, an eternity past 10:30. And again I find myself sitting with hot food before me, waiting, watching it get cold. I refill my water bottle to lessen the feeling of waiting. I read and re-read the English translation of our prayer, a practice I will find comfort in during these waits.

"We must contemplate the food before eating it. We must not at for pleasure. We must not eat for beauty or attraction. We must not eat gluttonously for physical energy. We eat for ordination. For the possibility of simplicity and peace. We eat to satisfy our hunger for a little while. And not replace it with a feeling of overeating. We eat to make comfort in our body and ease our suffering." I eat slowly, contemplating these words. How much different than my usual diet. But I don't need to eat more than what is given and when it is given. I will grow accustomed to the simplicity of this schedule.

By noon, I am sweeping my balcony and my bedroom. Not much dirt comes. I pee. Then I return to my practice. Prostration. Then walking. I find I am restless. Right goes left. Left goes thus. Wait. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. I came halfway around the world to learn to walk. And sit, I suppose. As I walk, my mind walks too. I think about my father. His walking again after double-knee surgery. The attention paid to every step. The pain. As I walk slowly back and forth across the room, I think about my 92-year-old grandmother. The sense of frustration and accomplishment in every step. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. My mind wanders through a slideshow of images from the past year. The overcast sea air of Ixtaspe in Basque Country. The stone maze of the medina in Fes. The vastness of the Drakensburg stretched out below our camp in South Africa, a slice of what I imagine Ireland to be like with emerald hills and spirits living in every nook and cranny. That first bowl of tom yum upon arrival in Hat Yai, that Southern Thailand border town, that left sweat pouring from my scalp. The sprawling deserted park in Kuala Lumpur. Walking in the Arab-style gardens pushing Dahlia in her stroller in Schwitzegen, Germany. That first ridge we hiked in the Bavarian Alps. The cold turquoise waters of the Konig See. Our little room that felt like a boat in the Tutzing Yacht Club. And those little wheat and sunflower seed crackers Mickey left for us, along with the grapes in the fridge. The red sands outstretched beyond our bright blue scarved-camel guide in the Moroccan Sahara.

Even as the timer beeps and I cross my legs and sit on my cushion on the floor, the inventory of the past year continues. Mostly, I notice the images and move on to the next. No analysis. Sometimes a chain of thoughts follows an image. Sometimes not. Sometimes emotion follows. Sometimes a smile. I think about the smooth stones of that private beach in Hvar, Croatia. And the way Adrien from Belguim made us laugh, with his shaved head and his "Same Same But Different" tank top, and his jokes in our international game of Go Fish. I sent some of those stones home with that yellow backpack my brother gave to me. My mind wanders to what will be waiting for us when we get to my dad's in a month or so. Clothes I forgot I owned. Guidebooks that now seem irrelevant. Gifts I forgot I bought. And I wonder what refrigerators we will find decorated with postcards that struck our fancy enough somewhere along the way, enough to buy and send. I think about what an adventure it was just going to the post office at the beginning of the trip, in a language I didn't understand. How many post offices I have been to since. That, in fact, they are all pretty standardized. I think about the post office in Prague, around the corner from this girl's apartment where we were staying. I want to call her Molly, but I think that is just because she reminds me of my first work-study student I supervised as a staff member at Tulane. Molly was her name. I see ourselves standing outside the front door of what we think to be her building trying to figure out how to call her on our phone with a German SIM card in a Czech country. It took us five tries but eventually we got it. And she was opening the door for us a few moments later. The timer beeps again. It is 3:40 p.m. I slowly make my way up to reporting.

I find the double door closed and a young Thai woman in white with head shaved short waiting. I sit on the side opposite her and look at my feet. There is no back support. I change my position ten times in six minutes. Lean forward. Lean back. Cross legs. Uncross legs. Cross left leg on top. Fold hands. Cross arms. Uncross arms. Look up. Look down. Meanwhile, the woman on the other side of the doorway remains perfectly still in meditation. There are three industrial-sized rolls of toilet paper under a table in front of me. A dozen gallon-sized water bottles are clustered together. Only four seem to have water in them. The others are empty. I notice a box next to the water bottles. Most of the words are in an alphabet I don't know. The only words I recognize are "sensual passion." A man embraces a woman on the box. Are these condoms? I wonder before resolving myself once again to not knowing. Don't monks take a vow of celibacy? Is this some sort of community outreach project? Knowing. Knowing. Knowing.

I look around. The wall above the table has a paper that says, "Please remain silence. Stay discipline." Three feet to the right, a second sign reads, "Please remain silent. Stay discipline." Grammar corrected...partially. There is a water cooler at the end of the veranda. Over it are several more typed signs, taped at the corners. I strain to read the small print on one: "If you want to know who you was in your past life, look at who you are today. If you want to know who you will be in your next life, look at what you are doing today." "The real practice begin after the practice," a second sign says. Two other signs talk about the brilliance of the present--suggesting that it is the purpose of life to live in the present.

The translator opens the door and rings a bell. The young Thai woman enters on her knees, followed by an orange-robed monk. From my seat, I can see them bowing before the Buddha shrine. I can hear the woman talking. It almost sounds like she is crying. I crane my neck to check. But I can't tell. The teacher is laughing. Another monk enters through the glass sliding door to my right and kneels into the room. After five minutes, the bell rings again. The monks leave. I enter the room, kneeling on the carpet. The Buddha before which I am supposed to bow is actually about ten Buddhas. One fat and laughing in half-lotus. One in gold reclining. Another with a floral garland around his neck. I notice a new Buddha each time I lift my head in my three hasty prostrations. Then I walk on my knees behind the Thai woman. We switch places. I bow three times to the teacher while she bows to the Buddhas. Then once to the translator. I remain on my knees and look at the teacher behind his low table. He shuffles papers until he finds my reporting form. I recognize the passport photo we took in Ghana that is stapled to the corner.

"David?" he says, looking over his glasses compassionately.

"Yes," I nod, hands pressed together, middle finger touching my chin.

"How are you today?"

"I'm good," I chuckle.

"How is your experience?"

I recall the description of how to report from the pamphlet. "I practiced seven and a half hours, alternating walking and sitting meditation. I find I am thinking a lot about the past. It is like a slide show of images from the past year. I find it difficult to sit for fifteen minutes. I am impatient and uncomfortable. My back and legs hurt."

The teacher smiles. "That is normal. In the beginning, meditation is very difficult. It is not peaceful and calm. Now practice twenty minutes sitting, twenty minutes walking. Report same time, 4 p.m." He seems to be done with me.

I look at the paper between my palms and recite in a mumble, "Nam namascar pra ajahn supan," bow three times hurriedly. Bow once to the translator, three times to the Buddhas. And waddle out awkwardly backwards on my knees. I grab my water bottle and hurry out the sliding door with a smile. For some reason, I feel better. I walk quietly back to my room. My heels scrape the pavement as I go. I think about Dr. Kerz, the chiropractor back in Metairie who sells Z-coil shoes out of the downstairs of his office. When my back went out at the beginning of this trip he told me we can put a thousand pounds of pressure on our heels sometimes if we step wrong. He talked a lot while he cracked and aligned.

I resume practice under the bodhi tree. But it comes with difficulty. I cannot seem to focus. I can hear every infinite noise around me. Motorbikes passing outside the temple gates. Each flip-flopped step of every monk and nun as they pass. Microphoned teaching and chanting in Thai from the auditorium across the footpath. It sounds like every window there is open. The buzz of the cicadas. It sounds like a broken fan belt on a car. More whirring and screeching than buzzing. A bell ringing on the grounds for some unknown reason. A cacophony of dogs howling wildly after every gong. The scurrying feet of tiny lizards rustling across dried leaves piled high above broken tiles in the corner. The dropping of fruits and nuts to the stones. Birds celebrating happy hour in the branches above with loud chatter. Two squirrels rattling through the branches as one gives chase, raining down fresh droppings from the tree with a pitter-patter.

As I try to sit in meditation, I cannot find my breath or my thoughts. It is all frenetic inside my mind. A squirrel above sounds a repetitive croaking. I presume it is a warning of nearby danger, me perhaps. After ten minutes of frustrating meditation, I slowly lift my curious eyes skyward. Twenty feet up in the primary branching of the tree trunk is a white owl. I look again carefully in the fading twilight to make sure it is not a cat, stuck, howling persistently for help. It's call is steady. It's head moves around it's body as only an owl's can. I give up on my meditation, uncrossing my legs for a more comfortable position. The owl flies to another branch and back to its original spot in complete silence. But the owl outsits me. After half an hour, I am restless. The bugs seem to be biting for real this time. The air is cooling. It is dark. I wander past sinks filled with mushrooms to find a huge pot of warm soy milk. I welcome the warmth and the break it provides. I sit and silently sip soy milk.

I reluctantly return to my room to continue practice. Right foot thus. Left foot thus. I want to scream. I want to run. I wonder what Wat Ram Poeng would do if I ran through the grounds shouting and screaming. I wonder in silence. I begin to write blog entries in my head.

"When we left, people said it was good we were doing this trip now, while our knees are good and our backs are strong. Nowhere have we needed good knees and a strong back more than here." Or maybe I start is as Charles Dickens did: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." What a cliche way to start a book. Not in the middle of the action, in the present. Just in a sweeping general statement. But I suppose it only became cliche long after Dickens wrote it, and millions read it, quoted it, taught it in classrooms across continents.

Stopping. Stopping. Stopping. Intending to turn. Intending to turn. Intending to turn. Turning. Turning. Turning. My eyes move from the sprayer next to the toilet, follow the lines along the tile edges of the bathroom wall, pass the edge of the sink, the door frame, the crack in the white plaster wall, the floor tiles in front of me. Intending to walk. I hear oil bubbling in a pan next door, just outside the Wat gates. Food is dropped into the pan. Intending to wok. Intending to wok. I smile and laugh quietly to myself. Wokking. Wokking. Wokking. Right foot thus. Left foot thus. If my eyes shou be at a 45 degree angle, that means I should look at the floor about six feet in front of me. Calculating. Calculating. Calculating. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Knowing. Knowing. Knowing. My mind wanders. Any place but here. My mind is fighting me. Making sure I am miserable, it seems, if I am not following its every whim, leaving it in charge, not questioning its authority.

I think about Mandela. His cell on Robben Island was smaller than this room--maybe half this size. I see now how he used this time for mental and spiritual development. It's all one can do to stay sane. Twenty-seven years. Or some ridiculously long time like that. I think about the movie we watched ten days ago on TV in Munnar. 127 hours--about the guy who gets stuck in a canyon for five days, a rock pinching his arm. Ultimately, he cuts his arm off and rappels and walks bloodily to safety. I think about the time he spent--five days--stuck in the same place with his mind and only that which is in arm's reach. Trying to stay sane. Trying to survive. Through dreams, pain, mental deception, desires for water, for company, for sex. Thinking through every step that got him here in the most intricate detail. An entire life flashing before our eyes in a slow motion slideshow. The slowest, most intense roller coaster ride ever. A really long, slow acid trip.

I don't need to practice any more. Anything but practice. Maybe that sausage pizza I grew up loving from Four Brothers. They billed themselves as a family restaurant. Or something sweet. Anything sweet. I recall the advice on the package of the Philosopher's Stones--the truffles we bought in Amsterdam. The advice there was in case of a bad trip, change scenery. Go outside. Do something else. So, I heed the advice and go for a walk.

In the cement barrels beside the gated entrance to the foreign men's quarters are several lily pads. A purple water lily is nearly closed. A bright pink lotus is just opening. A night lotus? I wonder to myself. Where is Annette? I wonder. My mind moves to get her and show her this lotus that only seems to open at night. What a miracle! Instead, I walk. A cat crouches. Then pounces. Then bats its hands together. It repeats its motions approximately. My mind decides the cat is chasing a cricket I cannot see. It occurs to me that every creature in the monastery is practicing meditation. The owl is doing its owl rituals. The cat. The cricket. The night lotus. All practicing meditation. Each creature being itself. I feel a sense of peace, like a cool blanket wrapped around me after the frenetic heat of the afternoon sun has passed.

I return to my room to find it is not yet 7 p.m. I am not allowed to sleep until ten. So, I go back to practicing. As I fold my hands behind my back, left palm grasping my right wrist, I feel tightness in my right trapezius muscle. Almost like I strained it. I wonder if it is from the Thai massage we got in Bangkok across the street from the train station while we awaited our departure. Perhaps it is the tension from meditation. That I am not relaxing my shoulders, but sitting and walking for hours with tensed shoulders, unconsciously. Right goes thus. Left goes thus.

By 9 p.m., I cannot practice anymore. My feet hurt from walking. My back hurts from sitting and walking. My shoulders hurt for some reason or another. Suffering, that's my experience. That is what I will report tomorrow. Pain, anxiety, discomfort, impatience. Life is suffering. I resolve to sit in meditation for another twenty minutes. I look again for my breath. I straighten my back. Inhale. Exhale. The breath feels cool, like a thin silk thread, a golden thread. I can feel my breath on my upper lip. I delight in its discovery. Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It feels like my chest has opened, the thread of my breath is spinning thicker with each inhale. The pain in my back and legs has disappeared. For now, all there is is my breath, that mysterious power within us. Like the ocean's tide, rising, falling, rising. I think about the safety and comfort I found as a child sleeping on my father's belly while he napped sitting up on the couch. I could hear his heartbeat, ear to his chest. My whole body would slowly rise, slowly fall with each breath of his. I can think of no better place on earth—the love, acceptance, peace. In those moments, everything was right in the world. Nothing wrong. Perfect. Love. Acceptance. Inhale. Rising. Exhale. Falling. I find those naps on my father's stomach in my own breath.

But as quickly as it appears, it disappears. I begin to feel light-headed. I realize I have been breathing quickly and deeply for several minutes, delighting in the discovery of my breath. I look at the timer. 3:58. Pain shoots through my upper right thigh. My back is stiff on both sides of my spine, pelvis to shoulder blades. I close my eyes and try to find my way back to my breath. I look for the rising and falling of my abdomen, but I can't find it. I open my eyes and look down. It is, in fact, still rising and falling. I follow it several times. Rising, falling, rising, falling. It is faint, my mind far away. But it is there. I suffer through the next three minutes, silently celebrating the timer's beeps. Opening my eyes with relief to see the timer flashing bright green and blue as it beeps. I turn it off and immediately lay down on the bed. I cross my legs, one at a time, to crack my back. I manage to turn the lights off and get my white pants off before sleep descends. I sleep on my back, arms folded over my chest for the second night in a row.

My alarm beeps in time for me to stumble to the bathroom and empty my bladder before the 4 a.m. monastery bell rings. My mind is still asleep as I begin prostrations and walking meditation. Slowly. Yawning. Yawning. Yawning. It is quiet outside. And dark. As I sit cross-legged, I find my breath easily, slowly. Rising, falling, rising, falling, rising. Last night's pain has disappeared for the moment. This morning there is only peace. Everything seems quieter. I wonder if my mind has a limited amount of thoughts. If, eventually, it will simply empty out, play everything on the reel, just run out of virtual memory like our little laptop computer, and shut down. Leaving me in peace and stillness. I ponder the workings of my mind dispassionately, distantly.

Perhaps this is what they mean by insight meditation. Perhaps I am beginning to fulfill my purpose as I wrote on the application that first day in the Foreign Meditation Office—know thyself. What else do you write in a world where knowing is not the objective but the object in the way that you have to go through to get to the other side?

“I am not my friend,” I think to myself. Our godson, Sean, in Arlington, Texas said it first anytime he was upset with somebody. I always thought he meant, “You are not my friend.” Annette and I have quoted him often to bring levity to some argument or another over the last year. But perhaps little Sean is in fact a wise sage, an old spirit, like the child Dalai Lama discovered in a remote village when he is just a boy. I am not my friend. Ego is I in Latin. My ego, my thinking mind, my wandering emotion is not my friend. Annette will get a kick out of that, I think to myself. I have to be a shepherd with my mind, patient, forgiving, yet firm. It's like my breath. If I focus too much I find I am forcing it. If I let it be and just notice it, I can follow it. It's like Sifu used to teach us in tai chi. When we make a fist, pretend we are holding a butterfly. If we squeeze, we kill it. If we open our hand, it flies away. My mind is like that butterfly. Loose but firm.

I can hear the sounds of the monastery more clearly while I sit and walk. An occasional sneeze. Pissing next door. Toilet flushing. Timer beeping. Monastery bell ringing. Dogs howling. Birds waking. “Biltong. Biltong,” one calls, pulling my mind to the jerky of the same name in South Africa. After the birds, I can begin to hear the planes. A belch from somebody nearby. It seems too frequent and too loud to be healthy. What about meditation make him belch, I wonder. A cat meows like a baby crying as it wanders by my window, surely in search of a treat. The beep-beep-beep of my timer.

I begin unpacking my bag, washing my face, drinking more water, peeing again only a little bit to make the time go by while I wait for the breakfast bell. But nothing makes the time go by. I had no idea a minute could be such an eternity. I hear a quiet dinging, which is enough for me. I soon find myself at breakfast waiting for the food to come out. What trick did my mind just play on me? Was I the only person who heard that dinging? Am I crazy? Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. That is the real breakfast bell. I recognize the pattern and the volume. Several slow rings, each sounds like it will be the last. Then another. Then several fast rings, right on top of each other. Then slow again, letting the vibrations echo out to the main road before the bell is struck again. Surely, it is somebody's mindfulness training. Sure enough, people in white pour forth in two separate lines. I see Annette among them, huddled in all her layers, black City Year fleece hat pulled down over her ears. She moves slowly, seems at peace, even at this early hour. I know her as a night person. I wonder if she got up at four. I wonder if this is as hard for her as it is for me. I wonder about the others too. Are they practicing all these hours, or reading, writing, sleeping or taking part in other forbidden activities?

It is light by the time breakfast is finished. This morning's hot drink is Strawberry Quik. I recognize the flavor and color from childhood. It was warm and welcoming. It stays in my mind when I return to clean up outside my quarters. I use the toilet first. It is nice and leisurely, shitting with no place to go, nothing to do. It's familiar, safe. Just me and my thoughts. I flush and go outside to discover people are sweeping but nobody is watering. So I go for the hose, turn on the water, and pour it onto the roots of plants in all directions as far as the hose can reach. Then I head for the bodhi tree, timer, water bottle and maroon meditation mat in hand.

A woman is watering plants there. Dan Badiak and the girl with the braid are already there. Anticipating the sun, I place my stuff on the far side of the tree. Then prostrations. Then walking meditation. Start timer. Left hand behind back. Right hand behind back. Right wrist inside of left thumb and index finger. Standing. Standing. Standing. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Intending to walk. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. “I am lonesome and afraid. So alone and afraid.” I don't know who sings the song. It plays slowly in my head. I think about great songwriters. John Prine. Townes Van Zandt. And my oldest brother who introduced me to his music. The “funny brudder,” as Alima dubbed Chris years ago. With his acoustic guitar, he always sang a soft song. I think about my other brother, Jay, the mountain-climbing brother. He climbs mountains for fun and guides people up them and back down safely for a living. Mountains much like this mental Everest I am climbing now, solo. And the poetry he introduced me to. Poetry for mountain climbing. I think about Shel Silverstein's The Perfect High about the search of Gimmesome Roy. His ears and toes freeze off as he scales peaks no man could climb only to find a hermit cat way up in Nepal who tells him the perfect high is within himself. And that Oriah Mountain Dreamer poem about being there for the children after a sleepless night amidst your own pain, suffering and loneliness.

Vipassana, I wonder. Was this the actual teaching of the Buddha? His actual path to enlightenment? Was it all as simple as right goes thus, left goes thus, rising and falling? How were his teachings transmitted? I should read Siddhartha again, I decide. My eyes wander to watch a leaf flutter from the tree. It's shadow looks like a butterfly as it falls. I edit a previous revelation. In the mountains of Munnar, I discovered beauty is only in the present moment. I now realize it is always in the present moment.

Trees, I think to myself. Isaac Newton discovered gravity. Buddha found enlightenment. Adam found original sin. What will I find? And what will I tell others? Would I recommend this experience? Yes, but it is hard. Perhaps one of the hardest things I have ever done. But Bert back in Hampi said the first three days are the hardest. I picture a bass player in a diaper and a funk beat. “I've got to get over the hump.” If you are going to do a silent meditation retreat, go somewhere the food is good.

I walk. I sit. I walk some more. I sit some more. By 10:25, I stop and wait for lunch. I pull up a chair facing the stupa. I now understand that men and women should sit separately here. And this seems to be the men's area. I wait and watch. A squirrel drops from a tree to a short papaya tree with a clamor. A cat approaches, looking to pounce. Scrambling. Growling. Screeching. The squirrel is back up the big tree. The cat hangs on a branch six feet off the ground for a while before giving up. Lunch is many combinations of tofu, mushrooms and sauce with rice. I eat it voraciously and completely until all that is left is the short skin of a banana. In my hand, the peel looks like five yellow petals of some exotic flower.

I clean my plate and return to my quarters to find the plants are being watered again. This time by the short, balding, Greek/Italian man. I see the Mohawked Ukrainian man leaning close to a leaf, like it is whispering to him. He rubs it between his fingers. “When it begins to turn yellow, it is too much water.”

“Hmmmph,” I wonder silently to myself. “Was that worth breaking the silence for?” I appreciate this little tidbit of botanical wisdom. And I feel a sense of pride in not being the one who spoke. So, I sweep my room thoroughly and pridefully.

I struggle through the afternoon. It is hot, which adds to my restlessness. And my back and legs hurt. I stop at 3:45 to shower and change my clothes before reporting, only to discover my underwear isn't as white as it was. I try to recall farting, but for once in my life, I can't. I soak them in the sink with my dirty socks and some of the washing powder Annette bought in Bangkok. There is a small stain on the butt of my pants, smaller than a dime. I wear my long shirt and hope that nobody will notice.

By 4 p.m., I stumble mindlessly to reporting. Past the orchids and foundtains and shoes to the bench inside the sliding glass doors. There monks wait. And two women in white. I wait and I wait. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Phra Chaibodin appears, instructs a woman to my left, and disappears again.

I kneel in the doorway, bow to the Buddha, trying not to stick my butt out. I look at the Buddha in straight-backed meditation before touching my forehead to the floor between my hands. When I am done with my prostrations, the teacher looks at me, waiting. “Namascar pra ajahn supan,” I mumble, not sure if it is the right time.

“David,” he says with a smile. “How are you today?”

“I am OK,” I respond with a smile humbled by suffering.

“How is your experience?”

“I practiced nine hours, alternating twenty minutes walking, twenty minutes sitting. It was painful.” I speak to the translator. “A lot of discomfort, restlessness and pain, especially in my legs and lower back. But there are moments of peacefulness. I found my breath and that helps the pain disappear.”

The translator translates. The teacher speaks to the translator in Thai, I presume.

“Are you following your breath or the rising and falling of your abdomen?” the translator asks. The teacher awaits a response.

“The abdomen,” I answer, knowing it is the right one. Knowing, in fact, I have been following both at different times in my practice.

“Good,” the teacher responds. “Back pain is not your pain.” He laughs. “You are learning life is suffering. You are learning about imperfection. And that everything is impermanent. Practice 25 minutes sitting, 25 minutes walking. Try ten hours.”s

“Ok. I will try.”

His soft bell rings. I prostate. “Kalp Kun Kip,” I say twice and hurry out.

“If it isn't my pain, then whose is it?” I think sarcastically to myself as I walk out. “Is it bad karma I am burning?” I ponder over a luke warm glass of evening Ovaltine. But even with these few words, I am refreshed. I take a second glass of Ovaltine before deciding to return to my practice before the last of the daylight fades.

While I am washing my mug outside of a window filled with chanting nuns, a man approaches. I have seen him before. He is white, in his late thirties. Shaved head. Big nose. Reminds me of Aaron from my tai chi class a decade ago. He played sitar and complained about teaching remedial freshman writing at the University of New Orleans. “Do you know what day it is?” he asks. I nod. “Friday.” My Malaysian timer tells me what day it is. I wonder if that was worth breaking the silence. Perhaps Friday will be the only word I speak other than reporting during my time here. “Thanks,” the man says. He seems relieved. After tomorrow, I will never see him again.

I return to practice at the bodhi tree until the combination of mosquitoes and darkness sends me back to my room. Somehow the teacher's words make the practice easier. It doesn't matter whose pain it is in my back. It brings me comfort to know I am neither the cause nor the solution for it. It, too, is impermanent. Same with my legs. As I sit, I begin to notice that my legs hurt the most after I look at the timer. My restless mind is the source of my pain.

As I walk, the images continue. But they go further back. This time, I am sitting at my mother's desk, looking at her in her bed. It is the moment of her death. It is like I am there, in the present. Tears well in my eyes. But the tears are more than just that moment. Death itself has no sadness. Sadness is in the grieving that follows. And all the sadness that losing one's mother represents. The safety of it. The stalwart heavyweight who was uncompromisingly in my corner at all times, even when she strongly disagreed with me. All of that is in the sadness. It takes time to find your feet again when a heavyweight like that leaves. You have to learn to walk again. Learn to sit again. I stop on my right foot for a moment to notice the sadness. It may be about the past. But this sadness right here is in the present. I relish it for a moment. Sometimes the experience of deep emotion feels like tapping into some divine spring. It matters not whether it is happiness or sadness, just that it flows. There is joy and peace in the mere fact that it is flowing.

By 9 p.m., my practice is overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness and emptiness. My back hurts. My legs hurt. I wonder if I am going to make it through ten days of this. I lie on the bed and count ten days off with my fingers. Was the opening ceremony at the beginning or the end of the first day? Does ten days of meditation actually take eleven days? That makes this either day 3 or day 4. I think about how many days are left on our Thailand visas. If this is day 3, we will be leaving here on the last day of validity of our visa. In that case, we will overstay our visa. Presumably, that will cost us, 500 baht per person, maybe the guidebook said. It occurs to me to grab the book from my bag, to double-check. Instead, I calculate how many dollars 500 baht it. About 16 dollars and 50 cents. I calculate the says again, etching them into the prison walls of mind. Crossing out the first three. No matter how I count it, I am here until the end of next week. I lie in bed with my clothes on waiting for ten o'clock. I doze and wake again before it comes. I wring out my underwear and socks and hang them on the shower curtain rod. With a little scrubbing, the underwear looks clean. I wonder if that is a mirage of wetness. We will see. Perhaps I have discovered my innate ability to hand wash my own clothes. After a year of asking Annette to wash my clothes because I can never seem to be able to get the stains out. Hummph. A little scrubbing and mindfulness is all it takes, I think to myself as I fall asleep.

4 a.m. comes early and dark and cold this morning. I wake up sad and scared. Startled out of a dream that Ms. Annie, my mother-in-law died. We were planning her funeral, and of course, she was there helping us plan. Only in dreams are people dead but still living, even though something in you knows they're dead. As I meditate, I emerge from sadness to stillness. It is peaceful and deep. I follow the natural rising and falling of my abdomen. Slow. Without labor. Peaceful. I hear the first birds of the morning take over from the dogs howling on the night shift. The transition is slow, like the dawn. Until one moment there are no longer signs of darkness. It is clearly light. No more howling dogs. Just chirping birds. I practice in my room until 6:48 a.m., resolved to wait until I hear the bell and the creaking doors and locking padlocks of my neighbors before I emerge for breakfast. It is cold this morning. I add a blue long sleeve shirt under my white and a red Crested Butte Avalanche Center skull cap.

There's noodles in the soup this morning. And slices of pork. No warm drinks. But I am able to follow along fairly smoothly as we chant the prayers before eating. I eat mindfully. I wash my dish mindfully. I shit mindfully. I flush mindfully. I wash my hands mindfully. I watch to discover from where the witches' broom comes, mindfully. They are behind the building next door to mine. And sure enough, there is one there for me. Sweeping. Sweeping. Sweeping. Mindfully. I start where there are the most leaves. I think about my dad, how we used to make fun of him for the Zen of leaf-raking on a windy day. But I am beginning to understand. While sweeping can be rewarding, I no longer sweep to create a pile of dirt and leaves, a clean surface behind it. I just sweep to sweep. Slowly. Mindfully. Sweeping. Sweeping. Sweeping. My dad would like it here, lover of brown rice and broccoli and yard work that he is. We should start calling 215 West View Drive “the monastery.” And the people we have seen all over the world sweeping little patches of dirt. Perhaps they were on to something. Perhaps they discovered the meditation of sweeping. Sweeping. Sweeping. Sweeping. Others help me sweep the piles into dustpans and bins silently. How much easier the world would be, I think to myself, if we were all to remain silent. Speaking is not required for communication. And so often our words are superfluous, unnecessary. If only we all had the discipline of silence.

I return to the bodhi tree and slip my sandals off at the gate. The old nun is watering again. The birds seem to be welcoming me with their songs. The nun has swept the stones clean of leaves and tree droppings. I watch her for a moment. What seemed like a wild space when I first stepped here is actually meticulously maintained. She dusts the gold Buddhas every morning. Waters each plant according to its need, a need she has become closely acquainted with over years of this morning mindfulness practice, I imagine. I am sure she even knows the needs of each plant as they change with the season. The tree. The orchids. The ferns. A blend of orange, yellow and white candle wax coats the altar below a gold walking Buddha. He must be doing walking meditation. Then, I suppose, anything the Buddha does is meditation. Four burnt incense sticks point from the altar towards his face in blessing. I inhale deeply, slowly. It is beautiful here. It is beautiful now.

I unfold my mat and stand on its edge, toes pointed across it toward the bodhi tree. Standing. Standing. Standing. I recite these words to myself, taking a full relaxed breath with each word. I grab my pants half way down the thighs and pull up. For monks, I suppose, this keeps them from getting their robes caught underneath them. For me, it is just what I was told to do. It helps keep my whites white, I imagine. Kneeling. Kneeling. Kneeling. My toes bend underneath, my knees smoothly falling to rest on the mat. My palms rest on my thighs. I take several slow breaths. I no longer worry about the pain in my feet. It is no longer there.

Lifting. Lifting. Lifting. Slowly, mindfully, I move my right hand to my chest until I can feel the warmth of my thumb against my sternum. Touching. Touching. Touching. Breathing, breathing, breathing, I think as I inhale and exhale slowly. I move my left hand to join my right. Lifting. Lifting. Lifting. As my left hand meets my right, I can feel the heat between my palm. Heat. Strength. Simplicity. Touching. Touching. Touching. I slowly lower my head, moving my chin to my chest. I bend at the waist, as if my torso is a wooden door, my pelvis the hinge. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering. I pronounce each syllable as if it were an epic poem. Slowly. Silently. I feel the coolness and dampness of the stone as the side of my right hand finds it. I hold it there and breathe. Touching. Touching. Touching. I stretch out my fingers and spread them across the moss. Closing. Closing. Closing. I can feel the weight of my upper body on my right arm, in my tricep, in my rear deltoid. I breathe, consciously wanting to stay relaxed. I move my left hand to the ground. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering. Touching. Touching. Touching. My right arm welcomes the support. I stretch my fingers across the stone. Closing. Closing. Closing. I kneel, hands on the ground, eyes on my hands. I breathe. I hear a bird chirp, the spray of water from a hose onto the bushes. It smells like morning dew and fresh flowers, with the coolness of a freshly-stocked cooler at a flower shop. I have only ever set foot in one when buying somebody flowers. It's a sensory paradise and a feeling of humble confidence. I am a thoughtful person, a good person who knows what is important. All in the simple act of buying flowers. I lower my forehead until it touches the cool mossy stone. Lowering. Lowering. Lowering. I feel the blood rush to my head, my nose begin to fill with mucus. Touching. Touching. Touching. One. I do this two more times, as slowly, as mindfully as the first. At the end, I stand and look at my timer. Seven minutes have passed.

I walk and sit in peacefulness wit moments of simple bliss until lunch. After lunch, I indulge myself with a stroll around the Wat grounds. There are more than a dozen varieties of orchid, many of them tied around the trunks of huge trees with wire, seven or eight feet up. Several of the tree are three meters or more across. Each has an altar of some sort around it, a tile or stone circle, some the height of a bench. Like a halo around the trunk. Like the butterfly, not too tight. Plenty of room for the tree to grow. I wander through the monk's quarters for the first time. The trees are perfectly straight, 80 to 100 feet tall. Under each is a concrete pad a few feet of f the ground. Above that hangs an orange mosquito net and an umbrella. Sometimes one of the other. Sometimes both. I wonder how long the monks sit here in meditation that those are needed. Surely longer than 25 minutes. I wonder who the visionary botanist was. Did he or she see this vision a century ago when these trees were planted. Or was it merely a procession of mindful monks, generation after generation listening to the plants' needs and meeting them, creating a world of peace, harmony and beauty attending to the landscape?

I return to my room to sweep and begin more laundry. By the end of my time here, I will have washed every possession I brought, including my sleep sack and backpack. Three items at a time in the cool water of the sink. The floor tiles of my room remain cool as the day heats up. I opt to continue my practice here. Prostration. Prostration. Prostration. Walking meditation. Right goes thus. Left goes thus. There is a cicada in a tree outside my window. No longer a broken fan belt, close up it sounds like a circular saw cutting a pine two by four. Only without the smell of fresh saw dust it creates. Like the cedar chips we used to stuff Arlo's doghouse with as kids. Do insects sleep, I wonder? For a moment, it stops, leaving a beautiful silence. It is a radiating silence, like a snowy Adirondack winter, far more than just the absence of sound. It feels like the presence of beauty. But soon the cicada's circular sawing returns before I can walk across the sixteen feet of tile that now feels hard on my bare feet rather than cool.

I think again about 127 Hours. Five days stuck in a crack. At one point, he flips through his camera to a photo of a girl and unzips his pants. How can somebody consider masturbating at a time like this? He zips his pants up and shakes his head revoltingly, deciding to save his energy. I think about past girlfriends. One worked with the State Department and came to New Orleans for work. We had sex in her nice hotel room. I came first. She masturbated with a smile on her face while I lay in bed beside her. What is your experience, I wonder? Comforting. I find that comforting. Good to know I am not the only one responsible for creating my partner's orgasms.

By 3 p.m. I have found new stains in my underwear. I am beginning to think it is hemmorhoids. Good thing I bought that third pair of white underwear. I wash another three items of laundry and shower. The water is startlingly cold. It shakes me in and out of mindfulness. I manage to wash my hair in short bursts, cowering from the water at times. At times bravely embracing it. Too much time in my mind o consider that bravery. I scrub my underwear before getting dressed again, happy for the break from practice.

I walk slowly to reporting, arrive there at five minutes to four. The doors are shut. I sit on the bench and wait. I follow the rising and falling of my abdomen. Soon, forty minutes have passed. I am impressed by my ability to wait. Well, if I didn't get anything else from this retreat, at least I developed patience, I think to myself.

Eventually, the translator emerges “The teacher is late today. Come back in one hour.”

I use half of it to get my practice up to ten hours for the day. With the other half, I drink warm pumpkin juice. I sit next to Annette at the huge tree-trunk table. She gives me a warm, nervous laugh, which I find comforting. I watch a gecko on my table. He seems as intrigued by me as I am by him. That, or he's trying to hide in broad daylight right in front of my nose. Perhaps in his stillness, he thinks his hiding is successful. Perhaps he doesn't think. He is a gecko. Being a gecko is his meditation.

I return to the office. No teacher. The translator has assumed the teacher's duties. He speaks English very well. It is difficult to detect an accent. His face is pock-marked, like the remnants of bad teenage acne. He is thirty, perhaps. But it is difficult to tell a monk's age, only whether he is young or old. This monk is young. Half European perhaps? Half Thai maybe?

“How are you today?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“How is your practice going?”

I find myself more at ease with him. It feels less formal. “Good. It is getting better. I practiced ten hours. I am finding peace and noticing my suffering.”

“Good,” he responds. “I want to show you a new step for walking meditation. I am going to demonstrate with my hands. Put your hands on the floor like this,” he says, placing his palms flat on the carpet, “so you can follow along. Instead of right and left, now it is just lifting, putting, lifting putting.” With each “lifting,” he lifts his hand, placing it forward on the floor with each “putting.”

I repeat his words and actions. “That's it?”

“Yes. Do you have any questions about anything related to our practice?”

I pause and think. Then laughing, “I've had a million questions over the last few days, but I can't think of any of them right now.”

“OK. One question. How far into the ten days am I?”

“Good question. Today is Saturday. The opening ceremony was the beginning of day one. Reporting marks the end of the day. So, when you leave this room, it will be the beginning of day four. So your ten days will be complete next Saturday.”

“Thank you,” I laugh.

“Any other questions?”

“No.”

“OK. Try thirty minutes at a time. And try to practice for ten and a half hours.”

“Kalp kun kip.” I bow and exit.

I head for the stupa with what's left of the daylight. I march like a Nazi soldier, zealous about the new step. Lifting. Putting. Lifting. Putting. The motions are sharp and abrupt. I circle the stupa, stumbling on unknown ground in the fading light. A monk turns on the lights. Four rows of orange Christmas lights extend from the four corners of the stupa to its pinnacle, illuminating my path. The steps come more easily, but still not smoothly. Lifting pudding. Lifting pudding. WhY7 putting? It sounds too much like pudding? Why not placing? Shouldn't I be placing my foot, not putting it? I argue with myself and my instructions until the timer beeps, glowing blue and green through my pocket in the darkness.

Remembering Phra Chaibodin's instructions, I slip on my shoes and look at the electrical box. There is no switch in sight. Only two chameleons on the white box. They are orange, trying to compensate for the orange light on a white background. But the orange light only makes them look more orange, far darker than the background with which they are supposed to blend. I don't see the switch. The monk that turned it on will turn it off, I decide, and stroll past sleeping dogs and a waking lotus flower to my room.

Again, I find myself struggling to stay awake until 10 p.m.. I compromise. I lie down and turn the lights off at 9:43, telling myself it will take me seventeen minutes to fall asleep. It doesn't.

I wake to another cold morning. The novelty of waking up at 4 a.m. seems to have worn off. I turn off my alarm and lie in bed until the monastery bell rings. In meditation, I fall asleep. Awake again, my mind wanders. I see my dad driving his (later to be mine, later to be my sister's) black Ford Probe on the corners of Underhill Road. Pink Floyd's Have a Cigar is playing loud on the stereo. I am in fifth grade. Next year, we will merge with our neighboring school, providing new girls, new friends and a new social scene for pubescent children. The car smells of the Juicy Fruit gum we are all chewing, my dad's gift to anybody who rode with him. My friend, John Dahlin, is in the front seat, thoroughly impressed by the coolness of my dad. His dad has a road and a farm named after him, owns a drilling company, sleeps in a waterbed, watches satellite television with the Spice Channel, and drives a red Corvette.

As I walk from breakfast, I notice two men on scaffolding at the temple next to my sleeping quarters. They have been there every day, but I never watched them before. The perimeter of the temple is decorated ornately in wood. They are sanding with a four-inch piece of sandpaper. They do this all day. Sanding. Sanding. Sanding. This is there meditation. Meditation creates beauty. Or accesses it at least.

That afternoon at reporting, I can only say that I experience every emotion. Sometimes happiness. Sometimes sadness. Frustration. Anger. Loneliness. Pain. Suffering. Despair. Hope. Peace. It all comes and goes.

“Good,” the teacher responds. “You are learning impermanence. Now practice 35 minutes each. Try eleven hours.”

It seems it doesn't matter what I say. He will always smile “Good” and increase the practice time.

Over the coming days, time will be increased in five minute increments. New steps will be added. “Lifting, putting” becomes “lifting, moving, putting.” Then “heel up, lifting, moving, putting.” “Rising, falling,” becomes “rising, falling, sitting, touching,” with attention turned to acupuncture points in my back, sitting bones and knees. I both rejoice in each new teaching and learn to question, hate and despise them. I experience boredom, tiredness, frustration, pain, happiness, peace, beauty, love, acceptance, calmness, tranquility, suffering, anger, sadness. Like my thoughts, these emotions come and go. I settle into the routine and take joy in the simplicity of it.

On Friday afternoon, I find my hemorrhoids hurting. I stop practice and doze on the bed, butt up. I have stained all of my underwear and washed it clean again multiple times. I strive for eleven hours of practice, 55 minutes at a time. But I cannot do it. I lie there in defeat. I wait for 4 p.m., for reporting. I wait to mark the beginning of the final 24 hours, when I can finally begin to pack my newly-cleaned things into my newly washed bag in the newly organized packing system I have developed in my head over the last ten days. My meditation over the last day has been disappointing. I have been restless as my mind turns more and more toward the future, toward what awaits us on the other side of the temple gates.

At reporting, I discover the closing ceremony is this evening at 6 p.m. I hurry back to my room to pack. No more meditation. The moment I have been waiting for has come sooner than I expected. What a disappointment! I smile through the closing ceremony. My knees and legs and back and feet have learned to be still for the twenty minutes or so of the ceremony. We alternate with several newcomers who are celebrating their opening ceremony. Afterwards, Annette and I go for a long talkative walk. Our silence is gone. Despite my hopes for a final night in the Wat, we pack up. We walk quite a distance, thirty minutes perhaps, before we are able to catch a tuk tuk into Chiang Mai. I find I am thankful for my wife and overwhelmed by the choices before us.