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.

Anticipating the Silence

We found ourselves hurrying through the fabled limestone cliffs and emerald seas of Southern Thailand. Ironic, hurrying to spend ten days in silence, meditation and mindfulness. Hurrying to spend ten days sitting. But that seems to be the world we live in, isn't it?

I had heard about Thailand for years from so many people, but there was one thing my mind didn't process. If that many tourists love it so much, it becomes, well...touristy. While we are tourists for a year and appreaciate some basic tourist infrastructure most times, our brief time in Thailand was one where white people seemed to outnumber Thai people. I don't know what the ideal ratio of tourists to locals is, but I know this was too high.

We stayed below climbers on the cliffs of Krabi. But, for the first time in memory, I wtched rock climbers and my palms didn't get sweaty. Instead, my mind excused my body. I wondered what my brother, the climbing guide, thinks of this climbing scene, this strange mix between the obscene and the serene. Beautiful beaches packed with climbers, ropes dangling, necks craning, crowds gathering. And with only one day to climb and no chin ups completed in the last ten months, my mind preferred for me to sit on the sidelines. After some back and forth about whether to spend our limited time there kayaking or climbing, we opted for a day of deep water soloing--climbing without ropes only to jump (or fall) into the ocean. It is something I have wanted to do for more than a decade, since seeing photos climbers in Arcadia National Park in Maine, the waves of the Atlantic nipping at their heels. I used to read in my brother's climbing magazines about bouldering over Lake Travis in Austin, Texas, dreaming to have such things in my backyard as I sweated in the summer swelter that is New Orleans in August.

There were fifteen of us in all. I was thankful for a European rating system on the climbs, with which I was unfamiliar. This kept me from knowing the objective difficulty of any of the routes. Naturally, as two mostly non-clumbers among climbers, Annette and I were in the weaker third of the group. I wondered if I had chosen a different path in life, would I be spending my two-week vacations on these cliffs and ten months a year in a gym? The water is welcome relief when my forearms burn too much to hang on anymore. And the snorkeling after lunch on an island beach tucked among the cliffs reveals an irrudescent underwater world. Perhaps life could have led me to dream about spending my vacations in the underwater maze of cliffs and coral and sea life along the Andaman Coast. Deep water soloing can be crossed of the bucket list. Perhaps scuba diving should be added.

We are thankful for a tidbit of advice from a young couple from Vancouver. He did a sixty-foot back flip off of the top of a climb and waited outside our guesthouse bathroom while we showered to see if we wanted to split a longtail boat and a taxi back into town. He told us what the Krabi travel agency didn't, a useful bit of travellers' wisdom before we stepped aboard our overnight bus to Bangkok. "Take the train. It's really comfortable. The travel agencies tell you there aren't any seats because they make more money off of putting you on a bus. Go to the train station yourself in Bangkok. There will be tickets."

Thanks to the sore-backed Canuck, we soon found ourselves aboard a sleeper car more comfortable than India, bound for our silent meditation retreat in Chiang Mai. The compartments are spacious. Annette and I get two seats each, eat delicious duck curry and rice, and sleep comfortably, courtesy of Thailand Railways. We are welcomed aboard by the familiar drawl of a long life lived in Tennessee. This good old boy and his Thai wife in their early sixties would be sitting across from us for the next twelve hours. But mostly, Annette and I kept to ourselves and each other. We chuckled as we overheard tid bits of their conversation. We read, played cards, and enjoyed our last day together before ten days of austerity and silence.

Malaysia

The traffic of Kuala Lumpur yields to four-lane highway. It is dark now. The bis is VIP air-conditioned, only three seats across. Each seat is like a lazy boy, complete with footrest. Only in the color, patter and material reserved for airplane economy seats and hotel carpet. Coming from Kerala to Kuala Lumpur feels like we crossed two worlds and landed in Australia. The roads here have bright white lines clearly demarcating lanes. And the cars mostly stay between them and on their side of the road. And there are no cows in the road. In fact, we haven't seen a tuk-tuk since we left India. The road is smooth. Where an Indian tour company falsely advertised "no-jerk" bus rides, the Malaysians deliver. That speaks both to the smoothness of the ride and the lack of hassle.

And then there is the food. Delicious street food at every turn. Noodles are back on the menu. Curries are sweeter. Seafood more present and creative. Shrimp everywhere. And a whole range of soups with light seasonings like lemongrass, green onion and cilantro. The glimmering towers of Kuala Lumpur make it clear Malaysia is first world. And while the city's beautiful parks clearly started with bulldozers not jungle, they are as peaceful as the Petronas Towers are tall. Here one can definitely feel the Asian Tigers' roar.

Shadows of lone mountains start to appear in the darkness outside the bus window, like huge slumbering elephants. Their sides look scarred. In the darkness, it looks to be mining. Sides of mountains lopped off, gaping wounds exposed, the mechanics of industry below. Or perhaps it is merely the limestone cliffs on the Andaman Coast reaching inland to mark our journey north.

We reach Penang abruptly, just after midnight. The bus drops us on the side of the highway. I expected us to be in Georgetown and for it to be a sleepy colonial town. But, we are still a dozen miles from Georgetown, and it is far from sleepy. I object to the price a first taxi driver offers us. In most places, when we walk away, they give chase and take our last price. But he didn't. He disappeared into the night. And it was twenty long minutes before another appeared, at which point I was thankful to pay the same 25 Malaysian ringgat I had refused twenty minutes earlier. The taxi driver like the bus, didn't drop us exactly at our destination. We had to walk around an endless block to find no vacancies at the 75 Travellers Lodge. They sent us next door to an old colonial building with a great wooden stairway, high ceilings and plywood walls. We pay for the room, use the toilet, drop our bags, and head out into what is supposed to be some of the best food in Malaysia.

The sleepy Chinese man at the gate locks us out. He tells us to watch out for Indian purse-snatchers on motorcycles. He tells us their is a food court with live music and lots of choices to our left. And a fat Chinese woman with a stall of great food to our right. We opt for the choices to our left. We just came from the right. As we walk, Annette and I reflect on the recent safety advice we received. It is funny that it is always another race or nationality that is the threat. Our black South African guide from Soweto warned us about the Zimbabweans. The Ghanaians warned us about the Nigerians. Now the Chinese Malaysians warn us about the Indians. The guidebook just warns us about motorcycle purse snatchers, just about everywhere there are motorcycles and concentrations of tourists.

We find the food court is filled with pictures of every type of Asian food imaginable and a token pizza place. Many of the stalls seem to be scrubbing their grills down. We land on a Japanese place with salmon and chicken combination teriyaki plates for the equivalent of $3 U.S. We order two large cold Chang beers, which are equally as expensive as the dinner. We sit in plastic chairs and admire the cheap Chinese lanterns hanging everywhere. Two Malaysian women are drinking at the table to our left. Two Malaysian men are drinking heartily with two tattooed gnarled white guys two tables in front of us. It feels like a mix between a bachelor party and a sad business outing in which each tries to out-drink the other, when despite their bravado, all of them would rather be at home with their wives. There is a stage in the middle with three women singing over a synthesizer. They sing everything from Whitney Houston to the Beatles. It feels like karaoke, but it isn't quite. The girls have long hair, knee high tights or boots and midriff showing. Their outfits are about as coordinated as their dance moves. We can tell an attempt was made on both fronts, but they don't quite match. The mismatch works better with the outfits than the dance moves. Our view of the show is frequently interrupted by two waitresses and a waiter who seem to feel the need to refill our beer glass after every sip. We agree this is either a) an effort to get a tip from us, b) an effort to get us to buy more beer, c) training provided by Indian men in the art of service or d) all of the above. In the end, we still only drink one beer, don't tip, and find the waiters and waitresses more entertaining than the singers/dancers.

We stay past the end of the show. A few minutes after 1, we decide to walk a bit more before heading back to our hotel. We walk past a few posh night clubs that won't let us in because of our outfits. We stroll past a row of bars with mostly empty outdoor seating and drinks overpriced for tourists. We walk past a garage filled with a collection Mercedes Benz covered in an inch of dust. We wander around to the front of the building to discover the spotless shiny showroom, still lit through the floor to ceiling windows despite being closed. We walk back toward our hotel to find three prostitutes of questionable gender on a corner across from the iron gate, trickling fountain, leafy foliage and golden-lit balconies of a classy hotel. By the time we pass the 7-11 (they are everywhere in Malaysia and Thailand!), I have decided we should spend our limited time elsewhere. Since we have less than a week until we have to be in Northern Thailand for our meditation retreat, I would rather spend it on the emerald seas amidst the limestone cliffs of Thailand then the dirty streets and prostitutes of Georgetown.

We wake up in the morning and purchase a ticket to Krabi, Thailand. Last bus leaves at noon. We pack and leave ourselves time to wander around Georgetown in the daylight. I am quickly hit with doubts about the decision to leave so quickly. Food stalls waft deliciousness in all directions. We opt for Chinese tofu and vegetables over rice. I am always amazed at how delicious tofu is in Asia. It sometimes makes me wonder whether it is actually pork, not soy. We walk past temples with monks selling caged birds and incense sticks four inches across and six feet high burning. The whole place smells of smoke. Fires are burning in huge clay ovens outside, cooking something. I don't know what. The temple is elaborate. Carnival-esque in a different sort of way than the Hindu temples. The colors here are all based around red. The roof slopes at the edges.

We wander into an empty temple. Three cups of tea and three sticks of incense sit below a shrine as offerings. The stores next sell all the necessary and unnecessary items for worship. Incense of all sizes. Huge porcelain Buddhas. Urns too big to carry. Flower garlands. Temples in Asia always have these stores outside of them What do we have outside the churches in America? In small towns, the post office. In cities, the liquor store, pharmacy, another church?

Enjoying one of KL's parks.

Georgetown Temple

I wonder if the caged bird is a metaphor for something?

We wander back to the hotel for our van to Thailand, settling on the thought that this was the perfect amount of time in Georgetown. And, perhaps, we will have to come again.

Beauty in Munnar

Tea fields in the mountains.

“They are on their honeymoon.”

“So that explains why he looks like a rock star,” Annette responds.

“And why she has Henna up past her ankles,” I add. “They are headed to Munnar too.”

The bus winds up a narrow road. I figure it is a good sign that the mountain vistas and waterfalls are already beautiful and we are still thirty windy kilometers from Munnar.

We arrive in time for a late lunch. This hill station town that used be a refuge for British colonial authorities from the South India heat is busy with Western tourists and more than its quota of henna-covered Indian honeymooners. It must be a nice honeymoon destination—a mile high in the mountains, a welcome respite from the tropical heat, excitement and attention of an Indian wedding. Most of them, I imagine, are fresh from arranged marriages, regardless of whether or not they used the services of any of the several Internet marriage sites we saw advertised on billboards on today's seven hour journey. Imagine if the honeymoon was a first date. Sure, they interviewed each other and each other's family. And they spent the last week of wedding wonderment and chaos together. And now, all the family is gone. The henna is fading. And here among the tea plantations and the mist, they glimpse at each other for the first time, for the rest of their lives. Do they have butterflies in their stomach? Is it all sex, presuming many of them abstained from ever having it before? Or do they wait? Do they feel the need to establish the groundrules of the marriage, teach each other what works and what doesn't for the other? Or has society already done most of that?

We leave the honeymooners in town as we ride a cold morning auto rickshaw up the mountain. It is 7 a.m. The sun is just beginning to light up the brilliant green rows of tea plants. We pass stalls covered in tarps, not awake yet for the throng of tourists and honeymooners who will undoubtedly arrive in a few hours. We climb, slowly, in third gear, then second gear. The tea plants stretching out around us remind me of the beautiful patterns in the cracked mud after the Katrina floodwaters receded. Annette gathers herself around my arm for heat. As the light begins to touch the tea plants, they seem to glimmer with a hint of purple. The tea plantations continue as we climb. They stop only where the cliff faces become sheer, then resume again on the other side.

We stop as the rickshaw driver shouts, “Squirrel.” Sure enough in the tree is a bear squirrel. It is aptly named, with it's thick black coat and touch of brown on the underside. It reminds me of a adult newfoundland, the only other non-ursa I have mistaken for a bear. We snap some photos and drive on.

“That is the highest tea estate in the world.” The rickshaw driver points across the valley to a mountain with neat rows of green striping it like braids. A path that seems to be only a millimeter in width from our vantage point zig zags its way up the mountain to the estate. I try to count the number of switchbacks, but I am unsuccessful. There are too many. And there is too much else to see.

The auto rickshaw driver stops. “You can walk here to that point. I will pick you up there.” He gestures toward the misty valley. “The road will split. You go right.”

So we set off on foot and start down a path behind a closed stall through the rows of tea plants. “No. That way!” the rickshaw driver hollers, directing us along the road. So, we walk the road, enjoying the heat of the morning sun. Tea rows stretch in all directions, sometimes dark pine green, sometimes lush and almost florescent.

We walk and take pictures and breaths amidst the mountains, valleys and clouds, all arranged brilliantly like a beautiful oil painting, to elicit a mood of tranquility and reverence. We stop in some plastic red chairs placed in the sun for chai. The chai is not very good, but it is warm. And it doesn't make me poop for a change, here on the mountain a long way from a toilet. We walk on past women gathering water and setting up their stalls for the day. We walk past offering calls of “Bread omelette, tea, coffee?” as the views get more profound. We come to a gate where a man stands in orange and asks for fifteen rupees admission fee. I wonder what makes the other side of the gate worth charging admission for, but by the time my mind moves my lips to object, my hand has found thirty rupees for the two of us. Sometimes, you just need to go where the tour leads... and be glad we are the only two people on the tour.

The path starts down a hill and winds around to a point. We have left the state of Kerala. Our feet now rest in the state of Tamil Nadu. We come to a lookout point. The mountain drops off steeply on three sides. I sit on a rock on the point and close my eyes. I can feel the warm rays of the sun on my left forearm. I hear birds chirping, tweeting and whistling. I can hear a stream tumbling down the mountain to my right. And the distant chatter of a group of Indian tourists. I can smell pine and eucalyptus, and what I imagine to be the smell of tea plants. It is all so fresh in the morning, almost a minty quality to it. I can feel my breath slow. I sit for maybe twenty minutes, listening, feeling, smelling. It is that feeling of bliss I experienced after that first hug of Amma's.

As I hear the voices of the Indian tourists winding their way down the hill in our direction, I open my eyes. The valley that stretched out before me is now covered in clouds. I can only see a few peaks popping their heads out across the valley. We slowly and mindfully walk back up the hill. I can feel my breath deepening, my heart beating harder, as we climb. The dampness of sweat arrives on my forehead. Still, I hear the birds. I feel the sun. I smell the forest. We stop to pull two chairs up before two women with a stall and a stove. They are beautiful. We ask for bread omelets. I expect an omelet with toast. But it is, in fact, a bread omelet. Two pieces of bread are cooked right into the omelet. French toast meets omelet. It is delicious.

I reflect on our past few days and the ashram. If the purpose of meditation, perhaps even of life, is to experience and live in God's love, then beauty must be access to it. Here, it is all so beautiful. And yes, it is a beautiful place with great energy, much like Amma's ashram. But I think when you are experiencing God's love, you notice beauty all around you. At least I do. The feeling quickly disappears as the bread omelet is digested, the dahlias in the flower garden have been oggled, and we are squarely in the bustle of Munnar town. And all I am left with are words, photos and memories. So, I share them.

Divine Mothers: A First Ashram Experience

Our host in Nasik, Prabhakar, called himself a motherless child. As he described the details of his traditional Indian wedding, it seemed that the fact that his mother had committed suicide hung like a cloud over his wedding. He explained it not with sadness. It was rather matter of fact, actually. While in the west the bride is the superstar of the wedding, in India, he explained, the groom is the celebrity. The mother has several important ceremonial roles in her son's wedding and his was absent. Mine was present. She had to break out of the hospital to be there, but she was there. Her only ceremonial roles were to walk down the aisle with my father and to dance with me. And she did both in her cornflower blue dress with her usual beauty, grace and style.

As my mom grew sick, she began to entrust this role of mother more to the world. With my marriage came a new mother, Ms. Annie Hollowell, who is a force unto herself. For me, she also combines the power, grace and style with the boundlessness and steadfastness of a mother's love. I have always had many mothers who have adopted me as their own, whether they were friends' mothers or simply community mothers. My mom e-mailed from her bedroom over her final months with Jane Wholey, an old family friend in New Orleans. And she promised also to be a mother to me as the inevitable day approached when my birth mother would no longer physically be here. It is a role she has taken quite seriously and with honor. As Annette and I planned to depart on this journey, Jane asked only one thing—for me to help her find an ashram for her to visit upon her retirement in 2012. I agreed, although we had no ashrams in our plans.

But we heard about Amma first from a German woman when we were on the beach in Ghana. “The  Hugging Mother,” she is called, for her blessings are given in the form of hugs. That German woman whose name I forget told us that it was the most incredible hug she has ever experienced. We have heard about Amma many times since then. Even our Lonely Planet India has a special page about her that talks about how she is known for her all night hugging sessions, in which she hugs consecutive individuals for up to 22 hours at a time. In the last 36 years, she has hugged 31 million people, we are told during the orientation.

When we were in Fort Kochin, we attended a Khatakhali performance—a traditional stage performance of Kerala. Two or three main characters in elaborate costumes and makeup enact simple moral tales of good over evil. They only communicate through music, facial expressions (using the eyes and mouth), and mudras—hand symbols. Different mudras symbolize different words or concepts. The demonstration before the show covers everything from monkey to love. The mudras for mother and hugging, however, are the same.

We took a bus from Kochin to Allepey and a slow boat along the backwaters of Kerala to Amritapuri, where Amma's ashram is.

Amma means mother. The last time I met somebody called Amma was seven years ago in Dharamsala—Amma Adhe. She was an elderly Tibetan woman in her late eighties. We sat at her feet as she told us horrific and courageous tales of her life as a reluctant but determined Tibetan freedom fighter, and her 28 years of torture at the hands of the Chinese. Moved to tears by the visit, I bought her memoir. I called my mom that night to share her story. My mom read the book within days, reminding me of a unique connection I have always felt to my mother. In the Jewish tradition, religious identity is passed from the mother to the child. So, because of my mom, I am Jewish. And while she didn't practice much religion, she taught me that being Jewish means fighting oppression, wherever it may manifest. My mother and I have always shared a common compassion for the world with a commitment to working against injustice and oppression.

            As I built a career in community service and volunteerism, my mom retired from one. As her and my father sold the community newspaper they had run for nearly two decades, she reminded me of a dream of her's. I first remember her talking about it when I was a teenager and those Sally Struthers' Save the Children commercials would come on. They would show some sad Ethiopian child with an inflated belly and flies buzzing around his eyes in a plea for money. My mom has given money to many causes, but as she retired from her most recent career, she wanted to give time and expertise. She wanted to volunteer internationally. Honored to be able to contribute to her realizing a dream, I started forwarding her opportunities as I heard about them. Within six months, she was flying to Chiang Mai, Thailand to work with Burmese refugees for a month through Unite for Sight, an organization about which she heard from me. Annette and I will be in Chiang Mai later this month for the first time. We will be attending a ten-day Vipassana silent meditation course, which happens to coincide with the second anniversary of my mother's death.

            I came to the ashram, anticipating the profound. We are ten months into a journey that, in many ways, was borne out of my mother's passing. And it has led us here. It may only be a hug. But perhaps it will complete something.

            As we are approaching 3:30 p.m., our boat takes us through a three kilometer gauntlet of Chinese fishing nets. We pass wooden boats with an eye on either side of the prow. Huge posters of Amma's smiling face hang on the boats like sails. A huge pink building appears on the horizon. It must be twenty stories tall. “Do you think that's the ashram?” I ask Annette.

“I hope not,” she laughs. “It looks like a hotel or a condo.”

“Who says ashrams have to be spread out and not up?” I joke. “The guidebook does say it is pink and that more than two thousand people live there.”

As we are both beginning to dismiss the idea that this hulking building could be the ashram, the boat conductor approaches. “Are you going to Kollam or ashram?” he asks. “Amma ashram,” I respond. “That is ashram,” he says, pointing to the twenty-story building. “We stop in five minutes,” he says. “Be ready.”

We slide on our shoes and bags and slip off the boat with maybe a dozen others. We walk across a pink bridge with Amma's face on it. A guard directs us to the temple and up the stairs to register. The place is buzzing with people, most of them dressed simply in flowing white, serenity and smiles on their faces. A few friendly people make sure we know where we are going. I recognize the spirit of selfless service. It reminds me of the welcome party when arriving at a Landmark course. We get checked in, tie our mosquito net over two thin mattresses we place next to each other on the floor in front of the window of our room. The “simple” accommodation promised on our online registration is quite nice. We can see our reflections in the huge beige floor tiles. We have a private room with our own bathroom and a combination lock. The combination is 2020. We return to the second floor of the temple a few minutes before 5 p.m. for our requisite orientation.

We watch a 45-minute video, mostly about Amma's humanitarian initiatives—cleverly and collectively known as Embracing the World. The video is quite professional. From my seat in the corner, I cannot help but notice the messaging and branding. I was responsible for these promotional videos for the last few years. And this one comes across like quite a professional non-profit organization with programs across the globe. It shows thousands upon thousands of people appearing for Amma's hugs. Some break down in tears. Some radiate with joy. Some are crippled. Some are babies. All races, genders, colors, ages. All walks of life. And the works are equal to it. Humanitarian relief. Amma presenting a million dollars to the Bush-Clinton Katrina Fund. A United Nations leader speaking to how critical Embracing the World was to the 2004 Asian tsunami relief efforts, despite and because of the fact that the ashram itself was flooded. The 2010 earthquake in Japan. Orphanages in Kenya. Housing. Schools. Enough, I notice, for Annette to wipe tears from her eyes. It is inspiring. But I am not crying. For much of the video, I wonder if they could be doing more than they are. “Have I become cynical about the non-profit sector?” I ponder silently. But I am called out of my head by the images in the video. Amma appears with world leaders. She receives a United Nations Humanitarian Award from Jane Goodall. And an honorary degree from SUNY Buffalo of all places. And wherever there are good deeds, there are thousands upon thousands of volunteers. Practically the entire thing is run by volunteers. “Wow. There is no power like the power of spiritually motivated volunteers,” I tell Annette when the video ends.

The woman leading the orientation explains she has been living in the ashram for twenty-six years. “The ashram is the international headquarters and spiritual center for all of this. It is built on the site and in the village where Amma grew up. Amma teaches three fundamental principles: love, compassion and seva. Love is God's love. It is non-judgmental. It is acceptance of everything and everybody just as it is. Compassion is the outward expression of that love. When you are overflowing with God's love, it manifests outwardly as compassion. And seva is Sanskrit for selfless service. Amma doesn't care what religion you are, just live in these three principles. We are all her children.”

The orientation and tour last for two hours. The ashram is a small city that buzzes with people in white. It has multiple cafeterias (all vegetarian), stores, laundry services, a pool. There are multiple new buildings under construction, not by people wearing white, just by ordinary shirtless and skirted Indian men. The main assembly hall is the size of Grand Central station. It is like spiritual summer camp. Information boards advertise massage, Ayurveda, yoga, tai chi, astrology, music, meditation and just about any activity that can be said to be spiritual. The ashram produces magazines, clothing, books, journals, jewelry, dolls of Amma and just about any devotional item one could imagine. And it all operates with volunteers. And operate it does.

Our guide leads us to a small building that used to be a cow shed. “Amma's father didn't like all the boys coming around after Amma,” she explains. “They already realized something very special about her when she was a teenager. They would sleep on the beach to be near her. So, her father had Amma stay in the cow shed. It was here that she first gave darshan. And this was the first temple, long before this ashram ever existed. Amma is a mahatma. We don't really have a word for what Amma is in the west--'saint' would be the closest to it. She is not bound by space and time. She can be in all places at all times. Indians believe she is an incarnation of Vishnu. She performed many miracles to prove to the Indians that she was, in fact, a god.” Our guide goes on to recount a tale of Amma turning water into a bottomless bowl of sweet rice that fed people for days. “We don't hear as much about the miracles anymore. There are so many more people that all the stories don't make it back to us.”

As twilight fades, we stop under a tree. There are hundreds of birds above. “This is an important place for migratory birds this time of year.” I look up to see egrets, crows, heron, osprey. Interesting that the birds flock here in much the way the people do. “It is very loud now, but the birds will go to sleep soon. Then you will hear the dogs. But that's India for you.” Our guide chuckles. As we approach the main assembly hall in the middle of the ashram, she stops us. “You can tell we are getting closer to Amma now. You can feel her energy.”

We end in the main assembly hall in search of a tall blond man who holds the darshan tokens. Darshan is what they call Amma's blessing sessions. One needs a token to receive one of her hugs. There is a separate system for International visitors. Separate registration. Separate orientation. Separate token distribution. There is even a Western cafeteria that serves pasta, pizza and veggie burgers, so that westerners can feel comfortable during their stay. I opt for the Indian meals that make sweat pour from every pore and are included with our 200-rupee accommodation fee. Annette enjoys grilled cheese sandwiches most days.

“International visitors receive darshan the day they arrive and the day they leave. So,” our guide explains, “each of you will have the opportunity to be with Amma and receive darshan at least twice. Amma also likes to make sure that Westerners get the opportunity to sit on stage with her. During your stay, each of you will have an opportunity to sit on stage with her for at least half an hour. There is a bulletin board that posts an updated list of who is scheduled to sit with her and at what times each day.” She points to a huge bulletin board with the words, “Stage Sitting List” across the top. There are computer printouts of lists, each with half hour slots. There are probably 800 names in all, separated male and female. They are in groups of close to twenty, half hour slots starting at 11 a.m. and ending at 9 p.m.

The darshan token man doesn't appear until after we have left. By the time we come back, we have missed him. We cannot get our token until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. Both Annette and I work on not being disappointed. But it doesn't take much. It is all the way it is meant to be, we concede, settling for our hug tomorrow. I sleep a deep and peaceful sleep, the best I have had in months.

We wake early for an hour of chanting, shortly before 5 a.m., followed by an hour of meditation at the beach. I find the meditation easy in this space. I am comfortable in my white and hopeful that ten days of meditation won't be as physically torturous as I previously thought. We nap. Then comes my time to sit on the stage with Amma.

I walk past metal police barriers, through a metal detector and up a long ramp to the stage. I am pointed to find a seat on the floor behind Amma. She is in the middle with countless people gathered around her. At least a dozen of them seem to be handlers. They hold people's heads in position, tell them where to sit, where to kneel. People sit in a line of white plastic chairs on either side of her, as they snake closer for her hug. Many bring offerings. Bowls of fruit. Floral garlands. Each is efficiently taken by a handler within moments of touching Amma's hands and placed in a bag behind her. Two huge china bags seem to be filled and replaced with an empty one every hour or so.

As I sit on stage, most of the time I can only see the bun in Amma's hair, partially covered by a white scarf. I crane my neck, but it is difficult to see Amma around the other stage-sitters, the handlers and the devotees. She is short. And, while on a platform, she is seated. What I can see, however, is absolutely profound. I see the faces of each person as they approach her on supplicant knees and hug her. It is incredible. Never in my life have I seen worshippers from the angle of the divine. I don't often get to stand or sit on sacred stages. At best, I am in a pew. Usually, not even that. It is so moving. Some people are sobbing. Some are glowing. For each, though, there is a look of incredible devotion and love in their eyes. As I sit there, I wonder whether it matters if Amma is a God or not. Perhaps all that matters is that people believe she is. And that is enough for her to cure their ailments. Enough for their lives to be transformed with the blessing of a single hug. I am humbled.

That afternoon is time for my seva. I take an assignment washing pots. I am told dishwashers and pot washers are always what's most needed. All of the seva opportunities around Amma, I imagine, are first to go. I quickly dismiss my aspirations of working with the magazine or chopping vegetables. After all, we are only here for three days. The pots are washed in a greasy shed behind the kitchen. There are three of us, but only two sinks and two hoses. So, I settle for being the one who rinses the pots and puts them away. The other two gentlemen speak limited English. One is German, I believe. The other, French. But we communicate enough to wash every dirty pot we see and cover ourselves in water despite our aprons. After an hour and half, Annette and I return to our room for showers and naps.

I wake up hungry. To our surprise, I find the sign in the main assembly hall reads “ALL TOKENS.” That means it is our turn to enter the darshan line for one of Amma's hugs. Annette and I split up. She goes to the right side of the stage (women's side) and I go to the left. I leave my shoes before the metal detector. I am surprised to find the line relatively short. I am on stage in a matter of minutes, snaking my way through five rows of chairs, seven or eight each, toward Amma's embrace.

I sit in silence and watch. I am nervous. Will I break down and cry in her arms, I wonder, like only a child can in his mother's embrace? That moment when we know everything is going to be all right and we don't need to hold it together anymore. Will I see my mom in her and experience a connection to universal motherhood? My palms are a bit sweaty. I close my eyes and try to meditate. But I open them again. Every minute or so I have to slide down to the next chair as another of Amma's children receives his or her embrace from God. There are fans blowing around Amma. I notice a cool breeze when I reach the front row. There is an air vent above. Should I have brought an offering, I wonder. But the questions all quiet down as I grow closer. I accept that I will say what I say. I will know what to do when I reach her. And it will all be perfect. After all, isn't it always in a mother's eyes? That is part of the divinity of motherhood.

It gets crowded as I move closer. I am crowded in among handlers and stage sitters at my toes. I kneel. “Language? English?,” an older gentleman asks me with a wide smile. “Yes,” I say calmly with a nod and a smile. I kneel. They push me forward firmly and lovingly. Amma reaches her arm around me and rests it on my shoulder for a moment while I reach my arms around her waist. I bury my face in the white robes just below her right shoulder. I close my eyes. She smells sacred. Sandalwood and rose water, I guess. But my thinking mind didn't record it. Surely the scent is recorded somewhere deeper in my experience, in that level of consciousness that records smells and remembers things the conscious mind cannot seem to. She holds me for what seems like a long time. It may have just been a minute. Then she pulls me close. Perhaps she clasped her hands together behind my neck. She whispers in my ear. “Merdu, meru, merdu, meru,” it sounds like. I know not what it means, merely that it is a blessing. And I need not know what it means. I don't even try to figure it out.

Then she lets go. She shoves a small brown bag in my hand—prasad, blessed food. I stand, bow, smile, walk toward the edge of the stay, turn around and bow with hands folded. And slowly, I walk barefooted off the stage. I walk down slowly and sit in a plastic chair in front of the stage. I feel peaceful—beyond peace, blissful. It is all so beautiful. As I sit, I notice that a band has gathered. They begin playing quietly and beautifully, seated before the stage. I open the small brown paper. There is a small orange hard candy inside. I open it and put it in my mouth. It tastes delicious. I chuckle to myself.. Of course mother gives me candy. Just like the dentist. I savor it. I savor the music. I savor the present moment. I watch for Annette's turn. My thoughts slowly return, rising like the sun as it slowly wakes the world and disturbs the peace and silence of the dawn. Soon, I see her receive her hug. She comes and sits next to me. We sit in a peaceful knowing silence for a moment, anticipating nothing. The bliss fades as the evening eases into night

“I am clear now,” Annette says to me as she sits next to me in one of the thousand plastic lawn chairs in the main assembly hall. “It isn't that they think that Amma is a conduit for God. It is that she is a God.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

She explains that she talked with a woman who has been coming her for years about it.

We wake up the following morning a bit later for chanting. I sit on the floor. I am beginning to recognize the chanting. It is the archana—the thousand names of the divine. It is the same chanting we heard in Bangalore. It happens here twice a day. In the afternoon, they have two huge screens that show the words and the translations. Then 6 a.m. chai. Meditation follows. I can feel the previous day's cross-legged sitting in my thighs. There seem to be more ants than usual. I leave the beach early for yoga. The movements are slow, the breath and mind intentional. It reminds me of tai chi classes years ago. Silently chant in your head. “Na” when you inhale. “Om” when you exhale. The movements are focused on our lower backs. “Lead with your heart, not your head,” exhorts the instructor. “We already use our heads too much.” She is speaking of a particular pose, but might as well be talking about our lives. All of it, like everything in the ashram, occurs under a photograph of Amma's peaceful smiling gaze.

More seva follows yoga. I wash dishes silently, surprised at how clean, dry and systematic it is in comparison to yesterday's pot duty. A mug comes across. It has Amma's name on it. How would one wash God's mug,? Just the same as everybody else's. After all, what Amma is teaching is express divine love to all creatures. The divine is in everybody, everything. Is she God? I don't know and will never know. Was Jesus god? And what did people think of him in his time. All of the spiritual leaders I have ever studied or learned about had been dead for some time already. This is the first that I have met while she is alive. And the first who is a woman at that. I don't know exactly who or what Amma is, but she is a spiritual leader of some sort. And she emanates an aura of peace that encompasses this ashram, at the very least. It is a beautiful place to be.

That evening, Amma leads meditation at the beach. She sits on a platform surrounded by children. At first, she does not speak. A man at her feet speaks through a microphone. He welcomes us. Recites a prayer. Instructs us to sit in a comfortable position. Close our eyes. Focus on our breath. Focus deep within us. On divine inner stillness. Peacefulness. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Na. Om. Na. Om. Then a long period of silence. There must be six hundred people sitting on the beach. But I hear only the sounds of the waves, my breath, an occasional crow. I open my eyes for a moment to find Amma smiling, her eyes open also, looking at me.

I close my eyes and return to my breath. My foot tingles. It is falling asleep. Soon, I can no longer feel my right foot. I uncross my legs and recross them, this time placing my right leg over my left. As the blood returns to my leg, I expect that painful feeling of pins and needles. But, it does not hurt at all. It just wakes up. Soon, my left leg falls asleep. But when I adjust, it is the same. No pain.

A bird shits on my right hand. It is watery. I quiet reach into Annette's bag to find a tissue and return to meditation. The man at the microphone calls our attention back to the world. Then Amma takes the microphone, speaking in Malayam. The man at her feet translates. The boy next to her lifts her arm and tucks himself underneath it for a hug. He introduces the conversation—a continuation of last week's discussion about how to stay positive and hopeful in life. A dog wanders up to the platform and plops down on Amma's right side. He reaches back to itch his back leg. Amma reaches for a pen to help him itch. Another of her assistants joins the effort. Meanwhile, a woman in a wheelchair speaks about the impact Amma has had on her life. She speaks of divine intervention and a mother's love that has helped keep her hopeful in the face of pain and crippling. Amma is listening to both her and the dog. And presumably to all of her children. And then, abruptly, she ends the session. The man with the microphone explains that those who arrived today and are leaving today can come for darshan. We are leaving at 7 a.m. tomorrow, so this includes us. Eventually, a crowded jumble of people turns into two lines. Again, I find my nose tucked into Amma's bosom. But it is not the same as yesterday. I suppose not many things are quite like the first time.

Annette and I leave the following morning before sunrise with hopes of returning some day.

The backwaters en route to the ashram.

Gauntlet of chinese fishing nets.

The ashram from the water.

Fish fall from the sky: Fort Kochin, India

I wake up to a man shaking my leg. “Kochi?” he asks. “Here.” We gather our belongings and scramble off the bus, from sleep to street in a matter of minutes, hoping we didn't forget anything. It is ten minutes to six in the morning. Super Bowl Sunday, I think. It is still dark.

An autorickshaw takes us over bridges, past the watermelon tree. No, watermelons do no miraculously grow on this tree. Thousands of watermelons sit beneath it. It is a watermelon central market of sorts. Hard to imagine how the watermelons on the bottom don't get smooshed or go bad. We pass communist signs and crowded churches. Ironically, these are the first signs of both communism and Catholicism that we have seen in India. Crowds gather outside the churches for lack of seats inside. Ganesha, Krishna, Vishnu, Hanuman have been replaced by images of Jesus and his mom.

Man made churches to honor God. God made trees to honor man. Anyone who has sat in the shade of a great old tree knows this. Buddha knew this. Now man makes great shrines to honor him. And another cycle is complete. Fort Kochin's trees are as great as any I've seen. Entire cricket matches occur under their canopies. They remind me of the live oaks in New Orleans, the way their trunk-sized branches stretch wide like yawning arms. And then there are the banyans—Bodhi trees—Buddha's eponymous tree of enlightenment, roots hanging like dreadlocks on a Sadhu.

Hours later, after sleeping off the overnight bus ride from Bangalore, we sip fresh pineapple juice in the shadows of Chinese fishing nets. These twenty-square-meter nets take six men to operate. The men pull on thirty meters of rope, every meter marked by a ten kilogram boulder—all of it attached to a huge log frame—a complicated counterweight to the nets. Like a laid back oil derrick, the nets slowly dip in and out of the water, producing three or four kilos of fish every few minutes. The crows watch carefully from the perimeter for an opportunity that never seems to come.

We choose a red snapper and some prawns for lunch. They are placed in a plastic bag and handed to a man whom we follow down the block and around the corner. He seats us under an umbrella at a plastic outdoor table and proceeds to clean and grill them in a delicious lemon ginger sauce.

After lunch, we wander pat children playing cricket under one of Fort Kochin's great trees. We hear a loud thud on the ground three feet to our right. We expect a cricket ball, but it's a fish, maybe six inches long. A tiger fish, to be precise. It's dead. Annette and I look at each other in wonderment with a chuckle. A fish just fell from the sky. Did the children throw it, we wonder. Their looks are innocent and the angle from which the fish dropped was wrong. We wander on, content to accept that in India, fish fall from the sky.

That evening we watch elephants adorned in gold parade around a temple, three dancing men and a processional rainbow of ornate brightly-colored umbrellas atop each. We watch a troupe of drumming braided girls in pink and men with metal rods through their skin and tongue. All are dancing. Surely, a fish falling from the sky isn't out of the ordinary.

As we sit on the balcony of our guest house, we watch a fish eagle a sparrow and a few crows alight in the great trees of Fort Kochin. And I remember the crows by the Chinese fishing nets. Perhaps an opportunity presented itself, its bounty only to be lost on a branch high up in a great tree overlooking a children's cricket match. If that is the case, why didn't the crow come for it's fish?

Fighting the crows for fish in the Chinese fishing nets of Cochi

Lunch

Just another temple festival in Kerala

Full color version.

Ouch...

Chanting

I sit, legs folded in front of me on a thin carpet. We are in an auditorium that has been converted to a Krishna Temple. There is a carpet that runs the length of the room in the middle. Then it splits into a T before a horizontal row of steel benches that separate out what in Christianity would be called the pulpit. Men sit on the right. There are only five or six of us. I am by far the youngest. Women sit on the left. They far outnumber the men. There are close to forty of them. Annette sits in the back, her hot pink socks glowing amidst a rainbow of sarees.

They all chant in one voice. I don't understand what they are saying. It has a certain percussion to it. I admire the altar. The auditorium stage has been lined with huge images, in front of a red curtain. I am glad to now recognize each of them, even though I don't know their stories. On the left is a big blue Ganesha. He sits in half lotus, four hands outstretched, each with something different in the palm. In the center is a huge photo of a stone statue of Krishna sitting in front of a river, the mark of the trident on his forehead, torso perched atop a snake. Below the photo is a brilliant display of flowers. And to the right is Hanuman, the monkey god. He has one leg up as if he is dancing, tail dangling behind him.

Before we left Hampi, we went on a pilgrimage of sorts to the supposed place of Hanuman's birth. It ended up being a ten kilometer walk broken up by a river crossing in a boat overloaded with people and motorcycles. It culminated in seven hundred steps to the temple that sits atop a mountain. As we hiked, a monkey howled at me and threatened. I cowered, wondering if the monkey would actually attack me for the bag of bananas in my right hand. “Act big,” Annette reminded me. So I lifted my arms and shouted, “Go away monkey.” And he did. Annette asked me why I didn't give him the bananas we bought at the bottom. “We bought them to give to the monkeys,” she said. I told her I would give them as an offering in the temple. I don't want to encourage that sort of aggressive behavior. The monkey is probably used to people feeding it. The man in his eighties who is limping down one step at a time doesn't seem to be disturbed by him. But perhaps that is because he just got blessed by the monkey god.

We are sweating by the time we make it to the top. But the trip has been long and we are going to get our effort's worth. The trip up was inspired by two new friends – Monty and Bert. We met them at our hotel in Hampi. It turns out they both served in the Peace Corps in India in the late 1960s. If Hampi went from four guesthouse to 72 in the last twenty years, I can only imagine how their villages have changed. Monty is energetic and talkative. This is his first time back to India in more than forty years. Bert wears a gray pony tail. He is quiet and reflective. He has kept in touch with a family in his village. Monty jokingly describes Bert as his spiritual guru. Bert talks about the house he just bought in Peoria, Illinois. They are both ecstatic to be in India. At breakfast, Monty asked Annette and me if we can feel the blessings from the gurus when we visit the temples. We both looked at each other and couldn't say yes, despite out best efforts. Mostly, when we have visited temples, we have stood around awkwardly, not wanting to offend. Not sure whether to touch our foreheads to the ground, kneel, not kneel, where to bow, how to hold our hands.

“The guru in the monkey temple. Man, I could feel the chi when he touched my forehead. It was powerful.” Monty may not have realized it, but he not only made us want to visit the Hanuman Temple, but he also gave us permission to participate at the temples.

At the top of the hill, I follow the crowd. We take our shoes off and wash our hands and feet. Inside the temple are three shirtless men sitting on the floor, drinking chai. There are three small rooms, each with a man inside and a shrine. We go to the largest. Annette goes first. The man there pours a spoonful of water from a metal dish into our hands. He motions for us to put it towards our mouth. Then a handful of sugar crystals. Then the red powder pressed upon our forehead with a blessing. I splash the water on my face. I can only eat half of the sugar, the other half falls to the floor slowly from my dangling hand. The blessing is firm, but there are no firecrackers. Just a man firmly pressing his finger to my forehead. Pressing with intention and clarity. Without hesitation. Perhaps that is the blessing.

We walk past the second small room. There two men are reading from a scripture. I bow. In the third room, I lay a banana on a metal tray next to an existing banana. I kneel and bow. Back in the main room, one of the three men of the temple invites us to have chai. We sit on the floor. A boy of no more than 12 years, pours our chai from a huge steel container. One of the men asks Annette where she is from. Otherwise, few words are exchanged. Just smiles and sips. After ten minutes, we head outside to admire the kingdom below. From here, we can see the river winding through Hampi amidst a brilliant green of banana trees and rice paddies, accented by rose-colored boulders reaching toward the sky.

As I sit and listen to the chanting, I look at the monkey god. I feel pride, that sense of small satisfaction that comes with knowing. With it comes the feeling that there is more to know. I think about the Ramayana I saw yesterday in a bookstore. Eight hundred pages of Hindu epic that tells the tale of the monkey god. Surely it speaks of Krishna too, and Ganesha. I ponder the blog. I am writing it as a record. And I have been moved to write but haven't known what to say in the last week. It feels like it is merely part of knowing, describing, reporting. Food for the mind. Useless in the pursuit of no-mind.

Our first morning in Hampi, Annette found a book on Natural Farming, called The One Straw Revolution. It was written by a Japanese man in his sixties in the seventies—Masanobu Fukuoka. He had given up his successful and important life as a researcher to return to his father's orchards. Now he grows food as part of a life philosophy of no cultivation. “Do-nothing farming,” he calls it. Nature knows how to grow. We interfere with nature and then double our work. We don't need to till the soil. We don't need to use pesticides. We don't need to keep the rice paddies flooded. All of this creates more work, and interferes with nature's way. Right farming, he says, equals an average of one hour of work per person per day. The rest is left for spiritual pursuits, art, music.

I look to my left. A man in white robes is plucking flowers onto a steel dish that sits on an elaborate wooden carved shrine. The flowers are red, orange and yellow. Inside is a framed picture with a string of flower draped across it. I cannot see from here what is inside the frame. I notice my mind wondering. I could wonder for days at the significance of each act, each word in the chant. At the meaning of it all.

I think about Osho. We considered stopping at the Osho Ashram in Pune. The guidebook laid out it's controversy. It is a Western spa, expensive by ashram standards. Hugely developed and commercialized, some argue. The guidebook noted that HIV testing is mandatory for admission. And that Osho was known in the west as the “sex guru.” We decided against it. But on the coffee table at Savitha's house in Bangalore I found one of Osho's books. Truth Simply Is..., the title. Like the Japanese farmer, Osho talks about how we can never pursue the truth with use of our mind. That consciousness is man's greatest gift, his mind his greatest trap. I think about the zen of it all. Our minds like a Chinese finger trap. The harder we try to figure something out, the more we think, the more the trap tightens. I keep thinking.

The chanting continues. I look at the clock. It has been seven minutes since it started. It should last for an hour. My toes are tingling. I adjust my position. Sit on my butt and hug my knees for a while.

“Knowing, knowing, knowing.” That was what the monk said to Annette's questions. Only an hour ago we confirmed our spots for ten days of Vipassana meditation at the Northern Insight Center Temple of Peace in Chiang Mai, Thailand. The monk spoke in broken English, but we understood. February 22^nd at 9:30 a.m. he told us to be there. Wear only white clothes for the ten days. I wondered why. I even asked why February 22^nd was the best day for us to arrive, when we would prefer a few more days lounging on Thai beaches beforehand. But I received no answer. It doesn't matter. Knowing is no help here. The questioning mind only creates more questions, more activity not less. I think about a philosopher in some book I read along the way. He said the question mark looks like an upside-down plow. It churns the soil. That, I think Fukuoka would say, is the problem. I ponder my discomfort after sitting for ten minutes and wonder how I will ever sit for ten days in silence.

The mind determines comfort or discomfort, I remind myself. I think of another small blessing from our trip to the monkey temple. When we had been walking for some time and the sun was at its hottest, I was still feeling good. But then it occurred to me that the temple I saw we were nearing atop a mountain might not be the Hanuman Temple. It might be the wrong temple. When that doubt surfaced in my thoughts, my back and neck began to hurt. Just stiffness, but discomfort nevertheless. Five minutes later, it became evident that we were indeed approaching the foot of Hanuman's mountain. I climbed the steps in perfect comfort. The tiredness, weariness, discomfort disappeared from my body when it disappeared from my mind. Certainly, that will play itself out one hundred times in Thailand.

The chanting continues. A man enters, approaches the altar, and bows. Drops money into the box. Dips his finger into some liquid, or perhaps a powder, and presses it to his forehead. Then he sits in the back, next to me, cross-legged. He looks like he is coming from work. It is 5:12 p.m. I think about how often I have been late for things because I was coming from work. How I have to sit there for a moment to wash the stress of the day off of me. How, even though my body is present, it takes my mind sometime before it is present. Before I am consciously here. I think about how often I probably wouldn't even want to go to the temple after work. How the chanting would seem just like another commitment in an exhaustingly long string of commitments. But that by the end of the hour, I would feel better every time. And that is why I would make myself go. I think about Prabakhar, our couchsurfing host in Nasik. He woke up for work at 5 a.m. His work week was always five-and-a-half days. Most days seemed to be close to ten hours. And he left on time, he told us, unlike his colleagues. All to pay for a wedding, to furnish a small two-room house for his family.

Four minutes have passed. The chanting seems to have reached a rhythm. The male and female voices, the individual voices are completely indistinguishable. Just a mass of voices chanting in one voice. I cross my legs again, rest my wrists on my knees, and close my eyes. My mind wanders to our afternoon. We ate Italian food and it was delicious. At the UB City Mall. Funny how no matter where you are in the world, the malls are about the same. Some nicer than others. Some restaurants better than others, but the mall is an ultimate expression of consumerism. And it shines brilliantly from Accra to Bangalore. My stomach is still full from the food.

I think about Bangalore. It is such a contrast from Hampi. Hampi is ancient and sacred. Mahatma Gandhi Road in Bangalore feels like Times Square. Billboards climb over each other for space. Familiar brands are plastered everywhere – Puma, Reebok, Guess, Versace. The colors and logos are always the same. Undoubtedly, each of these corporations has internally published mid-sized books on the use of their logo and brand. Bangalore, India's silicone city, where burgers are as frequent as temples. Bangalore, where Annette and I had futures and palms read without seeking it out. Both promised great success, long life, happiness, partnership and children. India is a place of great contrast. It is a sub-continent indeed. Far larger than a nation or a country.

I look at the clock again. It is 5:27 p.m. The chanting continues. I think about time. In Hampi, I started to feel like our time was growing tight. We started making plans to return home. Southeast Asia seemed like it would be crammed into six weeks. This afternoon, we booked two tickets. One to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia on Valentine's Day. And we even booked a ticket home. Ho Chi Minh City to John F. Kennedy. Ironic, given the way those two names came together in history. But as I sit here in this auditorium of a temple, time feels eternal. Ten days in silent meditation may feel like ten years. Yes, we have plenty of time.

Lately, I have been thinking more and more on time. As we have traveled, we have often not known what day it is or what time it is. And when we reflect on things, we reflect on time geographically. When we had a pitcher of beer the other night, it was the first time since South Africa. For nearly a year now, we think of time in relation to place. “Back in Croatia,” we say. This geographic order to time will disappear soon. Shortly after 2:30 p.m. on Saturday, April 1^st, when a China Eastern Airlines flight lands at JFK Airport in New York City. Perhaps a few weeks after that, maybe a month. Once we are settled back in New Orleans and have started to talk about things other than our travels.

The chanting continues. An old main with a forehead of white paint folds his book of chants and walks toward the front. He brings a steel pail that looks to be filled with rice. He scoops the food out several times. Six, seven, eight scoops, far more than looked like would fit in the steel bowl. He puts a steel plate on top and puts it next to the man plucking flowers. He then places the pail on a table below the Krishna image. The flowers look like a torso. Green stretches out at its base on either side, like legs folded into a lotus position. I wonder if this is intentional. The flowers are some sort of physical incarnation of the figure, I wonder.

I think about our time ahead in ashrams. We used a paper-thin new Mac Book Air at an Apple Store in the mall to e-mail the Hugging Mother ashram and reserve a place to stay for two nights. I wonder what we will do there. And if it matters that we don't know much about Ama, the Hugging Mother, except that she transforms people with her hugs. I think about the huge temple we passed on the bus to Nasik. It was the temple at Sai Baba's birthplace. Not just an ashram, a small city. I think about how Sai Baba's serene image is plastered everywhere, his ears looking more monkey-like than the monkey god's. These images are everywhere. Sai Baba. Ganesha. Like religious sayings in Ghana, plastered on windshields and storefronts. What a place India is. Sacred and profane, modern and ancient, all crammed into the same country.

I think about today's Times of India that I thumbed through this afternoon, while waiting for Uninor to reactivate our mobile phone. Two stories struck me. One was about the prime minister eating meat, despite the fact that he claimed to be a Gandhian. It spoke of the hippocracy of these times and laments the Westernization of India. The second talked about a report on life expectancy in India. At the time of independence in 1947, it said, average life expectancy in India was 37 years. Famine and food shortage was common. Today, it is 68 years. I thought of the little man in the robe and spectacles who insisted on a free India. What certainty he must have shown amidst uncertainty, that India could be such a great nation. That life expectancy could double in two generations. What strength of spirit.

How should we spend our time...in life, I wonder. There was a man we met at the train station in Hospet en route to Bangalore. A couple, actually, from the U.K. They recognized us from some temple or another in Hampi. The man told us a story about an ATM machine and not wanting his card to be taken. I told them we were traveling around the world. I actually started to say this as a precursor to the story of how the ATM in Cape Coast, Ghana only gave me half of  my money. But I never got to the story. He matched our adventures with some of his own. They told me about their sailing down to the Mediterranean in their retirement. He told me about Jews for Justice. And the incredible story of how he gathered a bunch of principled Jews opposing the occupation of Palestine to sail into Gaza, where Israeli boats were illegally blockading ships in international waters. The harrowing tale lasted thirty minutes. I have been meaning to do a YouTube search for it. They ended up doing some jail time and never got the boat back, but they figured that would happen. I wonder, could I do such a principled thing?

Rice paddies around Hampi

One of the many shrines to the monkey god, Hanuman. Note the coconut offerings have been eaten.

The white speck in the distance in the middle of the photo is the temple of the monkey god.

Our ferry...

Rice fields and boulders.

The path to the birthplace of Hanuman.

The view back down.

The temple at the top.

The chanting stops. A man in white robes approaches the center of the altar. He lights incense and then ten candles. I hear drumming and a bell clanging from the back. More chanting as he moves the flame around the flowers at the base of the Krishna image. After several fires, bows and short recitations, the chanting ends. It has been an hour.