tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85603518355280231082024-03-12T17:59:31.191-07:00Here I AmSuryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-46305438226545907822016-08-29T08:20:00.002-07:002016-08-29T08:20:30.945-07:00idealism, pragmatism and cynicism<br />What I love about the Order is that it fulfills my triad of needs for idealism, pragmatism, and cynicism. I was on my ordination retreat with a lot of idealists, which was great - when I was inspired. But it was only when I returned home and spoke to my other friends in the Order, some of whom are burned out, disillusioned, or doubtful, that I remembered that the whole spectrum of experience is welcome in - and integral to - our practice.<br /><br />So when I’m idealistic, the Order is a tremendous force for good in the world. I think of all those I've seen walk through the doors of the Buddhist Centre and transform their anxiety, depression or loneliness into purpose, hope and agency - mostly through the powers of learning to be with their own mind. Our work does not stop with Buddhist Centres; I was aware at the convention of the myriad ways people made a difference to the world, either by working in climate change, taking active roles in government politics and political campaigns, or engaging with the Dalit community in India.<br />
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<i>Click <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20src=%22https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fclearvisiontrust%2Fvideos%2F10154529953892958%2F&show_text=0&width=560%22%20width=%22560%22%20height=%22315%22%20style=%22border:none;overflow:hidden%22%20scrolling=%22no%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowTransparency=%22true%22%20allowFullScreen=%22true%22%3E%3C/iframe%3E">here</a> to watch a video on how the Order works together to instigate change (also titled: clearing 500 + chairs and dismantling a shrine room in twenty seven seconds).</i><br />
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<br />When I’m pragmatic, I’m grateful for the responsibility, confidence, and worldliness that we’ve developed over the almost 50 years of growing as an Order. We're more financially responsible and stable, owning our centres and retreat centres, contributing to charitable causes, and providing for those who work in our institutions. But I also heard people proclaim that while we can be a force for good in the world, we’re not going to change it on our own, and probably not very quickly. Just admitting that is a great relief, and can allow me to come back around to wanting to make as much effort as I can in my sphere of influence, to the extent that I’m able.<br /><br />When I’m cynical, I really appreciate being able to complain about how boring meditation is, how annoying I find this person, and how far away enlightenment can seem. Sometimes, in other spiritual situations I find myself, including some spaces in the yoga community, I feel overwhelmed and exhausted by the relentless assertions of constant happiness and joy. I don’t feel like that all the time! In fact, I don’t want to feel like that all the time. Of course, I also don’t want to be constantly angry, suspicious, and judgmental. But allowing the energy that is bound up in these states to find an outlet whilst at the same time working to transform them in other areas means I can bring my whole self to my work, to my practice, to my life. What a relief. Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-56249296503675887002016-08-25T14:18:00.003-07:002016-08-25T14:18:59.275-07:00Hi! My name is (huh?) My name is (who?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Part of ordination is receiving a Buddhist name. No, I didn't get to choose it! About five years ago on retreat, I met Amritamati, and a year and half later I asked her to be my preceptor. She became a spiritual mentor who both encouraged and challenged me in my practice, and ultimately recommended me as ready for ordination. She also chose my name. All the names in our Order are Sanskrit or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pali">Pali</a>; they are reflective as well as aspirational, and they can be understood as two words translated individually, and also as words translated with one meaning. <br /><br /><b>what does it mean?</b><br /><br />My name is Suryadarshini; it's a Sanskrit name. If you write it with 'diacritics', the cool accents on the letters, it looks like this: Sūryadarśinī. The 'u' is long, the 'ś' is pronounced 'sh', and the 'i' at the end is long. Surya means ‘sun’ and is an epithet for the Buddha. Darshini means ‘having vision’, also with connotations of ‘seeing, realising, knowing, understanding’. Amritamati translates my name as ‘she who has the vision of the sun, or the Buddha’.<br /><br />In terms of seeing my name in two parts, it reflects my bright and energetic qualities and my desire for honesty and truth. When I am inspired she says I ‘glow like the sun’, and also that I have ‘a thirst for clarity, for understanding’. Put together, I have a vision of the sun/the Buddha, in the sense that I am looking towards the glowing symbol of the Buddha as an embodiment of ultimate knowing.<br /><br />In an aspirational sense, my name means that I have the vision that the Buddha has, seeing reality as he sees it. Each time I hear my name or explain its meaning, it’s a reminder that I am orienting my life and my practice towards becoming a Buddha myself.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dd-H2CBYSSI/V79gERCeHPI/AAAAAAAAEZk/xoBrMI8mPGwyWOaQ6KF7MyaDWKBwZQNvQCK4B/s1600/IMG_2289.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dd-H2CBYSSI/V79gERCeHPI/AAAAAAAAEZk/xoBrMI8mPGwyWOaQ6KF7MyaDWKBwZQNvQCK4B/s320/IMG_2289.jpg" width="240" /></a><br /><b> </b><br />
<b>are you going to change it legally?</b><br /><br />Only some Order members change their name legally; some change only their first name, others change to one name only (but, because you legally need something to put in the second box, their surname is 'XXX'). At the moment, I’ve decided not to do this, and I don’t know if I ever will. There are two reasons for this; one practical, one personal.<br />
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Practically, what with having two passports and financial holdings in two countries in an era of increasing border control and isolationist political momentum, the red tape of changing my name would create hassle and, I’m sure, bureaucratic confusion.<br /><br />But more honestly, the personal reason is that I don’t feel that I've completely stopped being Andrea. I’ve been Andrea for thirty-five years, I like me, I like my name...and I’ll always be Andrea to my mom. There is a definite desire to hold onto that comfortable identity.<br /><br />And even more honestly: Suryadarshini is a really long name! Even in the Buddhist community, thirteen letters and six syllables is on the long side. I asked Amritamati if she could make it shorter (which, by that point, she totally couldn’t), and she said she knows it’s long, but she wasn’t willing to compromise on the meaning. Most people who know me have gotten the hang of it pretty quickly, including Tom, but when I’m in line for my soya latte and they ask me for a name to write on the cup, I say Andrea.<br /><br />Then there’s the part of me that just doesn’t always want to have ‘the Buddhist conversation’. I’m on a train, we've had a quick chat about how hot it is and won't it be nice when it's the weekend, and I don’t want to get into it. On these occasions, I have to admit, I’m just copping out. I don’t want to be ‘she who has the vision of the Buddha’; I want to complain about my wait in a queue and be a bit anonymous. Someday I aspire to not needing to cop out; that I will so feel that I am Suryadarshini that I can’t imagine introducing myself as anyone else.<b> </b>Until then, it's a name to grow into.<b><br /></b><br />
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<b>how do you say it?</b><br /><br />For those of you who have lovingly read through all of this, then you’ve taken on board my desire for you to honour this choice and aspiration, and you’re going to think about calling me Suryadarshini. Thank you! Here’s how you say it: <br /><br />“SIR” “ee-ah” “DARSH-in-eee”. <br /><br />Or sometimes I explain it as: <br /><br />“Sir?” “Yeah.” “DARSH!” “Knee.”<br />
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Say it fast and it starts to roll off the tongue. Honest. Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-20953437309993543382016-08-24T11:43:00.000-07:002016-08-24T11:43:00.972-07:00so are you a monk, or…what?In most Buddhist traditions, being ordained as a Buddhist means becoming a monk or a nun. Ordination is a lifestyle change; you go from living a lay life to living a monastic one.<br />
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One of the radical emphases of the Triratna Order is the institution of an equal Order; no member is higher than another by virtue of status or gender. So there is no way to ‘work your way up’ the spiritual hierarchy: because there isn’t one. You can’t get promoted to an equivalent of an abbot, reincarnated to be the Dalai Lama, or get a qualification of Zen master. There are service positions available to those with relevant skills and experience, but these are rotating posts and once someone leaves the position, they also leave the influence and effectiveness that belongs to that position. Also, Triratna is radical in the Buddhist world in that, since the first ordinations in 1969 and ever since, there is one equal ordination for men and women.<br /><br />In my previous post, I mentioned that ordination is primarily a ritual witnessing of a commitment to practising Buddhism in every facet of my life. This is another of the emphases: the importance of commitment over lifestyle, which Sangharakshita, founder of the Order, phrased as: 'Commitment is primary, lifestyle is secondary'. But lifestyle is not unimportant; so how then, without moving to a monastery, do I keep the practice of Buddhism central to my life?<br />
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<b>rules versus principles (on shaving my head and renouncing worldly possessions)</b><br />
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Since we are not a monastic order, I didn’t accept a
code of conduct at my ordination which would bind me to organising my life in a
particular way. I’m a representative of the Order in the sense that I am
a living, active member, and so my actions will reflect on the Order.
Some members live more reclusive lives, either because of their
personality or because of their health; some spend a lot of time taking
care of their families; some are involved with Buddhist Centres, retreat centres, or development teams. There are many ways to practice
and be a part of the Order.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BXlQsRR_DuY/V73hhLGyORI/AAAAAAAAEZA/oHhu3ueft5AS4jaaZDJTJWBpipwMEOQJQCK4B/s1600/IMG_2188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BXlQsRR_DuY/V73hhLGyORI/AAAAAAAAEZA/oHhu3ueft5AS4jaaZDJTJWBpipwMEOQJQCK4B/s320/IMG_2188.jpg" width="240" /></a>One of our shared practices is taking on the ten precepts as a guide to ethics. They are not rules that I follow but training principles that direct reflection on how my actions impact myself and others. I often recite them with my coworkers before we begin our tasks for the day, and at my weekly chapter meeting. We recite the negative form ('I undertake to abstain from') in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pali">Pali</a> (I've included a translation here) and the positive form in English.<br /><br />I undertake to abstain from killing living beings. <br />I undertake to abstain from taking the not-given. <br />I undertake to abstain from sexual misconduct. <br />I undertake to abstain from false speech. <br />I undertake to abstain from harsh speech. <br />I undertake to abstain frivolous speech. <br />I undertake to abstain slanderous speech. <br />I undertake to abstain from covetousness. <br />I undertake to abstain from hatred. <br />I undertake to abstain from false views. <br /><br />With deeds of lovingkindness, I purify my body. <br />With openhanded generosity, I purify my body. <br />With stillness, simplicity and contentment, I purify my body. <br />With truthful communication, I purify my speech. <br />With kindly communication, I purify my speech. <br />With helpful communication, I purify my speech. <br />With harmonious communication, I purify my speech. <br />Abandoning covetousness for tranquillity, I purify my mind. <br />Changing hatred into compassion, I purify my mind. <br />Transforming ignorance into wisdom, I purify my mind. <br /><br />I’d like to answer a few questions people have asked me and helped me to clarify my thinking around them.<br />
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<b>why did you wear robes?</b><br />
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You'd be forgiven
for thinking I'm an aspiring monk if you saw pictures of me on retreat
in my robes. I wore the robes to give expression to the part of me that
desires a simpler life, with few worldly responsibilities. Not having to
think about what to wear did alleviate that moment of indecision in the
bleary half dawn when the bell woke me up for morning meditation. Like
my shaved head (see more below), the robes represented an aspiration to live, for a while,
without defining myself by fashion choice or outward appearance. Those
of us who wore robes and shaved our heads were less distinguishable from
each other, helping to lessen the concept that we are separate from the others with which we share this world.<br /><br /><b>are you going to keep your head shaved?</b><br /><br />Shaving my head
was a symbolic ritual of renunciation. Upon reflection, I wonder if it
set up expectations for myself that, as I mentioned in my last post,
weren’t really for me after all. Not everyone on the retreat shaved
their head. Some always keep their hair very short, so they continued to
do that on and after the retreat. Others, like me, are growing it back
and finding hairstyles to suit them. I may cut it again, but it will
most likely be from a stylish point of view rather than a renunciant
one.<br />
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<b>are you going to renounce all worldly possessions?</b><br /><br />I do reflect on my ownership of worldly possessions and my desire to acquire things. Sometimes this manifests in meditation; I may focus on cultivating loving kindness and on loosening the boundaries of self and other. This may lead to a felt sense of how my actions impact others, and how taking something for myself may take something away from someone else. Or I may have a more cognitive process, where, before I buy a t-shirt online, I research its production, and if I discover that it’s been produced under questionable ethical circumstances I choose not to buy it. In general, I do find that the more I have, the more I want. Whereas, if I cultivate contentment or gratitude, then I don’t want as much, and I’m happier with what I have. But on the retreat, I realised how I am not a hard core renunciant. I love my flat, baths, chocolate, DVDs - and my husband! So whilst I don’t want to over-indulge or emotionally grasp after people or things, I don’t want to actively move away from them either. I love my life, I love the things I have, and of course I will buy more things - whilst also continuing to give things away.<br />
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Ultimately, wearing robes and shaving my head helped me
realise that I'm not a monastic and don't want to be. My unhelpful
tendencies of perfectionism and giving myself a hard time were
exacerbated by the expectation of these outward changes to my
appearance. I realised I was trying to live up to an ideal of a 'perfect Buddhist', which I
realised I still thought was a monk who shaved her head and didn't have
any thoughts. When I decided to stop wearing my robes, I felt the reawakening of a freedom
and independence that encouraged me to be with myself as I am.<br />
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This movement towards freedom has continued since returning home, though it wasn't until I attended the convention and witnessed the sheer diversity of beings in the Order that I felt my confidence in my practice and lifestyle fully restored. I reconnected with the deep truth of commitment over lifestyle, and how I can reflect on the precepts, move towards non-grasping, and aspire to embodying lovingkindness - all whilst living in a flat with my husband and eating chocolate in the bath.<br />
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Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-56812299716317025362016-08-23T13:23:00.000-07:002016-08-23T13:26:53.137-07:00how getting ordained is like graduating from uni (and how it isn't at all)<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I’ve just returned from the <a href="https://thebuddhistcentre.com/tags/international-order-convention-2016">Triratna Order International Convention</a>. There are over 2000 members of the <a href="https://thebuddhistcentre.com/text/order-members">Triratna Buddhist Order</a>, and almost 500 of us gathered together to meditate, perform ritual, listen to talks, and sit and talk for hours in pairs and groups.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Being there re-connected me with a lot of what I lost on the ordination retreat: inspiration, confidence, and connection with the Order. Why did I thrive in this context and not on the ordination retreat? Upon reflection, it was the idealism and positivity mixed with the simplistic renunciant conditions that almost killed me. Being on the convention, however, gave rise to a number of realisations of what the Order is, now that I’ve had this rich and varied experience of it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">My friends and family have asked what it means to be ordained and why it was so important to me. After returning from the retreat, I was at a loss at how to answer this question. Honestly, I had no idea, and wasn’t sure what I had just spent the last three months doing. I was wary of putting my experience in concrete terms, for fear of fixing it or misrepresenting it. After these five days, however, I’m able and inclined to address some of the questions.</span></div>
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<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">how getting ordained is like graduating from university</b></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Six years ago I entered a program of training with a definite end goal in mind. Instead of university courses and lectures, I attended study groups and talks. Instead of reading textbooks, I read the work of Sangharakshita, the man who founded our Order, as well as traditional Buddhist texts. In the groups and talks I attended, I discussed the ideas and teachings in these texts and how they were relevant to my life. As I gleaned more knowledge and understanding, both theoretical and experiential, I was able to discourse on more nuanced teachings and to explore texts from different historical, psychological or philosophical angles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There was also a practical aspect to this education, in my practice of meditation and application of ethics. Attending meditation retreats in which I explored how the ‘theories’ I had learned actually manifested in my mind and actions, or discussing my ethical life with fellow practitioners, led me to understand how I could live these principles, and communicate my experience to others. I had an education in group dynamics, in teaching, and in ‘soft skills’ of communication, listening, reflecting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">While I don’t know much about seminary or Christian education or practice, I imagine this is similar: students emerge and can enter their faith as priests or vicars or preachers or reverends. The teaching, leading rituals and mentoring that I’ll now do bears some resemblance to the expectations of these roles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">So then to graduation. Whatever profession you’re in, I’m sure you’ll agree graduation is not an endpoint of acquiring knowledge or developing skills. It’s a marker which signifies the completion of a section of life. So, too, was my ordination a signifier of the end of a training phase and the shift from one mode to another. One shift is from that of a student to a teacher, in certain contexts. So while I once attended study facilitated by someone else, I will now have the opportunity to facilitate that study. I’ll teach meditation classes and courses, lead retreats, and give talks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">But it’s also a shift from outward to inward. In my training, I would often give short reports or updates (both in written form and in more casual conversation) on my personal practice and discuss my progress towards ordination with those more senior to me. Now there is more of an emphasis on equal sharing of good practice between peers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">There’s also much less clarity on what I’m working towards now! I watched a lot of my friends graduate triumphantly from university only to dip a few weeks, months, or years later into a ‘what do I do now?’, or ‘what was that all about?’ canyon. The same can be true after getting ordained! What seemed so clear and important for so long shifts in a moment. Just as one goes from not having a degree to having one, so I went from being ‘not ordained’ to being a member of the Order. Within one day, I changed my name as well as these outward appearances of status and expectations. But how much could “I” have changed in twelve hours? The ordination is a ritual recognition of a process that has been going on for a long time and will continue indefinitely. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">how it's not at all like graduating from university at all</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But joining the Order doesn't furnish me with a </span>certification<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> or a degree. My knowledge wasn't tested by rigorous exams or </span>grading systems. Spiritual experience and practice can't be measured or quantified, and I'm certainly not claiming an elevated status or any experiential attainments. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Primarily, ordination is a witnessing </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "helvetica";">of my practice and dedication by other more experienced practitioners, and the joining of these efforts with my peers to benefit myself and others. I took on ten precepts, ten training principles, in my ordination ceremony which I return to to guide my ethical practice. They are not rules that I follow but statements that I contemplate and reflect on, wondering about their relevance, timeliness, and resonance with my experience. More on these in my next post.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">On the convention I found myself among a group of people with diverse lifestyles, living in various countries across </span>the<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> world in a wide array of social circumstances (including ex-Untouchables from India), with different emphases to their practice. And yet we were all here together, connected by this central tenet of the Buddha's teachings of lovingkindness and non-judgmental awareness, committing to seeing past our small views of ingrained selfhood. We practise individually, working on our own minds in our daily lives, and we practise collectively, in Buddhist centres, in weekly meetings of chapters and groups, in these massive gatherings.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I felt at ease, at home, in harmony, and connected with a simple, almost childish wish to be better humans and to make the world better. At the same time, the conversations and presentations were pragmatic, challenging and relevant, and I left knowing that my life is enhanced by contact with these people, and enriched by joining this force for good in the world. </span></div>
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Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-36024546916410748032015-11-09T01:31:00.000-08:002015-11-09T01:50:46.554-08:00<h2>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eGM-XcKGfJI/VkBkvAKihzI/AAAAAAAAEIg/2Sdwyaewv1o/s1600/IMG_1860.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eGM-XcKGfJI/VkBkvAKihzI/AAAAAAAAEIg/2Sdwyaewv1o/s320/IMG_1860.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">teaching Bodhiyoga, taking my place in the lineage of the Buddha</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></h2>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />In
teaching Bodhiyoga, I am both taking my place in a lineage and becoming
a pioneer. I draw on the yoga lineage, alive from the time of the
Buddha and long before, of investigating and transforming the energy of
the body and mind. More specifically, I draw on the modern yoga
tradition; most of our familiar asanas (postures and movements) have
only been practised since the early 20th Century. I also am part of the
lineage of the Buddha and his explicit teachings of how to work with the
mind. To bring these two traditions together, to keep the emphasis on
spiritual enquiry, and to allow the practice to constantly change and
flow is the work of a pioneer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
Buddha taught that the Dharma (the path of truth he discovered) is ehi
pahsiko: come and see for yourself. Bodhiyoga also encourages this
experiential approach, both in my training as a teacher and in passing
on teachings to my students. Bodhiyoga is not a style of yoga; our
founders Sadhita and Sudaka do not claim to have created what they have
taught us, nor have they copyrighted any movements or sequences.
Instead, they’ve drawn on their substantial experience of yoga asana and
their Buddhist practice to develop an approach to yoga. Bodhiyoga is
founded on basic Buddhist teachings of mindfulness and principles of
safety to encourage exploration. Often in training I would ask, ‘Am I
doing this right?’ After ensuring I wasn’t in any danger of harming my
body, they would respond with questions: ‘what is your purpose in the
pose?’ or ‘what sensations are you experiencing?’ The emphasis on
self-enquiry and on a critical exploration are hallmarks of their
approach.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
three main concepts that infuse my teaching of Bodhiyoga are sati
(mindfulness), metta (lovingkindness) and receptivity. We can hear a lot
about ‘being mindful’, but often I think: what are we being mindful of?
Again, <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">th</span>e
benefit from the Buddha’s clarity: he taught the satipatthana, the four
foundations of mindfulness, which I often describe as ‘spheres of
awareness’. First, we are mindful of kaya (the body): where are we
placing our foot, our hip, our shoulder, our arm? Then, we are mindful
of vedana (sensations in the body): is there pain, do we need to move?
Is there discomfort to breathe through? Is there openness and
groundedness? Next, we are mindful of citta, emotions and mood: are we
contented, energised, critical, vulnerable, expansive? Finally, we are
mindful of dhammas (thoughts): can we turn our distraction of what we’re
doing later, when we’ll eat, who we’ll see to reflection on the
impermanence of life? These reflections inform our asana and give clear
instructions of how to investigate our felt experience, beyond an
outward shape or posture.</span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
most transformative of the Buddha’s teachings is metta, lovingkindness.
I often translate this term as appropriateness: becoming aware of and
respecting the limits of our body on any given day. Quite simply, we
practice metta when we don’t push ourselves and injure our body. But it
goes deeper than the body, contacting each of the satipatthanas; metta
infuses our being so that we can breathe through our sensations with
gentleness, hold our emotions with kindness to ease critical voices, and
observe our thoughts with curiosity bereft of judgement. So when we
come into a difficult pose, we take care of the bend in our knee and the
curve of the spine, breathe through the tense knot in our shoulder,
acknowledge our frustration at being stiff whilst noticing our joy of
balancing on one foot, and observe the thought of ‘am I doing this
right?’ before letting it drop away.</span><br /><br />Finally, receptivity allows us to open up to what our body and mind have to teach us, rather than telling them what we want them to do. Often we start with ideas of a posture or views of what we want it to look like, and we need these instructions to begin. But as our practice develops, we can open up to our experience and reverse the trajectory. We can allow the posture to affect the body and mind, and cultivate curiosity and openness as we investigate those effects.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Teaching Bodhiyoga synthesises the two lineages of the Buddha’s teachings and modern yoga asana. I teach at the Norwich Buddhist Centre, which allows a cohesiveness of approach, and I enjoy watching my students develop interest in meditation and Buddhism. Those who sign up for courses or attend drop-in meditation classes return to yoga with deeper understanding of their minds, which suffuses their posture practice with awareness and kindness. We finish each of my classes with a recitation, a dedication of our practice, and I’m humbled and happy to see students taking it to heart as they bring their yoga practice into the world: ‘May our mindfulness and our actions, both on and off the mat and cushion, benefit ourselves and all beings. May our actions be imbued with metta. May we meet our challenges with strength. May we all be well and happy.’</span>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-4015423517579748742015-04-02T15:57:00.001-07:002015-04-03T15:06:06.874-07:00not a paperback kind of girlI rarely buy hardcovers. I can count on one hand how many I've purchased in my life (I can still feel the weight of Grisham's The Runaway Jury on my belly as I read late into the late 1990s night). Certainly lately, as a Buddhist trying to move away from covetousness and all-out greed, steering clear of paying over £15 for a book suits my attempt at living a simplified life. Borrowing books is good, from friends or the library (although then I can't mark them up or make notes in the margins). Finding a used copy on the internet saves resources (although I get into dodgy ethical territory when I sign onto tax-dodging Amazon.com). Buying a paperback is cheaper, allowing me to (allegedly) direct more of my income towards donations to charities and Big Issue purchases.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLMOZdcfjSk/VR3HuhGFCtI/AAAAAAAAEBI/AugJW3gizuc/s1600/Not%2BThat%2BKind%2Bof%2BGirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLMOZdcfjSk/VR3HuhGFCtI/AAAAAAAAEBI/AugJW3gizuc/s1600/Not%2BThat%2BKind%2Bof%2BGirl.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a><br />
But there's another side to this argument, and it has to do with loving reading, and it has to do with the sensuality of books, and it has to do with supporting local bookshops. And a little to do with delighting in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lena_Dunham">Lena Dunham</a>. Dunham is my hero, a woman almost six years my junior whose prose and person delight me and lighten the load of my self-loathing. She's written a <a href="http://lenadunham.com/">book</a>, and it came out in September 2014, and it still hasn't been released in paperback. After being on a two-week retreat during which a slew of suppressed early-adulthood-martini-drenched memories surfaced, I knew I couldn't wait any longer to read it.<br />
<br />
When I decide it's time to buy a brand new book, I go to <a href="http://www.thebookhive.co.uk/">The Book Hive</a>. Norwich's independent bookstore, they have everything you want (including a Wes Anderson photobook I now have my eye on), and if they don't, they'll get it delivered by the next day. They give you a stamp on a loyalty card when you spend over £10. When I buy a book there, I'm doing three things:<br />
<br />
1. I'm patronising the place itself, saying yes I want you to exist, I want to be able to walk in here and find piles of books with beautiful covers, climb up a curving staircase, sit down or kneel or squat to reach a shelf and find something to flip through, to remember a bit what it's like to be in <a href="http://shakespeareandcompany.com/">Shakespeare and Company</a> or <a href="http://www.toppingbooks.co.uk/">Topping and Company</a>.<br />
<br />
2. I'm supporting the staff, saying yes I want you to be paid to be here, to share your knowledge of reading and writing and words, your banter and your slightly-intimidating eyewear.<br />
<br />
3. I'm keeping my money in Norwich, not flitting off to an off-shore tax-free account or out of the country.<br />
<br />
How much did all this cost me? Well, anywhere from £5.10 to £7.53. Dunham's book cost £11.89 <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Not-That-Kind-Girl-Learned/dp/0008101264/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1428012674&sr=1-1&keywords=not+that+kind+of+girl">direct from Amazon</a>, or £9.46 if I had it <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/0008101264/ref=tmm_hrd_new_olp_sr?ie=UTF8&condition=new&sr=1-1&qid=1428012674">shipped brand new from the US</a>. I could have spent the rest of the afternoon dreaming of the coffee and cake I could have had for £5.10, or thinking about how £7.53 is almost the cost of a movie at Cinema City. But instead I think of it as a separate purchase, a mini-investment on its own, one that I decided to make in conjunction with the book. The Book Hive gets some of it, and also the publishers, editors, office staff, typesetters, and Dunham herself. My partner reminds me, "We tend to make our decisions as consumers, not as workers. We only work in one context, but
we consume in all kinds of contexts; we want <i>our</i> work to be valued, but we don't consider the workers who create what we want to consume." I do value the craft required to build a book, to design the cover, to find the words and put them in the right order and choose the paper on which they're printed. I value those who pack the books and bring them to this lovely shop on London Street; I value the space and the solace; and I value the workers who wait there for us to come and patronise.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShAPlECmKJs/VR3IUwtGC9I/AAAAAAAAEBQ/fJ_qN21X7ls/s1600/Wes%2BAnderson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ShAPlECmKJs/VR3IUwtGC9I/AAAAAAAAEBQ/fJ_qN21X7ls/s1600/Wes%2BAnderson.jpg" /></a>Which led me to wonder: how much of all of this infrastructure is dependent on hardback revenue? What would have happened if I'd waited for the book to come out in paperback? Much cheaper for me, of course, but then who takes the hit when the price comes down? I vaguely understood that the mark-up on a hardback was more than a paperback, but percentages and figures alluded me. The chap at The Book Hive explained that further print runs are determined in part by how well the book sells as a hardback. So again, I'm supporting my dear Ms Dunham by purchasing now rather than later. I also found <a href="http://brandonsanderson.com/essay-why-we-like-hardback-books/">this helpful article</a> from sci-fi author Brandon Sanderson that articulates how royalties to the author are generally higher for hardbacks, both percentage-wise and dollar/pound-wise. So all the above arguments hold, but with double the money for all those involved. Rather than scraping by on paperback royalties, perhaps I can accord the authors the income they're due by choosing to buy more hardcovers.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've got my eye on Amy Poehler's <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20910157-yes-please">Yes, Please</a>. Miranda July's <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21412400-the-first-bad-man?from_search=true">The First Bad Man</a>. <a href="http://www.abramsbooks.com/Books/The_Wes_Anderson_Collection-9780810997417.html">The Wes Anderson Collection</a>. And perhaps I can read them sooner rather than later, not because it's indulgent, lavish and cowing to craving, but because the money supports the work of people I aspire to emulate, places I want to exist in the world, and provides a tangible and comforting weight on my belly in bed at night.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-42365949644302152672013-11-28T14:10:00.001-08:002013-12-12T05:32:45.123-08:00death necessitates great love<div dir="ltr">
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Death is an opportunity. When we
witness death, whether face to face or our of the corner of our eye, we can
start to let go of the belief that anything is permanent or substantial.</div>
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Before we come in contact with
the Dharma, we may identify death with the passing away of the body; I
certainly did, and to some extent, still do. I find our hamster in his little
house, bound up with cotton wool; no longer asleep, but unmoving. Or a
grandparent, one day baking us fresh bread, the next in hospital, and then
gone. Perhaps we’ve contemplated our own deaths; written wills, talked to
loved ones about our wishes. Or perhaps we’ve put all this off because we know
it will happen a long, long way in the future.</div>
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When my husband Tom’s parents
died within three and a half years of each other, death moved to the forefront
of my experience. I watched his father shrink and fade over weeks; I saw his
mother laid out in the Chapel of Rest without warning. The sadness in the
faces of bodies of Tom and his brother sinks deep into my own heart. But
amongst this sadness, because of this loss, there is great beauty. </div>
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Death is beautiful to the extent
that we can turn towards it. And so death is synonymous with honesty.
Meditating besides David in his last days, and sitting beside the bed in which
Bridget died after she was gone, I leaned towards this opening in reality
their death had torn. I mostly practised the Metta Bhavana, as I do in my
daily practice, and the layers that I often rely on to divide myself, my body,
my emotions, from others, started to fade and slip away. As I recall Bridget,
I wonder to ‘what’ I am contacting metta in relation to? Where ‘she’ may be?
Her body is gone but I still sense her, in my memories and in those she
touched. These questions dissolve as the veils between things become very
thin. I’m left with a bare witnessing of a richness and beauty, and a gratitude to them for this
glimpse of the experience I will have one day.</div>
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Since coming into contact
with the Dharma, I also bring my contemplation of
death into my everyday life; it becomes spiritual death. Most strongly I
experience this in relation to my ethical practise, which more and more I
understand is inextricably linked with my emotions. My emotions, those of my
heart or my heart-mind, are what cue me to look at my actions of body, speech,
and mind. That slight constriction of the chest; a furrowing of the forehead;
an uneasiness in my gut; all these help me navigate through my reflection on
my actions and their impact on others. The humiliation, fear, and uncertainty
that arise guide me towards the precepts, and allow me to approach others
candidly, with a bare heart. When I am met with the same openness, from my
Going for Refuge group, my friends in the Order, my fellow wayfarers training
for ordination, my husband, and my family, then I can allow my preconceived
notion of what I hold onto or what I am drop away. When I start from a place
of metta, a longing to be in line with reality, then I can move through these
transitions with confidence. I die and what is reborn is different: less tight
and fixed. If I continue to open up to life from this place of confidence and
love, then I can meet the death of my habits, my notions and my body without
fear. For what is necessary for true spiritual death is great
love.</div>
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Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-61662050301894646712012-05-21T14:34:00.002-07:002012-05-21T14:34:44.790-07:00embracing uselessness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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meditation to Norwich City College students: validating to see how far
I’ve come since school, to see what life experience and the Dharma has
given me; humbling to realise how I am still the scared seventeen year
old who doesn’t know what to do with her life. And good for my ego that
most of them weren't really engaged in what we were saying. My friend
said, “Humiliation is good spiritual practice.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">It’s all in a theme for me: dropping my
expectations of how I’d like things to be, letting go of the idea that I need
to be perfect, seeing that I can’t do everything. I cannot keep this up. Not
just the overtime at work, the commitment to Sangha projects, the daily
meditation and yoga practices and the practice journal, the meeting up for
coffees and teas and the endless emails. I can’t keep up with all that, but
furthermore, I cannot keep up this idea that I can control every facet of my
life, or even every facet of my job. And I cannot keep up the belief that my
self worth is defined by my accomplishments.</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">But what happens
when I let that go? What happens when I stop over-identifying with my job? What
happens when I realise I can’t have an eye on everything, that some things will
go by without my say, without my input, without my presence?</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">On one hand there
is an immense relief. I can stop. I can not go to that event, I can not offer
to cover that class. But behind that is a frightening realisation…that it will
all go on without me. That I don’t <i>need</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"> to be there. If something needs to be
covered, someone else will step up. And if it’s just a case of being present at
an event, or showing up at a class, I realise…I’m not that important. My
presence does not make or break other peoples’ experiences. What a blow to my
sense of self, the importance I’ve pumped into myself.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Fear wells up. If
I’m not there, will people forget me? Will someone else take my place? Will I
become dispensible?</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">And if I am not
always doing something, leading something, practicing longer or more often,
then what good am I? If I can’t show you a list that I’ve checked off, if I
can’t prove my worth, if I can’t earn my keep and my space, then what good am
I?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I fear I will
become lazy, indifferent, uninterested. I will become uninspired, stagnant,
boring and unnergised. If I do not move forwards I will slip backwards.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br />
<br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">But there is a
quiet counter voice. It says my worth is innate, not attached to a spiritual
checklist. It says I do not need to do, but to be. It says here I am. It says, lovingly, that I am useless. It says 70% is perfect. It
says practice Just Sitting. It says stop, and rest, and trust that what I do is
enough.</span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-51401254752590487182011-07-13T01:43:00.000-07:002011-07-15T14:37:15.972-07:00everybody wants to be ugly"Every body is beautiful". It's a feminist mantra, it's Dove's advertising campaign, it's the promise made by mothers and cosmetic companies and new age spiritualists. But I don't want to be beautiful anymore. I want to be ugly.<br /><br />I want to be ugly because I want to be honest. I want the freedom not to be pretty. Not to be cute, or sweet, or interesting. To be tired, or frightening, or plain. To be blatantly, nakedly, ugly ole me. When I talk to people I want to hear their struggles, their challenges, and I want to tell them the truth: that I don't always want to meditate, that traveling alone is often hard and boring and frightening, that I argue with my husband and that I miss smoking cigarettes.<br /><br />I can't tell everyone I meet everything. And in the online realm, I can't present it all, either. But I aim to maintain digital honesty - the rough unedited rawness without a braying for recognition. When I create blogs or profiles, I open myself up to interpretation. I have a responsibility to decide how much I share and with whom. But I also have a responsibility to be honest.<br /><br />I allegedly blog, post, Facebook to convey truth, and yet I often strive to share a polished picture of myself. But I also work against this, to make sure my ego's sense of my beautiful self doesn't get out of hand.<br /><br />Contemplating my relationship to nakedness and beauty led to an exploration of ugliness.<br /><br />Publicly posted photos have unwritten rules that dictate a sliding scale of acceptablity. Those of pulled faces and intentional blasé are at the top of the pile...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5vl2OWPOVEM/TiCU-13z1MI/AAAAAAAACY0/AEr7LcCh7I0/s1600/smoosh%2Btired"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5vl2OWPOVEM/TiCU-13z1MI/AAAAAAAACY0/AEr7LcCh7I0/s200/smoosh%2Btired" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629663341547082946" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2Ffmsdtex4/TiCYdJ1KcII/AAAAAAAACaE/sJ4m3yjSjmY/s1600/lion%2Bface"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K2Ffmsdtex4/TiCYdJ1KcII/AAAAAAAACaE/sJ4m3yjSjmY/s200/lion%2Bface" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629667160835649666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EWwxRthWz-g/TiCVOL7fqXI/AAAAAAAACY8/2a43GcCVlo8/s1600/IMG_5875.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EWwxRthWz-g/TiCVOL7fqXI/AAAAAAAACY8/2a43GcCVlo8/s200/IMG_5875.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629663605166156146" border="0" /></a><br />...followed by those we defiantly upload to prove we don't care how we look in fancy dress or ridiculous head garb:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d40SBq5EWP0/TiCXyJu9fcI/AAAAAAAACZ0/UKfbt3zfY6o/s1600/fish%2Bface"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d40SBq5EWP0/TiCXyJu9fcI/AAAAAAAACZ0/UKfbt3zfY6o/s200/fish%2Bface" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629666422075260354" border="0" /></a><br />Then there are those posted by friends who we wish had captured us at a better angle. But to ask to remove the photos would be admitting our vanity. (See below for eg1. Smooshed Smile and eg2. Frantic Face). We experience the internal struggle: to Untag or not to Untag.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rK8NJixf05I/TiCV-TeYJSI/AAAAAAAACZI/K4NR9x8oMSw/s1600/psycho%2Beyes"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rK8NJixf05I/TiCV-TeYJSI/AAAAAAAACZI/K4NR9x8oMSw/s200/psycho%2Beyes" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629664431825233186" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rK8NJixf05I/TiCV-TeYJSI/AAAAAAAACZI/K4NR9x8oMSw/s1600/psycho%2Beyes"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uxURk-I4hxA/TiCWGYhAYfI/AAAAAAAACZQ/iy2_27t-k8s/s1600/frantic%2Bsmiles"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uxURk-I4hxA/TiCWGYhAYfI/AAAAAAAACZQ/iy2_27t-k8s/s200/frantic%2Bsmiles" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629664570617389554" border="0" /></a>Next are the unflattering ones where we're caught with a mouth full of food:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mD4rGmpwpM/TiCW1uSO_YI/AAAAAAAACZc/1sekcrGBM-c/s1600/eating%2Bat%2Bdim%2Bsum"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6mD4rGmpwpM/TiCW1uSO_YI/AAAAAAAACZc/1sekcrGBM-c/s200/eating%2Bat%2Bdim%2Bsum" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629665383914864002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs0dsEhHxkI/TiCXE5DGIEI/AAAAAAAACZk/bqyu5sFxJAw/s1600/eating%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bbeach"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cs0dsEhHxkI/TiCXE5DGIEI/AAAAAAAACZk/bqyu5sFxJAw/s200/eating%2Bat%2Bthe%2Bbeach" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629665644502196290" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uozVgEJ27Ag/TiCXOWpR6RI/AAAAAAAACZs/aOR5A0Y2kXQ/s1600/eating%2Bin%2BCastleton"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uozVgEJ27Ag/TiCXOWpR6RI/AAAAAAAACZs/aOR5A0Y2kXQ/s200/eating%2Bin%2BCastleton" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629665807065803026" border="0" /></a><br />And then there are the old selves. Perhaps we've taken them down, telling ourselves they're out of date. But that doesn't explain why our sixth grade photo stays up without an eyelash bat. Perhaps we can see too clearly how we were with ourselves, how we stood and how we looked at the camera.<br /><br />These are who I was at that time. I remind myself as I write this how I look shouldn't matter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9cbOajAz_ow/TiCYmGNnzeI/AAAAAAAACaM/KpuTsgwd2VE/s1600/chipmunky%2BOma"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9cbOajAz_ow/TiCYmGNnzeI/AAAAAAAACaM/KpuTsgwd2VE/s200/chipmunky%2BOma" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629667314483318242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FO95wOlr9Nw/TiCZiuCUpsI/AAAAAAAACac/0LGT0cDtx9A/s1600/IMG_2115.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FO95wOlr9Nw/TiCZiuCUpsI/AAAAAAAACac/0LGT0cDtx9A/s200/IMG_2115.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629668355965494978" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FveChdf8nuk/TiCY8VXr7BI/AAAAAAAACaU/G54VYLJ0bqE/s1600/2Singapore14%2BAndrea%2Bat%2BSunny.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FveChdf8nuk/TiCY8VXr7BI/AAAAAAAACaU/G54VYLJ0bqE/s200/2Singapore14%2BAndrea%2Bat%2BSunny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629667696509185042" border="0" /></a><br />So what happened when I originally posted all these unflattering photos? Not much. No one cared. There are too many blogs, too many posts, for people to notice a few bad photos. Internally, though, I react to every one. With loathing, with embarrassment, with affected nonchalance, but rarely with an honest equanimity.<br /><br />They all make me squirm on some level, but they're not exactly <span style="font-style: italic;">ugly</span>. So then I wondered...what if I purposely posted ugly photos?<br /><br />And there, hiding behind the very thing I thought I was trying to avoid, I found liberation. I found freedom to not just allow my bad angles to be broadcast, but to actively, honestly, try to make myself ugly.<br /><br />If people see me at my worst, I can stop trying to look my best.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3rv_XZy7Isg/TiCb0a0OvzI/AAAAAAAACaw/qSGt6fhp7Ik/s1600/2006%2B11Nov%2B8%2BSample_4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3rv_XZy7Isg/TiCb0a0OvzI/AAAAAAAACaw/qSGt6fhp7Ik/s200/2006%2B11Nov%2B8%2BSample_4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629670859067014962" border="0" /></a><br />I started looking through my photo archive to find photos of myself looking ugly, seeking to make a horror face horror show. But I couldn't find many.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iK40rDS6rlQ/TiCcuXAfvoI/AAAAAAAACa8/4Mu_K7SzQ2Y/s1600/2008%2B10Oct%2Bred%2Bpj8.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iK40rDS6rlQ/TiCcuXAfvoI/AAAAAAAACa8/4Mu_K7SzQ2Y/s200/2008%2B10Oct%2Bred%2Bpj8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629671854477131394" border="0" /></a><br />I'm blindsided so often by billboards and magazines and even friends' cooing encouragements that my standards creep up to photoshopped airbrushed heights. But when I brought myself back down to the realm of normal, I could only classify a few of my past pictures as bordering on bad.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IJGkU40XWDc/TiCdRbx_Q0I/AAAAAAAACbM/xeQfJ8NSwug/s1600/IMG_0086.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IJGkU40XWDc/TiCdRbx_Q0I/AAAAAAAACbM/xeQfJ8NSwug/s200/IMG_0086.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629672457053881154" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V_klTSCaUVc/TiCdNk6KkXI/AAAAAAAACbE/sSvRpZig3Pk/s1600/IMG_0082.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V_klTSCaUVc/TiCdNk6KkXI/AAAAAAAACbE/sSvRpZig3Pk/s200/IMG_0082.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629672390784618866" border="0" /></a><br />So I tried to take some. Then came the second revelation. I realised: it's actually quite difficult.<br /><br />I've been so worried about trying to get the right angle when someone takes out a camera that I forgot that it's an effort to be ugly.<br /><br />As I found more pictures, took more photos, contemplated what I need to do to make myself ugly...<br />...something unexpected happened.<br /><br />The next time I looked in the mirror, I didn't see my imperfect skin or my warbling tummy. I saw a reflection of a body, with all these bits that on their own are fascinating. I have two legs, two arms, a waist, a neck. I'm not eating so I don't have to look. I'm not starving or starving myself.<br /><br />I had to work pretty hard to get ugly.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mDRhZNlpPqw/TiCdvFQprgI/AAAAAAAACbU/ETa_-qiFV_k/s1600/IMG_5878.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mDRhZNlpPqw/TiCdvFQprgI/AAAAAAAACbU/ETa_-qiFV_k/s200/IMG_5878.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629672966404550146" border="0" /></a><br />Most surprisingly, I found it difficult to be ugly naked. I wonder how to digitally bare my base self? Reading a book naked, even with a paper bag over my head, didn't add up to ugliness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2jTIjYALBfY/TiCd0WEYYkI/AAAAAAAACbc/BgoYSizn0ig/s1600/IMG_5885.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2jTIjYALBfY/TiCd0WEYYkI/AAAAAAAACbc/BgoYSizn0ig/s200/IMG_5885.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629673056815833666" border="0" /></a><br />Now when I get out of the shower, or fold over in yoga and see my tummy rolls stack up, or see my skin in a bad light, I don't sigh so loudly. My body is amazing.<br /><br />Not beautiful, not cute, not pretty, not skinny, not curvy, not special. It might be all of those things. But taking on being ugly means I've taken it apart. And it isn't a sum of thigh measurements or swimsuit sizes or paper bags or Facebook photos. If I can be everything I've been on this page, then I have the freedom to become anything I want.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-33395378000238090512011-07-01T15:21:00.000-07:002016-07-20T13:46:28.907-07:00where I write<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O7avzhlEnqE/Tg5JM4nPdLI/AAAAAAAACYI/fiYSOwrPfQ8/s1600/IMG_4466.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624513470336562354" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O7avzhlEnqE/Tg5JM4nPdLI/AAAAAAAACYI/fiYSOwrPfQ8/s200/IMG_4466.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">I write in the small soft space between bedcovers and eyelashes, in the place you settle into before you drift off. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">My favourite place to find words is in the sunshine on my duvet, but second place is between the raindrops on the window I see when my head’s down on the pillow.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">From my bed, I reach my dictionary and diaries off the </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">shelf. I sit cross-legged with notes and </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">rough drafts spread across the comforter. I sprawl on my stomach to tap on my laptop. I sit up against the headboard; the room becomes my head space; I slip into the dream story world. I glance up through the windowpanes </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">when I need freedom from lower case though</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 100%;">ts, but then burrow back into tender down-filled definitions, before finally slipping book covers and laptops shut to go to sleep.</span></span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: small;">I write in between places, on the subway and sitting down on bridges. I grab words that whizz by like tube stops and slam them down onto the paper before they zoom away again.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">I write up down staircases. I sit on the side and </span><span lang="EN-US">squish against the wall so when ladies walk by with their dogs they become the next character in my stories about shoes.</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gZ3wjZo9siw/Tg5JMiigeJI/AAAAAAAACX4/9qxeBnwW8fI/s1600/2008%2B3Mar%2B4Versailles29%2Bme%2Blooking%2Bover.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624513464411125906" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gZ3wjZo9siw/Tg5JMiigeJI/AAAAAAAACX4/9qxeBnwW8fI/s200/2008%2B3Mar%2B4Versailles29%2Bme%2Blooking%2Bover.jpg" style="float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">I write in secret sunshine places, following the light from park benches onto balconies and the roofs of neighbours' houses.</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rBHsYtHkq8E/Tg5Jo6t4vXI/AAAAAAAACYQ/AdLzWRbVtmw/s1600/IMG_8844.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624513951937641842" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rBHsYtHkq8E/Tg5Jo6t4vXI/AAAAAAAACYQ/AdLzWRbVtmw/s200/IMG_8844.jpg" style="float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">I write in refracted rain, with the silhouettes of the light inside me reflecting on the windowpane and the shiny screen.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YCUin7Wb8c/Uqm7X8lhMvI/AAAAAAAAD08/7RzdKkedm2M/s1600/2008+3Mar+4Versailles72+I+sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YCUin7Wb8c/Uqm7X8lhMvI/AAAAAAAAD08/7RzdKkedm2M/s200/2008+3Mar+4Versailles72+I+sketch.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN-US">I write on cold park benches beside bamboo, where coloured pencils colour my words. All the adjectives a in pink, the nouns bright green. It takes me longer to get it all down, but colour coding helps me remember what I meant.</span></span></span></div>
Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-32086058136467821892011-02-25T10:04:00.000-08:002011-03-25T17:52:07.971-07:00Confessions of a Buddhist's Celebrity CrushSo I am a Buddhist, and I'm married, and I have a crush on a celebrity. Like most things that come up for me in my practice, I am surprised. I assume that because I practice the Dharma, I should be immediately released of all worldly emotions, including impatience, doubt, and of course, craving and lust. I also assume I should declare my renunciation of material things, including new clothes, electronic gadgets, and television.<br /><br />But in reality renunciation comes in degrees, and I must confess. I do buy clothes, but mostly from charity shops and not as often as I did. I own an iPod, but it's a 2G Nano. And I watch 'television', but only DVDs, and only one boxed DVD at that: The Office.<br /><br />When I started watching The Office back in 2007, it was already long past its debut on NBC. I watched my roommate's DVD collection and made it half way through season four without a break or any cliffhangers. Pam and Jim were my main reason for watching, and I quaked each time he reached out to her and deflated each time she rejected him. When they finally got together I felt Halpert's personal triumph as my own.<br /><br />I relocated to England in March of 2007, lived without a TV for months, and forgot about Dunder Mifflin for a few years. I was busy discovering the Dharma and getting married. When I told my new husband Tom about my past obsession and showed him Jim's impersonation of Dwight on You Tube, he bought me Season Four and Five to satiate my craving. I watched them in rapid succession and it was during season five, somewhere around his proposal to Pam, when I fell for Jim Halpert.<br /><br />I awoke this morning in a sweat thinking I'd cheated on my husband with Jim. I had all the guilt, fear, and shame of breaking up TV's favourite couple and my own relationship in one lucid dream. Let me be clear - I'm in love with Jim Halpert, not his equally aesthetically pleasing <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yh8ZmfPIi-Y/TWfwxGHzKYI/AAAAAAAACVI/QBsjUZ17hUI/s1600/John_Krasinski-2-Leatherheads.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yh8ZmfPIi-Y/TWfwxGHzKYI/AAAAAAAACVI/QBsjUZ17hUI/s200/John_Krasinski-2-Leatherheads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577691389769230722" border="0" /></a>but not as adorable alter-ego, John Krasinki (although this picture tempted me to change my mind). But no, Jim's not so suave, not so certain. The only thing he knows for sure is how much he loves Pam.<br /><br />At first I thought it might just be my identification with the character. Watching Jim woo Pam brings back the visceral feelings of unrequited love of high school crushes. I pined from afar, wished and hoped and prayed the one I loved would notice me, I dreamed up elaborate plans and stories to fuel my infatuation. Jim's pursuit of Pam reminded me of the sweet suffering I made for myself, but also convinced myself I couldn't avoid. The dramatic ideals of love at first sight and never giving up played out in their courtship as they did in my adolescence. So while I recognised in Jim my tendencies to inflate my fantasies and pursue the unattainable, I recognised in Pam the girl I desperately wanted to be.<br /><br />The crush taps into the idealism of youthful virginity, to the times before anyone had broken my heart, when a boyfriend would solve all my problems, and when all I needed was the right guy to smile at me. Forget compassion, companionship, and enduring love; I wanted passion, ardor, and lust. But I wanted them framed with soft pink roses and slipped between clean bed sheets. I wanted music to swell when I turned around to see him leaning on a door frame, I wanted to walk in the rain without having to mop up the puddles when I got home, I wanted to tumble into bed without worrying about the condom <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span> about getting pregnant (yes, I know, I saw the last episode of Season 5 - but I can't get Season 6 or 7 over here yet, so don't tell me if it's actually true or what happens!).<br /><br />And an imaginary lover in a soundtracked TV series can give you all those things. Because he isn't real, he never fails to live up to expectations. Isn't human, isn't falliable, bu<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1VpIObH9BhY/TWf1U-i0k5I/AAAAAAAACVU/p6dS04MY77c/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1VpIObH9BhY/TWf1U-i0k5I/AAAAAAAACVU/p6dS04MY77c/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577696404256887698" border="0" /></a>t rather waits at the gate of your consciousness until you're ready to call him in. But he won't do your laundry, cook you dinner, leave love notes for you on the kitchen table or sweep you off to Paris in the springtime.<br /><br />One of the Buddha's teachings is to "guard the doors of the senses". As we become more aware of what we react to, what we grab hold of and run with, we can choose what to expose ourselves to and what to indulge in. If I sold my Office DVDs and disconnected the internet, I wouldn't catch glimpses of Jim or watch spliced together montages of his and Pam's flirtations. And so then I wouldn't move on to the indulgent ideas of what it might be like if I were Pam, or if my husband were Jim. So really, for the sake of my heart and maybe my marriage, I should give up the show. Alas, though, I am no forest renunciant, and I can't make the break.<br /><br />So what is the remedy? How do I remind myself that I love my husband and that no one, not even Jim Halpert, would make me as happy as he does? With small things. Recollecting my three-dimensional journey that brought me here, and how it wouldn't fit in a half-hour sitcom. How I did meet some guys who smiled at me, who I was certain were right - and how our actual relationships played out, ending in heartbreak, emotional blackmail, and bad poetry. Remembering how many things looked so good on paper and played out so inconsistently. How when I met Tom I learned you fall in love over ironing sheets and watching clouds, and how when I married him it wasn't a whim, it wasn't fleeting, it was a promise and a dedication and a commitment.<br /><br />And how when he shrugs and smirks and puts his hands in his pockets, he looks a little like Jim.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-67529108727665072522011-01-09T03:03:00.001-08:002011-01-09T07:08:36.604-08:00going back to India<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >A friend of mine leaves for India on 8 March, 2011. He asks me for travel advice. His request spurs me to slip back through the aperture of my digital camera, sift through my e</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >mails home, </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >read back on my diary to remini</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >sce about the culture shock and</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > how I went to the subcontinent looking for a grand adventure, to find only myself.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >When I as</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ked people about India before I left, they used same adjective: "Amazing". But they couldn't back up the term with specifics. They flung out images and clichés</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >: cows in the street, camel safaris, warm chapati at road side stalls and</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > famili</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >es i</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >n</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >viting you to lunch in their homes. They talked as if reading from guidebooks or tourist brochures rather than recounting experiences.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > I visited India in</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > September and October, </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >2007 with my sister, Tara. She introduced</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > me to her budget travel rules:</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > 1. Always spend time before money.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > 2. Never take a taxi when you can ta</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ke a cheaper chauffeured vehicle (insert autorickshaw, becak, bajaj, tuk tuk here). Never take any of these when you can take a bus. Never take a bus when you can walk.<br />3. Never accep</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >t the first price.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > 4. Assume everyone is trying to take advantage of you and work backwards from there.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >She shrugged: "There aren't fewer honest, helpful people in India. There are just </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >fifty times the scam artists." We argued about the rules and our experiences over the next month, and came around to each other in some ways, but further distanced in others.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >DELHI - The Capital City<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmsyGfXsGI/AAAAAAAACPs/MjCtLngPljs/s1600/IMG_2580.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmsyGfXsGI/AAAAAAAACPs/MjCtLngPljs/s200/IMG_2580.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560165191701213282" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >A taxi to Paraganj in the middle </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >of the night, collapsing into our</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > hostel room with a mixture of exhaus</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >tion and </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >jetlag. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Walk around Chaudi Chok marketplace. Visit the Red Fort (and t</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >he Ka</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >hs Malal</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > within it). National Gandhi Museum.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br />Delhi alone can be alienating, and the fear of being taken advantage of can keep a wall up. The Indian belief in "baksheer" - money: either tips, bribes, alms, or padding the bill - shows up even in temples.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We walk past a man hun</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ched ove</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >r on the cement of a curb, his beard in tufts, a raggled shirt collapsed on his shoulders.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > His left elbow rested on his thigh, his hand hung between his legs as he g</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >roped over what the cloth wouldn't cov</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >er. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmr0dMEZTI/AAAAAAAACPc/VTBTmHOjIgY/s1600/4India%2B1Delhi41%2Blooking%2Bdown%2Bon%2BDelhi.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmr0dMEZTI/AAAAAAAACPc/VTBTmHOjIgY/s320/4India%2B1Delhi41%2Blooking%2Bdown%2Bon%2BDelhi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560164132642383154" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We tried not to look at the open gash below the bend in his arm, </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >an open sore almost to the bone. Unsure even if we were walking the right way, we passed in a confused shock. Later, I wo</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ndered what Gandhi </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >would have done, or another traveler, or our parents. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >questioned the huma</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >n, the rational, the realistic as we wondered that biting conditional of "should". Self-admonishment for a blind eye gave way to a helpless "but what could we do?" </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >a</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >nd worri</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >es about our o</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >wn safety, neverm</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ind his. I saw us in the</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > waiting room</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > o</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >f a hos</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >pital,</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > flies collecting </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >on his ar</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >m, o</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >n our</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >s. Did he come from one, a hospital waiting room </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >that cou</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ldn't afford to keep him? If I helped him, who else was I to stop and help on this, my vacation time? </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >I told myself I can't help them all. The truth was I don't want to help thi</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >s one.<br /><br />That guilt pervaded all my experie</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >nces, the coin cans in the hands of mother</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >s jangled at the sides of my conscience. I nev</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >er reached a resolution, of who to give to and what to give and w</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >hat I owed for being there. So in the end I give nothing.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We decide to see on</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ly one state, confining ourselves to Rajasthan, a </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >place of sand and kings, where the bolts of fabric </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >made up for</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > the barren la</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ndscape, where I learned to do nothing and think less than that.</span><!--EndFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;"> We embarked on a</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > triangle journey to bring us full circle back to Delhi in a month's time.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >AGRA - The Taj City</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmuUvS1XuI/AAAAAAAACP4/XYDF7860oY4/s1600/IMG_2642.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmuUvS1XuI/AAAAAAAACP4/XYDF7860oY4/s320/IMG_2642.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560166886281666274" border="0" /></a></span></span></span>The insanity of Delhi fed into the ov</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >erbearing tourism of Agra, a city built on the rupe</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >es brought in by the draw of the Taj Mahal. Taj Ganj, the area imme</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >diat</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ely around the world class monument, stifles with</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > artificiality </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >as it </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >caters to every palate and cultural p</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >aradigm and thus robs its</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >elf of any authe</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >nticity.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmuwYNRp0I/AAAAAAAACQA/p3owYKW2stg/s1600/IMG_2698.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmuwYNRp0I/AAAAAAAACQA/p3owYKW2stg/s200/IMG_2698.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560167361120675650" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >After t</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >aking in the Taj at su</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >nrise, I conceded it lived up to e</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >very expe</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ctation, picture</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >, quotation. </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >The Taj Mahal dwarfed even my conc</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >eptualized ideal. It is just a</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >s white</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >, as majestic, as pristine as every </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >postcar</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >d and every recollection you've heard. </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >I watched the </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >sunrise over the white marble and marveled at the stones inlaid in the "teardrop </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >on the face of time". </span><!--EndFragment--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >The inlays of mot</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >her of pearl and </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >semi-precious stones reflect the light off the polished marble</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >, and every one of </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >the 20,000 workers and elephants who chiseled, carved, bricklayed, and otherwise toiled </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmvz5WAFPI/AAAAAAAACQM/TccLgB-iV6U/s1600/IMG_2638.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmvz5WAFPI/AAAAAAAACQM/TccLgB-iV6U/s200/IMG_2638.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560168521066878194" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ove</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >r 22 years leave a</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > bit of themselves behind in this tapestry of talents. <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></span><!--EndFragment--><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">I visit the Ta</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">j, the Baby Taj, a</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">nd</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;"> Agra Fort, sidesteppi</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">ng cows. </span></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >They're docile, sacred animals, and wan</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >der where they please. I wonder who owns them, who feeds them, what happens when they die. I only know they're not eaten. While "non-veg" restaurants serve up chicken and some</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >times lamb, there is no b</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >eef here.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >I stopped beside</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > a fruit stand to handle a mango. In the shop beside it, two sheets hung and as the breeze parted them, I peered in to find a skinless, headless carcass hanging, separated from me by only an open gutter.</span><!--EndFragment--><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></span><!--EndFragment--><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > Don't eat the meat.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The couple next to us in a restaurant shared Purell: he uncapped it and squirtted it into her hands, held out and cupped expectantly. The disinfectant smell wandered over, familia</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >r to tourists in the same way the wafts of fried pakora and samosa batter slithered up the local streets.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >India is, at first, exhausting. And for reasons whic</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >h surprised me. Traveler propag</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >anda promised an experience unlike any other - a rush of exciting happenings, Incredi</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ble</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > India. The reality is les</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >s epic.</span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>297</o:Words> <o:characters>1693</o:Characters> <o:lines>14</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2079</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; line-height:200%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >Autorickshaws pursued me for blocks and many </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >minutes, no matter</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > how many times I ins</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >isted I would rath</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >er walk. At first, a sense of humor armoured me against their eyes, and I laughed through eac</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >h n</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ew approach. But </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >then I became unsure </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >if they were humoured in return. It was unnerving, and I brought my back up instead of relaxin</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >g i</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >nto the culture. Who am I as a tourist with the same colour skin and heritage as past coloniz</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >er</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >s to suggest how I should be treated? Instead of answering I look away, at the temples and the palaces and the cows walking down th</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >e street. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">JAIPUR - The Pink City</span><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnHUnUSAhI/AAAAAAAACUA/CXfZ7oucvGQ/s1600/4India%2B3Jaipur36%2BHawal%2BMahal%2Blookin%2Bup.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnHUnUSAhI/AAAAAAAACUA/CXfZ7oucvGQ/s200/4India%2B3Jaipur36%2BHawal%2BMahal%2Blookin%2Bup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560194371930948114" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >But later I resolved to stop being a cynic and embrace happiness. Despite </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >all the propoganda on scams and tourist traps, I realized most people genuinely want to help, or at least just honestly do business with you. In Delhi and Agra, inflate</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >d prices and bargaining are a w</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ay of life, but in Jaipur peop</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >le charged the g</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >oing rate - the tourist rate, yes, b</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ut straight-up nevertheless. </span></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmy2b62xmI/AAAAAAAACQY/U7ULHk6FKNs/s1600/4India%2B3Jaipur72%2BJantar%2BMantar%2BThrough%2Bthe%2BLooking%2BGlass.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmy2b62xmI/AAAAAAAACQY/U7ULHk6FKNs/s200/4India%2B3Jaipur72%2BJantar%2BMantar%2BThrough%2Bthe%2BLooking%2BGlass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560171863242884706" border="0" /></a></span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >There's an u</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >pside to politeness. It's not false or phony or disingenuous. It opened up</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > opportunities and left a sweeter taste in my mouth.</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > Tara and I both got colds: it's the</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > dust in Rajasthan, that desert state. I had the sniffles and a bit of a head cold, while Tara was virtually incapacitated, and a</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > little feverish.</span><!--EndFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;"> She regained strength after a few days and copious amounts of tea with lemon and honey.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmzmTvvUTI/AAAAAAAACQo/BSfr0VUpHZM/s1600/IMG_2888.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSmzmTvvUTI/AAAAAAAACQo/BSfr0VUpHZM/s200/IMG_2888.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560172685682495794" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Jaipur bustled with old bazaars and new money, the old walls of the crumbling Pink City hankering down </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >against the 25 million population outside. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I visit the Birla Temple, white marble glowing in the sun. The bazaars full of fabric and bags of spices, the Hawal Mahal, the City Palace. The Jantar Mantar is an Alice-in-Wonderland-esque collection of architectural astronomical instruments. The Raj Mandir, world's most gaudy cinema. The Amber Fort outside the city.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">PUSHKAR - The Ghat City</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm0egY6EiI/AAAAAAAACQ8/bm6lU29BSS4/s1600/4India%2B5Pushkar46%2Bmountain%2Bvasidasana.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm0egY6EiI/AAAAAAAACQ8/bm6lU29BSS4/s200/4India%2B5Pushkar46%2Bmountain%2Bvasidasana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560173651149066786" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >In Pushkar I rejoiced in the tranquility of a l</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ake</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >front town - or rather, pond </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >centred. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Towns like Pushkar are more laid back, a</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >nd it's e</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >as</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ier to enjoy the views of pilgrims </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >bathing on the ghats. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />We sat on rooftop restaurants and watch sunsets over the water.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >I started to notice my judgment of </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >other travelers. I looked at them and decided who they were, what they were doing in India</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >, without k</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >nowin</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >g a thin</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >g about them. I didn't thi</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >nk to </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >comp</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >are them to me - I co</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >uldn't <span style="font-style: italic;">possibly</span> be one of them. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The ones wearing American E</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >agle t</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >-shirts are fearful</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > and unadv</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >enturo</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >us, </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >new here, greenhorns, they order toast and Marmite at breakfast </span></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm0Xp5NANI/AAAAAAAACQ0/42R3oLnac9k/s1600/4India%2B5Pushkar12%2Bghats%2Betc.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm0Xp5NANI/AAAAAAAACQ0/42R3oLnac9k/s200/4India%2B5Pushkar12%2Bghats%2Betc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560173533441360082" border="0" /></a></span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >and sandwiches and spaghetti bolognese at nigh</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >t. I wonder why they came to India if they never wante</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >d to leave home.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;">And then we found "Honey and Spice", a shop that sold tofu and toasted nuts and espresso instead of heavy gravies and Nescafé, and I ate there every day. I had to cede defeat on the above point and let go, once again, of my tendency to We go also go on a bike ride and climb a mountain.<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">UDAIPUR - The Lake City</span><br /><br /></span></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm2QWJtzLI/AAAAAAAACRY/BVg9IvVOzyo/s1600/IMG_3059_2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm2QWJtzLI/AAAAAAAACRY/BVg9IvVOzyo/s200/IMG_3059_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560175606906080434" border="0" /></a></span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Udaipur threw the net of its tourism close to the</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > famous Lake Pichola where Octopussy was filmed, but when we struc</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >k out into the city itself we couldn't find a vibe to define it. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The city's stagnation mimic</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ked its lake and my m</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >indspace, </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >so</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > that I could dr</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ift quietly among the algae and collect my thoughts to bring them together and sprout a lily.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>136</o:Words> <o:characters>777</o:Characters> <o:lines>6</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>954</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; line-height:200%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm1-xa_8mI/AAAAAAAACRM/w8UZg478qhA/s1600/4India%2B6Udaipur120%2BHanuman%2Bview%2Bacross.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm1-xa_8mI/AAAAAAAACRM/w8UZg478qhA/s200/4India%2B6Udaipur120%2BHanuman%2Bview%2Bacross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560175304988684898" border="0" /></a>We arrived the night of a street festival, with lights hanging above the city and kids smashing hand-held sticks together in celebration. We ate overlooking to famous lake. We visit the City Palace. </span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm2_LJBeeI/AAAAAAAACRg/szu9GBJuXek/s1600/4India%2B6Udaipur131%2Bmailing%2Bpackages.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm2_LJBeeI/AAAAAAAACRg/szu9GBJuXek/s200/4India%2B6Udaipur131%2Bmailing%2Bpackages.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560176411404237282" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style="font-size:85%;">A havali beside the river housed clothing exhibitions and we returned in the evening for a traditional dance performance. I posted home two packages from the local post office - set aside a day to do this, and I was told to resign myself to possible never seeing anything in them again. Despite my misgivings, the packages actually arrived home before I did.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />JODHPUR - The Blue City</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm4lE7FFoI/AAAAAAAACR8/U-11CQj9VrM/s1600/IMG_3267.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm4lE7FFoI/AAAAAAAACR8/U-11CQj9VrM/s200/IMG_3267.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560178162081797762" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Jodhpur leapt out as our favourite, laid back and liberal whilst still caterin</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >g to our palates and our desire to blend in.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Atop our guest house af</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ter the sa</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ri market and a plateful of Indian sweets, we reflected that the at</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >mosphere here is laid-back, less frenetic. Ta</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ra says it's more liberal, less touristy;</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > more accept</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ance, less hassle; more strolling, less gawking. We visited the sari market where women threw bolts of silk and embroidered chiffon at us for 50 rupees a piece. After five swathes of fabric I pulled back, </span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm36kGsflI/AAAAAAAACR0/spjR9GhMqdE/s1600/4India%2B7Jodhpur69%2Bthe%2Bfort%2Bover%2Bthe%2Bcity.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm36kGsflI/AAAAAAAACR0/spjR9GhMqdE/s200/4India%2B7Jodhpur69%2Bthe%2Bfort%2Bover%2Bthe%2Bcity.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560177431717641810" border="0" /></a> </span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >scampering away from the insistent women who wanted us to buy their wares. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Accustomed to forward pushes by men and rickshaw wallahs, my first </span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >experience of overeager women overpowere</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >d my stamina for resistance and forced me to withdraw. I worry I should have bought mor</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >e, s</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >hould have found a use for another</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > three or four.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm3t2bxlRI/AAAAAAAACRs/yZjl3N3w2zU/s1600/4India%2B7Jodhpur3%2BFort%2Bview%2Bof%2Bblue.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm3t2bxlRI/AAAAAAAACRs/yZjl3N3w2zU/s200/4India%2B7Jodhpur3%2BFort%2Bview%2Bof%2Bblue.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560177213299594514" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The palace sat above the city in a walled-in fortress. When we looked down from above, the blue buildings of the Brahmins glow</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ed up at us. We visited the fort, the market (full of </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >cows and saris), a mausoleum, and th</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >e palace. We drank saffron lassis - rather we</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >ate them with spoons, tasting equal parts citrus, cream, saffron, and sugarcane. The thickness of the </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >yogurt rolled like ice cream over our tongues and mingled with the sweet bite of sugar. </span><!--EndFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">JAISALMER - The Golden City</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm-c3fp-EI/AAAAAAAACTE/HHJVgrdFj50/s1600/4India%2B8Jaisalmer%2Bjain5%2Bshadows%2Bin%2Btemple.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm-c3fp-EI/AAAAAAAACTE/HHJVgrdFj50/s200/4India%2B8Jaisalmer%2Bjain5%2Bshadows%2Bin%2Btemple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560184618107926594" border="0" /></a>Or the Sandcastle City. When we arrived here wallahs attacked our bus trying to drag us to guest houses - business seems to have been slow. We evaded them and found our own, walking through the dust and sand.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >In Jaisalmer I woke up exhausted by India. I'm not sure if it was the heat or the desert or Tara's insatiable desire to expl</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ore, but the idea of walking, or doing yoga, or taking a picture, all seemed too much to begin to attempt.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >I continued to renegotiate my travel ideals. "Experiencing India" for me must be, very specifically, a white tourist experiencing tourist India. My brief encounters with the locals were only that, and generally operated in the defined roles of buyer and seller. </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >Gandhi would say, attack the system, not the individual. And unless I want to take on the reform of India's tourist trade in any constructive sense, I decided I may as well play along.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm9rTWnrAI/AAAAAAAACS0/9tQBXhRNDMY/s1600/4India%2B8Jaisalmer%2Bcamel16%2Bon%2Bthe%2Bmove.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm9rTWnrAI/AAAAAAAACS0/9tQBXhRNDMY/s200/4India%2B8Jaisalmer%2Bcamel16%2Bon%2Bthe%2Bmove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560183766592760834" border="0" /></a>While in other cities the fort is only for show, here people still live within its walls, and the sanitation and growing infrastructure wreaks havoc on the foundations. I visited the fort, the castle inside it, as well as a Jain temple. I paid 50 p to get my hair cut and end up with one side an inch shorter than the other. From here we ventured into the desert for our camel safari.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm-BWLzyGI/AAAAAAAACS8/SQItnEhphxw/s1600/IMG_3417_2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm-BWLzyGI/AAAAAAAACS8/SQItnEhphxw/s320/IMG_3417_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560184145309845602" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Being out there on the sand, barefoot and hair full of campfire smoke, reminded me of every solitary beach I'd sat on and every camping experience I'd attempted. I wonder if I experience things only to put my past expe</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >riences in some kind of context. I travel to bring into relief the changes in me, t</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >he truths, that are usually submerged in normality and rout</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ine.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span></span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >BIKANER - The Last City</span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm_TDOg3CI/AAAAAAAACTQ/0-zfztnYyE4/s1600/IMG_3504.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm_TDOg3CI/AAAAAAAACTQ/0-zfztnYyE4/s320/IMG_3504.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560185548970187810" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Sitting on a train to Bikaner from Jaisalmer, we looked outside to the ornate sandstone benches, carved with intertwined flowers and curlicue, and resisted conversation with the solitary local who wanted to practise his English. The train station formed yet another paradox, where its immaculate construction and cleanliness, absent of grime and urine, seems a crater of cleanliness with all the culture and vivacity scooped out.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >In Bikaner, crazy d</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >rivers careened around </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm_nsRrtrI/AAAAAAAACTY/SwSxyPdqZdY/s1600/IMG_3510.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm_nsRrtrI/AAAAAAAACTY/SwSxyPdqZdY/s200/IMG_3510.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560185903586719410" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >motorcycles and shouted at pedestrians. After a month I thought I'd grown accustomed to the pal-mel driving laws, but India continued to surprise and shock.<br /><br />We go to the palace and the fort, and we ready ourselves to go home. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Our tour of the Rajasthani triangle, the desert cities of Jaipur, Udaipur, Jodhpur, Jaislamer, and Bikaner reveals in each a fort and a palace, but also with their own definitive style.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />back in DELHI</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnAm_ghn7I/AAAAAAAACTk/0Q9swcvALK8/s1600/IMG_3585.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnAm_ghn7I/AAAAAAAACTk/0Q9swcvALK8/s200/IMG_3585.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560186991081004978" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We visited the Ba'hi temple which</span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnA4if6FoI/AAAAAAAACTs/kfQEp12ZMLk/s1600/IMG_3579.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSnA4if6FoI/AAAAAAAACTs/kfQEp12ZMLk/s200/IMG_3579.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560187292531431042" border="0" /></a></span><name="generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><style="font-family: rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/ALCampbell/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > inspired me with its description</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" > of inclusion of all faiths, but when I arrived I felt an emptiness and lack of cohesion in the high ceiling</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >ed empty hall.<br /><br />We found the place of Gandhi's assassination. I knelt in front of the shrine and made an offering to atone for my being there without understanding why.</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >India holds fragments of deconstructed colonialism, with leftover English grandeur and attempts at modernity. All the cities make it harder to imagine another life - I'm still not sure if this is the India everyone falls in love with. Gandhi wrote a commentary on the Western man's difficulty in accepting a culture so different from their (our?) own: "Our different ways of living, our simplicity, our contentment with small gains, our indifference to the laws of hygiene and sanitation, our slowness in keeping our surroundings clean and tidy, and our stinginess in keeping our houses in good repair - all these, combined with the difference in religion, contributes to the antagonism."<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >For all the garbage strewn about the cities, and aside from plastic bags, an Indian probably produces as much wast</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >e in a week as we do in a day. </span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" >There was a simpleness, a way of living that does not strive to emulate the West. Statues of Ganesh, identifiable by his elephant trunk, sat in shrines adorned with strings of pink and orange flowers. Men prayed to him as others stepped next door into open public toilets, where only a crumbling wall of tile separated them from my sister and I passing on the sidewalk. If a toilet isn't to be found, people squat on the side of the street, or urinate on fences. Urine trickles and pools in dust, the smell swirls in the heat.<br /><br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:";font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm1IudkEoI/AAAAAAAACRE/_IVHSB83SXc/s1600/IMG_2993.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/TSm1IudkEoI/AAAAAAAACRE/_IVHSB83SXc/s320/IMG_2993.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560174376481198722" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />As I squatted over a toilet in a stall without a door as shit fermented in a pile beneath me and a woman in a sari squatted across the room, I repeated like a mantra, "Just piss and go." On my way out a boy and his sister sat on their haunches in the hallway, and I stepped over the trickles of their pee. Out on the street, I walk past a water pump, and further on a trough of open taps to rinse and clean men's hands and necks while urine drips down around their feet.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br />India took my breath away: it is an amazing, vivacious country. Vivacious and exhausting in equal measures. My introduction to the subcontinent was like a torrid one-month affair, pulling me in and pushing me away in equal measure. My subsequent analysis of it was just as complicated. The culture clash, everything from the predominantly sexist gender roles to the ubiquitous vegetarianism to the car honks and cows on the road, at first overwhelmed and then swept me away as I resigned myself to just ride the wave.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br /></span></style="font-family:></style="font-family:></name="generator">Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-64500438605634546852010-04-21T13:37:00.000-07:002010-04-21T13:39:54.130-07:00the tea ceremonyPain in slivers.<br />It shoots out of my leg like<br />Leaves off a branch<br />before they're picked.<br /><br />A white sheath of white rises up and then<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/S89ig0xzlfI/AAAAAAAABz4/kuqaCeWPJ5U/s1600/meditation.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 197px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/S89ig0xzlfI/AAAAAAAABz4/kuqaCeWPJ5U/s320/meditation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462693189086582258" border="0" /></a><br />falls away in pieces<br />like petals on a buckthorn tree.<br /><br />Boredom.<br />And then a shiver of interest<br />In a thought or a pot<br />Of tea.<br /><br />Discomfort quivers up<br />like a lazy tea leaf<br />opening in hot water.<br /><br />The edge seeps out<br />diffuses into a mellow brew of unrest<br />that rivers through me<br /><br /> and then it builds again<br />bubbling over with the power on high and as it comes to the boil it could be<br />ecstasy<br /><br />I am intoxicated.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-17004211804781254732009-11-24T15:11:00.000-08:002009-11-24T16:12:01.901-08:00DoubtThere is a teaching that lists everything that goes wrong in my head. They are called the Five Hindrances, these emotions/thoughts/vedanas/tendencies that interfere not only with my meditation, but with my spiritual progress. Sloth and torpor, restlessness and anxiety, desire for sensual experience, hatred, and finally doubt. They are all children of my mind, born from thinking. And they come back again and again, when I sit on the cushion or talk to my parents or browse in a bookstore or share in a meeting. They are relentless.<br /><br />Right now it is doubt. I am doubting everything; my faith in Buddhist teachings, my belonging in the rooms of AA, the ability of my mind to solve everything, the desire to rely on anything but. I know my mind makes me crazy; Bill W. called it insanity, the Buddha said we are all mad. Right now I want a way to reconcile my spiritual beliefs with my sober life. And this is the first time they've come to such a head.<br /><br />I used to believe in god because it was easy. And what was wrong with that? It made me happy and I believed it to be true, this higher power and benevolent force whom I could appeal to for solace and guidance. And when I realized the fallacy of it I knew I could never go back. Like an alcoholic who knew she could never drink again with a clear conscience, I knew I could never again turn it all over to something else and let them take care of it.<br /><br />But now I am at that point: do I have to believe in god to stay sober? How do I choose? Delusion over happiness? Would I rather be right or would I rather be happy? At least in the short term?<br /><br />So Bill W. says:<br />1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.<br />2. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.<br />3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of god as we understood him.<br />4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.<br />5. Admitted to god, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.<br />6. Were entirely ready to have god remove all these defects of character.<br />7. Humbly asked him to remove our shortcomings.<br />8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.<br />9. Made direct amends wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.<br />10. Continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.<br />11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with god as we understood him, praying only for knowledge of his will for us and the power to carry that out.<br />12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.<br /><br />and what would the dharma say?<br />1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.<br />2. Came to believe that by going for refuge to the three jewels of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, we could restore our sanity.<br />3. Made a decision to let go of that which we cannot control and to take up a spiritual life.<br />4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, or acknowledged "all the evil we have heaped up through our ignorance and foolishness - evil in the world of everyday experience, as well as evil in understanding and intelligence."<br />5. With the ideal of enlightenment in our mind we "confessed our faults" to ourselves and to another human being.<br />6. Were entirely ready to release all these defects of character, "with our hands raised in reverence and terrified of suffering".<br />7. Humbly admitted, "just as it is, with its many faults, that what is not good, we shall not do again".<br />8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed (practiced confession) and became willing to make amends to them by acknowledging our actions and striving to rectify them.<br />9. Made direct amends wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.<br />10. Continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it (practiced confession).<br />11. Sought through meditation to deepen our connection with the three jewels and to see and accept things as the really are.<br />12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-52051511757302773282009-09-08T01:57:00.001-07:002009-09-08T06:54:39.133-07:00August and everything afterWe spent almost as much of August away from Norwich as we spent in it. First came our trip to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival. My first time in Scotland, first time in Edinburgh, first time that far north, first time to the Fringe. After only seeing Albertan Fringe Festivals, to be in the city where it all began some 60 years ago <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYcv-6YdCI/AAAAAAAABTY/sx7WZ_GPt3A/s1600-h/IMG_1685.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYcv-6YdCI/AAAAAAAABTY/sx7WZ_GPt3A/s200/IMG_1685.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379018415607936034" border="0" /></a>demanded another level of awe and respect for the organization needed to produce a Festival of this magnitude. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYeaOfDieI/AAAAAAAABTo/wc1_jhTsygM/s1600-h/IMG_1728.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYeaOfDieI/AAAAAAAABTo/wc1_jhTsygM/s200/IMG_1728.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379020240854419938" border="0" /></a>Hundreds of venues spread over the city centre, weaved into castles, churches, assembly halls, downstairs pubs, restaurants, and city streets. Seventeen hours of theatre in 72 hours. We stayed with Tom's friend Simon, a filmmaker living in the heart of the city, so we could walk to all the venues. I occasionally ran - twice I sandwiched a show in between two others, so I needed to sprint across the city to ensure I made it to the next one in time. We ate a lot of meals "on the hoof" ("on the go" to <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYetNvCkmI/AAAAAAAABTw/CoGz4N6lvRw/s1600-h/IMG_1763.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYetNvCkmI/AAAAAAAABTw/CoGz4N6lvRw/s200/IMG_1763.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379020567070544482" border="0" /></a>us North Americans) as we wove through the majestic city of stone in the (mostly) good weather as vast green hills loomed up from in between and behind the buildings. All this running around only added to the frenetic energy of the festival. Tom's friends put on a musical called Barbershopera II, the second collaboration of their barbershop-quartet-inspired musicals. Two of the cast also starred in Afternoon Delight, an acoustic guitar performance of comedy songs from "The Dinosaurs Were Gay" (an explanation of why the reptiles <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> went extinct) to "Man Boobs" (a lament of one of the guy's issues with his large-ish mammary glands) to "Green Party, Get Sexy" (an appeal to a national political party to stop wearing socks and sandals so as to appeal to younger, hipper, constituents). Hilarious. I also saw Janeane Garafalo do stand up, but that was mostly to satisfy my adolescent nostalgia <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYfQbLf1XI/AAAAAAAABT4/tt2HqCLkU4U/s1600-h/IMG_1697.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYfQbLf1XI/AAAAAAAABT4/tt2HqCLkU4U/s200/IMG_1697.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379021171974985074" border="0" /></a>from watching her on Reality Bites. One of my favourite pieces was a one-woman show that told of one woman's experience of four morning-afters: grating, bracing, and honest. But my number one was a dance/movement piece called The Chair by C-12, a four person company (http://www.c-12dancetheatre.com/). It told of a black man's childhood of abuse and relationship with his mother, his later affair with a white woman, and his subsequent imprisonment as he looks back at his life and forward to the future he's lost. They told the story completely through movement and a soundtrack of 30's/40's ragtime juxtaposed with evocative piano solos. Stunning. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYfb6FqrdI/AAAAAAAABUA/ghy5ngbZcKs/s1600-h/IMG_1737.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYfb6FqrdI/AAAAAAAABUA/ghy5ngbZcKs/s320/IMG_1737.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379021369250590162" border="0" /></a>After sixteen shows in three days, we kissed Edinburgh good-bye to go home for a solid week of work before journeying to...<br /><br />Snape, a village in Suffolk, the county south of us. Snape was once home <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYmt9-vk2I/AAAAAAAABUI/_KMwhoiiu-E/s1600-h/IMG_1816.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYmt9-vk2I/AAAAAAAABUI/_KMwhoiiu-E/s200/IMG_1816.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379029376114332514" border="0" /></a>to a maltings, a collection of buildings that soaked and dried barley to transform it into malt for beer and whiskey. As the production of these goods became more consolidated, maltings closed up and down the country. Most are derelict and unused, but this particular maltings was restored by Benjamin Britten, a British opera composer, who transformed the main building into a music hall. Now it hosts the Addleburgh Music Festival and Snape Proms, the name for their own little festival. Tom and I spent two nights in a cute little B&B. During the day we walked <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYnOw2iONI/AAAAAAAABUg/FrDkdhGxNKM/s1600-h/IMG_1877.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYnOw2iONI/AAAAAAAABUg/FrDkdhGxNKM/s200/IMG_1877.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379029939525925074" border="0" /></a>in the fields and on the marshes, perused the gift shops and nibbled at the cafés at the maltings, brought the median age down by about twenty years, and ascertained that even though we were probably on the smallest of incomes we seemed to be the only ones not complaining about the prices or the food. On the first night we saw The Puppini Sisters (http://www.thepuppinisisters.com/) whose CDs are amazing with their updated versions of wartime classics and their doo-wop adaptations of modern pop songs (check out their Walk Like An Egyptian cover). The performance, unfortunately, didn't quite live up to our expectations. They had terrible sound quality in the first half, and their on-stage schtick faltered because of it. Still, their energy and vocal proficiency astounds. The second night we heard three poets read their work: South African Finuala Dowling, Briton Alan Brownjohn, and American Sharon Olds. I could take or leaves Brownjohn, but Dowling mixed the hilarious with the hearwrenching with aptitude, and Olds cut me to the quick. She described the book of poetry she wrote about her father as "poems about my relationship with a...difficult man." This piece grabbed tears from my eyes and wrung them down my cheeks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >The Race</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> by Sharon Olds </span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When I got to the airport I rushed up to the desk,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">bought a ticket, ten minutes later<br />they told me the flight was cancelled, the doctors</span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZcze5ykmI/AAAAAAAABVw/y3g267BRngA/s1600-h/IMG_1822.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZcze5ykmI/AAAAAAAABVw/y3g267BRngA/s200/IMG_1822.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379088844479173218" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">had said my father would not live through the night</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">and the flight was cancelled. A young man</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">with a dark brown moustache told me</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">another airline had a nonstop</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">leaving in seven minutes. See that<br />elevator over there, well go</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">down to the first floor, m</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ake a right, you'll<br />see a yellow bus, get off at the</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">second Pan Am terminal, I</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">ran, I who have no sense of direction<br />raced exactly where he'd told me, a fish</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">slipping upstream deftly against</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">the flow of the river. I jumped off that bu</span><span style="font-size:100%;">s with those<br />bags I had thrown everything into</span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZg4rvAB6I/AAAAAAAABWA/Q2oa2ECl4Eo/s1600-h/IMG_1841.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZg4rvAB6I/AAAAAAAABWA/Q2oa2ECl4Eo/s200/IMG_1841.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379093331869435810" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">in five minutes, and ran, the bags</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">wagged me from side to side as if<br />to prove I was under the claims of the material,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I ran up to a man with a flower on his breast,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I who always go to the end of the line, I said<br />Help me. He looked at my ticket, he said<br />Make a left and then a right, go up the moving stairs and then</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">run. I lumbered up the moving stairs,<br />at the top I saw the corridor,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">and then I took a deep breath, I said</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">goodbye to my </span><span style="font-size:100%;">body, goodbye to comfort,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I used my legs and heart as if I would</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">gladly use them up for this,<br />to touch him again in this life. I ran, and the</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">bags banged against me, whee</span><span style="font-size:100%;">led and coursed</span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZg-_W8xxI/AAAAAAAABWI/5LNv8fAO9Rg/s1600-h/IMG_1864.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZg-_W8xxI/AAAAAAAABWI/5LNv8fAO9Rg/s200/IMG_1864.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379093440216483602" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">in skewed orbits, I have seen pictures of</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">women running, their belongings tied<br />in scarves grasped in their fists, I blessed my</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">long legs he gave me, my strong<br />heart I abandoned to its own purpose,<br />I ran to Gate 17 and they were</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">just lifting the thick white</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">lozenge of the door to fit it into</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">the socket of the plane. Like the one who is not</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">too rich, I turned sideways and<br />slipped through the needle's eye, and then<br />I walked down the aisle toward my father. The jet</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">was full, and people's hair was shining, they were</span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZhT0YskjI/AAAAAAAABWQ/gcjeaWxR04E/s1600-h/IMG_1832.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZhT0YskjI/AAAAAAAABWQ/gcjeaWxR04E/s200/IMG_1832.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379093798048272946" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">smiling, the interior of the plane was filled with a</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">mist of gold endorphin light,<br />I wept as people weep when they enter heaven,</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">in massive relief. We lifted up</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">gently from one tip of the continent<br />and did not stop until we set down lightly on the</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">other edge, I walked into his room</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">and watched his chest rise slowly<br />and sink again, all night<br />I watched him breathe.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After the frantic pace of Edinburgh (and that</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> poem), the calm of</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> Snape, plus the two hours of languid train journeys, put me in relax mode. Home in time for one night in our own bed before I packed my tent and my sleeping bag and headed off to...</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Buddhafield East, also in Suffolk, but only a 25 minute drive away. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >I went </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >to the same event last year</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZUINktsrI/AAAAAAAABVA/MYt3kNSfdCg/s1600-h/IMG_1951.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZUINktsrI/AAAAAAAABVA/MYt3kNSfdCg/s200/IMG_1951.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379079304999973554" border="0" /></a> as a cautious Canadian in England on a vis</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >a</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" > who found meditation uncomfortable but essential and who wasn't sure about all this B</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >uddhist stuff. This year I arrived a married Buddhist (with leave to remain in the country!) who s</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >till found meditation uncomfortable most of the time.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZWMcG5AeI/AAAAAAAABVI/u6q5r2vk8Lw/s1600-h/IMG_1975.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZWMcG5AeI/AAAAAAAABVI/u6q5r2vk8Lw/s200/IMG_1975.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379081576644149730" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >I pitched my tent, rolled out my sleeping bag, set out my Wellie boots, and went to sit by the fire. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >Last year it was</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" > rainy and cold, this year was sunny and toasty </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZd3HgOR6I/AAAAAAAABV4/z2ObFWUIlIQ/s1600-h/IMG_2026.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZd3HgOR6I/AAAAAAAABV4/z2ObFWUIlIQ/s200/IMG_2026.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379090006429026210" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >(helped by the duvet I brought with me this time). Last year I oscillated between wanting to belong and </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >demanding to be left </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZZJgKw_WI/AAAAAAAABVY/1MPrA4NBDIQ/s1600-h/IMG_2048.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZZJgKw_WI/AAAAAAAABVY/1MPrA4NBDIQ/s200/IMG_2048.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379084824729419106" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >alone, between feeling needy for talking to people and feeling stand-offish fo</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >r taking refuge in my tent; t</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >his year I jumped in with two feet, and when I wanted to talk to someone I started a conversation, and when I </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >wanted to be alone I went off on my own. No guilt, no second guessing, just being myself and resonating with my choices.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" > </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >I</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" > sat in workshops on </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >Non-Violent Communication and caught a glimpse of </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >ho</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >w t</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >o talk to people I don't lik</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >e or don't want t</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >o connect with in a way that doesn't exacerbate those sentiments. I woke up to meditate at half seven every morning </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >(except Sunday). We had a <span style="font-style: italic;">puja</span> (ritual) </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >every night. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:15px;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZbTOP0aAI/AAAAAAAABVo/rGbYpCESrLI/s1600-h/IMG_2061.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqZbTOP0aAI/AAAAAAAABVo/rGbYpCESrLI/s200/IMG_2061.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379087190740723714" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >I practiced yoga under the sky. I met inspiring order members as well as non-Buddhists. I got an English tan. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >B</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >ut what tran</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >sformed me, what made everything else seem like candles against the light of its fire, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >were the workshops by Vajradaka. An ordained member since 1971, he articulated and explained the Mindfulness of Breathing and the Metta Bhavna to me so that I felt I meditated for the first tim</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >e in his workshops. Now I meditate with curiousity, with excitement, with alacrity. My practice is now usually joyous and fruit</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:130%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >ful - and always worthwhile.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;font-size:100%;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" ><span style="line-height: 18px;font-family:calibri;" >So now I am at home, at rest, and ready for the next bit. May you all be well. Lots of love, namaste, Andrea</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p></span>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-23722181219761096622009-09-08T00:39:00.000-07:002009-09-08T01:56:09.477-07:00from the moon of honey to three people in a two-bedroom houseWe came back from honeymoon on a high of Italian sunshine and honeymoon bubble bliss. We left for Paris the day after the wedding, so we'd left all our friends on 'pause'; we returned to excitement and congratulations, prolonging our giddiness and the newness of marriage. We reveled in introducing ourselves as 'my husband' and 'my wife' - each time I say them I remember we belong to each other, that we're committed to a shared vision of our future. When I'm asked how it feels to be married I say amazing because something has shifted. Sure, 'married bliss' exists, but like all bliss, in handfuls and fleeting flashes, like sunsets or candles on a birthday cake. I'm surprised at the subtlety of changes - when I imagine the future, when I see me walking through Venice or eating at a café back in Calgary, Tom <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYa3DSEjdI/AAAAAAAABTQ/NyxDcSuX0f8/s1600-h/IMG_1332.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYa3DSEjdI/AAAAAAAABTQ/NyxDcSuX0f8/s320/IMG_1332.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379016338016865746" border="0" /></a>is there with me, not specifically invited but there because I know he will be. We set up a joint bank account and realize I can let go of the idea of 'mine' as it seeps into the concept of 'ours'. I still have 'my' account - can't let it go all at once - but I'm recognizing that there is no separateness in the same way. When I leave one job (at The Green Grocers) to start another (as the Fundraising Coordinator at The Buddhist Centre), I need to ask about the ramifications for him of more hours and greater investment. We learn how to weave co-dependence into our strong senses of self.<br /><br />After the ecstasy comes - well, perhaps not agony, but a diluted version. Being back home for awhile, we found ourselves on, as Tom calls it, "the comedown express". After all the energy of <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYWji79zII/AAAAAAAABSo/1JqelzwYmxM/s1600-h/IMG_1546.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYWji79zII/AAAAAAAABSo/1JqelzwYmxM/s200/IMG_1546.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379011604870188162" border="0" /></a>planning, entertaining, marrying, and honeymooning, this is it - back in Norwich, in a two-bedroom house that we share with Ben, Tom's brother, in our jobs and in our lives. I found myself irritable, playing the part of a long-suffering wife after a few weeks at home. I felt frustrated and claustrophobic. My practice faltered - I no longer meditated at home, and my study groups had finished for the summer, so I felt disconnected. It scared me that after so much happiness could come so much heaviness. But I could see that was partly why it felt so heavy: because of the ecstasy of the previous month. How could June live up to May, with her weddings and family reunions and Italian escape? So, we took action. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYW1G6TSnI/AAAAAAAABSw/yraRUJKGc_0/s1600-h/2009+6June+11+Dad+at+the+Hard+Rock.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYW1G6TSnI/AAAAAAAABSw/yraRUJKGc_0/s200/2009+6June+11+Dad+at+the+Hard+Rock.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379011906584660594" border="0" /></a>We visited Mair and Dad as they came back through London at the end of June. We had sunshine picnics. I looked at Norwich anew. I snapped new pictures of familiar things, like the rubbish bin I walk by every day to work that someone left a dismembered computer beside. We celebrated our one year anniversary of togetherness - a month after our wedding. We booked our trip to Edinburgh in August to visit the Fringe Festival. We decided to go to Suffolk for a posh music festival. I signed up for Buddhafield East, a gathering in a field full of yoga and meditation and practice and communal living for the last five days of August. And life loses that tinge of melancholy as it fills with the prospect of newness.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYYB3CbLWI/AAAAAAAABTI/ziYxED6k4r0/s1600-h/IMG_1503.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SqYYB3CbLWI/AAAAAAAABTI/ziYxED6k4r0/s320/IMG_1503.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379013225173691746" border="0" /></a>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-26227639898931940622009-07-08T01:22:00.000-07:002009-07-08T09:24:26.230-07:00the life of a Campbell and a Loudon...from me to weI couldn't stop there; it's not really complete if I tell you about all of this without all of Tom. Let me begin again, at the beginning. I'll go all the way to the end (of May, anyways). And then I'll stop.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">May, 2008</span><br />Tom and I meet at The Greenhouse, the vegetarian cafe where he works as a Volunteer Coordinator and Project Developer. I think I met him for the first time on the evening of May 31, when I came to The Greenhouse for an evening dinner, and he thinks I had come to The Greenhouse once before to ask about volunteering. Maybe we'll never know.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">June, 2008</span><br />After a few bumping-into-each-others at The Greenhouse and a live show at a local pub, I end up at his house for dinner with his brother and another friend. A few days later I make him dinner (in his kitchen, of course) to say thank you. And then we lay on his back lawn and watched clouds roll by.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">July, 2008</span><br />We tip-toe through our first month of couple-dom, dodging boy- and girl-friend questions and stealing kisses. We make each other meals (vegetarian, dairy- and chili-free) and visit art exhibitions and talk and not talk. I tell myself I can't take a picture of a man I've only been seeing for a few weeks...but when his parents visit for a few days we spend some time in each others' company. I think they approve. Of me. Of us. In the preliminaries.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRgNHCg9HI/AAAAAAAAAgc/GZUn2Ql2cq0/s1600-h/IMG_9163_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRgNHCg9HI/AAAAAAAAAgc/GZUn2Ql2cq0/s400/IMG_9163_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356011635194524786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">August, 2008</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Katherine Cofell's leaving do at an Indian restaurant and an English provides the excuse for picture taking. Our f</span><span style="font-size:130%;">irst couple shot, with hands gingerly placed on shoulders and chins dipped in shy excitement.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I visit a field in </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Suffolk for Buddhafield East, </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRhLcNh8DI/AAAAAAAAAgk/WPpr4XvnoN8/s1600-h/IMG_9318.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRhLcNh8DI/AAAAAAAAAgk/WPpr4XvnoN8/s320/IMG_9318.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356012706029760562" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:130%;">a gathering of meditation, yoga, communal meals, and sans Tom. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">He welcomes me home </span><span style="font-size:130%;">with a chocolate nougat cake, the same one he wooed me with on the </span><span style="font-size:130%;">night we first kissed.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">And then later in the same month, our tentative two month </span><span style="font-size:130%;">anniversary celebration with dinner at Cinema City. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I bought him a box for his collection of teas, from green tea with echinacea to lemon and ginger to nettle to Malay rooisbus chai.</span><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSx4777wPI/AAAAAAAAAlU/mDk0-DWmQZw/s1600-h/IMG_9304.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSx4777wPI/AAAAAAAAAlU/mDk0-DWmQZw/s200/IMG_9304.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356101448570224882" border="0" /></a></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />September, 2008</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRk-Q_vXPI/AAAAAAAAAhE/xXuAEP6N430/s1600-h/IMG_9570.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRk-Q_vXPI/AAAAAAAAAhE/xXuAEP6N430/s200/IMG_9570.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356016877727341810" border="0" /></a>Our first vacation - all the way to Brighton on the southern shores of England. I say to his mom, Bridget, "It's one thing to be living together in the same city in your usual routines, but if we can travel together...that's compatibility."<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRj1WZ_hOI/AAAAAAAAAg0/O3n6v5DcKbY/s1600-h/IMG_9419.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRj1WZ_hOI/AAAAAAAAAg0/O3n6v5DcKbY/s200/IMG_9419.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356015625049179362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRkb9bEuuI/AAAAAAAAAg8/Ivqd4Q8D9MQ/s1600-h/IMG_9510.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRkb9bEuuI/AAAAAAAAAg8/Ivqd4Q8D9MQ/s200/IMG_9510.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356016288357726946" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Walking on the pier I play him <span style="font-style: italic;">Artists Are Boring</span> by Kingdom Flying Club, skipping and dancing with one earphone in each of our ears.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRmp4zu7MI/AAAAAAAAAhM/0TCtkz7BQQU/s1600-h/IMG_9526.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRmp4zu7MI/AAAAAAAAAhM/0TCtkz7BQQU/s320/IMG_9526.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356018726660402370" border="0" /></a>On the beach I play him Peter Bjorn and John's Paris 2004: "I'm all about you, you're all about me, we're all about each other"; "While I'm sleeping/You paint a ring on my finger with your black marker-pen";<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRnhtFe6nI/AAAAAAAAAhU/ds2UVtgI1-U/s1600-h/IMG_9614.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRnhtFe6nI/AAAAAAAAAhU/ds2UVtgI1-U/s320/IMG_9614.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356019685586299506" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">"We need this precious time just to comprehend."<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRodRzlq-I/AAAAAAAAAhc/y1X0COLqAQQ/s1600-h/IMG_9617.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlRodRzlq-I/AAAAAAAAAhc/y1X0COLqAQQ/s320/IMG_9617.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356020709055638498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">October, 2008</span><br />I go on my first Buddhist retreat at the beginning of the month, and celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving in the middle. With a collection of <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSCVeJpjFI/AAAAAAAAAhk/2yfNSUqTNcU/s1600-h/IMG_9737.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSCVeJpjFI/AAAAAAAAAhk/2yfNSUqTNcU/s200/IMG_9737.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356049162232761426" border="0" /></a>Buddhists and Brits (not mutually exclusive labels), we have a bring-and-share/pot-luck dinner with vegan perogies and cabbage rolls for my Ukrainian roots and steamed green veggies and potato bake for my new English ties. Bridget and David come back to Norwich for a visit, and the four Loudons (brother Ben, dad David, mom Bridget and my dear Tom) plus this Canadian kid head for dinner to The Last Wine Bar. We all approve of each other.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">November, 2008</span><br />I always think of it as my month because my <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSEFUT0nAI/AAAAAAAAAh0/77wKzQbOZvY/s1600-h/IMG_9924.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSEFUT0nAI/AAAAAAAAAh0/77wKzQbOZvY/s200/IMG_9924.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356051083736423426" border="0" /></a>birthday's in here, but t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSDPkhF_HI/AAAAAAAAAhs/l4EQGtVWe_c/s1600-h/IMG_9861.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSDPkhF_HI/AAAAAAAAAhs/l4EQGtVWe_c/s200/IMG_9861.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356050160374119538" border="0" /></a>his year I share it. Tom organizes a trip to London - dinner at a vegetarian restaurant, museum visits, drinks at a pub with all his old friends, now to be my new ones. He buys me a most perfect green coat for the winter that's hinting hard at coming on soon. We head to Whatton, his hometown, for down time with the folks and English countryside walks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSFXoOQr0I/AAAAAAAAAh8/kuQQoQxxeZk/s1600-h/IMG_9932.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSFXoOQr0I/AAAAAAAAAh8/kuQQoQxxeZk/s320/IMG_9932.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356052497831079746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />December, 2008</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSGPRzlGGI/AAAAAAAAAiE/VxIIm_HxCG8/s1600-h/IMG_0008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSGPRzlGGI/AAAAAAAAAiE/VxIIm_HxCG8/s320/IMG_0008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356053453886265442" border="0" /></a>A mixed bag, really. A retreat finishes at the beginning of the month and makes a better impression than the first, but I'm still not running to sign up for my next one. Another trip to London peps me up: this time to see Les Miserables, Tom's favourite novel brought to stage in his guilty enjoyment of a West End musical. We make up for it by viewing the indie production of Barbershopera, the creation of Tom Green and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSG7cUBKTI/AAAAAAAAAiM/LSNPiWzvneY/s1600-h/IMG_0027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSG7cUBKTI/AAAAAAAAAiM/LSNPiWzvneY/s200/IMG_0027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356054212620921138" border="0" /></a>Rob Castell, two of Tom's classmates while he was doing his playwriting MA. (You can join their Facebook fan page here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Barbershopera/155504540230). Then comes Christmas in Whatton - the family of five is four for a lot of the time due to fractured pelvises and hospital stays, but we triumph over the wintertime blues, Bridget roasts the potatoes in oil instead of goose fat, there's turkey for them and a mushroom tart for me. Happy English Christmas.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">January, 2009</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSJ0_EnGuI/AAAAAAAAAik/2tgi0lG56qk/s1600-h/DSCF1169.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSJ0_EnGuI/AAAAAAAAAik/2tgi0lG56qk/s200/DSCF1169.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356057400227338978" border="0" /></a><br />We spend my favourite New Year's in 27 years at Frank's Bar with all my workmates and their significant others and a whole lot of other super significant people (most whose names escape me). We dance; I drink Dandelion and Burdock and remember there's too much sugar in it for me half way through the bottle and then switch to coffee; we come home at half two and watch It's A Wonderful Life; I wake up at seven and practice yoga in the garden as the world wakes up to a new year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSJZt3VreI/AAAAAAAAAic/Tsq9qEG29zo/s1600-h/DSCF1157.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSJZt3VreI/AAAAAAAAAic/Tsq9qEG29zo/s200/DSCF1157.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356056931751800290" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSIduv2uJI/AAAAAAAAAiU/yituka31gJo/s1600-h/DSCF1136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSIduv2uJI/AAAAAAAAAiU/yituka31gJo/s200/DSCF1136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356055901196695698" border="0" /></a>At the end of the month we venture to Cambridge. I forget my camera, or my camera runs out of batteries, so there are no pictures of the day we got engaged. There's sunshine and a picnic and a reading of Alice in Wonderland, but none of them really have anything to do with each other. But "yes" means telling people, and so to make sure we're not kidding we walk straight from the train station into Frank's Bar, tell everyone who's working, and have elderflower cordial with sparkling water to celebrate.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">February, 2009</span><br />On the second I turn five and he knew it was<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSNiE3YkQI/AAAAAAAAAi0/42PA_ggwUH8/s1600-h/IMG_0190.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSNiE3YkQI/AAAAAAAAAi0/42PA_ggwUH8/s320/IMG_0190.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356061473411469570" border="0" /></a> coming so he bakes me a cake: all organic and all sugar, with beetroot juice to make the icing pink. We head back to London for Avenue Q in the last days of its run at Noel Coward Theatre, and then head up to Portobello Road in search of a wedding dress. I have a vintage prom dress in mind, but instead we find From Somewhere, a shop which "up-cycles" clothes by sourcing <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSK62WxBgI/AAAAAAAAAis/pXppTJ6IxjE/s1600-h/IMG_0162.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSK62WxBgI/AAAAAAAAAis/pXppTJ6IxjE/s200/IMG_0162.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356058600478410242" border="0" /></a>discarded material from the garment industry and sewing it into new creations. The girl in the shop shares her enthusiasm for the fashion and the ethos, and we're sold - on the concept and on a knee-length dress coupled with a cape.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />March, 2009</span><br />We begin the lead up to the day. Emails, invites, cupcakes, Certificates of Authority (required for foreign nationals to marry British citizens). Tom books honeymoon train journeys.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSPZLwprAI/AAAAAAAAAi8/kFaVZKfcXSU/s1600-h/IMG_0339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSPZLwprAI/AAAAAAAAAi8/kFaVZKfcXSU/s200/IMG_0339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356063519666711554" border="0" /></a>We take solace in days of walks in spring sunshine and bringing old friends back up to speed with our new life. In a lot of conversations and emails in which I tell people I'm engaged, they answer back, "Congratulations! To who?" We revel in the aloneness, but the planning frenzy seeps into even the most well intentioned laid-back, eco-friendly, low-cost affair. We enjoy Norwich's cinema offerings, 103's dinner menu, Take 5's crypt entertainment. We say so long to our good friend Cat Spurden who goes off to seek her fortune in the Youth Hostels of the UK. I take off in the last week to Taraloka, a women's retreat centre on the Welsh boarder, and come back refreshed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">April, 2009</span><br />The last month of singledom - and sanity. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSRqGwtaOI/AAAAAAAAAjE/-Sqn-e6EqIk/s1600-h/IMG_0399.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSRqGwtaOI/AAAAAAAAAjE/-Sqn-e6EqIk/s320/IMG_0399.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356066009405810914" border="0" /></a>We keep saying "we're basically done, we could get married tomorrow", and it's kind of true. At the end of the month, Jackie and Sam visit from Tokyo and we get to have a trial run at showing off Norwich before our families descend in a few short weeks. My first experience of my worlds colliding in over a year - not just those of past and present but of fellow partners and housemates. Between the delicious meals, hanging out at home and on the streets of Norwich, in the sunshine cobblestone streets and the grassy knolls of the Plantation Garden, outside the boxes of crossword puzzles and on top of the squares of a giant chessboard, we managed to all get along just fine.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >May, 2009</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />A few months ago </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I asked to become a <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSY1GazfoI/AAAAAAAAAjM/y054pUFL-RI/s1600-h/IMG_0459.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSY1GazfoI/AAAAAAAAAjM/y054pUFL-RI/s320/IMG_0459.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356073894873890434" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">mitra at the Buddhist Centre, and Tom lovingly accepts my invitation to attend and share this important public commitment to my practice. The following week we celebrate his birthday with a trip to Sheringham and a choo-choo train ride to Holt, with lunch at the famous Byfords and a surprise chocolate cake waiting back home at Frank's Bar. We count down as the family arrives - Mom and Tara via London on Wednesday, May 13 and then Mair, Dad, Bridget and David on Friday, May 15.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">May 18, 2009</span><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=campbell.andreal&target=ALBUM&id=5350124776838649185&authkey=Gv1sRgCPj2wJu7-qLwhgE&invite=CPL85qAK&feat=email" target="_blank">http://picasaweb.google.com/<wbr>lh/sredir?uname=campbell.<wbr>andreal&target=ALBUM&id=<wbr>5350124776838649185&authkey=<wbr>Gv1sRgCPj2wJu7-qLwhgE&invite=<wbr>C</a><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=campbell.andreal&target=ALBUM&id=5350124776838649185&authkey=Gv1sRgCPj2wJu7-qLwhgE&invite=CPL85qAK&feat=email" target="_blank">PL85qAK&feat=email</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">post-May 18: honeymoon highlights</span><br />In Paris, at a sidewalk cafe<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlS3kgegi2I/AAAAAAAAAlc/ra8r3bbfH-0/s1600-h/IMG_0604.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlS3kgegi2I/AAAAAAAAAlc/ra8r3bbfH-0/s200/IMG_0604.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356107694671432546" border="0" /></a>somewhere along our 26 hour train journey to Sicily<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSdh0ybT5I/AAAAAAAAAjs/bkmZ3YutVxg/s1600-h/IMG_0620.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSdh0ybT5I/AAAAAAAAAjs/bkmZ3YutVxg/s200/IMG_0620.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079061281755026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSb46Vq0_I/AAAAAAAAAjc/SHY4x0Qs4OU/s1600-h/IMG_0634.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSb46Vq0_I/AAAAAAAAAjc/SHY4x0Qs4OU/s200/IMG_0634.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356077258885485554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />on the ferry to Milazzo<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br />the view from our apartment on Salina</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlScshUF6pI/AAAAAAAAAjk/faFPOI61ZxI/s1600-h/IMG_0699.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlScshUF6pI/AAAAAAAAAjk/faFPOI61ZxI/s320/IMG_0699.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356078145521183378" border="0" /></a>our tans beginning to darken...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSe971I3uI/AAAAAAAAAj8/DJoV23lwmPQ/s1600-h/IMG_0900.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSe971I3uI/AAAAAAAAAj8/DJoV23lwmPQ/s320/IMG_0900.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356080643720142562" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...mine a bit more than his<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSjQ3wsgNI/AAAAAAAAAkk/rhS64bqKiP0/s1600-h/IMG_0957.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSjQ3wsgNI/AAAAAAAAAkk/rhS64bqKiP0/s320/IMG_0957.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356085367091790034" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">the cove we found on the west coast of the island<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSd65xPAJI/AAAAAAAAAj0/pxHaSn0dge4/s1600-h/CNV00034.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSd65xPAJI/AAAAAAAAAj0/pxHaSn0dge4/s400/CNV00034.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356079492115660946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSfsokITwI/AAAAAAAAAkE/YLWwWcozqlw/s1600-h/CNV00016_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSfsokITwI/AAAAAAAAAkE/YLWwWcozqlw/s320/CNV00016_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356081446002380546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />at one of our many pasta dinners<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSidSAVQdI/AAAAAAAAAkc/k0Hvjtj-z0Q/s1600-h/IMG_0788.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSidSAVQdI/AAAAAAAAAkc/k0Hvjtj-z0Q/s200/IMG_0788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356084480783499730" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlShTYp6MRI/AAAAAAAAAkU/4uAeHd-ikz8/s1600-h/CNV00009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlShTYp6MRI/AAAAAAAAAkU/4uAeHd-ikz8/s200/CNV00009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356083211258179858" border="0" /></a><br /><br />practicing yoga and Tai Chi<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSg9Sy-8AI/AAAAAAAAAkM/yvp9HK_mow8/s1600-h/IMG_0945.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSg9Sy-8AI/AAAAAAAAAkM/yvp9HK_mow8/s320/IMG_0945.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356082831728504834" border="0" /></a><br />view from a the top of a mountain<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSkXI888ZI/AAAAAAAAAks/3ezs2Y93MqE/s1600-h/IMG_1116.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSkXI888ZI/AAAAAAAAAks/3ezs2Y93MqE/s200/IMG_1116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086574297444754" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSk1hF6z-I/AAAAAAAAAk0/8sai5ZXX22Y/s1600-h/IMG_1115.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSk1hF6z-I/AAAAAAAAAk0/8sai5ZXX22Y/s200/IMG_1115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087096173580258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />through Rome on the way home<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...it's not a honeymoon without Paris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlStWKDYTrI/AAAAAAAAAk8/CqGH9SLD3tI/s1600-h/IMG_1237.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlStWKDYTrI/AAAAAAAAAk8/CqGH9SLD3tI/s200/IMG_1237.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356096453017620146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSuXgDrafI/AAAAAAAAAlE/ab-ewYOuGfs/s1600-h/IMG_1252.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSuXgDrafI/AAAAAAAAAlE/ab-ewYOuGfs/s320/IMG_1252.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356097575615949298" border="0" /></a>home again<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSvfmtEbjI/AAAAAAAAAlM/Iwf9oh9-jEs/s1600-h/IMG_1272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlSvfmtEbjI/AAAAAAAAAlM/Iwf9oh9-jEs/s200/IMG_1272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356098814350749234" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Much love to all of you. I don't know if I'll ever update this regularly, but I'll try to let you know periodically when I do. Otherwise, drop me an email or find me on Facebook. May you all be well and full of life.<br /><br />Namaste, Andrea Lauren (Loudon) CampbellSuryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-58139294496270292882009-07-06T10:11:00.000-07:002009-07-07T16:58:27.865-07:00<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">So, to pick up from where I left off. This is the life of me. With pictures. A pictoral representation of a year in the life of me. A retrospective perspective. Of me. Ju</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">st me. Of course, I did just get married - of course I did. I married</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> the love of my lif</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">e. But I am still just me, the same me that was un-married until May 18, and who is still just as much me when I am alone, in meditation</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> and in baking cakes and in coffee houses and gardens and inside my head if not my heart. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And I had to do it alone, I didn't ask anyone (any-you) what you thought because I had to know it was for me. For me, just me. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And these pictures br</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">ing me closer, and now bring some closure, to that girl.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">May, 2008</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPX86-3SBI/AAAAAAAAAgI/Tu1IyaGtj3A/s1600-h/IMG_8623.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPX86-3SBI/AAAAAAAAAgI/Tu1IyaGtj3A/s200/IMG_8623.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355861823498700818" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I arrive in Norwich from London to Couchsurf on the couch of Katherine Cofell, an American living in Norwich with her British partner Bill. They take me out to Reepham, the village where they live with Bill's Mom, and I glimpse the grass-scented sheep-filled countryside life, step on some stinging nettles, and walk through a farm field. Back in Norwich, I visit The Greenhouse for a meal and then as a volunteer. I decide to stick around for a bit.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">June, 2008</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >I spend Summer Solstice at </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Stonehenge with</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" > the </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlI21IAODcI/AAAAAAAAAdo/Ess-GnkJdPc/s1600-h/IMG_8804.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlI21IAODcI/AAAAAAAAAdo/Ess-GnkJdPc/s320/IMG_8804.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355403193206312386" border="0" /></a></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >London </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >CouchSurfers. I come back to Norwich and then</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" > take the train up to </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Sheringham for a day in a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" > seas</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >ide town on th</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >e </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">north</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"> Norfolk coast. I picnic in a park with my new workmates at Frank's Bar and come second in an English pub quiz.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlIyuZE6egI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/1wFed2USK28/s1600-h/IMG_9068.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlIyuZE6egI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/1wFed2USK28/s320/IMG_9068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355398679483808258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">July, 2008</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I work at Frank's Bar on Bedford Stre</span><span style="font-size:130%;">et. I get a job at The Green Grocer on Recreation Road. I live at 105 Earlham Road, but I bake a cake at 63 Alexandra Road with hazelnuts an</span><span style="font-size:130%;">d beetroot and topped with rose jam.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> I p</span><span style="font-size:130%;">ractice yoga in Chapelfield Gardens as under age kids drink beer and make-out in the afternoon. I bake cakes and make salads at The </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Greenhouse.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span>August, 2008<br />I attend Katherine Cofell's leaving do at Spice Paradise, the Indian restaurant where she brought me to meet Bill's family on my second night in Nowich. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPFhP44_mI/AAAAAAAAAfA/BOMqyXFpe00/s1600-h/IMG_9281.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPFhP44_mI/AAAAAAAAAfA/BOMqyXFpe00/s320/IMG_9281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355841556865154658" border="0" /></a>I bike up to Mousehold Heath and watch the sun set over the city before I get caught in the rain and come home soaking. I go to Buddafield East, a 'gathering' in a field in Suffolk where we camp, use compost loos, eat communal meals and chop communal onions. I meditate (almost) every morning and chant in a <span style="font-style: italic;">puja</span> every evening. I tell myself emphatically that I am not a Buddhist.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">September, 2008</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPHArXMWkI/AAAAAAAAAfI/phmZ7xf6ay8/s1600-h/IMG_9467.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPHArXMWkI/AAAAAAAAAfI/phmZ7xf6ay8/s400/IMG_9467.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355843196327582274" border="0" /></a>I work more at both my jobs and I spend more time at the Buddhist Centre more often - more meditation, more yoga, more volunteering on the front desk. My life is more full. I go to Brighton, the popular southern seaside destination for Britons. I walk on its pier full of carousels and skee ball games, soft whip ice cream and sugar dusted deep fried donuts. Fish and chips without the fish. Vegetarian restaurants galore. Just enough sunshine for September.<br /><br />October, 2008<br />The second of the month sends <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlI8tN3iFhI/AAAAAAAAAd4/eHJZdt8ckxs/s1600-h/IMG_9672.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlI8tN3iFhI/AAAAAAAAAd4/eHJZdt8ckxs/s200/IMG_9672.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355409654411302418" border="0" /></a>me off on my first Buddhist retreat, to the Burnham-Overy Windmill just past Wells-Next-the-Sea. I squirm and go all claustrophobic, but I grind my teeth and breathe with it and make it home in one piece. I celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with a gander of friends (but no goose) at my new temporary accommodation on Press Lane in Norwich. I make perogies for the first time, in two batches; one is vegan. We sing 'Johnny Appleseed' in call and response.<br /><br />November, 2008<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPM6jR34dI/AAAAAAAAAfY/XYa_YO20Cnc/s1600-h/IMG_9934.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPM6jR34dI/AAAAAAAAAfY/XYa_YO20Cnc/s320/IMG_9934.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355849688148337106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">I turn 27. Mair and Dad arrange a cake from across the ocean and Mom sends me pink roses. I go to London and see Annie Leibowitz's exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, and spend my birthday night at The Peasant pub. Later it's Whatton, a village in Nottinghamshire, to find a pile of horseshoes and a few castles on a handful of hills. I venture out to another retreat at the Windmill and almost enjoy the weekend.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPOkFMUfgI/AAAAAAAAAfg/gzCu1wB9TC8/s1600-h/IMG_0041.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPOkFMUfgI/AAAAAAAAAfg/gzCu1wB9TC8/s200/IMG_0041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355851501138116098" border="0" /></a>December, 2008<br />Back to London to see <span style="font-style: italic;">Les Miserables</span> for the second time in my life. I can't remember if I enjoyed it more or less than the first. I do think Eponine's On My Own has taken on a mythological tinge in my head that no earthly rendition can match, that she can only perfectly balance dying and hitting the high notes in A Little Fall of Rain in my head and not on stage. December the 25th in Whatton: a tree and a mushroom tart and an English Christmas for me.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPQOIYYHpI/AAAAAAAAAfo/8Z9VfPFa9IM/s1600-h/DSCF0114.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPQOIYYHpI/AAAAAAAAAfo/8Z9VfPFa9IM/s200/DSCF0114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355853323060125330" border="0" /></a><br />January, 2009<br />The New Year rings in at Frank's Bar in my fancy frock. I read a horoscope that tells me a new occupation is on the horizon, so I apply for an administrative position at an NGO called BananaLink but it passes me by. So I hang up my suit next to my party dress for another day and keep loving waitressing on the weekends and stocking grocery shelves one day a week. I start the Foundation Course, a one year survey of Buddhism, at the Buddhist Centre.<br /><br />February, 2009<br />The English winter still looms. I turn five (years sober, that is), and get a devishly sugary pink iced cake for my efforts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPRF2aW6tI/AAAAAAAAAfw/xe71Gb2wFxw/s1600-h/IMG_0142.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPRF2aW6tI/AAAAAAAAAfw/xe71Gb2wFxw/s320/IMG_0142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355854280309271250" border="0" /></a>I go to a meeting, and while it's comforting to sit in a room of people who understand what five years means, I don't miss anything I found there. Later in the month it's London town again, this time for the New York musical <span style="font-style: italic;">Avenue Q</span> and a walk down Portobello Road for the first time since this time last year.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPSwmC3rHI/AAAAAAAAAf4/v1eRG9zDgbc/s1600-h/IMG_0288.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPSwmC3rHI/AAAAAAAAAf4/v1eRG9zDgbc/s320/IMG_0288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355856114161790066" border="0" /></a><br />March, 2009<br />My first week-long retreat. I drive with two lovely ladies out to Taraloka, a women's retreat centre on the Shropshire-Welsh boarder. I absolutely, positively, heartfeltfully, and magnanimously enjoy the collection of moments that made up all those seven days. I chant and cartwheel, meditate in the shrine room, talk the Dharma, sit in the sun in a tank top with a colouring book and rejoice in the spring to come. I ask to become a mitra, a bonafide friend of the Western Buddhist Order.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPUnTlI7mI/AAAAAAAAAgA/c2Flkxaxa3A/s1600-h/IMG_0400.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPUnTlI7mI/AAAAAAAAAgA/c2Flkxaxa3A/s320/IMG_0400.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355858153609686626" border="0" /></a>April, 2009<br />I spend most of the month enjoying snatched moments of domesticity and Norwichian relaxation. A walk to University of East Anglia and the art exhibit China! China! China! at The Sainsbury Centre. Then the month culminates in Jackie and Sam's arrival from Tokyo. After ten years of no communicado, Jackie and I reconnected in Japan in '07, and now it's her turn to visit me. We walk down cobbled streets, have coffee in cafes and dinners out on the town, wander through the Plantation Gardens and play chess on the lawn outside the Assembly House.<br /><br /><br />May, 2009<br />I finally, officially, stop with the me and become part of a we. I can't really look back at the last year without him; I have to eliminate pronouns from sentences to pretend he hasn't been here all along, not in the background but alongside me. I'm still here, still me, still the same as I've been, but everything I do is reflected in his choices, and my life isn't solitary, can't be, won't be, doesn't want to be. I'll tell you all about us in the next post, and you'll see what I mean about me and Tom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPZMbfh9FI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/bgilb2Za0mo/s1600-h/IMG_0472.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SlPZMbfh9FI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/bgilb2Za0mo/s400/IMG_0472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355863189435315282" border="0" /></a>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-4781135204729018162009-05-07T15:31:00.000-07:002009-05-07T16:07:43.704-07:00Tom Loudon and I got engaged at the beginning of February. I didn't get down on one knee, he didn't have a ring, but he said yes and I said sure and so now we are. Getting married. On May 18th, 2009 in Norwich, England.<div><br /><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 270px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SgNpC8b8z2I/AAAAAAAAATQ/MGacfCUuW5o/s400/IMG_9617.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333221883040812898" /></div><div>A green, low-cost, modest affair, here's a brief overview, copy-and-pasted from our email invite.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">the wedding of</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Thomas Alastair Loudon<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">and<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; ">Andrea Lauren Campbell<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">on</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">Monday, May 18th, 2009</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; "><div>3:15 pm - our ceremony at the <b>Norwich Registry Office.</b> <br /><br />4:00 pm - our small reception at <b>The Greenhouse</b> featuring a filling vegetarian meal and dessert. Have an early lunch or a late breakfast, and bring stories and cameras.<br /><br />8:00 pm - 12:00 pm our large(r) reception at <b>Frank's Bar</b> featuring dancing and cupcakes! Nibbles will be out at 10:00 pm. Bring your dancing shoes!<br /><br />Some of you have graciously asked what you can give to us to celebrate our union. Our first choice is for you to give a donation to The Greenhouse, the place where we met, which fostered our relationship in its early stages, and continues to play a key role in our professional and personal lives. Both the place itself and its ethos are close to our hearts, and investing in its future is synonymous to investing in ours. We invite you to visit The Greenhouse website at <a href="http://www.greenhousetrust.co.uk/" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(148, 46, 6); ">http://www.greenhousetrust.co.<wbr>uk/</a> to read about this exemplar of sustainable living. If you'd like to donate before the day, you can print off, fill out, and post the attached form. <br /><br />Much love, English kisses and Canadian hugs,</div><div><br />xoxo Andrea and Tom xoxo</div></span></span></div></div>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-14691502702375655872008-07-16T15:00:00.000-07:002008-07-16T16:02:10.275-07:00Here I AmNorwich, East Anglia, Southern England, United Kingdom.<br /><br />I work at a kitschy cool bar on Bedford Street called Frank's Bar. There are board games and fairy lights (a.k.a. Christmas twinkle lights), teapots and ten-year-old National Geographics, Alice in Wonderland and a rocking horse.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH56jYFERAI/AAAAAAAAANY/9vWNAabR000/s1600-h/IMG_8973.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH56jYFERAI/AAAAAAAAANY/9vWNAabR000/s200/IMG_8973.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223747365974066178" border="0" /></a><br />I also work at the Green Grocers, a local, organic grocery store run by Tim, Tom, and Ben. I stock shelves, work at the till, and get free food when I play my cards right.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH566yRnAnI/AAAAAAAAANg/xGmTCPAvXMU/s1600-h/IMG_8989.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH566yRnAnI/AAAAAAAAANg/xGmTCPAvXMU/s200/IMG_8989.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223747768142987890" border="0" /></a><br />I volunteer at the Greenhouse, a charitable trust dedicated to publishing information on self-sustainable living. The cafe sells vegetarian organic goodness that I help to cook and bake. My friends Tom and Mark both work there.<br /><br />I also volunteer at Oxfam Books and Music, where I realphabetize books and rearrange postcards.<br /><br />I hang out at the Buddhist Centre, where I work on reception or clean or sit in a group meditation session and practice metta bhavna or mindfulness of breathing. My friend Tom works here.<br /><br />I order pizza at friend's houses and watch My So-Called Life on DVD. I ride my new (to me) purple bike everywhere. I buy spices from the spice man in the market. His name is Gareth. I do yoga in Heigham Park. I sit in the sun in Chappelfield Park. When it rains I stay inside, but sometimes I'm on my bike or walking home when it starts falling so I get wet. I make chili or risotto for my housemates with leftover food from the bar or the grocers.<br /><br />This is one of my friends. His name is Alex. We went to Sherringham, which is by the sea. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH57T4nXqUI/AAAAAAAAANo/VPprnFNWLf4/s1600-h/IMG_8871.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH57T4nXqUI/AAAAAAAAANo/VPprnFNWLf4/s320/IMG_8871.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223748199341599042" border="0" /></a><br />I want to visit more places sometime, but Norwich is quaint and full and I'm happy just being here right now.<br /><br />My house is full of students and writers, girls and boys. Here are girls being girls:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH59uLy5TPI/AAAAAAAAAOA/pq7xBD1-5MU/s1600-h/IMG_8725.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH59uLy5TPI/AAAAAAAAAOA/pq7xBD1-5MU/s400/IMG_8725.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223750850190068978" border="0" /></a><br />and boys being boys:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH59CGCpw8I/AAAAAAAAAN4/5Xa1G7lkykQ/s1600-h/IMG_8993.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SH59CGCpw8I/AAAAAAAAAN4/5Xa1G7lkykQ/s400/IMG_8993.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223750092731302850" border="0" /></a><br />I write stories and read my friends' written words. Alex just finished a novel. Tom writes plays. Which Tom, you ask? Excellent question! All English men are either named Tom, Ben, Paul, or James. Unless they're named something else.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-36390893229872103102008-06-25T13:06:00.001-07:002008-06-25T13:43:24.489-07:00letting it all go (I know the truth about you)On the train to Salisbury I read a book that convinced me to stop trying to escape fear. There is nowhere better to be, no other time than now, no one else to become. There is an alternative to seeking refuge from fear. I believed for a long time that if I just made it through the moment there would be a better time to come. "This too shall pass" translated into "This is unbearable, but hold on, it will get better." This is true, but also true is that this will return, in another moment, at another time, around the next corner. So, this book suggests, stop trying to escape it. Stop trying to deny this fear, stop distracting yourself, stop pegging your hope that something bigger than you can bail you out. There is no bailing out. Fear and hope are two sides of the same coin, and I want to stop flipping it over and over in my palm, always wondering or worrying what's on the other side. The same dual emotion I felt when I first stepped into the rooms hit me: a parallel of certainty and terror that this is the way and the place to be.<br /><br />Stonehenge was interesting. A hodge podge of pagans, druids, bagpipes, drunkards, and CouchSurfers, all getting progressively soaked as the night wore on to the 4:18 sunrise. I practiced sun salutations and meditated in the rain. In my new "accept all as it is" mind set, I sought to accept the damp and not try to change it or wish it to be something else. I succeeded for a few hours until my soaks soaked through, and then I said stuff this and went and found a barrel of coals to warm myself by. Enlightenment still alludes, apparently.<br /><br />I danced in the centre of the stones, touched the moss growing on them, smelled the sweat and wet hair and pot smoke emanating from all the bodies and lungs crowded into the circle and pummeling against each other and the ground to the beat of tribal drums. I sat aways away on a mat and crossed my legs and wondered if this (or me or them) is what spiritual looks like. I slept in a fetal position under a broken umbrella for twenty-three minutes. I walked through a field of pissing men in the pissing rain. I loaned my sleeping bag to a cyclist who rode from London to Amesbury to watch the sunrise. I did not find god. In fact, I may have lost him somewhere on the way.<br /><br />On anger:<br />I spent the next two days in London at a friend's flat, walking back and forth to Tesco's and the park down the road in Kensington. I visited a homeopath, I watched some films. In one film, a man murders a child abuser, and wrestles with the guilt of killing another human while being simultaneously congratulated by friends and colleagues. My friend was aghast at the accolades. I sprung to the characters' defenses, justifying their reasoning for rewarding someone for murder. I sprung passionately, angrily. I am so surprised at my reaction - first the anger, and second the side I took. I thought I found killing indefensible, in any case, under any circumstances, and yet I was defending the idea of a justified murder. And I thought I didn't use that kind of angry passion anymore, that speed to jump and attach to a belief. A few hours earlier I read about <span style="font-style: italic;">tonglen</span>, the practice of breathing in fear or pain or anger, of identifying these emotions as human and empathizing with all who feel them, and then breathing out calm and relief and serenity. And how quickly I forget what I read and how it is constant work to practice my beliefs.<br /><br />On giving up:<br />So I have too many jobs, too many commitments, too much to do. I have a bank account and applied for a National Insurance Number. I'm going on the books and I'm buying into it all, again. I had some plans about a farm and moving away from everything that I've ever known, but I find myself once again surrounded by familiarity. And before I left I resolved to just stop. I'm never going to find something I keep looking for, so I'm going to stop. Stop changing, stop seeking, stop wondering if maybe I should look over there or maybe I should change that here. The inevitability of change doesn't need me to catalyze it. I can just sit back and be so present doing everything I am, from yoga in the park to buying local strawberries to washing dishes in my kitchen to clearing tables in the cafe. I noticed myself at peace today, I noticed myself being grateful, and for the first time, I distanced from that, too. It's easy to identify with calm and serenity because they feel good. But my work is to realize that they are also transient, that 'good' moves away with the same speed as 'undesirable'. So for the first time, as I smiled in the sun and loved this beautiful day, I admitted that "This, too, shall pass." And I let go a little bit more.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-6752944733432154022008-06-17T13:49:00.000-07:002008-06-17T14:13:34.476-07:00There is a Calgary sky here tonight. England (the London and Norwich that I've seen) generally have dreary sunsets, where the cloud cover replaces the "set" with a "fade", gradual and unseemly and unnoticed. Tonight, tufts of cloud honed hues of rose and orange. Violet and indigo curved around the outlines of each cloud, giving them dimension rather than just the opaque grey of most English evenings.<br /><br />I haven't felt homesick at any point in my travels, because the word insinuates that I would rather be somewhere else. I don't have a home anymore, not Calgary or Canada, really. I have things collected in a basement, and family members and friends in this certain place. And after spending so many years there I associate memories and colours of the sky with this city. But I do not miss it in the way I have at other times, where I yearn to be a part of it again, to be privy to its happenings and those of the people in it.<br /><br />But I am seeking to be away from this moment, and this one, and this one. I am constantly and consistently terrified of where I am: no, not Norwich or England or the UK, but inside this body and this mind. Nothing is particularly terrible, I just know that I am running and hiding from things. My body is telling me with its aches, my mind is signaling, but I am afraid to sit still and wait to hear what it is saying.<br /><br />I set up a schedule again so I don't have to deal with myself: my ego is very proficient at keeping busy and keeping me from noticing that it is controlling me. I don't know what to extricate myself from: the three jobs and three volunteer commitments, or the mind-set that is telling me I can't possibly keep this up. I know that to set myself the task of decluttering my life is just to give my ego something else to do, something else to think will cure me of suffering.<br /><br />The moon is up now, a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. I'll be at Stonehenge for the summer solstice. Some time out of town may widen a perspective the Buddhist Centre and a shiatsu massage have offered.<br /><br />Namaste.Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-46814335227075235882008-06-05T01:14:00.000-07:002008-06-05T02:59:26.199-07:00external irrelevancy (redundant only until you realize it yourself)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe4U2_iRyI/AAAAAAAAANA/wgQaxsIstig/s1600-h/IMG_8594.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe4U2_iRyI/AAAAAAAAANA/wgQaxsIstig/s320/IMG_8594.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208334162576164642" border="0" /></a><br />Other things I'm realizing:<br /><br />The external world is irrelevant. For awhile I thought this meant that I needed to rid myself of all worldly possessions to find inner peace, but I realized...with a little or with a lot, both are just states and therefore erroneous. My revelations are on hyper-speed, it seems. I thought I was moving towards a hippie commune at the edge of the world, but it seems I have supplanted my life instead, creating jobs and schedules and using my Google calendar for the first time in three months.<br /><br />I thought for a moment this was backtracking, this was falling back into something, but I realize now it is just a continuation of the journey, because it is evolving as it is, instead of me forcing it a certain way.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe4hG_iRzI/AAAAAAAAANI/cXUzychqBNE/s1600-h/IMG_8623.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe4hG_iRzI/AAAAAAAAANI/cXUzychqBNE/s320/IMG_8623.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208334373029562162" border="0" /></a>This applies also to my body, the house of my mind and spirit and soul. Added inches used to mean to me added worries, I thought my body was a reflection of my inner state. I still think this is true, but I realize now that being in my body is more important that being out of it. Gorging or starvation are both extremes, are both distractions. The outside manifestation indicates, but doesn't explain. So while I have had more scones than courgettes or aubergines (zucchinis and eggplants) and now have a delightful little roll again, I realize this just reflects a different state of engagement with food and nourishment, and is neither positive or negative or healthy or hurtful.<br /><br />The more I learn the less I know. I keep thinking I'm coming to the cusp, that over the next bend I'll be at the top and see everything below me laid out clear, but I'm realizing I'm actually walking deeper into the mountain range, further into the forest. Nature is waiting out there for me someday, but not right now. Right now it's Buddhist Centre and Greenhouse cafe volunteering spotted with cafe and catering work. Good thing I kept my black uniform just in case.<br /><br />Instead of freedom comes fear. Just as when I realized it wasn't money, then when I realized it wasn't security, so now when I've realized it's not the lack of any of those things, either...then what is it? Being. Vadra Gupta, a teacher at the Centre, said when people begin to meditate they rarely find what they're looking for. They find themselves, and that's never what they want.<br /><br />So I'm still finding myself, but finding that doesn't mean realizing I'm a "writer" or a "yogi" or that I need to go back to school. It means sitting or standing or lying or leaning wherever I am and saying exactly that and not trying to move or change or be anywhere else. This is my most daunting work.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe47W_iR0I/AAAAAAAAANQ/FzCgW3EtOjw/s1600-h/IMG_8627.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_oiHlVeOZnng/SEe47W_iR0I/AAAAAAAAANQ/FzCgW3EtOjw/s200/IMG_8627.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208334824001128258" border="0" /></a><br />Namaste,<br />AndreaSuryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-82264967148546629852008-06-03T11:27:00.000-07:002008-06-03T11:41:37.159-07:00My life and head are equal parts full right now.<br /><br />The house where I sit on the floor is filled with writers who take their masters in Creative Writing at the UEA, the University of East Anglia. Musicians play guitars and accordions and use megaphones in the sitting room and they sound like a band I used to know in Victoria, BC called Colourbook.<br /><br />In the town with no jobs I've managed to find three plus an interview, one at a place I want to work and another at a place that will do.<br /><br />I continue to live on the kindness of strangers and find myself amazed at generosity.<br /><br />I found a Buddhist Centre instead of a yoga studio, where I volunteer in exchange for participating in group meditation sessions and shared coffee with a lady who described meditation in a way I've only heard people speak about AA meetings: if she can't make a session one week, she finds she misses it.<br /><br />Every morning I wake up in a state of fear. It's not debilitating, it doesn't keep me from getting out of bed (yes, I have a bed, it belongs to someone who doesn't sleep here often, so for now, I can), but I spend the rest of the day reminding myself I am so fortunate for being exactly where and when I am right now, until I go back to sleep with the vague thought that this might all be over in eight hours. It never is, it only gets better, but I forget that every night.<br /><br />Honesty rose to the top of my list of desirables somewhere along the way, beyond valuing knowledge and truth. Now I want to say what I feel in the moment even if I sound wandering and wavering, which I do most of the time. Things I know: it will always be okay. I will always sleep, I just don't know where. I will always eat, I just don't know what. Money, either a lot or a little, is irrelevant to an inner state. This too shall pass. A little about a lot of things and a lot about nothing in particular. I'll never get there because I'll just be here all the time. Things I believe: fear feels a lot like loneliness. Everything else is a guess.<br /><br />I also volunteer at the Greenhouse, a cafe and environmentally sustainable business. I met Alex, a fellow CouchSurfer, who teaches me about Kafka and recipes for bad poetry (for analytical, not creating, purposes).<br /><br />It's amazing what grows when I plant a seed of intention.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8560351835528023108.post-31062913652216407082008-05-29T15:07:00.000-07:002008-05-29T15:16:53.557-07:00Norwich makes my socks squelchI sit on the top floor of a three-story house full of creative writing Masters students in an incense-laden room with a tiger poster on the wall and a skateboard for a shoe rack.<br /><br />Trees line streets and the rain follows the cobblestones. It's Victoria without the hanging flower baskets and with a few hundred year old stone churches (insert hyphens where you will).<br /><br />They have yoga and vegetarians and a farm outside the city.<br /><br />I don't know where I'll work and maybe I won't but maybe I'll stop awhile and see.<br /><br />It's the first day of the rest of my life, and what do you do with a cliche but peg it as such?Suryadarshinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15885974769858573867noreply@blogger.com0