An Exceptionally Brief Reflection on Begging

          The act of giving to a beggar has less to do with benefiting the recipient than it does with absolving one’s own conscience of guilt in that fleeting, yet unbearable moment. Having dispensed with a few rupees, the beggar can be forgotten and one can return to the more sanguine elements of the day. But, if one does not give, the guilt nags upon one’s soul like a terrible blister...that is, until one’s mind is pulled so far afield by some other distraction that the beggar and the guilt, indeed the entire incident, are rendered but one more forgotten sadness, buried so deep in the darkest recesses of memory as to never even have happened.

The Frequency is Courage,
- Doug B.

A Little Yin and Yang in the Land of High Passes

It’s been over a year since I last reflected and put my thoughts down on paper, or rather, imaginary paper on the internet. Finally, after more than twelve months of mental constipation, the weight of my collective experiences has forced my hands. A great deal transpired over the previous year, good and bad of course, but I don’t really feel like reflecting upon it now…maybe I will later, otherwise you will just have to wait for my autobiography (I already have several titles in mind). But, onto the present! For starters, I’m once more in Ladakh. For those counting, this is my fourth journey to this trans-Himalayan cold desert. Though the mountains high above, jagged and glistening white, seem static, immovable, unchanging, the valleys and settlements are in constant flux, as dynamic as the melting glaciers. This change, though it is the way of the world, is not all good. With the increase in access to information, medical care, and opportunity has come more tourists (not necessarily a bad thing), more trash, the throw-away mentality of mass-produced consumerist society, more vehicles, more drunkenness, and more pollution. And as the water channels running through the streets become ever more choked with discarded wrappers and empty plastic bottles there is less and less of what makes Ladakh such a wonderful and unique place. Less respect for religion and culture (a growing phenomenon among the local population), less sustainability, less village life, less farming, less respect and compassion. But who am I to begrudge the Ladakhis (or anyone else for that matter) the amenities and comforts I take for granted everyday back in America. Who am I to deny these people a satellite TV and a compact car, a washing machine and an electric stove? Though it makes for a depressing realization, the dream of the developing world is not democracy or the high-minded ideals of liberal Western intellectuals, no matter how much we might spout off about it. The dream of the developing world is an easier life, one with a certain degree of material comfort. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating the Ladakhis get rid of their cars and television sets and return to eking out a meager existence in the narrow valleys and arid pastures beneath the lifeless peaks. I have no good answers, no solutions to the curse of development. All I can really do is pose the following question in the hopes that someone more driven and capable and intelligent than I will be pushed to do something, if there is indeed anything that can possibly be done, and this question, actually questions, are as follows: was human life ever meant to be so comfortable, and as we seek to further insulate ourselves from the unpleasantness of the world around us, do we not block out something else? Something perhaps necessary to our existential wellbeing? Surely, as we immerse ourselves in decadence and lessen the hardships we face, something is abandoned, forgotten; a timeless element of our existence—let’s just call it calloused hands—by which I mean struggle and challenge and discomfort having a demonstrable, subtly positive effect on human life. Am I onto something…you be the judge.

                But that’s enough brooding for today. Rather, I’ll end with a little story from my morning hike. I was skirting the eastern edge of Leh, taking a purposely long and out of the way route on the way back into town. On the left side of the road was a little puppy, sleeping peacefully, or so I thought. As I drew closer, something was clearly amiss. A great many flies buzzed about, but the little pup did not move, its abdomen bloated, but terribly still. And so, a brutal realization dawned. This little puppy, having only recently come into the world, was dead. Its innocent spirit again being forced to navigate the crucible of the bardos, the liminalities all beings must traverse as they journey from one life to the next. I took out my headphones, uttered a few mantras, and made a quick prayer for the puppy to be reborn in a pureland, a dimension of no suffering in which enlightenment is easily attained in one lifetime. Nothing tears at me here quite like the suffering of dogs. Indeed, the first time I cried in India was after seeing a mangy, emaciated dog in New Delhi vomit up nothing but bile from its empty stomach, which other starving dogs proceeded to lick up. Brutal, right? Anyways, back to the story at hand. Having been vividly reminded of the Buddha’s First Noble Truth that all life is suffering, I continued with my hike, albeit, now a little distraught. It was not long before another dog, this one full grown, came trotting over a low rock wall, with, much to the benefit of my inner wellbeing, a little up in tow, this one very much alive. Judging by the size and colouring of this spritely pup, it was more than likely the sibling of the dead puppy lying some twenty meters behind me. And so, I was reminded of another eternal truth: the cruelness of existence is matched only by its beauty. For darkness and light exist side by side, complimenting and completing one another. As the Daoists would say, the Way, or Dao, is composed of both yin and yang. One without the other and the whole world would be but chaos. Harmony is balance, and so, for a few fleeting moments this morning, my world was harmonious. And that, dear friends, is as clean of an ending to a story you are ever going to get, from me, at least.

The Frequency is Courage,

-Doug B.

P.S. I would link unfamiliar terms for your convenience, but the internet is too slow for that to work at the moment.

Sacré Bleu, or The Tantric Approach to Unpleasant French Women

What follows is perhaps, almost certainly, the least pleasant interaction I have had with a human being, indeed any sentient being, whilst in Ladakh. And yet, as I have reflected on it since it happened this morning, I have thus come to realize this incidents value as a quite profound teaching as I attempt to walk the path of the Buddhas. It unfolded as I was going for kora, ritual circumambulation, around the Chokhang Vihara, also known as Gompa Soma (New Gompa), which is the main Buddhist gompa (monastery) and lhakhang (temple) in central Leh. To the best of my memory, this is how it unfolded.

I walk into the Chokhang, and as I begin my kora, I notice on older Caucasian woman, European by the looks of it, attempting to light up a cigarette. I can stomach and ignore tourists being loud, or rude, walking the wrong directions, wearing shorts and other revealing clothing, and most of the other disrespectful things they do while in Buddhist gompas and sacred sites, but not this. This was intransigence at its highest. The Ladakhis might be too nice to confront her, but I am not.

Doug: Excuse me, but you cannot smoke here.

Old French Woman:   [Looks up in annoyance]

D:        I don’t mean to be rude but…

OFB:   Go away [gives slight wave of hand, by which she clearly means ‘fuck off,’ and resumes attempting to light cigarette]

Realizing that this woman is far more determined to smoke her cigarette and disrespect this sacred place than I am to stop her, I continue with my kora and leave this foul soul to wallow in carcinogens and her even more noxious personality. Having finished my circumambulation of the Chokhang, I stand on some stone steps shaded by a few trees near the front of the main lhakhang, reciting some last few mantras of OM MANI PADME HUM (HRI), when the Old French Woman, walks up to me.

OFW:  You cannot talk to people like that.

I attempt to be conciliatory, and indulge her with an apology that she does not deserve.

D:        I am sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as rude, but I realize that I did.

OFW:  You cannot tell people what they can do.

D:        I know, but really, you cannot smoke here.

OFW:  [Clearly perturbed that I will not give up my admonishment] According to who, to you?!

D:        According to them…[I motion to the Ladakhis behind her and the literal writing on the wall behind them which states in big bold letters ‘YOU ARE SITTING IN A HOLY PLACE, DON'T USE ALCOHOL, TOBACCO IN ANY FORM’]…it’s actually written on the wall.

OFW:   [Boiling with anger] You’re from the States aren’t you?

D:        Yes.

With my affirmation, I have virtually no doubt as to the vitriol that is to follow.

OFW: You know you should just stay there, closed.

She pauses, so consumed by her spiteful emotions that she is clearly at a loss for words; unable to convey in English the disgust inside her that only knows the language of French as a vehicle.

OFW:  You truly are an unbelievable country!

Shaking her head in utter contempt and disgust, she turns around and walks away. Now I am at a loss for words, so taken aback by her odiousness. As she walks off towards the side exit, completely failing, as do so many other foreigners and Indians, to walk about the temple properly—in a clockwise manner, I manage to get in the last words, which are the only words (other than expletives) which suddenly pop into my mind.

D:        [Somewhat sarcastically] Have a nice day.

The End

A Little Piece of Wisdom...from a Ten-year-old

I sincerely apologize for my total failure to update this blog with any sort of regularity. My short time in Nepal thus far has reminded me of a supremely valuable life lesson: nothing goes according to plan, and if it does, it is a hell of a lot less valuable of an experience. Hopefully this time, I will not forgot it. Another lesson: not every white person who goes to Nepal thinks, feels, or appreciates things as you do. In fact, at least for me in this currently unfolding experience, it has frequently been the opposite. I hate to rant and complain, as it will only fan the flames of suffering, flames that I will have to extinguish through my own right effort if I am to ever escape the oppressive heat of my ego. Our unenlightened notions of a permanent self are like a fire, obscuring and distorting and consuming our actions and perceptions. The fire of ego burns so ferociously in us that we will go to almost any length to satisfy it. We amass useless fortunes when billions live off a few dollars a day, collect hordes of exotic luxury cars when many have no access to transportation at all, pay thousands for a worthless mass of carbon atoms (diamonds) that fund civil wars and genocides, undergo elaborate surgical procedures to reshape our nose or have a bigger bust even though burn victims cannot get skin grafts because they lack the right insurance, and destroy others' lives as well as our own just to feel powerful or popular or 'good' for a few fleeting moments. To see through the smoke and flames, the fire of ego must be extinguished. What lies beyond the blazing delusions of ego? The true self that transcends notions of subject and object: the Tathagatagarbha, or Buddha-nature. This is what the Buddha taught. Granted, I am a hypocrite, full of flowery and lovely speech but severely lacking in right view and right intention and just about every precept of the Noble Eightfold Path. I can make plenty of excuses, but they are just that, excuses, empty and devoid of any lasting form or meaning.
Anyways, that has nothing to do with why I started writing this post. It has virtually nothing to do with my (there's that damn ego again) time here, does not convey any useful or exciting information about my experiences, and hasn't made me feel any better about the less-than-ideal relationships (if they can even be called that) that have materialized between myself (ego) and the others in the group. Another pertinent lesson that even trying to develop attachment towards others will only bring suffering. I'll leave you with this, a poem written in my (ego) home stay sister's annual school magazine. It was written by a ten-year-old Tibetan girl, more proof that wisdom and kindness have nothing to do with misguided notions of maturity. Enjoy and take note.

If You Want To...

If you want to eat, eat anger

If you want to talk, talk gently and politely

If you want to fight, fight for truth

If you want to help, help the poor

If you want to build, build your character

If you want to increase, increase your knowledge

If you want to keep something, keep silence

If you want to learn, learn manner and discipline

If you want to see, see yourself

By Tenzin Riksang, Class V