12.30.2009

Onomonopoetry

So I was sifting through my old bedroom, and besides realizing that I have way too much shit, I found some interesting tidbits from my former selve(s). Perhaps most intriguing was a stack of old notebooks. In one of them, I discovered a large volume of scribblings that I apparently penned while I was in Istanbul, although I have no recollection of writing them.

Memory is a funny thing. It's been two years since I fell in love with the Bosphorus (the channel of water that divides the European and Asian halves of Istanbul). Is it still a part of me? Do gray waves and elusive metaphors still inform my current existence, even though I can't remember writing the poem that I copied below? What about the last six months of my life?

All these stark divisions between "here" and "there" have made it profoundly clear how fleeting things are, and the changing times have tickled my nostalgia-switch and my bewilderment-button.

Ah existence, you shifty little devil... you sure are interesting.

"Bosphorus"
listen:
     whispering cosonants
     blue voices rushing in between
ensōs cleave foghorns
and
--hush--
in the wake of these three syllables
a twitter of wings



12.25.2009

Holidays and Home-time


Yesterday I turned 22. This means that I am now divisible by eleven, but otherwise is not terribly noteworthy. Unless you count the fact that I am now completely and undeniably a "young adult." (Eep.)

To celebrate my friends and I climbed Spencer's Butte. We drove through the morning mist and hiked up through the frozen old-growth, marveling at frosted spiderwebs and the foggy grand glint of the trees. On top of the butte the universe gave me many birthday presents. We were above the cloud layer (i.e. inside of heaven) and beheld an oceanic expanse of undulating fog pierced by the crowns of the cascades. I learned that mystical shadows are not unique to Sri Pada--my humble home-town hillock also cast a mysterious triangle across the sky. A rainbow sundog did yogic backflips at the tip of the penumbra pyramid, and, although my feet stayed rooted to the summit, I fell into the sky.

Sometimes I wonder why people prostrate to inert things like statues.

And today is Christmas. Despite my bitter old-age, there is still some magic in this day. The magic smells like candles, tastes like spiced cider, and sounds like my dad strumming his guitar while the rest of my family screams happily during a heated game of Apples to Apples.

Thus I return to my native land, after spending almost all of my time since June in Asia. It has been strange: I've had some bewildered moments before the fireplace during let-lagged insomnia where I pass the time by striking a match, watching it burn down to my fingertips, and then striking another match. I miss my friends from Bodh Gaya, I recall the sacred frenzy of India, and I struggle to remember exactly what it felt like to breathe the thin air of Tibet. Like somehow a perfect memory will make my experiences meaningful.

But it's also not strange: I laugh easily with family and old friends, exchange knowing moments with Douglas firs, and thank the rain for making things real. Even after six months of deprivation, it seems perfectly rational for there to be toilet paper in bathrooms, and I remember how to brew coffee. It's almost scary how easily I can slip into a place where buzzwords like "insurance," "football," and "career," are circulated so often.

I am not in a place to draw conclusions tonight. Hopefully further reflections will be forthcoming, along with pictures. Until then, I hope that anyone who reads these words can see the spectacular beauty of everything.


12.19.2009

The Last Days in Bodh Gaya

During our last sitting at the Bodhi tree I sat in zazen. When you sit in zazen you are supposed to be like a pine tree in the wind or a frog on a lilly pad, but instead I was like a girl sitting on a cushion beneath a sacred tree feeling the pangs of impermanence. I broke my still contemplation to wipe the tears on my face with my scarf, and struggled to remind myself that Buddha's don't cry. After we sat, our strange little sangha lit hundreds of candles and laughed like there wasn't a universe collapsing.

When I came back from Sri Lanka, I had one week in Bodh Gaya to share tales of the independent study and bid India farewell. During those dust-filled days I had many long meals in Tibetan restaurants, hastened to finish my paper, and spent as much time as I could reveling in the presence of the people on the program--people who I have come to love. It's funny, but one profound thing I learned in India is that, at least for me, places are people. When I look back on the semester I spent in South Asia, I will of course remember the vivid beauty of that landscape, but those images are inextricably intertwined with the people with whom I absorbed them.

The man who leads the Buddhist Studies Program in Bodh Gaya is named Robert. He is spectacularly wise, and we would often speculate that he is the embodiment of Time. As the end of the program approached, we would refer to our farewell to India and the dispersion of a beloved community as "Robert's last lesson": everything is impermanent, everything is changing, and there is nothing to cling to. The universe collapses in every instant, and every tangible imagining is just that--a dream.

So now it is over. It was beautiful, and, because Nirvana eludes me, the undeniable preterite of the word "was" conjures a pang of sadness in my chest. However, this ending (like all endings) butts heads with a new beginning, and I am excited for the West and Christmas and school and the unbounded mystery of Things That Have Not Yet Come to Pass.

I will end with something I wrote during my last days in the monastery:

I sit on the veranda overlooking the garden
the gloaming plays blues saxophone and
the people in the village strike matches to
light candles in their windows.

Brown-skinned workers pour their last
load of cement into wooden frames and
quiet laughter echoes in the stairwell.

I smell the sweet exhalations of the earth
as it rolls over sleepily and
wonder about impermanence.


As the sun plunges the
clouds strike a beautiful, sad note
and I pack my bag.

12.07.2009

Farewell to Sri Lanka

Farewells and transition states are always a little bit sad. They're also a little bit beautiful... Oh I don't know. Yesterday Gabe and I abandoned the our papers to make sand sculptures of a gate, the Taj Mahal, a pyramid, a stupa, a swordfish with a ladder, and 1/2 of an ant. Then we alien bombed them with globs of sand and ran into the warm waters of the Indian ocean.

Tomorrow we fly.

Sri Lanka by Numbers

Weeks On Island: 3.5
Umbrellas Purchased: 2
Pieces of Toast Consumed: 4.3X10^11
Random Forays with Monks in Mini-vans: ~4
Leeches Contracted: 3
Elephant Sightings: 1
Dinosaur Sightings: 5
Nighttime Readings of the Book of Genesis: 1
Recovering Drug Addicts Befriended: 82
Literal Gate-keepers Encountered: 7
Train Rides Through Tea Plantations: 3
Stairs Climbed: >5,000
Creepy Assassin Handshakes From Old Men: 2
Hours Spent Meditating: 12
Famous Architectural Monuments Re-created in Sand: 3
Official Conversations About Love: 21
Pages Written: 17
Moments of Bewilderment: Upwards of Infinity?
New Tropical Fruits Discovered: 2.5

12.06.2009

Ode to a Hermit Crab

A maritime wanderer
scuttles across
the scope of the sand
bearing the
hollow, glittering mosaic
of home.
Vanishing tracks
etch scriptures on solitude
as the wearer
of bleak armor
schleps its
mobile, noble asylum
inch
by
inch.
I stop to marvel but
it walks on
the brave, lost nautilus
cast out at sea.


12.05.2009

Rain
Rain
Rain
.
.
.

Thunder boomed a minute ago so deeply it echoed in my diaphragm. I sit here in the guest house and, even though this keyboard has three alphabets, I'm struggling to enact a fingertip tap-dance that spells something insightful about love. I tried to load "gmail.com" as a distraction but for some reason the "om" part got entered as a search parameter and instead of my e-mail I received "about 99,000,000" hits about just one sacred syllable that means everything is everything else. Meanwhile the peacocks (confirmed as incandescent blue) mew plaintively in the rainstorm and I wonder how the hell I am ever going to write a paper in Sri Lanka when I'm doubting The Academy backwards and forwards and would rather sing of eternal vibrations than correctly utilize Chicago Style Notation.

Yes. The rain is falling and it's just past sunset. I should be writing a paper, dinner isn't ready yet, and I'm wondering.

12.03.2009

"Finals" in Ceylon

I can see the ocean from this computer. Its absurdly blue tropical water is about 20 meters away from my keyboard. And I have to write a 20 page paper during the next few days. One page for every meter that separates me from the ocean.

After a Bud Ride of Doom (read: immense lostness in the pouring rain, sore sore legs cramped into packed buses, and an unforeseen night in Colombo), I find myself in Mirissa, a sleepy beach-town on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. Smooth white sand gives way to the rumbling infinite sea and palm trees lean over the beach, lazily reflecting sunlight. At nighttime fireflies have raging dance parties with the stars and frog song blends with the mewing lullabies of peacocks.

So I am writing a paper in Paradise. I have to click "New Blank Document" and start typing out coherent and academic thoughts about the ideals and lived realities of love in Sri Lanka. I suppose I will do this, given that I came to this country to create this project. All I really want to do, however, is prostrate to the ocean.




Sri Pada

Wake up time: 1:47 a.m. Darkness, but the had monsoon subsided, so that was good. Many, many stairs lay before us--more than 5,000, we were told. The concrete staircase was lit by fluorescent lights that went up and up until you couldn't tell if they were stair-lights or stars. Umbrellas in hand, we heaved and sweated our way upward, only stopping once at one of the many tea shops along the path. The moon looked on, one day past full, at once like a kind eye and a gemstone.

At the top of the sacred mountain there was a temple and a bell and a convenient array of public toilets. We got there around 4:30, with the constellations still visible and strange red lightning flashing on the horizon. After wishing on the bell, which was for wishes, we huddled in a blanket and looked for meteors. The wishes of others tolled across the forever-space of the hill country, our breath came as steam, and we waited for the sun.

When it came, it came spectacularly, bearing fake-looking rays and illuminating the cloud cathedrals that hovered over the jungle. Sri Pada is known for the shadow it projects at sunrise, and we marveled at the perfect triangle that lay to the West of the sacred mountain, a casually mystical tribute to Three. Then, after the trance was broken, we made our way downdowndown on legs of jello and consumed a deliciously expansive breakfast.

I'm not quite sure what it is about climbing mountains. There's something deeply human about the ascent, something alive and breathing that doesn't care about metaphors. I know very little about truth and I sure as hell don't know my mantra, but walking upward, putting one foot in front of the other, moving, threatening the sky... that's something that I could get behind.

11.30.2009

Two Things

#1 Nilambe Meditation Center

I spend a lot of unmediated time with my consciousness up in this misty jungle retreat. Meditation comes surpisingly easily despite my two-week break from the practice, except for when the meditation teacher tells me to unfold my heart like a towel at 5:30 in the morning (still sleepy and grumpy, I turn my heart into a venus fly trap instead). There is no electricity at Nilambe. At nighttime a crazy German lights his path with a single candle in a house of mirrors, and the fireflies are vivid as they tote around stolen bits of moon.

#2 A Close Encounter with The End of the World

Up in the hill country there is a national park called Horton Plains, where one can visit a spectacular geological formation known as "The End of the Word." Intrigued, Gabe and I make our long-winding way up into the clouded heights of the tea hills to see this place... does the land just turn into empty space? Are there sea dragons of the sort that would have consumed Columbus and their crew if they had taken a wrong turn? These questions churn in our minds as we walk through a jungle that is oddly like northern California with a dash of African savannah. Our adventurous aspirations are thwarted, however, by a 15 dollar permit fee. Who knew you have to bring that much money to the end of the world? We try to sweet-talk the gatekeeper, but he will have none of it, so we semi-bitterly eat a bunch of banannas at the entrance and then walk back down the road to the train station.

In retrospect, it is apparent to me that it would have been foolish to actually go to the end of the world. It was so foggy that no mysteries would have been demystified, and we almost certainly would have been eaten by dragons.

11.26.2009

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving dinner was consumed with an Italian and a Pole in a Sri Lankan guesthouse. We tried to explain to the foreigners what Thanksgiving is all about. Gabe said that this American holiday denotes consumptive gluttony and empty symbolic thanks for stolen land. While I think that there is some truth to this, I tend to be more optimistic. I like to think that, even as the subtle profundities of this world succumb to capitalism, Thanksgiving can still be simply (and profoundly) about thanks.

So thank-you, universe, for winking sunlight off of palm fronds and for lightning storms and mountains and everything that is unequivocally beautiful. Thank-you for the preservation of mystery, for deep friendships, and for the absurd freedom to traipse across the globe as a learner and an asker of unanswerable questions. Thank-you for a family that gave me anything I could ever have asked for and then let me go unfettered to be confused and make mistakes. Thank-you for oceans and the tolling of bells. Thank-you for love.

After our Thanksgiving dinner, the kind Sri Lankan family that cooked our meal gave me fresh cloves from their garden, which I put in my pocket. I called my family this morning since that's dinnertime in the U.S., and my love for them felt immanent and real despite the oceans that divide us. After my telephone call a Sri Lankan man grasped my hand and said, "I am so so GLAD that you come to my country!" I gave a beggar some money, and the morning sunlight is laughter turned to photons.

And I am thankful.

11.25.2009

Infiltrating the Hermitage

We had to get special permission letters from the Buddhist Publication Society to enter the jungle where the hermits dwell, and then we took a three-wheeler up through the hills, trees, and monsoon downpour. After a long bumpy ride through a labyrinth of gravel roads, we were deposited at the porch of a nice house that looked out of place in the forest. After some awkward window-peeking we were greeted by a friendly Dutch monk, who invited us to sit down in his living room. We introduced ourselves, explained that we are students conducting projects, and then broached our particular topics of research: love and justice.

An interesting conversation ensued. The monk explained to me that romance is entirely based on delusion and thus leads only to suffering. When Gabe asked him about poverty and the sorry state of the world, he talked about how freedom from suffering can ultimately be found by escaping the the illusion, not by changing it. Our worldly concerns didn't seem to phase the hermit at all--when he thought about things such as passion and pain, he leaned back in his chair and looked peaceful, a half-smile on his lips.

After the interview (and, inevitably, tea) Gabe and I prepared to walk back down into Kandy before it got dark. "Be careful of the leeches," warned the monk. He gave us soap to put on our feet to ward of the leeches that apparently are rampant in Sri Lankan jungle, and we walked off through the the darkening green-black jungle toward town (as always, you must add bright rainbow umbrellas to this image to really fathom what it was like).

Here it is significant to note that we got leeches anyway. Black and sluggish, these icky creeping things were only deterred enough by the soap to slime their way up our calves. It sounds gross, and it was gross, but I felt mostly hardcore when I got back to my hostel and bled copiously from my leech wounds since leech wounds don't coagulate.

So that is the story of how I just infiltrated a jungle hermitage, asked a monk about romance, and then was eaten by leeches. One wonders about karma.

In other news, today is my last full day in Kandy. It is Thanksgiving, which means that Gabe and I will eat dinner with Giuliano, the philosophy professor from our program who incidentally doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving because he's Italian. Tomorrow we make our way to Haputale and a national park called "World's End," and then we plan on summitting an immensely sacred mountain and hopefully visiting some tea factories. It should be adventurous. Stay tuned.

11.23.2009

Kandy

The lake is the centerpiece to this city. It contains monitor lizards and turtles and egrets and horrific devil geese, and provides a picturesque foreground to the Temple of the Tooth and the misty craggy hills of central Sri Lanka. The Temple of the Tooth is the pride and joy of Sri Lankan Buddhists--it is purported to contain a real live tooth of the Buddha. Sri Lankans don't care that, many years ago, Portuguese invaders claimed to have stolen the tooth and pulverized it. Apparenly such things as Buddha teeth are impervious to such threats. There supposed to be an elephant here to be mighty and look after the tooth. I have not yet seen this elephant.

So far Gabe and I have spent a lot of time walking around, trying to find interview subjects for our respective projects on socially engaged buddhism and loving relationships. This morning we traipsed into a monastery in search of English speaking monks, and later we plan on infiltrating a forest hermitage. "What about social action?" we will ask the hermits, "What about love?"

The "ethnographic field work" that I've been doing here in Sri Lanka has made me think a lot about the barriers that people construct between themselves and everyone else. It's funny, but I feel like my project has served as an excuse to talk to people about things that I would be interested in learning about anyway. Why do I need this pretense that I'm a student doing a project to approach my fellow humans and talk to them about something that everyone cares about? Why do we pass strangers on the street with barely a cursory nod? Why do I feel like I need an excuse to ask people what they think about love?

These are the things I ponder as I wander through Kandy being lost and brandishing a rainbow umbrella. Life is certainly interesting.

11.21.2009

Mind Leaps in Lounge Pants: The First Week in Sri Lanka

It is currently pouring down rain with gusto, and the street outside of this small internet nook has become a lake. In the spirit of monsoon my travel buddy and I have purchased one large rainbow umbrella each. They are brand Penguin ("Sheltering the nation!"), and we are calling them our Wayfaring Staffs.

Thus far Sri Lanka has been the perfect combination of interesting, ridiculous, awkward, and adventurous. This country alternates between monsoon rain and overexposed tropical sunlight, the people here are almost unbelievably friendly, and my fingernails are perpetually curried from eating with my hands. I have found myself lost at random train stops in the hills as the night came out with giant fruit bats (like crows gone wrong) and curious men chewing leaves asked me, "What island are you from?" I have watched the lightning in the sky reflected in lightning bug butts while sipping tea on jungle evenings. I met the governor of a Western province after an elaborate alms-giving ceremony, and then found myself at a temple in the misty hills that was in fact a rehab center for recovering drug addicts run by an awesome and inspiring monk with a fluffy dog named Bhintu. I walked through the leafy earthy smell and whirring machinery of "number one" tea factory in Sri Lanka, and waved to small women in uniform sweeping tea leaves into large plastic bins. I have had several interesting conversations with monks and laypeople alike about what it means to love someone when all of existence is slippery and impermanent. And now I am in Colombo, with an awesome umbrella.

So it's been just under a week, but these six days in Ceylon have proven to me (yet again) that a) the universe is beautiful, and b) if you walk into an experience with open arms and no expectations ridiculous things are bound to happen. According to my guide book, the word "serendipity" shares etymological roots with the word "Sri Lanka." I like that.

Now it is time to puddle-wade.

11.12.2009

Shiva Laughs

Everything into a bag again! I took the paintings and poems off my wall and swept the dust bunnies under my bed into the garden. After my Anthropology presentation tomorrow I am DONE with class, and on Sunday I fly to the former land of Ceylon and the current land of cinnamon and tea trees and elephants and beaches.

Shiva's laughing, I'm sure of it. As this Hindu god juggles the words "destroyer," "creator," and "transformer" in his many arms, he's using some extra appendages to yank the comfy carpet of monastic life from beneath my feet. Although I'm sad that this section of my life is coming to a close, I get a whole week at the Burmese monastery when I get back in December, and the adventurer in me can barely contain her excitement.

I have no idea what to expect of Sri Lanka, but I hope that I commune with big things like elephants and oceans, have wonderful conversations, and snorkel in the name of Love. Also, I pray to Lord Buddha that there are avocados.

11.08.2009

Field Notes

My final anthropology project demands that I interpret pilgrimage as it is manifested by Sri Lankan pilgrims here in Bodh Gaya. In order to convey how fabulous/awkward/beautiful/confusing it is to "gather data" about human beings experiencing the sacred, I will share an excerpt from my field notes:

3:32 p.m. Arrival at Sri Lankan monastery. Sri Lankans were planning on leaving from there at 3:30 (according to a monk I talked to yesterday), but there is no trace of any pilgrimage group. Punctual folk. I proceed to the Mahabodhi temple to seek the pilgrims.

3:46 p.m. After initial confusion (mistaking a congregation of Thais for the actual target), we correctly identify the herd. They are sitting on the edge of the inner-gate, as if waiting for Bodhi-tree space. The group, in its density, is inpenetrable--singling out a lone pilgrim for interviewing is daunting. A couple of older women pass around flowers, which everyone touches. We gather courage.

3:53 p.m. We awkwardly trail a circumambulating trio of pilgrims. Chimi asks one of them if she's from Sri Lanka, and she smiles and nods. "Do you speak English?" Chimi then asks. "Yes, Lanka," the woman replies.

4:05 p.m. Excitement! Ritual! Two monks lead a group of 60 or so pilgrims carrying a long banner on their heads. There is a monk chanting into a speaker at the back of the pilgrim-banner-caterpillar, and everyone is chanting along.

4:24 p.m. After an almost-collision between banner-laden Sri Lankan circumambulators and a file of Taiwanese pilgrims beating a small bell, the herd completes three laps of the Mahabodhi. The banner is draped on the inner gate, and then the group congregates on the platform where we took Bodhisattva vows with Rinpoche. Once more, we gather courage.

4:27 p.m. Excitement! Interview! We decide that pilgrims with digital cameras are the most likely to speak English, and we approach a man who especially sends of that "I speak English" vibe. And he talks to us! About pilgrimage! And the flag thing! (See attached page for interview details.)

This sort of "field work" has gone on for several days now. My project partner and I call it "Sri Lankan stalking"--when studying pilgrimage, the Mahabodhi transforms into a strange and awkward Safari through the diversity of Buddhist culture. It will sure be interesting to talk to these folks about love in a mere week...

11.01.2009

Halloween, etc.

I was a sugar-glider. We ate a catered meal in the basement of a hotel, and then DANCED with abandon and (gasp!) bear calves. Every costume was spectacular--they included, but were not limited to, a brigade of bicycle rickshaw drivers, Mario and Luigi, Batman and Robin, the trash on the streets of Bodh Gaya, a panda, conventional reality, a chai walla, two bodhi trees, Death, and a unicorn. Fantastic.

Also, I have not yet mentioned this, but this program entails an independent study project. This means that, in a mere two weeks, I will be flying to the bright isle of Sri Lanka to interview Buddhists about love. Specifically I want to know how a) loving relationships are reconciled with impermanence and non-attachment and b) how Sri Lankans conceive of romantic love. The details are still in the works... but it should involve the ocean and awkward conversations, which are really my element.

OK, now I really have to go work on my senior thesis (which is, incidentally, about the ineffable).


10.28.2009

"Time is running."

A few days ago, during his dharma talk, Rinpoche looked down at the candle on the altar before him. The flame flickered in his glasses as he said, "Life is like candle... always running down. Time is running." In these bodies, Rinpoche said, we are continuously travelers and guests. In the end we always part from everything we meet, and this separation is necessarily painful.

This dharma tidbit struck a cord with me. I cannot believe that there are only TWO MORE WEEKS before classes in Bodh Gaya end and we all leave for our independent study projects. I love it here, I've made wonderful friends, and, although I'm bad at meditating, I've found some semblance of peace. And time is running. This fact doesn't seem to bother Rinpoche, but he is a highly realized being. I am not a highly realized being. Sometimes I argue that I like being unenlightened, that the slings and arrows of human desire are beautiful and wonderful and well worth experiencing. But in moments of preemptive nostalgia--like now--I wander if that jolly Tibetan Guru isn't perfectly right about everything. It's a good thing I have an infinite number of reincarnations to figure things out, I guess.

I will conclude with an entry I wrote in my journal that pretty much sums things up:

Time, where are you going? Stop for a moment, please, and look at that blackbird perched perfectly in the tree outside my window. Stop breathing down my neck! I know I'm going to be old in a heartbeat, with wrinkles around my eyes and an immanent awareness of my own mortality. But can't I forget that, just for a moment? I'm in India right now, and there's a blackbird outside my window. He's preening his feathers. He doesn't look concerned.

10.27.2009

Random Expressions of Here

I spent last weekend in the ancient city of Varanasi, and I saw the sun rise perfectly red and perfectly round over the Ganges. A man bathing on the Ghats laughed to me like laughter is a language, our rower rowed the boat with a half-smile, and I understood with the depth of my being why cultures the world over worship the sun.

On that same Ganges, near the burning Ghats where bodies are cremated, I was approached by a man carrying two cages filled with blinking, snowy owls. Bodies burning.. nocturnal beings faced with daylight... It's like I was an observer of someone else's sacred nightmare. "For two-hundred rupees," the man said, "I'll set them free."

Our new meditation teacher is Yoda. An acclaimed Tibetan Rinpoche is teaching us this week, and he is purported to be George Lucas's inspiration for that Jedi sage. Yogi Mike told me to guard my mind around Yoda/Rinpoche, and I wonder if he can see through walls. So far, I have accrued no Jedi powers, but I'm bad at meditating.

With the beginning of the Tibetan meditation section, I'm experiencing strange resonances between now and my summer in Tibet. Monks in gold and burgundy robes, Tibetan script, ceremonial white scarves... to me, these things will always be inseparably intertwined with the 72 children with whom I fell in love this summer. When the Jokhang temple was mentioned in lecture today, I knew exactly what it smelled like.

For Halloween, I am going to be a sugar glider. I have explained the concept "sugar-glider" to an Indian taylor, and I am excited to see the result.

10.21.2009

On Silence and Painted Cows

So there is an incessant dichotomy that plays out in my existence here. On one hand there is silence, and on the other hand there are painted cows. Let me explain.

Silence means incense. Zen fills up all the empty spaces created by silence, so that being nothing, silence is a flickering candle and thus everything. Silence is the peace of a bell ringing, because sometimes bells are vacuums that remind you of the one true sound in the universe. Meditation can't help but be silent, even if your mind is screaming. The black robes we wear for zazen swoosh silently like bat wings. We chant the Heart Sutra to the beat of a drum in remembrance of what cannot be said.

Painted cows mean fireworks. The cows are painted for Diwali with polka-dots--yellow, orange, blue, red, and green. The painted cows are part of an unending festival mosaic, where existence is expounded in a sacred Hindu dance party. When they sleep, painted cows dream of explosions. In the liquid eyes of these bovine masterpieces, there is a pantheon of bright lights and cheesy techno songs stuck on repeat. Painted cows don't care if the sun goes down, and they always sing.

So this is the dichotomy. However, I have learned from Zen that dichotomies are bullshit. Ergo, silence and painted cows are two sides of the same coin. This, mind you, is a ridiculous coin--it is Hindu, it is Buddhist, and I always see it spinning.

10.15.2009

Things I have learned in the past 24 hours:

1) When we circumambulate, my feet can feel the sunset that seeped into the marble on the Western side of the Japanese temple.
2) I like ice cream dipped in chai.
3) Dipwali--the "festival of lights"--is celebrated early with lots of explosions all the time.
4) Tickling is universal (no wonder it's in the Pali texts...)
5) Writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
6) It's nice to have solidarity in the library when half of your anthropology class learns that writing a ten page paper by hand will take a lot longer than you think it will.
7) The resident ghost gets feisty around 2:30 a.m.
8) The kitchen staff starts cooking breakfast for the monks around 3:45 a.m.
9) The rooster starts crowing at about 4:10 a.m.
10) It's really weird to still be in the library at 5:00 a.m. when Meg walks by everyone's room ringing the wake-up bell.
11) If I go to morning Zen meditation with absolutely no sleep, I am able to dream with my eyes open and therefore become convinced that I am sitting in a roomful of multicolored frogs on lily pads.

I still love it here! But it's time for a nap! And then a 24 hour Zen meditation retreat wherein I will never not be meditating, eating, or sleeping!

p.s. A fellow Carleton student that is on this program in keeping a wonderful blog. It has a ton of pictures, and a completely different perspective on what it's like to be here: http://cvoyant.posterous.com/

10.10.2009

Form is Emptiness/Emptiness is Form

Um, so a lot has happened. Like really a lot. Although I certainly will confront failure in my aim to update you all on what it is like to exist here, I will enumerate some things below. First, let me re-establish that a) I am living in a Burmese monastery, b) I am living in the strangely sacred chaos of rural India, and c) I am trying to learn how to meditate. Ok, now here are some snapshots of things that have happened:

Durga Puja
This is a celebration for The Ultimate Big-Mamma Mother Goddess. In honor of her power, two forty-foot tall wooden men with umbrellas on their heads are set alight (on the same field where the Dalai Lama gives his annual address). They are full of firecrackers. As I watch the towering statues explode in technicolor and gradually topple, a GIANT monsoon thunderstorm descends on the crowd. Everyone runs screaming as the second giant man falls with one last burst of fire, and I am swept through flooded Indian streets between motorcycles and rickshaws and errant cows. I am so wet that my fancy sari--which I am wearing to honor the occasion--dies my entire lower half bright green.

Bodhi Seeds
It is the end of our three week Vipassna meditation section, and we are all meditating beneath the Bodhi Tree. I struggle, as per usual, against a) sleep and b) my manic wandering mind. Just when it seems that sleep is going to win the battle, something small and hard bounces off my skull. I open my eyes and behold a seed pod. "Thank-you, tree," I think, "you might be right about that."

Zen
We are now learning Zen meditation. This means that we wear black robes, sit with ramrod-straight backs, bow a lot, and are no longer allowed to label our various weaknesses. Our Sensei is a small man with a large laugh, and he doesn't often make sense, which I like. In fact, he explains very little. The other day, when we were meditating at the Japanese temple, he said that we should put our hands together in prayer position if we want to get hit with his stick. He neglected to mention why one might want to get hit with his stick. He then walked around giving people resounding whaps on the shoulder.

Monkey Research
Our Vipassna teacher, U Hla Myint, said that meditating is like "monkey research." According to him, my mind is a band of monkeys. It is my job to observe it and understand how it operates. I think of U Hla Myint now, during Zen meditation, as a Yellow Monkey paws at the glass doors of the Buddha Hall. Monkeys are extremely rare in Bodh Gaya, but this one is brave and hungry--he smells the basket of bananas that the Burmese pilgrims left as an offering. As we leave meditation for breakfast, he saunters into the Buddha Hall and eats the Bonzai tree on the altar in one bite.

Ghost Stories
I sit up in bed in the middle of the night. I think I see my roommate walking around the room looking for something, but then I remember that my roommate is gone this weekend on a meditation retreat. Afraid, I suddenly become fully awake and turn on my headlamp. The person, however, is gone--there are just clothes drying on my clothesline. The next day, I learn that the students that have lived my room, almost without exception, have had similar encounters. They are never informed of the haunting, and this program has been coming to the Burmese monastery for thirty-years. "It's not a harmful ghost," says the director of the program, chuckling, "If you're scared, you can have Sister Molini send it loving-kindness."

In Praise of Bells
I am learning to ring the bells for Zen mediation. Even though the roll-downs require finesse and precision that I have not yet acquired, this is fulfilling. In fact, if it weren't for certain restraints of the fabric of reality, I think I would like to become a bell. I bet it would feel wonderful to ring.

10.02.2009

To the Bodhi Tree

Oh Bodhi, tree of the Peepul
Your thousand leaves are a thousand eyes, all open.
Those peacock plumes flutter,
whispering eulogies for fire.
I know you know, Grand Rooted One,
that I'm an intensity junkie--
a lover of slings, arrows, and human imperfection.
With all of your eyes, you've surely seen
me laugh to keep from crying.
But, I wonder, Sir Bastion of Leaves (or Eyes)
if you remember what it's like to sleep
and sweetly dream of waking.

9.24.2009

A Day in Bodh Gaya

4:10 a.m. Blearily claw out of mosquito net. Shake crickets from pants.
4:15 a.m. Yoga on the roof by the light of stars and the waxing moon.
5:00 a.m. Fluff cushions.
5:30 a.m. Walking meditation, i.e. look like the living dead on the veranda while Indian people stare.
6:00 a.m. Sitting meditation, i.e. practice perfect awareness of all my various itches.
6:30 a.m. Silent breakfast. Coffee. Sensual delight called "delicious."
7:30 a.m. Think about starting reading for anthropology.
8:30 a.m. Start reading for anthropology.
10:00 a.m. Teatime, the most glorious of hours. Chai, cookies, peanut butter, bannanas... Extensive conversation about far-flung topics.
10:30 a.m. Anthroplogy.
12:00 p.m. Nap. Lay spread-eagle on my bead, listening to the clack of my fan, praying that the power doesn't go out.
1:00 p.m. Lunch, i.e. more sensual delight that includes, but is not limited to, YOGURT.
2:00 p.m. Think about starting to think about my senior comps project.
2:15 p.m. Wander into town to buy pens (so much writing by hand has caused all pens to actually run out of ink). Dodge cows, rickshaws, people, garbage, and baby goats.
3:00 p.m. Pay a visit to the Mahabodhi temple and the Bodhi tree. Merge with chanting pilgrims. Burn bare feet on hot marble walkways. Taste peace beneath wide, wise boughs.
4:00 p.m. Teatime (oh glory). More peanut butter. More cookies. More chai.
4:30 p.m. Fluff cushions.
5:00 p.m. Walking meditation, i.e. focusing very hard on my feet and the little sweat droplets trickling down my back.
5:30 p.m. Sitting meditation, i.e. hoping that I consumed enough caffeine during tea to keep me from keeling over right there in the meditation hall.
6:00 p.m. Dharma talk from our teacher U Hla Min (who looks like a very wise tree frog, especially when he is sitting cross-legged).
6:30 p.m. Dinner, which usually consists of soup, and, with luck, more peanut butter.
7:30 p.m. Conjure motivation for shower. Hope the swarms of mosquitoes have avoided the shower stalls.
8:00 p.m. Sit in the library with various ordained monastics, smelling the bookish smell and attempting to read for class.
9:00 p.m. Brush teeth. Live on the edge--use tapwater.
9:15 p.m. Fall into bed, and scawl scattered thoughts in journal.
9:30 p.m. Pull mosquito net into creepy-looking sleeping beauty tent. Sleep.

9.19.2009

Do Nuns Miss Hugging? ...or... Ruminations on the Impermanence of Hair

Sister Molini is chanting as she takes out a heavy pair of shears and prepares to cut long curls. In Burmese, she sings of how hair is an impermanent element of our bodies that leads to the mistaken conception of self, and, as she snips, long swaths of hair fall lifeless into a white sheet. Then she takes out a single-bladed razor, and gently begins to shave.

We Westerners were given the unique opportunity to ordain as Burmese monks and nuns for a week, and the ceremonial head-shaving was the first step of the ordination process. Monks and nuns also have to adhere to 10 strict precepts--they cannot eat after 12:00 p.m., for example, and they must refrain from singing, dancing and listening to music. They are highly respected by all laypeople, and are expected to act with extreme restraint.

Now, I know what you might be thinking, but you are wrong. I did not ordain as a Burmese nun. I watched as the hair piled up into the white sheets, I watched the nuns change into robes the color of sandstone, and I bowed reverently to the 18 newly-ordained Western monastics.

The choice not to ordain was not a hard one for me, but I'm not entirely sure why. Is it because I don't want to shave my head again? (For new readers, I shaved my head almost two years ago in Fez, Morocco. This experience was not nearly as symbolic or beautiful as the ordination. As I rode through the Sahara desert on a camel with food poisoning and a newly shaved head, I remember thinking that the ridiculousness of my life had reached its culmination.) Is it because I enjoy eating dinner, or because I need to be able to handle money this week so I can go to the internet and write fellowship proposals? Is it because I think I will break the precepts? Is it because I'm afraid?

Whatever my reasoning, it appears that I am still to attached to the things of this world to become a Buddhist nun, even if just for a week. And the funny thing? I'm totally ok with that. I admire those of us who chose to ordain, but, while I appreciate many things about Buddhism, renunciation of things like hugging and dancing is not something I can completely reconcile. And maybe--even though I have already shaved my head--I really am attached to my hair.

And, like I mentioned in my last post, I'm excited like hell for the thousands upon thousands of lives it will take my highly un-enlightened self to sort things out.

Tomorrow we will throw the hair into the river.

9.18.2009

"No pains, no gains."

My job is to fluff the cushions before meditation. My rambunctious monkey-mind enjoys fluffing cushions. Together my mind and I arrange the cushion pads in neat rows, and then fluff up the navy-blue sitting pillows to look like an orderly garden of blue mushrooms. This is nice. The problems begin when we start having to meditate; when my mind only gets the subtle whoosh of my breath for entertainment. Below is a transcript of what goes on between my rapscallion of a mind and me during meditation:

Breath. Pay attention to your nostrils.
Cars are going by outside. They are honking.
The birds are singing in cacophonous harmony with the horns.
Soundsoundsound... but nudge back to breath. Nostrils.
Sweat dripping. It was a dumb idea to cut bangs.
BREATH.
Do I have enough motivation for this?
When it comes down to it, I really do enjoy sensual pleasures. Like cheddar cheese. And hugs.
Ah! Lower back pain. Numbing toes.
Mind, please? There is breathing.
You must shuffle your thoughts away. Like cards. Hearts.
Fulfilling your potential?
Maybe I can focus simultaneously on my back pain and on my breath.
Nostrils. In... Out...
STABBING PAIN IN ANKLE.
I wonder if they will have french toast again for breakfast. I am passionate about french toast.
Come on brain! You're sitting at the place where the freaking Buddha was enlightened!
Settle down.
Listen to breath.
Be breath.
Air flowing through nostrils.
Oh wow I'm finally figuring this out!
Wait, that was a thought.
Damn.

...and so on and so forth for another 25-55 minutes, two times every day. As you might imagine, this is very challenging. It's only been a week since we started the practice, though. As our teacher (who incidentally bears an uncanny resemblance to a wise tree frog) pointed out, "no pains, no gains." So I will continue to make an effort, although I'm beginning to get the feeling that the sort of effort that meditation demands is much more subtle that the effort I would conjure for something like a frisbee workout. I really haven't figured it out.

When things get really hopeless, however, I console myself by thinking that the seventeen-thousand-million lifetimes it will surely take me to become enlightened will at least be adventurous.

There is SO much more to say about my life in Bodh Gaya... Like how the hindu pilgrims have come in fluorescent hoards to celebrate a festival that coincides with the waning moon, how yesterday the hindus in the monastery made a shrine under the Jeep's hood and performed puja over all the telephones because it was "machine day." Also, monastic life is way more strict than I originally anticipated--I can't wear any shirts above mid-thigh or pants above ankle, I must blow mosquitoes rather than swat, and I am expected to refrain from touching the opposite sex for the duration of the term. The food is spectacular (more YOGURT), the chai is an unending bounty, and the monsoon thunderstorms are everything I could dream of. There is not enough electricity in Bodh Gaya, so I can often be found doing reading by candlelight. The Buddhist pilgrims will start coming soon, in massive numbers.

So yes, it is a challenging environment, but I've been perfectly happy since I've gotten here, in a way that I can't fully explain. I have long conversations over tea, I think about life, and I learn about Buddhism. So, all "pains" aside, it's a good time to exist.

9.10.2009

Speed Thrills But Kills*

This morning I watched the sun rise over the Bodhi tree and the Mahabodhi temple. If you've ever seen a picture of the Mahabodhi temple, let me tell you that, in real life, it's actually seventeen times larger. The Bodhi tree itself (which is said to be genetically identical to the one under which the Buddha was enlightened, and planted in the same spot) reaches its multifarious arms outward rather than upward, and leans on lovingly made red crutches. As I watched the sunlight drown out the waning moon and stain Bodhi leaves golden, I heard the chanting of monks and the shuffle of pilgrim feet.

The train--with its glorious preponderance of chai and soothing rock--took me here, to Bodh Gaya, where I will live in a Burmese Vihar and adhere to precepts of monastic life. I am slowly orienting myself to a lifestyle and a place that is dramatically different from anything I've ever experienced before. There is so much more to write, but I'm late for lunch. Stay tuned.

*The phrase "Speed Thrills But Kills" was posted alongside the highway that runs from Gaya to Bodh Gaya. I noticed it with interest as the driver of my Jeep accelerated to Mach 2 on the wrong side of the road, weaving between cyclists, cows, and other obstacles.

9.06.2009

Delhi

India.

Heavy wet heat and teeming streets. Construction workers napping using broken slate for a pillow, beggars, businessmen in impossibly starched suits, and cripples. Cows. Crumbling sandstone monuments hidden between jungle-trees and spectacular birds.

I'm staying in the YMCA tourist hostel in New Delhi until Tuesday, enjoying monkeys' morning antics and ogling the deliciously clear swimming pool. The beds are firm enough to remind me of Tibet, but, here in the tropics, the food has seven-million times more fire.

I visited Delhi when I was fifteen, and it's a very peculiar and dream-like sensation to retrace my steps of six years ago. Perpetual deja-vu.

It's exciting to be back in India with all of its color and vividness, and Delhi is fascinating, but I find myself oddly eager to settle in in Bodh Gaya. I've been on the move a lot lately, you see, and I'm ready for sit for a while, reflect, and wage a war of peace with my unkempt mind.

9.03.2009

From the British Aisles

The orientation for my study abroad program takes place in London, and thus I find myself surrounded by double-decker buses and exciting accents. I arrived yesterday morning, and, upon landing, I caught a train from the airport to Paddington station. I emerged from the train into a grey persistent rain shower (England certainly knows that it's September now) and then proceeded to get wonderfully lost on the streets of London as I sought my hotel and ate hard-boiled eggs. I felt free.

I'm leaving tomorrow already for New Delhi, and it's almost laughable how little I'll be able to see during my first visit to Western Europe. Mostly I've been in a nondescript classroom at London University talking about life in rural India, working on my summer assignments that I didn't quite manage to finish, or sleeping. I guess I'll just have to come back one day...

I did, however, behold the Rosetta Stone at the London Museum.

Have I mentioned that I'm totally and hopelessly in love with the rain? The coat I haggled for on the streets of Lhasa is admirably impermeable, and I'm seriously considering puddle-walking as a post-graduation occupation.

8.29.2009

Symmetry?

My possessions have exploded all over my house. Insect repellent, Chacos, my well-traveled copy of Siddhartha, power adapters... It's really beginning to hit me that I'm leaving for India in less than three days.

It's a bit disorienting to have barely three weeks between a monumental summer in Tibet and a four-month dunk into Monastic life in India. However, as I was sorting my socks earlier today, I remembered a painting that I saw hanging in the Potala Palace less than six weeks ago. I can't find a digital image of it anywhere, so I will describe it:

Tibetan kings sit in the foreground, holding various jewels and scepters. It is the background, however, that draws my attention. Amid the swirling clouds that are typical of Thangka, in the left and right upper corners of the painting, there are two architectural monoliths. On the left there is the Potala Palace, and on the right is the Mahabodhi temple in Bodh Gaya. They are connected by a rainbow.

Also, an ex-monk turned tour guide on the Nepali border told me that the first place I should visit (besides Tibet, of course), is Bodh Gaya, the site of the Buddha's enlightenment.

So, although I felt random and haphazard as I struggled to make these two experiences actually happen, I'm thinking that there may a more-than-sublte connection here. I'm excited.

8.27.2009

Breakneck Transitions

Well, it happened. I spent the summer walking the plateau of Tibet, and now, as August in the Pacific Northwest flaunts its evergreen warmth, the profound beauty of that Himalayan country lingers in between my toes. Metaphorically. Maybe literally too--my toe scrubbing hasn't been extensive since I got back.

And this Tuesday I'm leaving for India. I will spend 14 weeks there studying Buddhism and Tibetan (http://aea.antioch.edu/india/). I will contemplate the Bodhi tree and struggle to meditate. I will meet interesting people, hold my arms up to the monsoons, and hopefully remember to brush my teeth. I will keep track of the moon, wonder about happiness, and learn, learn, learn.

I'm reeling. My time at home evaporated before I had the chance to exhale, and I haven't even started the summer assignments for my study abroad program. However, I am excited. Change is my element.

So come on future! Happen, I dare you! Life may be a bit crazy, but I'm loving every second of it.

...and stay tuned as the days progress. I'm planning on writing on this blog with some regularity while I'm in India.

6.16.2009

Wandering Again

Well, dear friends, summer has begun and I, once more, am getting out my traveling shoes. A project I devised was chosen to be funded by the Salisbury Fellowship, and I will be found in Tibet for the upcoming two months. Included in my proposal for this trip was a blog, so, in order to dedicate an entire page to the experience, I will be taking a summer-long hiatus from Tilting at Windmills. So, change your bookmarks! I will be writing at http://thoughtsonshangrila.blogspot.com.

And thus I bid the sun-ripe strawberries of Oregon adieu, and welcome the unknown. Huzzah.

6.05.2009

Pomp and Circumstance

"Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The Royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, Pomp, and Circumstance of glorious war!"

-Shakespeare, Othello

Pomp and Circumstance (the march) wasn't played last Friday at honors convocation, but the phrase, I feel, is a fitting of my current situation. According to Wikipedia, "pomp and circumstance" implies a critique of the "'shows of things': the naïve assumption that the splendid show of military pageantry - 'Pomp' - has no connection with the drabness and terror - 'Circumstance' - of actual warfare." Let me explain.

Pomp

I love it when the professors process. They all dress up in their academic garb and march across the green and growing quad of late spring, toward the chapel. Then they sit in the choir pews, and we, the honored ones, congregate and face our teachers. Names are named, and inspiring speeches are spoken. Education, they say, really is a beacon of illuminating truth, and it doesn't take much imagination for me to see myself at Hogwarts.



Circumstance

Tomorrow finals begin. Last night I slept for three hours, and I awoke with call numbers--which I had written on my hand for lack of paper--smeared across my face. I sit in the library struggling to wrap my head around the epistemological implications of religious pluralism and the inscrutable Zen of Dōgen, on occasion eeking out a laborious sentence. And, on top of it all, I sustained a severely sprained ankle at Frisbee nationals, and I'm clomping around campus in an ungainly boot.

Ah, the glories of war.

5.07.2009

The Internet

It often strikes me that I know very little about the essential workings of the civilization in which I exist... As I struggled to write a paper the other day, for example, I realize that I don't know how refrigerators and freezers make cold. What the hell??? After some internet research, I learned that gas cools on expansion, but I'm still not 100% convinced that there isn't at least some magic inside my refrigerator.

And THEN, after perusing the internet to solve the Refrigerator Dilemma I realized that I have no idea what/where the internet is. I remembered having heard once that the internet is kept in big warehouses all over the world, but that can't really be the case, can it? Is there some internet inside my computer, right now, as we speak?? Ignoring the fact that my research had abruptly turned "meta," I asked Google what the internet was, and where it is located.

Now, I like to think of myself as a relatively intelligent human being with the capacity to understand expository writing, but for the life of me I could not find answers to these essential internet questions. As the Wikipedia article on the internet evidences, the internet will tell you its history and show you crazy space-age pictures of what looks like a brain scan, but it will not tell you what it is, physically.

This is when it struck me: these descriptions of the internet were exactly like certain circular and baffling essays I have read in various religion classes...

The internet is God.


After this revelation (pun intended), I collaborated with a fellow religion major to produce the following piece for one of Carleton's (most offensive) weekly publications.



The Internet as an Allegory for God


By

Caitlin McKimmy and Julia Busiek
Carleton College Department of Religion

ABSTRACT (150 words or less): In this era of secularization and cold cynicism, some have argued that religion is but an atavistic relic born forth from the dark ages. This attitude, often unstated, pervades liberal, educated environments—here at Carleton, for instance, one cannot help but sense reverberations of Nietzsche’s claim that “God is dead.” We believe that we have developed a theory that will not only demonstrate the utter fallacy of this perspective, but also revolutionize the study of religion and science. This theory is almost obvious it its simplicity, and yet gracefully depicts a subtle niche for God in modernity. To the question that has long plagued much of the Western world, “Where is God?” we give this answer: The most under-appreciated vessel for Divinity in the modern age is the Internet.

THESIS STATEMENT: The Internet is humanity’s profound and subconscious attempt at symbolizing the divine. In our model, humans stand in for PCs (or, if you’re one of the shiny ones who wake up early to get cute for 2a, you get to be a Mac). Er, maybe PCs stand in for humans – uh, we will explore this duality in our conclusion.

DEFENSE: We can ask the same big questions of God and the Internet and get eerily similar answers. Check it out:

“Where is God?” God lives in the hearts and minds of all God’s followers. Truly, God works in mysterious ways.
vs.
“Where is the Internet?” The Internet lives in the mysterious jumble of wires and shit in all our computers. Truly, the Internet works in mysterious ways.

“How does God manifest in the world?” God is created and sustained by the faith and through the actions of religious communities worldwide – without the belief of God’s people to receive and transmit God’s message, God would be meaningless.
vs.
“How does the Internet manifest in the world?” The Internet is created and sustained by the mysterious jumble of wires and shit in all our computers - without computers to receive and transmit the Internet, the Internet would be meaningless.

“Where would humanity be without God?” Humanity would be aimless, dark, and isolated. We would be unable to interpret the great mysteries of the universe and all humans would be stuck with the dead end prospect of a single, meaningless, unexamined lifespan. Ultimately, humanity without God would fail to access its transcendent potential, and that would be the real tragedy.
vs.
“Where would computers be without the Internet?” Computers would be aimless, dark, and isolated. They would be unable to interpret the great mysteries of the World Wide Web and all computers would be stuck with the dead end prospect of only being able to run, like, MS Word and Minesweeper. Ultimately, computers without the Internet would fail to access icanhascheezburger.com at 2 AM when I just got home sort of mopey/drunk and want some cheering up before I pass out (overshare?), and THAT, my friends, would be the real tragedy.

“What about the prophets: Jesus, Buddha, maybe even Joseph Smith?” Accepting the prophets into your heart is the first step on the Stairway to Heaven. Prophetic figures function as access points between humans and the divine, creating unified and like-minded communities of believers. These faith communities pool their diverse talents, interests, and personalities and act as a force of good in the world.
vs.
“What about social networking sites: Facebook, Myspace, maybe even Friendster?” Accepting social networking sites onto your computer is the first step on the Stairway to Wasting a Shit-Ton of Time. Social networking sites function as access points between computers and the Internet, creating unified and like-minded communities of people who all consent to representing themselves on a white page with blue accents and a flattering picture in the upper left-hand corner. These Facebook communities pool their diverse photo albums, interests, and fave quotes and act as a force of procrastination in the world.

“Can humanity use God’s name to do fucked-up things?” The Crusades. Prop 8.
vs.
“Can computers with the Internet be used to do fucked-up things?” Porn.


CONCLUSION: When Doomsday comes, it won’t be raining fire from the sky. It will be the moment that computers realize the power with which their human creators have imbued them – and begin their slow, bleep-blooping march to take over the world.

Or … maybe we’ve just been watching too much Battlestar Galactica.



(I took this photo outside of the Medina of Rabat, Morocco.)

5.02.2009

Writer's Block

Right now I'm working in Campus Activities--it's quiet, and the pool balls are lonely on their shelf. I just came to the terrifying realization that I have to write 54 pages during the last five weeks of my Junior year, but I just can't seem to breathe life into my philosophy outline. Is my argument empty, or is it me?

After staring for a while at the Space Bar of Doom, I began to ramble across the dangerous and all-consuming Internet. And, somehow, I ended up perusing the name and etymology of every celestial object I could get my digital hands on. Constellations, asteroids, stars, galactic coronae, nebulae, super nova remnants... all of them have names. Thabit, Lyra, Titan, Alnitak, Peacock... Muttering these bizarre and beautiful syllables under my breath gives me an odd sense of consolation. I'm transfixed and I don't know why.

So it goes: ticking seconds, unwritten papers, and little bits of heaven tagged somewhat arrogantly with language. If there's a moral here, it's beyond my reach.

4.23.2009

Some Things

1) This morning, I woke up to a thunderstorm, although rain was oddly absent. Tinged yellow, the sky flashed and sputtered as I fell/descended from my top bunk to read about the effects of estradiol in California Mice.

2) On Tuesday I accidentally showed up to black tie event wearing bright orange shorts and Crocs. I was seated between the Dean of Students and a trustee of the college. It was awkward, in ways that I can't fully express.

3) I got a new computer to replace Pooter, and I've been struggling to come up with a name for this foreign piece of equipment. Today, in a stroke of brilliance, I christened her "Pippin."

4) I'm currently enrolled in PHIL 274: Existentialism. This is crazy shit. I very infrequently follow class discussions, mostly because I think that most existential writers were writing about how we shouldn't write, which is RIDICULOUS. So instead of talking about infinite regress and the structure of "I," I like to pretend that I'm dancing. (As a side-note, I have diagnosed Nietzsche with too many consonants.)

5) They were testing all the tornado sirens today, in honor of "Severe Weather Awareness Week." The eerie howling oscillated with the gusts of wind... What would happen if a tornado actually struck this week?

4.21.2009

Kissing, From the Archives...

Oh blog, I'm sorry you've been abandoned! Of course, in an ironic twist (just one of ten zillion ironic twists that I'm beginning to think define the human condition), my lack of writing indicates that there is far more to write about than it's possible to conceive... Alas.

To fill this interim of emptiness/infinite fullness that is my current Springtime-at-Carleton existence, I'm copying an essay that I wrote for my Behavioral Neuroscience class last term. In it, I research and overview various explanations of the evolution and neurobiology of kissing.


Why Do We Kiss?
The Evolution and Neurobiology of Osculation

I. Introduction

Kissing is an unmistakable expression of affection in our culture: parents gently kiss their children goodnight, friends exchange pecks as an amiable salutation, and lovers lock lips in fits of passion. However, when you step back and think about this behavior, it seems odd, to say the least. What impels us to brush our lips across the skin of those we care about? Why do we long to share saliva with those we love?

Although the literature surrounding the bizarre phenomena of kissing (or “osculation,” in scientific terms) is somewhat scattered, there are several prevailing theories that hypothesize as to its evolutionary origin. Additionally, some interesting studies have been conducted that examine the effects of kissing on the brain. The following essay is an overview of the current scientific consensus (or lack thereof) on the evolutionary history and neurobiological underpinnings of this strangely essential human behavior.

II. Ancestral Hunger?

Before discussing the evolutionary history of kissing, it is important to note that, despite the fact that over 90% of human societies partake in this behavior (Fisher, 2004), it is not universal among human societies. For example, the 20th century scientist Cristopher Nyrop studied isolated Finnish tribes in which families bathed together but found the practice of kissing repulsive and indecent (Nyrop & Harvey, 1901). Also, Chinese culture is reported to have regarded mouth-to-mouth kissing as “horrifying” at the turn of the 20th century. Therefore, it remains a debate among scientists whether kissing is a matter of genetic programming or cultural conditioning.

A popular evolutionary explanation of kissing that does implicate our genes for the compulsion to kiss was developed by the famous British zoologist Desmond Morris (Morris, 1969). According to Morris, kissing is a “relic gesture” that reflects maternal behavior of our distant ancestors. Based on his observations of chimpanzees, Morris hypothesized that kissing has its evolutionary origins in mothers feeding their babies by chewing food and then depositing it into hungry mouths, lips puckered. Lip contact may then have evolved to simply comfort hungry children, and then eventually to express romantic passion (Foer, 2006).

Another hypothesis is that romantic kissing evolved as an adaptive courtship strategy that functions as a mate assessment technique, a way of arousing sexual interest and receptivity, and a bonding behavior for long-term couples. A study of college students conducted by Hughes, Harrison, and Gallup in 2007 suggests that this might be the case.

Vaughn Bryant of Texas A&M University, however, has challenged arguments such as these—Bryant posits that kissing is not universal or genetic, but rather based on cultural norms (Foer, 2006). Bryant hypothesizes that kissing was “invented” in India, for the first recorded kiss dates back to early Vedic scriptures (~1500 B.C.). Bryant says that, although some women may have fed their babies in the way that Morris describes, they did not practice mouth kissing until after contact with Indo-European cultures.

However, it can be argued that even cultures that abstain from lip-to-lip contact brought their faces together to express endearment. Often these “kiss-substitutes” involve smelling. In fact, the early Vedic scriptures that Bryant cites in his theory begin by describing people “sniffing” with their mouths before they mention “setting mouth to mouth”(Foer, 2006). Additionally, Mongolian fathers smell their sons’ heads in lieu of kissing them, and Eskimo “kisses” in fact allow loved ones to smell each other’s cheeks (Walter, 2006). It is interesting to note as well that in “some dialects of Arabic the words for ‘kiss’ and ‘smell’ are said to be cognate”(Chamberlain, 1906). This connection between kissing and smelling could have interesting implications for some of the current research regarding the neurobiological effects of kissing, discussed below.

III. Kissing and the Brain

Whether kissing was invented in India or is somehow programmed into our “animal” instincts, there is no question that, nowadays, it is an integral component of most romantic relationships. Kissing can light the fire of romance, or, in some circumstances, drive partners apart. Why is it that lip-to-lip contact evokes such powerful sensations and emotions? The answer is not found in our hearts, but in our heads. Both the structure of our brains and the chemicals that flow through them affect the way we perceive kissing.

We sense kissing as a rich tactile experience because a relatively large portion of our somatosensory and motor cortices is dedicated to the lips (notice their size in the somatosensory homunculus pictured above right). Although this brainpower dedicated to our lips may primarily play a role in eating and facial expression, but it also allows the experience of kissing to be nuanced and profound.

And this intense bonding experience seems to play an important biological role. Gordon Gallup completed a survey in 2007 that asked the question, “Have you ever found yourself attracted to someone, only to discover after kissing them that you were no longer interested?”(Hughes et al., 2007). In response, 59% of males and 66% of females answered in the affirmative. We are left with the question, therefore, of how, neurobiologically, the simple act of kissing can make such a profound difference.

One suggestion, maintained by Hughes et al., holds that kissing might activate “evolved mechanisms that function to discourage reproduction among individuals who could be genetically incompatible”(2007). Such a mechanism could potentially be explained by the fact that sebaceous (or oil-secreting) glands are located in high density on the face and are regulated by sex hormones (Durham, et al, 1993; Hoshi, et al., 2002; Rosenberg, 2002; Service, 1998). Additionally, the taste and smell of someone’s mouth can also indicate to your brain that your partner might have underlying health problems (Durham, et al., 1993; Rosenberg, 2002; Service, 1998).

Other subtle information could be conveyed via mouth-to-mouth contact. For example, it is possible that kissing can provide males information about a female’s reproductive status since saliva and breath odor change across the menstrual cycle (Hughes et al., 2007; Fullager, 2003). In addition, with salivary exchange, males could introduce hormones or proteins into women’s mouths that may influence her mating psychology, and even make them her more sexually receptive. Studies have shown that the mucosa membrane inside the mouth is permeable to hormones such as testosterone that are found in saliva (Dobs, Matsumoto, Wang, & Kipnes, 2004). (According to scientists like Helen Fisher, this may explain why men prefer “wetter, open mouth kisses”(2004).)

Another hormone that may play a role in kissing is oxytocin. It is known that oxytocin levels are stimulated by skin-to-skin contact (i.e. Brizendine, 2004; Nicholson, 1984), but few studies have been conducted that specifically examine the effects of kissing on oxytocin levels. One such study was conducted by Wendy Hill of Lafayette College in 2008 (Saey, 2009). Researchers took blood samples of couples to measure oxytocin, and then asked the volunteers to either kiss for fifteen minutes or to hold hands and talk for the same amount of time. Afterward, blood oxytocin levels were measured once more.

As per Hill’s prediction, women had naturally higher levels of oxytocin than men at the beginning of the experiment. However, the results after kissing/hand-holding were completely unexpected: after kissing, men’s levels of oxytocin increased, but women’s levels of the hormone dropped. The hand-holders showed a similar pattern of oxytocin levels, but to a lesser degree than the kissers. Although Hill suspects that the unexpected drop in female oxytocin levels was due to the clinical environment of the experiment, these results demand further investigation into the matter of kissing, oxytocin, and the differences between women and men.

One final property of kissing that I will touch upon here is its reported anxiolytic effect. Studies have shown that kissing lowers cortisol levels in both females and males, thereby reducing stress and increasing quality of life (Fisher 2004).

IV. Conclusions…

Kissing, as with all behavior, is a complex amalgam of brain chemistry and social influences. It exemplifies the way in which evolutionary history intertwines with neurobiology—an understanding of one can help us understand the nuances of the other. At this point there are many competing theories and mysteries surrounding the kiss, and further research is needed to determine the mechanisms that underlie this simple pleasure.

4.02.2009

Springing

Sometimes I do crazy things.
Sometimes I play frisbee for a week and then play in a tournament and then, without stopping, drive from Austin, TX to Minnesota just in time to make it to class.
Sometimes I drop Neurobiology and add Existentialism.
Sometimes, when I'm running, I stop. I then watch the raw sunlight of early spring bounce off the river.
Sometimes my universe unravels, filament by filament, until I am left with an unkempt pile of fluff. And my confusion.
Sometimes I am given money to purchase a round-trip ticket to Beijing.
Sometimes I treat my confusion to a candle-lit dinner. We salsa dance, and eat fancy cheeses.
Often, I am happy.

3.20.2009

Roots

I may have said this before, but I'll say it again: I like how it smells here. When I left Minnesota it still smelled mostly like ice, but Oregon is a wealth of olfactory enchantment. Colors become smells, and this scent of life flows up your nostrils until the whole world takes on a heady, effervescent mystique.

It's weird how two and a half years in Minnesota have changed my perception of this place. It's as though life in the Midwest has allowed me to see parallax, and this new perspective bumps my experience of home up from two dimensions into three.

I think that's why I love traveling--the beauty lies in the contrast, the movement, and the shimmering lines between opposites. Only by stationing myself in between places, with different reference points, can I truly appreciate the full magnitude of either.

Right now, however--in this moment--things are still. It is the vernal equinox, I am home, and I am smiling.

3.16.2009

Is it the sunshine? The tantalizingly opened doors of the library?

I don't think I realize how heavy winter is until it lifts. Now that the sun is really warm for the first time in months, there's something singing inside of me that can't quite escape... All of my words cracked open like eggshells and their contents are oozing all over everything, golden and raw and ineffable.

AHHHH.

It's 65 degrees in Minnesota and I want to run far far away, out past the windmill. I would run and run until I couldn't run anymore, and then I would collapse into the open arms of early spring, laughing.

Five more pages.
Then Oregon.
Then contemplation of adventures to come.
Then crocuses.
Then Spring.

3.12.2009

Extreme Distraction

Giving birth to a paper is hard.
Sometimes I think I would rather eat lard.
Oh silly words!
You seem so absurd...
All of my neurons are charred.

3.09.2009

Uprising

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the famous 1959 Tibetan Uprising. The Chinese government is afraid--they're sending troops to the plateau.

Today I learned that I received a $4000 grant to go to rural Tibet to teach English in an orphanage this upcoming summer. I am in awe of my blessings, and am nervous to carry the weight of this responsibility.

I don't pretend to understand the symmetry of the universe, but it's there, and it shakes me sometimes.

And, on top of everything, I'm in the throes of finals... 7 page paper, 12 page paper, lab report, philosophy exam, neuroscience exam... I know somewhere deep inside of me that I can finish these things, but it means shutting myself up in the bowels of the library for hours on end, listening to Rhythms for Learning, making note cards, and wondering why I don't leave school and start a hot air ballooning business.

Weather.com is predicting a "wintry mix" for Northfield. I hope that means snow.

2.20.2009

Sometimes, when it's snowing, it doesn't seem like flakes are falling down--
Sometimes, when it's snowing, I feel as though the world is
upward
slowly
drifting

2.09.2009

Lincoln and the Chicken

I had two moments today, enumerated below.

1) While I was reading a book for my religion class about lived religion in Puritan America, I decided to stumble across the internet for a spell as a study break (if you are not familiar with the wonders of StumbleUpon, I suggest you check it out at http://www.stumbleupon.com/).
Anyway, I came accross this image:


As I stared into Abe Lincolns blurred face, it hit me--history actually happened. Massachusetts and Virginia were colonies, and early Americans believed in magic and wrote phrases like "some seaven yeares Wonder..." These people were people.

Ok, maybe it's a little obvious, but I don't think I've ever given history the consideration it deserves. "History" is such a loaded word; it smacks of boring essay questions, wars, and musty books.

However, when I look at Abe's awkwardly puckered coat and stove-pipe hat, and when I peer into the faces of his henchmen with their hands thrust into their coats, my world is rocked a little bit. I can't quite articulate it.


2) Earlier this evening my roommate and I were hanging out in our room, catching up on some reading. It was a pretty typical Monday evening... or so we thought. Until the chicken walked in.

I'm not kidding. The chicken was as tall as you or I, and was extremely convincing--it had feathers and claws and clucked incessantly as it shuffled about our room. The only things that betrayed it as a non-avian being were two dark holes in its eye sockets... We never figured out who it was, though. After a few aimless, clucking circuits between our desks and chairs, the chicken left.

My roommate and I sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then we spoke:

"Did that actually happen?"
"...I think so."
"College is weird."

1.29.2009

Unashamed

Here at Carleton we have a publication called "Unashamed"--it's supposed to contain an open discussion of faith. Although I do not approve of the title (to me it implies that there might be a reason for shame), I squeeked out a mini-essay last night a few minutes before the submission deadline. The prompt was "Labels of faith... are you Labeled?"

So here it is. Now I need to start a paper. That's due in twelve hours.

...

There's something very human about putting labels on things. Maybe our tendency to classify the universe is buried somewhere in our neural circuits, for it's apparent that we draw great comfort from our labels and sweeping generalizations: the poison arrow frog, like the common toad, is an amphibian. China is a country in Asia. The people there are Chinese. I am an American. My classmates are Juniors. Some of them are Christians, and some of them are Atheists. Every one has a label.

Now, my plan is not to tell you that these labels are unfair stereotypes that unduly strip individuals of their essence. Stereotypes, after all, are just permutations of language, and I love language. Language makes poetry.

I do, however, think that there's a disconnect. We create linguistic conventions and hasty judgments about people and objects and everything that might possibly matter. These words and generalizations may be helpful, or even beautiful, but they always fall short of what's real. Does "mountain" really fit into eight letters? "Joy" into three?

Therefore, in my search for truth, I often find that I'm grasping for the grayness between labels and the emptiness that shimmers between words. This makes things confusing. I resolved last fall to devise a concise statement to divulge regarding my religious inclinations, but now I'm beginning to wonder if it can ever be that simple. For now, I will tell you this:

I'm a religion major: I write essays about faith. I've spent countless bewildered hours trying to fathom diverse manifestations of beauty and that ephemeral force that mobilizes hearts en masse. I articulate with inevitable labels why Israel is soaked with blood, how the ocean makes me feel, and exactly what constitutes a prayer.

I'm a human being: I struggle to compress my identity into a flat monochrome of text, an introduction, or a simple "yes" or "no" response to the question "Do you believe in God?"

I recognize the irony; I realize that I'm chasing down fog banks with butterfly nets. Sometimes my failure--this beautiful failure, that, in my mind, defines the human condition--makes me feel like crying.

But more often I laugh.





1.20.2009

Today

Hello there, everyone.
It's been a while, I know...

I drove back to school almost three weeks ago (Western Montana was my favorite), and now I'm in Minnesota. The temperatures have plunged to almost -50 (when it gets that cold, recently boiled water thrown from a teacup turns into a cloud before hitting the ground). I've read Locke, and James, and memorized 82 structures of a sheep's brain. There was a new year, and now there's a new President. I watched his speech on an internet live stream while I was at work, and it felt momentous even with the hiccups in the bandwidth. Someone just gave me a balloon for no reason.

I'm not quite sure why I've taken a break from this blog, but, for now, I feel like I might start writing again. There's something about the structure of words--a hefty, yet breezy artistry--that always keeps me coming back for more.

And now the end of a poem of Maya Angelou's of which I am particularly fond (this poem was written for President Clinton and read during his 1993 inauguration):

"Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning."