Big Day

Unlike George Bush, when I say "Mission accomplished" I really mean it. Of course his mission was pernicious and ill defined. Mine was simple. I had to get a 30 extension on my visa so I can arrange my life as I wish.

The thing is that you have to leave the country and when you come back in they only give you 15 days which would leave me in a pickle no matter how I play it because of plane tickets already bought for 24 days from now. I am in Chiang Rai which is in the Golden Triangle where Myanmar, Laos and Thailand meet. The claim to fame here, aside from stunning scenery, is the infamous drug trade which was monumentally escalated during the US occupation of South Vietnam. Remember Air America the CIA's drug planes? People here certainly do.

Strange to think about, but it was the bombing of Laos (more bombs dropped on Laos than on any country ever in the history of warfare.) and the lies told to the American public about it that jumped the anti-war protests from big to massive to shutting down the war. That's my memory of the deal.

Burma is 'all right' for travel right now except for this area. But I was told that it is a border where one can cross over and cross back and get a 15 day extension. I set out this morning to do so. I walked to the bus station, took a minivan for 1 1/2 hours, then took a truck to the Myanmar border. I thought it was going to be a sketchy crossing like some in Guatemala/Honduras. Instead it is a gigantic endless, market selling everything. I mean everything. For instance you can buy deadly snakes, you can buy pieces of meat that you don't want to ask what they are. You can buy gold, diamonds and there it was..the first one I have seen in my life, a Lambroghini show room.

No shit. There is definitely money in the drug trade. There is certainly poverty. The old Chinese field workers looked so broken down. (they are probably 40). I wasn't shopping. I was doing the border thing. So I left Thailand and walked across the bridge into Myanmar. I was greeted by the most friendly young policemen! "Welcome to Myanmar!" Smiles! "Please sit, Madame Mama!" Smiles! (The government there is one of the most repressive anywhere. You know that.) I sat down and they said "That will be 500 Baht." I asked what would be 500. "To come into the country. Please Miss Mama, have a seat over here and we will take your photo."

He now is holding my passport and my 500 TB. I go over and have my picture taken. He gives me a slip of paper and says "Now you can enjoy our country for 1 maybe 2 hours." I asked for my passport back and he says, "No." I reached out to take it off his desk and his hand blocked mine so fast you wouldn't believe it. He said "You can have your passport when you leave the country." Now I was giving myself about ten lectures at once mainly consisting of the fact that I really needed to go to the bathroom, really wanted a smoke and if I open my big mouth it could take forever to undo what I might say.

I know I have mentioned that I don't do well with repression or oppression or dumb shit authority. So, with lovely control, I said that I changed my mind and didn't want one or maybe 2 hours in his country and under my breath, that I wasn't going to walk away leaving my passport with a 12 year old soldier in a $8 uniform and a big gun. Did I mention that you could buy guns in the market...much like WalMart at home. I behaved, I really did. I used to enjoy causing scenes at immigration but those days are long gone.

So, I had one more challenge before I could pee and smoke. I went to the Thai immigration. I had been told you could bribe for more days, but never told a price. I went up to the counter and told the lady that I wanted 30 days. She spoke to me in Thai. I looked at her. She spoke more in Thai. I still looked at her and said 30 days. She said 500 Baht. (I had heard as much as 1800). I looked at her. She got tired of me and told me to pass and gave me the 30 days. No money.This standing like a stupid idiot is the best way of bargaining that I have ever tried.

Anyway, I did it. After a little siesta, I have a whole new town of temples to look at. Crossed the Mekong River twice today.

Monkey Mind

My thoughts are jumping all over the place. So come along for the ride.

Is there such a thing as too many massages? Is that what is stimulating my monkey mind? Today's guy did something we were taught about at massage school, but most people I massaged wouldn't put up with it. He started out so gently that it was nearly an etheric massage. He went over and over the same places on the feet and legs until I almost had decided that he wasn't touching me at all. This went on for about 20 minutes. Then I felt a lot of energy going to those very feet which were hardly getting touched. He had warmed up the muscles. Then he hit the reflexology hot spots slowly but amazingly deeply. My head almost blew off. Great stuff.

Many people whom I have massaged want you to hit it hard and fast. They are impatient for the deep stuff right away. But the fact is that if the muscles are really warmed up and the therapist is going slowly, you can ultimately get in much deeper. I now "know" this as opposed to having learned this.

Jumping around. There is something weirdly intimate about being impersonal. I am not sure that impersonal is the word I seek. But people here don't offer up their names and their stories easily. But there is something deep about sharing a cup of tea or a glass of water with someone and not knowing anything and not caring and not expecting anything. Just being there.

Every western tourist I hang with is slightly frantic to tell me who they are and what they do and where they went to school and basically to stand out as a unique individual. They spill their guts. It is weird. Americans are the worst except maybe for Israelis.What are we working so hard to demonstrate to the world? I think an Asian wait person would curl up in embarrassment if they had to say "Hi, my name is Mung and I am happy to serve you today." You feel all that but it is never spoken. You know people by how they are and what they do not by what they tell you. I like it.

Jumping to another thought. One good reason to have kids if you are debating the issue is that sometimes they can give you back what you gave them. Case in point: Today I was dithering on SKYPE with my daughter about whether I will go into remote Laos next week. I have had a lot of warnings about danger but also a lot of "If you don't take this chance and go, you will regret it." She said, "Shark Beach". I was lost there for a moment. She reminded me that on our first trip to Mexico we had come across one of the most gorgeous beaches I have seen in my life. No one was on that beach. I thought out loud, "How can people go to the crowded touristy beaches when there is this perfect beach here? We are coming here tomorrow. People are so stupid." Famous last words.

The next day we packed up and found a taxi and he was about to take us there. I described the location to him and told him I didn't know the name of the beach. "Shark Beach", he said. "Is that because there are sharks there?" I asked. Duh. He told us that it was overloaded with them. Their favorite spot in Mexico. So, I had forgotten that lesson, but my daughter had remembered it.

Saw some big tall Americans passing out WatchTower pamphlets today and I got inwardly a little snarky thinking what balls they have to come from a great materialistic war mongering country like the USA to convert these peaceful Buddhists to a religion that is for all practical purposes brand new and which doesn't celebrate anything like birthdays and Christmas. Jesus, these Buddhist celebrate everything and throw in Hindu celebrations too. Then I realized that the earlier Christian missionaries didn't put a dent in this country, these currant ones aren't much of a danger. (I just keep judging) Gotta stop that.

"Do You Wish the Slow Plane?"

Here's the thing: I basically only do one business activity a day. Anything more is all together too exhausting. This category excludes housekeeping but includes everything from mailing a letter to doing my taxes to buying toothpaste or a new car. I am so lucky to have such a simple life, anything else and, who know what would happen?

For years I worked a bunch of jobs at the same time. For a few years I was a Waldorf School class teacher, did free-lance editing in the early morning hours, had the refugee foster kids, and did banquet serving on weekends. I was a single mother at a very low paying job with no health insurance. Moan and groan. And, there was the care and feeding of the kids, the house, the car and so on. I mostly enjoyed every minute of it.

Finances were so stressed that I had a box under the mail slot and couldn't bring myself to open the mail more than once every two months. Sometimes the mail carrier would slide a particularly pressing bill under the door. The thing is, we did it! Eventually, the bills all got paid, the kids got launched, and I was kind of cooked. Without the pressure of the kids, I lost interest. I was in a rental house after the kids left home and I had been there six months before I noticed that it didn't have an oven. Point made.

Right now I am living la dolce vita. However, today I had two business tasks. I had to buy a bus ticket, reserve the seat, call a tuktuk to take a trip. I have to leave the country on a visa run. It is very frowned upon to overstay your visa here. The nice woman at the hotel desk set me up with that business. Then, I had to mail a painting that I bought back to the states. Oh ya, AND go to the ATM. The pressure. I made my strategy for the day. I could stop for my second coffee on the way to the mail place, then go to a temple and meditate and give thanks, do the mail place, return to hotel to get rid of ATM money, eat lunch, take a walk, have a massage, read my book, eat dinner, take another walk, get a new book, and go home and crash.

I was feeling that although there is a lot to do today and a lot of pressure, I could cope. When I was at the mail place (It certainly didn't look like a post office.) The woman behind the desk was trying her best to ignore me. This is unusual in Thailand where everyone greets everyone. I think she was unsure about her English and hoping I would go elsewhere. I couldn't. I had a schedule to keep. I asked her what it would cost to send the package. She asked me whether I wanted to send it by the regular plane or the slow plane. "You're shitting me right? The slow plane, what's that?" She said "It is a slower plane." "How much slower?" I asked. "About three weeks slower." I gazed into her eyes to be sure she wasn't making fun of me. She wasn't. Thai people are very straight about business things.

"Oh my God, I'll choose the slow plane." I declared. She looked very satisfied as though I had passed a test. But I can't help think, how slow can a plane go and still stay air born? Is going slow even possible? I have slowed down my life to a very slow pace, but I have done it gradually. Can a plane do that? Is this a metaphor? Another one of those mysterious Asian things? I don't know.

Monks Chat Club

I went back to the Monks Chat Club (that really is the name!) today and met a very wise 21 year old. Seems strange to me to sit at the feet of a youngster while he casts pearls of wisdom to me. It is very hard not to hug these sweet boys because our moments together are so intimate.. that is to say, I felt like he was seeing the real me. But a woman can not hug a monk. (I guess the Dalai Lama is in a different category. He is a big old huger. He hugs with his arms, but he also hugs with his smile. The champion.)
Some monks can't even put those bracelets they bless at the temples onto a woman's wrist. Some lay person has to do it. It kind of makes you feel weird until you realize what they are sacrificing to keep their vows. Cool.

This club is at a huge temple, off in a little garden. Today's guy was on vacation and doing this because it gives him pleasure. He talked about compassion, not worrying about the past or the future, and being content. I said that it is hard for me not to judge people. He said, "It is hard." I said that I do it often even when I have no idea I am doing it. He said, "Yes, it is hard not to. So, don't judge." I said that what I mean is that judgements come even when I don't know they are coming. They are very sneaky, slipery things. He said, "Don't judge others."

Was I looking for some absolution or forgiveness from him? I already got all that from the mass at the end of the Camino. I said my penance and got my absolution. Done. What was I after from this dude? Then I got it. He was back to his thing about the present moment. I was hammering on about an old habit. He was telling me to stay in the now. God, this stuff is so subtle. I was forcing him to hit me over the head by repeating himself.

When I had my moment of self-realization, he saw it in my eyes and we had a good laugh. I like being outsmarted. Our laughter was fully in the present moment.

A Major Rethink. Help!

I wrote a post yesterday and then unposted it this morning after a few people had read it because I was guilty of doing that thing...that thing that old people do, romanticizing the past. Firstly, I can not do this in an honest way, because it is a belief of mine that the healthiest thing we can do is to be grateful for all our experiences that have brought us to who we are today. Yup. That's a belief. So, ipso facto, everything in my past was perfect, a fairy tale, a dream life. Another thing is that I am a romantic soul - same result. Yet another thing is that remembering yesterday's events or even today's can only be done with my present consciousness and I don't want to be guilty of "the good old days" syndrome.

I want to share my stories mostly because I have enjoyed so very much hearing other people's stories. They explain everything; they explain nothing. People's stories are what they can offer as a glimpse into the window of their soul.

But what bothered me about the deleted post, was there was an unintended but unmistakable implication that things were better in my childhood than they are for kids today. Not necessarily true.

When I was a kid I loved to visit the farm in Pennsylvania where my Grandfather, William Kohler Braucher grew up. There was a huge stone house, a gorgeous red barn, hundreds of dairy cows, rolling fields. Three generations lived there together. They worshiped, worked, ate great food, worked, did I mention worked together year in and year out. That is what I saw. What I didn't see, and later found out was the pain and devastation of WW1 in their household, and the Spanish Flu epidemic and the pain of relatives back in Germany and other countries in Europe. So, I can enjoy my romantic picture of this bucolic tapestry, and I do, but it is both a reality and a fantasy.

I am sure that Dr. Freud would have said that it is an unhealthy thing to remember only the good. I must be repressing bad shit that needs to be talked about forever. But remember he was a coke head and he was mostly dealing with raving lunatics.We make our choices. But, the main reason I had second thoughts was the implied superiority of one childhood over another. I am, after all, in the land of karma. We get what we need and we make of it what we will, and have compassion for anyone less fortunate.

Old People.

I have interviewed a cross section of the Chiang Mai public and there is complete consensus about where the old people are. They are at home in the country side. I am glad to know that they exist. This information certainly brought up the fact that many or most of the young people here, who are all the Thais I meet, have come here to work. For most it is good work unlike the girls from further north who go to Bangkok to prostitute themselves to support their families at home.

Working in the fields growing rice is back breaking labor and yields a few dollars a week. The boys who want higher education come to the temples and seem to get a very high quality education and a basic life for free. The temple schools teach many languages, a lot of history and more and more science. And, of course, Buddhism.

The past few days have been the festival of Loy Krathong. Like many festivals in many countries it seems to be many things for many people. For me, it has meant seeing more and more beauty, the little bowls made of leaves and flowers and candles floating down the river, the great lanterns floating while burning up into the night sky. But one of the big thrills is that the monks, the young ones especially, open their gates to all and share in profoundly buzzing rituals attended by thousands. Do not get the impression that this is tip toe, whispery, woo woo stuff. The crowds are having a blast, people come and go, the monks feed the crowds, the crowds feed the monks. A hilarious moment last night in the courtyard of a temple with thousands of onlookers, hundred of candles, lanterns of wild colors everywhere and a dog walked into the holy circle and started to lift his back leg on a Lama who was praying.  One after another the 8 year old novices give the dog chase, the dog got confused and kept going in instead of out. The monks started laughing, the crowd was hysterical. A good time was had by all.

I suppose it is just the same as our Christmas in the USA must appear to people of other faiths. For some of us it is an orgy of overeating and drinking, Santa Claus and shopping and shopping and shopping. For others it is an annual time to go to church and enjoy the decorations and the music and see friends. For others it is a most sacred time celebrating the birth of Christ 2,000 years ago. For me it is all three things, excepting the shopping part. Never had a taste for shopping.

Last night at the temple, I had a real Buddhist lesson. Or maybe it was Christian or maybe it was Jewish. I don't know. I had gone an hour early and found a seat in the sand right outside the circle. I got peaceful as the place began to get more and more crowded. Then hundreds of people went inside the circle to take pictures. I kept calm. I had a good mental picture. Then the big Who Ha came out and said that the ceremony was about to start and everybody had to leave the inside before the thing could really start. We are all exceptions to the rule, it would seem. More and more people pushed forward taking innumerable shots of this pretty picture. Finally they thinned out and I had my ringside seat right outside the line.

So, what is it with me and Germans? This German photographer. I'll assume that he was a photographer because he had a very big very expensive camera, kind of stepped on me as he shoved his way into the barrier and stood in front of me. He then proceeded to fucking fuss with his camera and sweat and grunt and swear as he was blocking our view, disrupting our tranquility, and stepping on me and another old lady beside me. Didn't anyone assume that National Geographic has been nailing this photo yearly for 100 years?

I looked at the lady beside me and she was not annoyed or disrupted by this putz in front of us. Then I started to laugh. At myself. Thank you Buddhism. I got unannoyed, accepted my karma with the Germans, and went off giving my place to another. I was in a good mood for the rest of the night. "What you resist, persists."

Where Are The Old People?

In my little town in Oregon, almost all you see is old people, excepting the million or so school kids who come to the Shakespeare festival. But you don't really see them much except in the Plaza between shows. There is a lot of grey hair around town. That is a fact.

But here in Chiang Mai , Thailand, and come to think of it, in Bangkok and Ko Samet, I NEVER see an old person. Tomorrow I am going to ask the nice young man next door where they hide the old ones. In Nicaragua, the old folks sit in rocking chairs in front of the house many mornings and just about every evening. They are neat, tidy, scrubbed up, fed, and their work is over. They watch the pass and schmooze with neighbors and family members come and sit with them.

There are several possibilities here:

1. No one lives here. The young people just come to work and then go home somewhere else.

2. The old folks are dead. That could be why there are so many ancestor altars.

3. They don't look so good. Keep them hidden.

4. They are still working rice in the countryside.

5. Thai people don't age. Many of the people I think are teenagers are really 100.

I guess the possibilities are endless. I just got the willies when I figured what was missing around me. I like a good mix of ages. I feel that we all have something to offer each other.

In fact, when I was a kid (here she goes again) we played with all ages. On a good snow day, the parents and kids were all sledding or skating together. We played baseball and swam at the pond with whomever showed up. Big kids, little kids, dumb kids, smart kids, terrible players, great players...together. We made up our rules and enforced them. We made teams. We behaved well because it was fun. There was no tension. 'My team' was one bunch of kids one day and another bunch the next day. I think this was healthy.

Today everything seems to be divided up by age groups. You have to take your birth certificate, for heaven's sake, to play on a 7 year old soccer team. Don't want any team to tip the balance by putting in an 8 year old! The kids have to learn everything from adults. We learned most good stuff from other kids.

How is this segregation working out? It seems to me that it might be backfiring a little bit. With the adults trying to make everything fair, it seems to me that the competitiveness of the adults comes down quickly on the kids. It seems that a lot of kids won't try a lot of things if they fear they can not be excellent. It builds up an intolerance for under performers who might never have the chance to find their way.

This is probably bull shit nostalgia, but everyone I know remembers going out in the neighborhood after dinner as the best thing of their childhood except maybe visiting the grandparents. Intergenerational memories. So, I have to find out where the aged population of Chiang Mai is. I'll let you know.

To my readers in the Philippines:

I hope you are OK. I am deeply saddened by the suffering your country is experiencing. Is there anything we can do to help? Please accept our compassionate prayers.

The Pressure Is Intense.

Is it possible that our ways of functioning in the world are the same as they were when we were kids? If I had a paper to write, I did the reading and found information right away. Then I thought about it and avoided thinking about it and then one night I would write the whole thing in a great burst of inspiration. I was often way ahead of the kids who hadn't done the reading or the research, but I was also incapable of working on it nightly in regular allotments. I had to ruminate and then find my jumping off point.

Well, it seems that that is my approach to almost everything I do and don't do. It feels as though that is what is going on on this thing about writing my book. Only here are the problems; I have had my whole life to do the research. It is done. I have made this announcement that I am about to do this. I have the time and the space to do this now. And I feel pressure. I created this pressure and now it bugs the hell out of me.

This is a bit of a spoiled brat whine. But it is my reality. The thing is that I have never been good at doing things for myself. I still struggle with a ton of impulses toward self-denial. Old habits are hard to break. So, every time I stay in a nicer hotel instead of a tolerable cheap one, I have to have a little talk with myself. It is OK. I am OK. It is OK to treat myself well. It is fine. (my little self-lectures)

But on this big thing about writing the book, I can't put the effort into it unless I have a higher motivation. So, dear readers I will attempt to do it for you. (That feels better already) I will do it for my ancestors and dependants. Feeling better and better. For the glory of God! (don't get carried away, Jules)

I am overwhelmingly bored by writers writing about their writing so I beg your forgiveness. I will keep this crap to myself from now on. Promise. In the meanwhile, I am going to take a big walk on bad flip flops and then need a foot massage to recover. Nice cycle, isn't it?

Slammed down by a nice Buddhist monk.

Went out for a walk in Chiang Mai this fine morning. Well fed, well rested, cool breeze, it was a great start to the day. I had just about come to a decision I have made a bunch of times. It is time to write my book. Yup. That decision. I seem to have this realization when I have a bit of time alone to think. Good friends and relatives have been saying this to me for a very long time. (I hear you, Gretchen!)

So, of course, I walked to some stunning Buddhist temples. What I had pictured was a bit of contemplative time and a lightening bolt telling me what to write. What I found were temples and sculpture so stunning that I was knocked over by them. Buddhas so beautiful that I couldn't think. (My personal Buddha is kind of my best friend and family quietly nudging me when I go off the track."No more gossip for today, my dear." He was not, until now, massive complexes of temples filled to overflowing with gold Buddhas that strain my neck to look upon.

The other thing I had forgotten was that these are not museums. Hundred and hundreds of novices and monks and students were praying, meditating, talking, attending classes, eating snacks, flirting and so on...in my holy space!

So at one huge complex, there was this little garden space and a sign that said, "Chat with a monk." This offered, a seat, shade, and possibly some insight.

My very attractive, very bright, very scholarly, 24 year old monk was named something like "Chunky." I covered my shoulders with my trusty scarf, sat opposite him and prepared to take a new step toward bliss, or at least the lessening of suffering. He asked me if I came alone. He then asked me if I had children and grandchildren. He then kind of scolded me for not bringing them with me. He could not comprehend that I could be so selfish. When I said I was getting on in years and didn't have all that much money and my kids work and my grand kids are in school, he shrugged. Lame excuses.

I kind of 'get' it. Putting it together with my thoughts about writing a book, well, I think I have to change my previous way of operating. I have never been any good at making money. I have never tried much in that arena. Perhaps now I have to write a bang up book, make bank and bring the whole family and my friends to Thailand. Maybe my practicing Buddhism is not for me but for my heirs. Maybe this new picture sits well in my heart.

Get your passports ready friends and family.

Where and When Do Dreams Start?

I think that bad dreams start in the liver. When we taught at the High Mowing Waldorf School in New Hampshire, (actually we were boy's dorm counselors with small teaching assignments..I taught current events which was mainly reading the New York Times), Stephen and Eunice Chalmers wrote and directed a play which I remember somewhat. It was called ? What Stephen? "The Gourmands Nightmare"? Wow. That is so not it. But as I remember it, the story had many crazy and entertaining scenes which, it turns out were the result of a huge and over-rich dinner that the dreamer had eaten. I have certainly had that experience. Mom used to tell us not to eat cheese at bedtime. "It will give you bad dreams." Old Irish wisdom, I suppose.

But putting aside bad dreams for the moment and trying to forget old German wisdom that the liver is sluggish at night, I was trying to remember when I first thought of coming to Thailand. In the summer after 7th grade, my brother badly broke his leg. It was a feat only Bill could have produced. He hit a car at a stop light. He was stopped on his bike and the car was stopped. (This is only my memory of the event). He somehow fell into the car and the break was a compound fracture which left bone sticking out. My mother paid me to hang out with him in the sun room for parts of each day. He did need a little entertainment. He was missing a whole summer of fun. That summer, I gave the book mobile record business.

One of the books  I read was "Anna and the King of Siam". I was hooked. Further on in the hookage was seeing "The King and I" starring Yul Brenner. So, much as on my first trip to Atlanta, when I somewhere in my mind expected to run into Brett and Scarlett, I had a certain images coming to the former Siam. (pronounced Seeeam) And actually, I have not been disappointed. You see, you get glimpses here and there of the old kingdom. Soon I am going to the country side where this will make more sense than at a beach resort.

One thing that is amazing me is how little language needs to be used to get by and to make friends and alliances. The eyes are something else, aren't they? A little Dutch baby was laughing as her eyes followed something dancing in the air (fairies?) this morning. I pretended to see them. She saw me and gave me this deep look and then laughed. Later her mother said she likes the wind. It was so more than that and baby and I knew it. We bonded.

I am so done with the hippie /backpacker thing.

God, how I used to love it. I loved making something from nothing, foraging for food, beating "the man", living on the edge. It was a fun game. And it was a game for I had home to return to. No matter how hungry or dirty or dispirited I was, there were my nice middle class parents with their nice home and Mummy's predictable lousy cooking, waiting for me. I didn't have to avail myself very often of their hospitality. But, there it was. A safety net.

At La Gloria Guatemalan refugee camp in Chiapas and in San Carlos Lempe in El Salvador and in Cheputul Dos in Nebaj, Guatemala, I met the real thing. I saw a baby starve to death. I ate some terrible bitter root that somehow filled my stomach when there were no tortillas, I drank water that could kill you as easily as quench your thirst. I prayed to any and every god. It was not a game.

Yesterday I walked to a beach in another cove. The little rental shacks were not that bad, but I couldn't get away fast enough. It smelled a bit like desperation. A German mother was yelling at her kid. A old hippie was too stoned to lift his eyes. Everyone was kind of down. The beach even felt dark. The funny thing is that in places I have been where there was dire poverty, the mood wasn't down. There was strength. People were fighting for survival and they were winning, mostly. The fight was heroic, glorious, spirited. The poor were more dignified than anyone else.

So, now I glorify the poor and condemn the sad hippies. I guess so. In the USA we are not supposed to be a class based society. Noting could be further from the truth. In England at least it is up front and clear. In the USA we lie to ourselves about how strict and static our class lines are. Old money scorns new money. Certain accents finish off the upward mobility of some poor souls. We rejoice in a rags to riches story, yet structurally stack the odds so heavily that it is almost impossible to achieve.

I started out middle class. I enjoyed poverty, I knew astonishingly wealthy friends and I end up middle class. The resort where I find myself comfortable is just that. The hippie place doesn't suit me and the really posh place in the other direction doesn't either. (Although I did suss out their dessert menu and plan on a visit later today.) I am glad that Rhys recommended Tumtim Resort. I am also glad that I can fit in many worlds. Survival skills are nothing to be scorned. Who knows when they will be all we have. (Please note that I do not mean "survivalist skills". They are totally fear based as far as I can see.)

So, the middle way. Buddhism 101.

Blank Mind

I have achieved the most desirable state. I am zen. I am there/here now. Well, not really. What is real is that I am  spaced out, fully. I am sure that I can't confuse this with Nirvana. It is more like brain freeze. I have to leave little notes to myself. "Eat lunch." "Go swimming".

I NEVER forget to eat. Is it possible that I am having culture shock? Or am I tired? Or is this the real thing that we strive for in meditation. I, being a self-effacing westerner, have to assume that it is a state of serious pathology, not eternal bliss. I can see how devout nuns and monks need a very practical abbot to keep them grounded in the world.

Yesterday I had some time and out of time moments. Being with Rhys after 40 years was a bit like being at Dana Hall after 50 years. In a certain way no time at all had passed. Are we exactly the same? Is it possible that time is simultaneous? No time has passed, maybe. It is all happening at the same time. This kind of happened to me on the Camino also. I am reading a book about Henry VIII. I am at a beach in Thailand. I am with an old friend. I am thinking about my childhood and family. Each thought is as vivid as if were happening now. Is it?

I look around this Island, bustling with construction activity, like all of Thailand, and I find a deserted spot and wonder whether I could have survived if I had been ship wrecked here alone. I think, "yes". People ask me whether I mind traveling alone. I feel that we do everything and nothing alone. The Thai people I meet keep their distance, look away from my eyes, until I make contact. Then I am gifted with a wonderful smile and an attention to me that I can't believe. My choice.

Rhys says that I shouldn't believe all the smiles. I do and if I get ripped off, I get ripped off. It is way more fun to believe than to be skeptical. I did believe that the salt I was shaking all over my eggs was salt. I saw a funny look fleetingly pass by the waitress's eyes. I was a bit shocked when the salt turned out to be sugar. Not a bad combo, really.

I am going to take my spaced out or fully realized self or non-self into the warm womb of the ocean and try not to remember that this same womb was involved in a tsunami not so long ago. Namaste.

Correction

My friend, Jane asked me how I experienced the "ghosts" at the temple for the dead. I had awakened in the middle of the previous night knowing that I had used the wrong word. The word I should have used is "spirits". As Jane pointed out those words have very different connotations. I am grateful for the inner and outer urging to say it more clearly. Kind of new territory here.

Felt Like Crying Yesterday.

It most definitely wasn't sadness. It was a feeling I have had on occasion while traveling. I felt, for an amazing few minutes that I had come home. I was at the temple of the reclining gold Buddha in Bangkok. Of course I was. It is one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world. It is also a place where millions of Thai people return again and again.

For my whole life I have felt like a gypsy. Or a snail. I seem to carry my home on my back. I often feel at home and I never feel like I have to stay anywhere to have that feeling. I think ni a certain way I don't put down roots. In a literal sense I do. I have left behind a flower garden nearly everywhere I have lived. But that's not the same thing as having a place.

Apologies to my children who had to suffer this because of me, but then, from the Buddhist perspective you chose me as one of the parents you incarnated to because of the challenges you chose to face in this life. Neat, isn't it. I feel no guilt here, but sometimes wish I could have given you more.

When I was pregnant with my second child, I was leaving the torture and bliss of Emerson College, Sussex, England. It was a school of spiritual science brimming with searching young souls making a turn from the sixties. The great Francis Edmunds, the founder and head cheer leader, knew that I had had a tough year. But he chose that moment to tell me that he saw my future as having a home nowhere and being at home everywhere.

Sitting outside one of the smaller temples in the huge complex I discovered that I love the shine of gold, I 'felt' some of the statues and felt nothing from a similar one right next to it. What's that about? I knew I was having a tear moment and I didn't feel remotely sad. I felt at home.

Wat Arun is not very old in the grand scheme of things. It was built in the 1,700s. Are these feelings of being home proof of re-incarnation? I don't know. I don't require proof. I have had proof all my life in a thousand little ways, from knowing the streets of Paris on my first visit, to understanding things spoken in old Greek, too many moments to bore you with.

I never dreamed that Bangkok, this huge modern city would be this powerful an experience. Tomorrow I am going to the beach for a more familiar experience. (God willing.)  I can't help comparing things here with Central America and it is fruitless. This is so different. Take, for instance, the fact that Thailand was never a colony of anyone. That is a rare deal for such a beautiful place. The street stalls are more expensive for Thai products than the gigantic MBK Mall. That's weird. The food is consistently great. Big difference. Hardly any Catholics and Christians running around talking about sin. And most everyone gaining merit by deeds of kindness. Very cool. Picture me happy, excited and having a lazy day today.

When anyone younger bows in a Namaste to an old thing like me, the custom is for me to nod. If I namaste them back I am denying them a chance to show respect for my years on this earth. Cool.

For the dead.

The other night Rhys and I went out walking in Bangkok at night. We had some dinner and I enjoyed being overwhelmed by the unfamiliar bustle. I have, for God's sake, been living in the middle of nowhere Oregon. This city has almost the same population as New York. I find that I am alive to strange presences here. There are ghosts everywhere. I am sure that if this is so here, it is so everywhere. But here, I don't know, they are more present.

I am a bit confounded by the sweet, beautiful girls selling their  bodies everywhere. They look so young and so sweet, laughing and chatting while waiting for customers. I am no puritan. I understand the poverty and the economics. They can earn by six tricks what their whole family in the countryside earns working on a farm for a month. They come to support their families.

Is that good karma? I suppose it must be. Sacrificing for the welfare of others must be good. But what happens to the good karma when they have a degraded rest of their lives? Everything has a cause and everything has an effect. That is my simplistic understanding of karma. I suppose, ultimately, I can only do deeds to create my own karma.

That night in Bangkok, Rhys took me to a temple in the middle of one red light district. There were so many people in the temple that you sort of had to shove your way around. This temple is a place where kind Buddhists collect the bodies daily of the poor souls who wind up dead in the river or on the streets and bring them to have some burial ceremonies and be carried in boxes to be cremated. The hundreds of people who go there each day to earn merit and assist the dead on their journey pay whatever they can, get two chits, put one on whatever coffin they choose from many, get twenty sticks of incense and go from altar to altar saying prayers, leaving 3 sticks behind until they burn the second chit in a fire and bow down to the departed soul. At nearly midnight on a random night there were hundreds of people doing this. It goes on all day in this city of millions.

It was a powerful ceremony for me. That temple was swarming with ghosts but in all the bustling activity there was an uncanny atmosphere of peace. Wow. Somehow gaining merit this way doesn't bother my sensibilities the way the idea of buying indulgences from the Catholic Church in olden days did. I can't quite get the difference but is has to do with the fact that there is something private and personal in this deed here. There is no priest between you and your God.

Foot looks better but cracked and bled last night. I went to the pharmacy and got some strong medicine for it. I am such a good girl.

Rhys and I are catching up on a friendship in which we haven't seen each other for forty years. Shades of last year's Dana Hall reunion. Great fun.