Paths -concluding dinner time

Returning to the question, “What’s wrong with being alone, independent, self-sufficient…?” a story draws itself within the mind’s synaptic framework. A story almost as old as humanity. A story from long, long ago, witnessed by the stars, and recorded, and told, by the keepers of time -basically, I’m just channeling here.

Once upon a time, on a lush and generous land, lived two tribes whose ways of co-existing with the rest of creation were as different as night is from day. One tribe was settled on a green valley, in a setting that could be described as that of a communal village, surrounded by arable land, at the foot of a wide mountain range and close to a riverbed. The other tribe, if one could call it that, was dispersed on a harder and less fertile ground, along the rising faces of the region’s mountains. The people residing in the valley were known as the tribe of Plenty. The others, belonged to the tribe of Scarcity.

In the village, meal time was a time to share celebrate, and enjoy the fruits of one’s work. There was always plenty to go around, and even if the times were difficult, it still seemed as if there were more than enough for everyone. Around the table, they gathered to give and receive, to share, and to solidify the love that was intrinsic in what they saw was the fabric of creation. Singing was for everyone to enjoy. Elders told stories that strengthened the villagers natural connection with Creation. Children played freely, beyond the reach of greed. The people of Plenty were smiling people. Happy. Relaxed. Thus they ate, and thus they lived.

On the mountainside, there were men and women who lived separated by the topography of their world, people who had little to no contact with the village. Hidden in the shadows, usually in groups of no more than three or four, but mostly as lonely figures, they would hunch down to eat, backs against the wall, always a meager meal, often raw, uncooked so as not to draw attention to oneself by making a fire. They ate nervously. They ate looking over their shoulders, ready to fight to protect their catch. They rarely smiled, never sang. Their faces were hard and tense. Their eyes showed not a hint of kindness or compassion. Thus they ate. Thus they lived. In the tribe of Scarcity, elders never lasted long. Children lived in a world of isolation, greed, fear and anger. And thus, fear, greed and anger were passed from generation to generation.

In the village of Plenty, where hospitality was a way of life, visitors (no matter where they came from, what they looked like, what language they spoke…) were always greeted with welcoming arms and hearts, even those from the tribe of Scarcity, who couldn’t help themselves from stealing food, and whatever they could get their hands on when their hosts weren’t looking. The villagers never minded the repeated thefts; for them it was just stuff. Surely, the mountain people must have needed what they took, otherwise they wouldn’t have taken it. What mattered was that someone could benefit from whatever had disappeared.

For a while, contact was scarce, although, the tribe of Plenty kept its village opened to everyone. But with time, and with word about this naïve people living, defenseless, in opulence, slowly spreading along the mountain slopes, the tribe of Scarcity, having been forcefully united by a strong man, who once was a very frightened and angry child, attacked the neighbors whose way of life it couldn‘t understand.

The pointless attack didn’t last long, but the damage was heavy. Most villagers perished. Violence makes hideous monsters out of those who embrace it. As for the survivors, although battered, frightened, they managed to escaped. A few men. Mostly children, women, and elders. They left their land behind and became wanderers. They walked through forests, deserts, or paddled on small boats across the unknown, always allowing Creation, despite what had happened, to guide them. The tribe of scarcity having destroyed the village lost a friendly neighbor that could have taught them much, and what meager gains were obtained were quickly wasted. Afterwards, it was back to the old ways. Each for himself. No room for weakness. No room for peace. No room for love.

Since then, this story has traveled through time and space, replicating itself ad-infinitum. And as a consequence, the two tribes have migrated, mixed and intertwined their worlds and histories, so that eventually, nothing other than choice can make one belong to one tribe rather than to the other. And, this choice is made, daily, by each and everyone of us, for in each and everyone resides both the seed of Plenty, and Scarcity.

Creation is bound by love. Creation is kept apart by love. Being part of creation, we each have the choice to embrace and be embraced. Or, we can choose to remain apart, create the I, the mine, and the other. Both ways are possible. Both are allowed -through love. Yet, one way is easier and more rewarding…

A few factoids:

1-Following the first exodus of the people of Plenty, a few of their direct descendants can still be seen wandering the earth, a homeless peoples searching for home, suffering the abuse of those in power, or most often, of those who are in need of a scapegoat to take their frustration on. But mostly, the descendants of this tribe, have been totally assimilated in all regions of the globe. They have no distinct look or language to differentiate them from others. Naturally, some of them are having a very hard time to fully participate in today’s consumerist life. In the end, we are all Children of Plenty, that is if we wish it to be so. Otherwise, may as well start wearing the colors of the Scarcity flag.

2-Lao Tzu spent time in the village of Plenty. There, he learned and wrote about the Way.

3-Buddha stumbled upon the village of Plenty, where Love thy brother/hospitality is the Way, and after a prolonged stay, walked out looking as some statues depict him today -you know, the laughing Buddha.

4-A man named Jesus is said to have spend a few years studying the way of Plenty, thus honing his catering management skills to miraculous levels.

5-And if you have a problem with any of it, remember, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’, is a good one to meditate on.

6-This could go nicely along a good history book teaching creationism, or maybe not...

On a less spiritual note: Assessing my Vibrams

Yes, I bought Vibrams FiveFingers, you know those thin and funky looking shoes, with the insertions made for each one of your toes, and, and let’s not forget the technology to keep them from sticking -says the brochure/booklet. It was an investment; wanted something to handle the myriad terrains of India.

A few months later, I am ready to give my honest opinion on this finely marketed product of sportswear's latest. Here it comes: Light and easy to store in a backpack is about the only good thing I can say about them. Otherwise, there was the excitement of wearing them the first couple of time.

It is without a hint of exaggeration that I say Vibrams have succeeded in failing me on more occasions than I would have imagined in my best skeptic's mindset. A twelve kilometer walk on the tarred roads of Goa, a simple stroll from Agonda to Patnem to be precise, wearing my Vibrams, ended with an impressive blister, the like of which should warrant a great deal of motherly attention.

Using them at the beach was a huge mistake. Sand gets in, and then if they get wet, good luck getting the sand from them. And what is the problem with having sand in the Vibrams, well for one thing, it does a great job at scratching one’s skin, especially around the Achilles. But that is no big deal -right?

Now, where I really needed them to deliver was on rocky terrains, such as one might find around a waterfall, or just the sort of terrain one expects to encounter walking up a mountain path, such as that of Arunachala -a tar and rock, man-made path, rising upwards at mostly, at a gentle slant. Let’s just say that Vibrams not only provide very little cushion for the descent, but they also are more slippery than bare-feet could ever be on wet rocks, and even more so when they’re wet.

Also, they do stink. The shoe expert/salesman, from a specialized store, assured me that they are made so as not to produce odors. However, if such odors did begin to make themselves at home within these fine works of futuristic footwear, both salesman and booklet recommended that I wash them, and then throw them in the dryer for a spin. Now, guess how often I came across a washing machine, let alone one with a dryer, while in India? The answer is, I bet you got it right, zero, zilch, not once.

But, and so as not to be unfair, I’ll say that there was something good about my Vibrams. What? Might you ask, perplexed to no end. Well, they did attract loads of unnecessary attention, whenever I wore them in India. So if you enjoy being the center of the universe, and you plan on being in India, then these are the shoes for you.

And to finish this assessment, the ultimate question: Would I buy them again, if I had the opportunity to play with the wheels of time? I think not.

Be well, and be kind to your feet -give them a nice massage, or just a rub, every now and then.

Happy feet on the path

P.S: The mad teacher laughing at my feet, shakes his head, and says how about getting back on the path. The heart is hungry for the Divine, and you're talking shoes.

Paths -dinner time

I stop at a place to have dinner. Sit a table right in the middle of the dinning hall. In front of me a woman in her mid-seventies is eating alone. Hands on the table. Legs held together as tightly as lips. Looking at her plate, she rarely smiles. The back is straight and the face is sad. I want to join her, but feel the moment is past. Silly how I didn’t notice awkwardness as it joined me at the table.

I check the menu and place my order. Something easy. Now it’s a matter of just waiting. To my left, sits a man, alone, bald and round at the waist, maybe in his late sixties. He’s handling his meal quickly, glancing every now and then around him, as if worried he might miss something important, or juicy. I see him fitting better in an Irish pub, with friends around, laughing and joking.

The woman is eating, and so is the man. My mind starts working, wants to play cupid. A match-maker, what a great idea, says my heart, without wasting a second to consider the thought. The food arrives, I put the pen down and fold my piece of paper. In it are all the sentences I’ve 'doodled' since I arrived. Nothing important, nothing worth revisiting.

The woman is eating, and so is the man. Her posture is too tight. His, too lax. Enveloped in their respective loneliness, they refuse to look at each other. The other tables are of no help, and cupid forgot his arrows tonight. To my right are four Spanish girls, early twenties, having a closed conversation over a popular Ipad; things to see and do, planning the future, agreeing and arguing.

The woman is still eating, and the man is already done. He’s short, bold and round, with I know a heart of gold. She’s shy, introverted and too worried about breaking the rules, with I know enough kindness, held within her, to drown the whole world.

My food arrives, and Cupid says he’s hungry. Behind me sits a young man. Tall traveler. He’s eating alone. What is it with this place? So much space separating us all, what’s it for? Why do we close our hearts to the world? Why do we hide in our tiny little bubbles? Wish I could burst them all. One by one if I have to. Although I know that’s infringing on your rights, meddling as you might want to call it. So tonight, I’ll start with mine. I’ll burst it again. Sure, it will form again, and again. I know that. I know. But, cupid is here, and that what he does. That’s what he loves. Otherwise, why carry arrows -when he does actually carry his arrows?

Going through this note a second time, putting myself behind someone else's reading glasses, I want to ask, “What’s wrong with being alone? With being self-sufficient and autonomous? What wrong with wanting privacy? With wanting space? What’s wrong with being strong, independent ? What’s wrong with being an island?” As far as I am concerned, the answers are clearly one and the same...

To be continued.

Paths -a story (Part 2)

And looking at his reflection, on this pool of water that had been waiting for him to arrive on a rock of an island, the shape of eye, the man said, Thought I knew myself pretty well. Thought I was a catch and more than that. But when I took a real look at myself I saw nothing but lies, a fraud, a fake, a master at wearing disguise after disguise. I’ve been pretending for so long, no one knows me. I don‘t even know myself. So much wasted time and energy, building a life of lies. Looking at my reflection, he said, I saw that I was nothing but a hollow man, worthless. That’s what I saw, and it is no way to be. The man shook his head, So I decided right there and then to fix my life, drop all the masks, to let go of all pretenses, and just be whomever I happen to be. Be true. True to myself. Yes, I decided to do things right, once and for all.

The man chuckled and pointed at the massive mountain behind him, But you see, it’s not that simple. Everything has a price, including all those lies, all that pretending, all that dishonesty, everything I’ve sown along the pathways of my past. They have to be answered to. It is my debt. It is my load, this mountain you see here, to clear out. Make it disappear. Erase all of it. Recycle. Yes, recycle. So I carry it along as I go. I know, there is so much of it. But, I have nothing but time to take care of it. One handful at a time. That’s all there is to it.

Having said that, he smiled, eyes deep as the night, serene and filled with hope, thrust his hand into the mountain, pulled out a handful, and began to eat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wished I could help. But what could I do? What could I say? And it was then that I remembered a dream I’ve had a few nights ago. A strange dream. A dream that seemed clearer than reality. A woman, dressed in white, surrounded by a sea of wailing and crying people who seemed to be coming from everywhere, converging towards her, spirals of humanity, in total despair, while she remained in the center, calm, smiling and singing, receiving it all with, I could feel it, love, taking it all in, removing burdens, erasing debts, giving love, giving love.

Following my intuition, I spoke of the woman. Immediately, upon hearing my narrative, the man jumped to his feet and began dancing. I asked him what warranted such reaction. And he laughed, until tears began flowing from his joyful eyes. Then, after calming his breath, he proceeded to explain. He said, Strangely enough, I had the same dream, more than a year ago, and having inquired about its meaning at many a teacher’s feet, I came upon a beggar who had shared a meal with a caravan of travelers headed East, past the desert, to join the silk road, which was to lead them this woman. Since then, I've been on a quest to reach her.

Hearing this, a wave of joy overtook me. My heart expanded, and love, love born in the shape of and eagle of pure light, tore my ribcage into thousands of little shards, shimmering crystals embedded in the walls of a dark cave, a sky of burning stars on a moonless night. I embraced this stranger whom I felt I knew better than many friends and acquaintances. I thanked him for his honesty, wishing him success on his journey, bid him farewell, and got back on the road, for each has a journey, and all lead back to Her.

To be continued

Places and faces

Walking, walking,
Along places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces filled with love.
Filled with memories of you and I.
Sweetness in the air,
Walking along the river of our dreams,
Your laughter and a smile.
Gazing at the stars,
The moon watching over us.

Walking, walking through busy streets,
Along places and faces reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Memories, sweet memories,
Dancing in my head,
Spinning, spinning,
Spinning me around,
The sound of your voice,
The taste of your lips,
Birds watching over us.

And I am walking, walking through a city,
Lost in the scent of you,
Lost in your eyes,
Falling,
Falling deep,
Falling for you, in
Memories of you and I.
Music all around us
No chaperons to watch over us.
Just you and I,
And the night watching over us.


Walking, walking by,
Couples and lonesome figures,
Along places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Filled with you and I.
And I keep on falling for the two us,
Strand by strand,
Lost in your hair.
Your skin and mine.
The scent of you.
Sweetness in the air,
And angels watching over us.

Walking, walking,
Through so much love.
Memories of you and I.
Longing, falling,
Falling,
In downward spirals.
Choices made.
Broken promises.
We say good-bye.
We say good-bye.
A rainy day,
Heaven's crying over us.

Walking, alone in the night,
Reaching for strands of you and I,
Floating through places and faces,
Reminding me of spaces,
Filled with love,
Memories of you and I...
Sweet raindrops,
Always falling,
Heavenly teardrops,
Always falling.
And I go on walking,
Through spaces filled
With you and I.

Barber shop visit

Eying my messy beard, I thought that a bit of a trim was needed. So, I stopped at a barber’s I’ve been passing on my daily bicycle excursions around the same neighborhoods of my Chiang Mai. Could have gone to a, modern looking, 'western-styled' salon, but feeling adventurous, I parked the bike and got in.

From underneath a dust, or in this case hair, mask, holding scissors and I couldn't really tell what else, the barber invited me to have a seat in his waiting area. The TV was on, and there was a man lying almost horizontally on a proper barber’s chair. Nicely covered with white towels, he was chatting while being worked on. From the look of it, it seemed that there wasn’t much left to do there. Of course, I was wrong, very wrong.

This barber took his time, passing the razor’s sharp edge on areas of the face, the forehead for example, I didn’t realize should warrant a visit from such a awe-inspiring instrument of grooming, or in the hands of recklessness, slicing and dicing. Then scissors went into the nose. The light of a serious lamp was directed to the ears, and unknown tools of the trade appeared. The work was extremely meticulous, and without the slightest sign of haste. One ear at the time. All over each earlobe, and in he went, with long tweezers, and the cotton covered tip of a fine sort of scrapper -looked very much like a tiny antenna.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and I was beginning to worry about my choice. But, I stuck around, and sure enough my turn came, and I walked voluntarily to the chair. In a few words, the barber asked me what it was I was expecting, and I tried to explain that I just, emphasis on just here, wanted him to use his electric buzzer on my beard and mustache. And following a short back and forth volleying of numbers, mostly, 1 and 2, we agreed that he would use a number 1 on the beard, and a 2 on the sideburns. Thus, the world seemed to be a perfect place, filled with understanding and clarity.

Pop went the lever, and flip went the chair. Horizontal position. Surely, I trust this fine man, I thought, in my rather vulnerable position. Although, and in the spirit of honesty, the corner of my right eye was fixated on the drawer where those ear instruments had been stored -you just never know. Anyway, the operations went as follow: Towels. Nothing out of the ordinary. The buzzer. Still fine. Trim. Trim. Trim. Fine. Fine. Fine. Repeat. Still okay. Then came a pause. The barber moved closer to his work bench, and proceeded to prepare himself for the next leg of our journey together.

Thus was applied a substance on the face, along the jaw line, along the inner and outer outlines of the beard, under the nose, above and beneath the lips. The blade came next. First shave for this customer, I wanted to share, but the language barrier wouldn’t permit. So I sat quietly, buzzing with excitement. Excitement lasted for a while, but then, it just had to give way to a sense of wait-a-minute-what’s-going-on-here -I know you’re a perfectionist, a fine craftsman, one might even say, an ‘artiste,’ but I have a tad suspicion that you’ve been going at it with that razor of yours for quite some time now, I mean, and although, I can’t see what you’re up to, I can feel that blade of yours going places where it wasn’t expected, so, what’s the deal?


Needless to say, half an hour later, the chair was raised and I found myself staring at the reflection of a Karim who came looking like a Jesus wanna-look-alike, and was going to leave with a fine very Asia sort of look -go figure. So, with a smile, I paid my dues, said thank you, and walked out of my first Barber experience.

Be well, and when on the unfamiliar path, stay cool and don’t sweat the small stuff.

New look in Chiang Mai