Lunchtime at the Bago Monastery

Curiosity and Shame

I didn’t pay much attention when our guide said we were going to the Bago monastery to see the monks at lunchtime. I like monasteries, I like monks and nuns of any denomination, so it was fine by me. This monastery is a teaching monastery, she said, one of the biggest, often housing anywhere from 400 to 800 monks of all ages. In Myanmar, it is compulsory that a man enters the monastery twice in his life: once after the age of seven and once after the age of twenty. When exactly is a personal and family choice. They live at the monastery for three months at a time, learning the Buddhist scriptures and meditation. They then may choose to stay in the monastery for longer, to take a monk’s vows for life or to return to society.

A long, covered open-air corridor led into the sprawling monastery complex, offering respite from the hot sun. It was much cooler here than outside the monastery walls. 

The kitchen, a cavernous room, with huge open windows, located in the middle of the monastery complex. boasted enormous wood-burning stoves where cauldrons of rice and vegetables were being cooked for the four hundred-odd monks currently living there. Volunteers were stirring the huge pots with what could have sufficed as rowing paddles, adding salt and spices or cleaning little mountains of fiery chillies and green vegetables. Lunch, the second and last meal of the day for monks, is normally around 10:30 a.m. Today they were running well over half an hour late and I could imagine the monks, especially the younger ones, waiting for the lunch gong to sound, their bellies grumbling, having had their breakfast at 6 a.m. 

The cooking pots in the monastery kitchen

Opposite the kitchen, a large room was being set up for lunch. Two monks were placing tea, a small pot of rice and condiments on each of the small, low, round tables, where three to four monks would soon sit together, cross-legged to share their meal. Just outside the dining hall was another enormous vat with rice. 

A meagre meal of rice and vegetables

The rice pot

Water jars and Alms Bowls

As lunch was still being cooked, we took the time to wander around the monastery. A narrow, tiled pathway demarcated the yellow, dusty earth leading around the complex. Tall trees dotted here and there  offered shade. The dormitories—two-story buildings, with a room on each floor—were built around the kitchen and the dining hall.. Glimpses, from ajar doorways, revealed airy rooms, with wooden flooring and low, wooden cots. No other furniture or adornments. Each room housed two, three or four monks, depending on the occupancy numbers at the monastery. Freshly laundered burgundy robes billowed in the wind and all around monks wearing only a burgundy cloth around their waist  were bathing themselves and shaving their heads, splashing cooling water from the numerous open air cisterns in front of their quarters. We walked casually by and they looked at us—two tourists and their guide, curious yet trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Some gazed at us with interest and some with indifference. The light was bright; there was a slight breeze giving respite from the strong sun whose hazy, almost-noon light gave the place a dreamy quality.

Thinking that the tour of the monastery was over, we returned to the dining hall area only to find a couple of busloads of tourists lining the procession way to the dining hall. Apparently we were to wait and see the monks file into the hall for lunch. Uneasiness began to creep up on me. Thai tourists set up shop preparing to offer packets of noodles, crisps and biscuits to the monks, whilst Singaporeans and Germans were politely jostling for vantage points for their cameras. The gong went off. This set the resident dogs howling in time to its thudding vibration. A red serpent of monks began to flow into the corridor. Measured, quiet with downcast eyes, the monks took the offerings from the Thais and opened their alms’ bowl for the rice being dished out of the big pot. A few of the tourists, looking like eager beavers, took plates full of rice from the monk scooping it out of the pot and offered it revertially to the passing monks. I just barely managed to suppress a judgement: Did they really think that showing up and passing a plate of rice from one monk to another would earn them merit on the wheel of karma? The monks filed into the dining hall and without hesitation each quickly found his spot. Soon their collective prayers rose to fill the space with rhythmic gratitude and blessing, slightly disconnected, like sound under water.

Again I thought we were about to leave when our guide ushered us inside the dining hall along with the other tourists. We stood along the side of the room observing these people eat. I was curious and yet ashamed. This was not a zoo. It was a place of worship, of peace and tranquillity and of retreat. What were we doing there?—gawking at these people bathing and eating and doing the normal things that people around the world do I watched as young monks laughed and surreptitiously had a small food fight; another seemed isolated and withdrawn; some ate fast, taking seconds from the rice bowl, soup and vegetables on the table, whilst yet others ate contemplatingly. We, the tourist-intruders, looked at them, took photos as some Asian tourist ladies, all prim and pious with prayer hands on their heart, were kneeling, posing with the monks in the background.

My shame rose inside me once more and we left the hall. I wondered what the monks thought of being gawked at. Does it bother them? Do they find it intrusive? Do they take it in their stride? Or is my shame and these questions just the sentimental sensibilities of a Western mind?

Writing about not Writing

Writing about not Writing

I haven’t written for a while. A long while. Well, I can give the excuses: no time, no inspiration, no head and emotional space, too tired…I can go on. The real reason is I don’t know. Or perhaps to be more honest I am not sure, but I suspect one or two things. For example, does the enormity of writing a book daunt me? Well, yes. Does the idea of failure relating to that scare me? I must also say yes. How about the idea of exposing myself to an audience that might less than love me for it? Christ, yes! Ok, so this begins to be familiar. Fear of failure has driven me for as long as I can remember. But, looking a little deeper I realise that it is not fear of failure itself that scares me, but the attached disapproval, the collateral rejection that accompanies failure. 

And where does that leave me then? Up to now it left me writing-less. It deprived me from the therapeutic enjoyment of sorting my psyche on paper. The meditative trance that I normally fall into when I write has eluded me. I resent that. I like writing. I like the head seclusion, the pinprick focus that flows the words on paper, just like a river inexorably flows leaves and logs and what may, on its waters. I revel in the insights I get when the words appear on the page as if by magic. I love the insights, such as the fact that when I am in flow it is not me that is writing but a power well beyond me. Those are the times I write well. The times I look for clever words and turn of phrase? Those are the times that I try to be a writer, the times I write clumsily. Those are the times that I, me, get in the way of the flowing words coming through me.

So, here is a bit of a leap: If the times I write well are not due to me, then what business do I have about worrying what people might think?

Will this realisation set the stemmed words free?

How do I get out of the way of me?

What is This Word Enlightenment?

What is this word Enlightenment?

What is this word Enlighetnment?

At first, I just set off to make friends with Death

Yet, then, a kindly Daoist priest asked me to make a wish

The words were out before I could think:

To Understand Life,

Not to be happy, famous or rich

Just this: to Understand Life, whatever that means

What is this word Enlightenment?

I set off to look for Peace of Mind

The Buddha path appealing, yet hard

I constantly fall and get up

A yearning growing stronger in my mind and heart

What is this word Enlightenment?

In a thousand dreams I never thought it would apply to me

The darkness so dense, so bright with brilliant light

A torrent of golden silver rays crashing through my mind, retracting though my every cell

A peace, a joy, a bliss so short lived

Glimpses of the Divine

In the Here and Now

Missing the little miracles in life

Yesterday I had an unexpected insight from an unexpected source. The last few days I’d been having lunch in the garden of my hotel whilst writing.  The waiter and I didn’t quite hit it off. I saw him as a miserable git and gods only know what he thought of me.

Yesterday though, he smiled at me as he gave me the menu. A bit wary I smiled back and carried on writing. He brought me the food and said: “ Always work! No rest!”  “I am a writer” said pompous me. “It’s not work, it’s what I do”. “A writer. No break when you eat lunch?”  he asked as he moved on.

I dug into my food. I gobbled down a few pieces of my paneer, typing furiously when something happened. I slowed down my chewing and begun to really taste the food. The squidgy texture of the cheese, its crispy coating and the sting of the chilli sauce on my tongue and lips became very vivid. Surprised, I closed the computer and focused on the sensations in my mouth. I savoured each mouthful and paused in between, savouring the anticipation of the next one. I looked down on my plate and registered the golden cheese, the mossy green chilli sauce, the vibrant salad.

I was lost in the sensations when I felt a flap and a whoosh of air just above my head. Startled I looked up and as my eyes climbed a shaft of sunlight I hadn’t realised was there, I saw a beautiful red bird landing on the palm tree above me. As energy coursed through me, I looked at the garden around me with new eyes. Tall palm trees, masses of white, purple,  pink and yellow chrysanthemums with flower heads twice my palm, a luscious green manicured lawn, birds of paradise…an oasis in this dusty, dirty city of Kathmandu.  I realised that all I could hear were birds and crickets and yet I was sitting a few hundred meters from a buzzy, cacophonous main Thamel street.

I took a sip of my tea and marvelled at the burst of tangy lime and spicy ginger. I felt the warm path of the drink run through to my belly and I wondered how many miracles of life I miss every day; how often I am wrapped up in my worries, in my head and in multi-tasking that I miss the here and now and the glorious majesty of the little moments in time.

The waiter re-appeared.“ You resting. I am happy ”. This time, I genuinely returned his smile. 

In my Vision Quest circle it was easy. Time slows down and noticing the delicacy of the crickets or the beauty of the grass is as natural as breathing. I felt sad yesterday at how fast I lost the knack of attention to the moment.


The story in the garden is a reminder to me that I need to stay conscious and open to the beauty of life, not even, but especially when I am busy, harassed and otherwise engaged. Give attention to and honour the food, the book, the person, the sun, the moon, the trees, the water...

P.S. Today I pitched up in the garden to finish this blog, feeling a little run down with a sore throat. I said I'd order a little later. The waiter surprised me by bringing me be a hot lemon drink, just like I asked for the first day when he gave me a contemptuous look and told me it wasn't possible. He said: "This is for you".

Buried Alive Overnight

A Ritual of  Death and Re-birth 

I looked down at the gradually deepening oblong shape in the ground and tried to imagine what it would be like to be buried in it. With every shovel of dirt removed I felt my heart sink further and further. I was dreading being buried overnight.  I hear you do a double take. Yes, we were to be buried overnight. In a clearing in the woods eight graves were dug in a circle. We lined them with tarpaulin and covered them with a blanket staked to the ground.

Why? The ritual symbolises death and re-birth. The parts of you that are not useful in your life can be left behind and you arise full of new potential. 

Man! Was I freaked out! I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to do this. I hadn't signed up for it. Didn't  know about it in advance and was rather put out about that. Actually, heck! I definitely didn’t want to do it. I knew there was a high chance I would bail out or jump out in a hurry soon after I got in. I entertained the idea that I might loose my mind and get so traumatised I would spend the rest of my days in an asylum. The fact that we could get out at any point  was only marginally reassuring. The idea of being in a hole in the ground, tightly covered by a blanket, like the lid of a casket, was already taking hold in my worst nightmares and making me hyperventilate. Claustrophobia was setting in.

That afternoon, I hang out by my chosen grave plot, my fear translating itself into a need for control. I knew I had to walk away when I found myself trying to boss my grave digger on how deep, how wide and how fast to dig my grave. I went to hang out in the camp. As the sun begun to descent from its crest in the sky so my dread rose. All the others felt the same, but we talked about it very minimally, as if giving it voice would unleash an unmanagable  terror. A private silent dread was spreading, only shared in half meaningful looks and part wispers. 

At 9pm, with the night well settled,  we set off for our burial ground. I dragged my sleeping bag and thermarest through the forest (well, at least this was a luxury burial!). The forest was dark and quiet. We walked in a straight line on the barely discernible path. The almost -full moon failed to pierce the tree canopy. The forest was still and silent and we walked the walk of the wretched, each lost in our trepidation.

Disbelief at what I was about to subject myself to, anxiety, fear and incredulity all flitted in and out of my mind. We arrived at the grave site. The moon, uninhibited by trees, shone in all its glory, revealing the circle of graves, each with its accompanying mound of displaced soil. The smell was evocative of cemeteries- that eartlhy, ozone rich, musty smell of the gardens of the dead.  The epicentre of the death berths was a pyre waiting to be lit. Nadia, our facilitator, would keep the flames alive and keep vigil over us throughout the night.  She gave us the code word for needing attention during the night, including getting out of the grave:"Room service". I must admit that at the time I failed to register the funny side of that. Standing next to my grave I felt chilled in my heart. I was numb with disbelief and yet I was still going through with it. Yet I sensed an almost imperceptible part of me laughing its head off. It did occur to me for a split second that I might have already lost my mind. Thankfully, it was only the part of me that gets me in improbable situations. The one that eggs me on to “feel the fear and do it anyway”. The part of me that pushes past my self imposed boundaries. It’s the part that encourages me to keep seeking. That slightly in-sane part of me that I am gradually learning to trust.

Nadia blessed each one of us with a shamanic incantation and doused us with smoke from white sage sprigs to purify us. And just like that, the gnawing fear left me. I looked down at my grave and all I saw was  a sleeping place. Ridiculously, it occurred to me that it might be similar to sleeping in a bath tub. Huh? I descended in the hole, snuggled in my sleeping bag, wished the others a good death and re-birth and the blanket was staked over me.

Feeling pleased with myself I looked up. The blanket was barely inches over my face. Claustrophobia tried to assert itself. I cruelly supressed it. It was hot in there. Too hot. I wriggled around trying to take off my socks and fleece. As it became a bit more comfortable, smoke from the fire and incense started drifting in my hole in the ground. I found it hard to breathe. I almost lost it. I willed myself to calm down, to get past the fear. During the blessing we each wished silently for the parts of us that of us needed to die to die overnight. I asked for Fear to die. Fear and Neurosis. So, when barely in my grave, I thought I couldn’t take anymore, I remembered my wish and quelled the fear, banned the neurosis. I wanted both dead and buried. I wanted them to seep into the earth and stay there. I wanted to be re-born the next morning free of fear, free of fanciful neuroses. I reassured myself that nothing lasts forever and that the night would pass.

Then I heard Nadia telling us in a grave tone(no pun intended!) that this night was not for sleeping. We were to play back our lives, from today to as far back  to our birth we could remember. You'd think I'd be  glad for a task to occupy my mind and keep it from freaking out. Pff! I found it impossible to think of my life in a linear way. I started with two years ago...then forced myself to go  back to now... I jumped around 20 years back... I forced myself to come back to now. I was feeling tired and to my amazement drowsy. The harder I tried the less my memory wanted to play. I fought the waves of sleep valiantly...oh, for about 5 minutes... and then thought: “Sod it!” and letting go I felt myself drift off with a smile at the comforting serious snoring coming from my neigbouring living dead.

Some time later I woke up feeling a throbbing in the earth and hearing the constant sonorous beat of a drum. The drum of death. A soothing sound. I wondered vaguely if all the others were still in their graves. Had anyone bolted? I sent them all love and courage and marvelled at how cozy and comfortable this place in the earth felt. I turned on my side and floated off again with the comforting thought and hope that all my dead-my real dead- might have felt as held and comforted in their own graves.

I had vivid dreams in that hole in the ground, in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the mighty Himalaya, illuminated by the silver, almost perfectly formed moon, being serenaded by the eerie beat of not just Nadia’s drum, but also of another much further away in the valley, causing the earth to vibrate. I  have no memory of my dreams and yet I know that they brought me healing. Being held by the Earth felt magical. In a surreal way-or maybe in a very real way- it feels like the Earth's energy seeped into my body, into my mind and deep in my soul and re-set whatever needed to be re-set. Am I free of fear and neurosis? Well, I am free-er. 

At dawn Nadia unstaked our blankets and woke us up: “Welcome to your new life”. Eight creatures peered up from the holes. Timidly, bleary eyed  first, then joyfully, full of amazement and elation. We took our first steps looking at the world in amazement. The young dawn light, the rich colours of the leaves, the dewy grass... We felt the cool morning chill bring a welcoming freshness to our body. We  inhaled the revitalising cool air and feasted our eyes on the newly born sun as it clinged onto the snow- capped mountain peaks. We whooped and hugged each other fiercely, jumping up and down with joy. Then in awed silence we retraced our steps back through the still dark woods, filled with birdsong.

Back at camp we relished our  first cup of tea of the day, our last sustenance for  the next 4 days. The Vision Quest proper was about to start.