Oh, Mcleod 1

April 20

Today begins my first day of technology withdrawl, as I head up farther into the mountains for Retreat. You won't find me in a mountain cave, saying Om Manis and performing small miracles or transcending the laws of matter, space, and time (or will you?) but you will find me in the nearby Tushita Meditation Center, an incredibly gorgeous setting, learning the intricacies of selflessness in a nine day retreat course.

No computer.

No cell phone.

Basically nothing that works of it's own volition.

No talking (except for questions after teachings).

No leaving.

Prepare to be Buddhized.



But fear not! I haven't forgotten you. While I'm gone, you'll receive 9 little snippets- things I love about Mcleod- which may or may not self destruct immediately after reading them.

So here is the first in the series: Oh, Mcleod (1)

1. And another thing I love about Mcleod: Monks

I think I may be happiest in my life when I see at least a few of these red clad gents (not to forget their female fellows, those dear anis) everyday. There's something wonderful about Tibetan Buddhist monks, something warm and comforting. For one, they look warm and fuzzy in their outfits. Secondly, they smell nice (a smell I can only describe as "clean" or "fresh"). Three, they're often mischievous little devils who pull your leg at a given moment (once they get to know you a bit).

Young Tibetans are quite fashionable, akin to young Japanese, so it's no surprise that young Tibetan monks find a way to express some individuality and taste. Often, this is in the form of shoes, ranging from Chuck Taylors to Pumas. Other times, it may be cold enough for a coat, and you may find a teenage monk wearing his puffy winter vest. Nothing is more fun than seeing one or two (or three, sometimes) on the back of a motorcycle, red robes flowing in the wind.

No matter what the age, however, it seems that some of monks never grow out of their playful camaraderie  with their fellow monks. You can often see them teasing each other around town, pulling the good old tap the wrong shoulder routine, or laughing and chatting about something that's obviously very funny.

It took some time for me to readjust my thinking to create the idea of a monk as a whole person: someone who laughs, talks on cell phones, enjoys life (and tv!), and yes, even flirts. Monks, it turns out, are the most flirtatious sort I've encountered in all of India. Nearly ever monk I've made friends with here has turned, after a short time, into a flirty and fun version of their red-clad selves.

But they're not all fun and games; some are as serious as stone, walking through town or eating their momos with an air of dignity and quiet reservation. If you're lucky, you can find them debating in the courtyard of HH Dalai Lama's Temple, throwing their points with a slap of their hands (see the movie below).

Meanwhile,  I spend many lunches with the monks at Shangri-La Restaurant, both helping them with English and having them cheer me on as I play Tibetan language games on my computer. Here I've given out several of my cranes, as well as to other monk friends around town. Cranes 43-48 were small presents, tokens of my appreciation to monks for their chosen lifestyle.

Oh, Mcleod 8

April 27: tomorrow I will finish my retreat and return to you to tell the tales. But for now, one more thing that I love about Mcleod.

1. Unbelievable beauty

From the way the moon looks as it drifts over the mountains, to the mirror of lights up in the sky and down in the valley on a starry night, to the Tibetan Buddhist architecture, to the wrinkled face of a smiling elderly Tibetan woman, Mcleod is easily the most beautiful place I've ever lived.

Oh, Mcleod 7

April 26: I'm sure we're both hoping I've survived to day 7. Just a couple more days of retreat! Here's another thing I love about Mcleod


1. Living Where People Make Things

I watch painters paint souvenirs for tourists everyday. Next door, a tailor measures and sews Tibetan dresses on an old fashioned sowing machine, the kind that you find in antique shops with a cast-iron foot petal. I wake up every morning to the smell of fresh baked breads, and watch as the family I live with make their baked goods from piles of flour and tsampa. When I come home at night, I watch as fresh garlic is peeled and crushed, as vegetables are chopped, as meat (never frozen, not once) is cooked over a fire. My food never comes from a factory; I no longer taste the cold steel of my home.

I am living where people still make things. And it is beautiful.

The hawkers on the corners can be seen knitting as they wait. Down the street, in the Tibetan Handicraft Shop, Tibetan women sit on their knees and make rugs. When I want a nose stud, I follow a sign for a silversmith, into his small room (complete with bed and small anvil) and watch as he bends silver into beautiful forms. Another woman sits on the corner and beads malas. Men wait on the street, cobbling Indian shoes as they wait for customers.


We have forgotten how to make things. It is beautiful.

Oh Mcleod 6

April 25: Still going strong (I hope) in Retreat. Just a few more days until I'm reconnected into the world. Let's see how that goes.

Absurdity

1. "Yes"

I'm saying this with the compassion of an English Teacher and the empathy of a second language student: there are some amazing things that come out of people's mouths here. My favorite is "yes." I don't know if this is a uniquely Indian phenomenon, or if it's fairly universal, but just about anytime you say something that a local doesn't understand, they respond with "yes." This is doubly true for questions, as if they are taught to simply respond to any question with "yes."

"Where are you from?"

"Yes."

2. P*ss

Mittsu: Do you like p*ss?
Me: Sorry?
Mittsu: Do you like to eat p*ss?
 *Pause*
Me: P*ss?
Mittsu: Yes
*This goes one for some time*
Me: What do you mean by p*ss?
Mittsu: Like, water.
*Pause*
*Silence as I explain to Mittsu what p*ss means*
* several minutes of giggling then silence*
Mittsu: No. P*ss in water.
*Mittsu digs around in thangkas and unrolls one, showing me*
 Me: Ooooooooohhhhh. *pause* Fish.


A week later, she invites me to a delicious meal of p*ss and yak meat. Yummy.

Oh, Mcleod 5

April 24- Day 5 of verbal and technological silence in retreat. I'm sure we're all hoping that I'm still alive and sane.

1. Friends and Family

Somehow, as humans, we find a way to make sense out of the social situation no matter where we go, no matter whether or not a real social system exists (or, if it does, whether we are outside of it or not). Traveling alone can be wonderfully, liberatingly, beautifully, lonely at times. Luckily for me, and for all of us, we are not alone.

When we are away from familiar faces, when we are away from anything familiar, we draw new families in India's dust. People you meet for a few moments suddenly become old friends, sparks of familiarity in an inferno of the unknown. Neighbors at the guest house suddenly became my best friends, my family; and they, equally eager for conversation and social contact, would sit for me with hours. Those I met once or twice in an activity were suddenly hugging me in the street, classmates became family as we sat together for a meal.

What does she mean, became family? Are they that lonely? No, most of the Indian (two-ships-passing-in-the-night) relationships were not made out of loneliness or desperation, but out of the sheer pleasure of talking to someone who shares some of the same cultural and linguistic knowledge. When lone travelers meet, often, it is as though you have instantly become old friends or family. You begin sharing with each other the intimate details of your life, as if this was the most normal of activities to do with a perfect stranger.

What's most odd is the anonymity of it. I've had a fair few of these relationships when I realized, long after the other is gone, that I don't remember their names. Often, you forget to introduce yourself until after several days of shared meals, moon-watchings, and other activities.

As vagabonds, we're outside of each social system we approach as we roam, but somehow the local structures make their way into our own bizarre web. A local friend or two weaves himself in; the shopkeep who invited you to chai. The thangka painter who laughs at your sneezes. The waiter at your favorite restaurant. Slowly, the social creatures that we are, we paint ourselves into a fleeting and imaginary world of social connections. 

From the bits and pieces, we form our own bizarre social system, social network. It's human nature, and it's fascinating; a bit like watching an artist pick up pieces from a landfill to form something beautiful.

Who are you? It doesn't matter. Welcome to Mcleod.

Oh, Mcleod 4

April 23: Day four of my retreat from the world (the real, imagined, and digital ones).

1. The Power of Chai

I'm coming to you from the future and the past. Here, it's your tomorrow, and yet I wrote this day ago, only for it to magically appear for you to read at this very moment!

If there is one thing India  has taught me, it is that time is not a constant. I'm sure that, up in retreat, I'm learning a very similar lesson.

India time didn't come easily to me at first. Classes start 10 minutes late, end 10 minutes early. Buses run when they want to, as do trains. The only thing for sure about when your arranged plans will happen is that they will happen any time other than the arranged time. Even the washing machine at my first homestay seemed to be on India time, slowly draining my clothes as I watched (and, at one point, whimpered) for an additional 45 minutes after the load was supposed to end.

But after a few short weeks, India time became the norm. I'm sure that I will be delighting and frustrating my Western friends as a bubble of India time follows me back to the West. But we'll see.

Chai, quite simply, is the most perfect thing India has ever dreamed of. Besides it's reparative and relaxing qualities, chai also has power over time. You see, at any given moment time will stop; all that needs to happen is the entrance of two (or more) small cups of chai into the environment. Suddenly, it's chai time.

It's a bit magical. Everything stops, whether it's work or school or daily life, or even something rather pressing. Time out of time. The shop closes, the curtain is drawn. The waiter disappears. Others who want your attention fade away, knowing d*mn well what chai time means. The next thing you know, you've been chatting with several complete strangers for several hours, and you're not really sure where time has gone.

Tasting chai, you're tasting a different kind of time.

Oh, Mcleod 3

April 22, third day of retreat.

And another thing I love about Mcleod...

1. You never know what's coming

I could probably talk for days about Mcleod (and India)'s ability to surprise you, but for now I'll just tell you about the mysterious blessing cord lady. I was walking along the road from the library, a very steep and exhausting hill, when I paused for a drink of water and to enjoy the beautiful view. As I sat on one of the large cement slabs intended to save the lives of poor drivers from the treachery of mountain roads, I was joined by a little old Tibetan lady.

Her presence in itself was not much of a suprise, for many elderly Tibetans walk this path to the library, mala or prayer wheel in hand, chanting their mantras. Face in a wrinkly smile, mouth still working the quiet Om Manis, she took out a bag (from somewhere in her Tibetan dress, like a magic act), from which she promptly removed a woven cotton bracelet, colorful and intricate, like those friendship bracelets we once made at summer camp.

Taking my wrist, she tied the bracelet on, chanting her Om Manis all the while. After few minutes of work on the part of her shaky, arthritic hands, I had been adorned and she returned to spinning her prayer wheel and smiling.

It wasn't a traditional blessing cord by any means, but I certainly felt blessed. With my crumpled 50 rupee bill, I gave her crane 42, which she promptly placed in her bag of cords, the whole thing disappearing once again, like magic, into her Tibetan dress. The next day, for good measure (and with only a bracelet to remind me that this smiling old sprite had been real), I left crane 41 in the same spot.

Oh, Mcleod 2

April 21

While I'm up high in the mountains, far away from technology and on retreat, enjoy a little bit of what I love about Mcleod Ganj.

1. Whachu Wearing?

Mcleod is the perfect place to go if you want to be free from the confines of your normal wardrobe. With such a variety of clothing choices, from monk robes to Aladdin-style-pants, how could you not fit in?


Sweater Vests- A favorite of the local Indians, these remind me of better times, times when Will Smith was just some smart talking high school kid or when Uncle Jessie's innocent version of masculinity made him a perfect role model for three young, blond girls. Yes, I'm talking about '90s sitcoms. These funny little garments are all the rage here; even more so down in Chandigarh. On a trip to Patiala, I once attempted to count the vests, but gave up after several hundred in a period of about an hour.


Face masks- I'll admit, these made me a bit suspicious at first, reminding me of news clips from the SARS outbreaks. Are they sick? Should I step away? Unfortunately, the people who wear these face masks the most are those who most desperately need to interact with you: the poor shopkeepers. The air in India has made the adjustment to life here more difficult for some Tibetans; face masks help with issues of dust and pollution. So, more often than not, the people you will see with these masks are the ones who sit by the roadside.

Foreigners- Anything goes: Tibetan dresses, tie-dye, mismatched and bizarre versions of Indian garments, Patiala suits, leg warmers (very, very popular), ear-flap hats, dot, dot, dot. Most foreigners seem to have chosen outfits simply became they seem Indian (but were made specifically for foreigner's taste). Many of those who travel to Mcleod are very conscientious of their Individuality, and it seems that they have to knock things up a notch in order to remain individualized here. So the result is dozens of shops in Mcleod looking more like shops you'd find in Portland, Oregon, street hawkers selling items for guaged piercings, and shopkeeps fighting to outdo each other with the uniqueness of their items. Can you find a better shirt than an embroidered "Tin Tin in Tibet?" I think not.

My favorite are the hand knitted leg warmers.

Tibetans, on the other hand,  are usually extremely well dressed. Those in their teens and twenties rival Japanese youth for their fashion sense and daring tastes. A local performer (and a friend of mine) can often be seen walking around town with his afro-puff and heart shaped sunglasses.

And occasionally you get the costumes. In my high school, there was a special needs boy who had taken up the act of making crow sounds in the hallways. Well, it seems as though he graduated: every so often, you see a man (or two) in a crow costume, complete with black face paint, scaring tourists as he makes his sounds.

Thankgas Gone Wild

A few more thankgas for you-know-who (no, not Voldemort). Click to enlarge.

1. A Dragon Guards the Entrance to Potala Thangka Shop

Late one night, long past the shop's closing time, Mittsu and I were painting together, working on techniques of blending and brush strokes. A small, fuzzy dog wandered into the threshold of the shop and, enjoying the heat and light of the small room, curled into a ball and fell asleep. For some time, the three of us existed in relaxed harmony, enjoying each other's company, until (quite suddenly) we were interuppted. 

"Can I watch?" a slurred voice came from the street. Outside, a group of four middle-aged Indian men stood in the dark street. "Will you buy something from my friend?" I asked, already well aware of the answer. 

The drunken man starts to get pushy, but Marshmallow Puff (for this is what she looks like as she sleeps) is still curled up in the doorway. Mittsu and I look at each other, eyebrows raised (which, it turns out, is cross-cultural) and backs to the door.

A low growl fills the room and the street. The little Marshamallow Puff, without lifting her head more than an inch or two, has decided to protect us. The men back away, and then scurry off in a clumsy almost-run, while the two of us laugh at the tiny white Puff which has become our new protector.

So should you be one of the lucky ones who receive one of Mittsu's thangkas, be aware that they came from a small shop guarded by a ferocious dragon: very special treasure.

The Perpetual Student

1.My Sixth Sense Detects Hoards of Books

About an hour walk down steep mountain roads (or a hour and a half back up) from Bhagsu is The Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, a gorgeous compound akin to Aladdin's cave for people like me. The Library offers nearly-free courses (a twenty dollar donation for one month's worth of classes) in Buddhist philosophy and Tibetan language. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect curriculum and signed up without the slightest deliberation.

So every day (okay, except Sundays), I wake up just after the sun and make my way down to the classrooms. First is beginner's Tibetan language, followed by a short break (and cheap tea next door) and a Buddhist philosophy class. It's usually about 1:30 in the afternoon before I make my way back up to Mcleod for my various shenanigans (flaky as they have been as of late) and thangka painting lessons.

2. Now I know my Ra, Ma, Las...

It seems only fitting that I play both rolls in my Indian experience. First I taught children their ABCs and 123s, then I moved to teaching adults their "Days of the Week," and now I've taken the role of helpless, speechless child as I flounder over the sounds of Tibetan language and clumsily scribble unfamiliar letters over and over again.


Let's say it gives me appreciation for the human experience.


Between classes, the students often sit together, going over notes and thoughts about the sounds, shapes, and rules of the simple act of putting words together in Tibetan. As an undergrad, I studied French and Italian, the act of studying which now seems more akin to lounging on the beach then studying the language from the roof of the world .


29 consonants, 5 vowels (which show themselves through curly and bending accent marks), then another 23 surmounting letters, 40 subjoining letters, a few Tibetanized Sanskrit letters (including "thick letters" and "reverse letters"). At this point, you can start to sound out words (ka ya-ta kya, kya ki-ku, kyi: there you have it, one letter successfully read).

We're taught by a middle-aged ani (Tibetan nun), whom we call Ani-La (or Ani-Lak). She's a vivacious woman who becomes very animated when she teaches us the sounds of Tibetan. Her mouth opens wide as she teaches us the sound for "Nga," for example, revealing rows of crooked teeth and giving her a slightly cartoonish quality. When one of the stray dogs enter the classroom (as they often do), she takes her robes and shoos him away; when one refuses to go, rolling on his back and starting to play with her, she laughs and acts just as playful.  To teach us about the specialization of tongue muscles and the need to practice, she draws a picture of a duck on the whiteboard (pointing to the feet).

In short, she's an interesting and lovable teacher.

But who am I kidding? I'm loving every minute of it. I'm one of those people who seeks out books of riddles and logic puzzles out of boredom, so this is the perfect challenge for me. Every time I see a Tibetan letter, I feel like I need a decoder ring. Recognizing it is a bit like being in a secret club.


I've taken to pausing in the street to read Tibetan signs, even though I don't know the meaning once I've figured out the sounds. And joy of all joys, I finally, successfully read a sign- Lhasa! One night, while painting, I taught Mittsu (whose name, I learned, is anglicized as Mitthu just as often) how to spell her name in Tibetan. Like her husband, she came from a low-income household and never received a formal education (beyond her painting apprenticeship). On slow days, she sits on the cliffside by her table and does the same thing as me- slowly reading Tibetan letters out of a school notebook.

In my free time, I play alphabet games on the internet, slowly accumulating monks and other Tibetans cheering me on at Shangri-La restaurant. (http://www.digitaldialects.com/Tibetan.htm)

3. Once Again on a Meditation Cushion

My 11am class is Buddhist Philosophy 2, the Secular Practitioner's Way of Life. Here, Lama Geshe Sonam Rinchen teaches Tibetans and Westerners alike, from nuns to wives, the way to live as a Buddhist Householder. As with most Tibetan teachings I have experienced, the Lama is teaching from a book; in this case, a very ancient poem, Nagarjuna's Letter to a Friend. A four-line verse can take up to twenty minutes for him to expound upon, and thus a very small book has become a very long class.

Luckily for us.

The classroom is set up very much like an average Tibetan shrine/meditation room: intricately painted, a hardwood floor covered with meditation cushions, a teacher's chair (and translator's chair) at the front, before a gigantic Shakyamuni statue (about the size of a ten year old child) and picture of HH Dalai Lama. Spending time in this room very much reminds me of Sunday teachings at Columbus KTC (and, of course, there's something comforting about this familiarity).

While Lama, semi-channeling Nagarjuna, tells us about choosing a significant other and friends, about how to deal with sleeping and eating and material possessions, about those beneficial qualities and poisonous ones which we must be aware, the young Tibetan ani next to me rapidly scribbles down notes in English and the European man to my right sways gently forward and backward.



---
Because it is places of learning where the largest part of my heart will always reside, I've left a fair few cranes at the Library complex over the past few weeks. Almost always made from my practices sheets (drawing over and over again, Ba, Ra, Ha, Nga...), cranes 49-59 are my way of marking my territory (for, I hope, many future returns).

Outside the classroom building

The Library Courtyard (the sky is such that you can almost miss the snowcapped mountains).

The door to the philosophy classroom

From above, looking down into the valley

The Final Count: Grad School News

So tomorrow is the final acceptance day for Graduate Programs, but luckily for me I've already chosen the one I want to attend. For those of you who were waiting not-so-close to the edge of your seats, here's the final count for the five graduate programs to which I applied:

Acceptances:
-OSU, Comparative Studies (Full University Fellowship + Stipend and 1 year no-teaching/work duties)
-UCSB, Anthropology (Full Fellowship but with teaching duties)
-UC, Boulder, Anthropology (Admittance letter TODAY. Smaller but decent fellowship, no news about teaching)

Waitlist:
University of Virginia, Anthropology


Rejection:
-University of Michigan, Anthropology (No surprise, this is the best anthro dept in the country, and usually only takes 3-5% of applicants).

Also, I just learned that I received a Fulbright ETA grant, which pays for a year of living and teaching in South Korea.


And....!


I've decided to go back to OSU. Despite my reluctance to stay in the same environment for so long, the Fellowship, faculty, and program are simply too much for me to give up. Plus, the chance of intellectual inbreeding is minimal: OSU is the largest school in the country, and I spent the majority of my time working in Social and Behavioral Sciences as an undergrad (taking approximately four courses in the Comparative Studies Department). So although I'll walk the same roads, I won't take the same paths as before; there's plenty of room for development in this new department.

So come September I will continue  my study of Tibetan culture and Buddhism, slowly working my way toward those three big letters (well, two big letters and a small one): PhD. Wish me luck.

A Peak Into the Past and Future Life (Lives?) of a Fire Tiger

1. Somewhere Between My Definition of Reality and The Rest of Existence

I promise this is the last flaky thing I'm going to do. Okay, I can't promise that, but I have been spending an inordinate amount of time doing flaky things lately- vising the ayurvedic doctor, hanging out with the "I Am Happy" Guru (never mind the tree hugging incident).

But when I saw the sign for Tibetan astrology, I followed.

At first I simply went to ask a few questions about how it worked, but after talking to the astrologer for a while, I wanted to test this age-old method of Traditional Tibetan astrology. Once a monk, Kunga Choothuk gave up his robes (with the blessing of his teacher), let his hair grow out to an acceptably rock-and-roll length, and  attempted to escape Tibet. Although captured and imprisoned on his first attempt, he managed the trip in 2004, finally settling in Mcleod.

I gave him my information- birth date, time, place, Mother and Father's name, age. "Come back in a few days," he told me. Truly in-depth Tibetan astrology takes weeks or months, but these days Kunga works mainly for tourists.

So today, I sit in a lawn chair facing Kunga. Here is where I'm supposed to be sketptical. Here is where I'm supposed to tell you, to show you, that I'm smarter than those superstitious fools. That I believe in science and logic and nothing else.  That I'm smarter than the showman.

But there was no show. Just two lawn chairs and a long-haired ex-monk, and a piece of paper with his notes on them. 

I want to tell you that he got it wrong. I want to tell you that he spoke in general terms, saying things that could be applied to anyone. I want to reveal that I caught him scanning me, reading me for signs of what to say next.

But I can't. 

So I think, for now, I'm going to stop fighting it and just tell you some of what he told me. Being skeptical is too exhausting.

I am a fire tiger (Daniel, I might add, happens to be a wood mouse). I'm capricious by nature, but when I choose to do something, it usually comes easily to me. Unfortunately, this also means that I'm prideful- even haughty- and easily get irritated and frustrated with imperfections. The mind is the center of my life, quick and retentive, open-minded and "wise" (I like that one...yep, pretty haughty). I don't trust easily, but for those close to me I have a "bigger heart." Fickle about everything, even emotion, I'm quick to flash between calm and the extreme emotions.

Suitable jobs for me include social work, leader, teacher, researcher, and lawyer (which, except for the last, is a round about way of saying the career I've already picked).  There have been health problems in my life (the fruition, no doubt, of negative karma from my last life), and an inherited "ghost" which follows the family and causes a serious health problem (does the non-discriminating cardio-vascular disease on the paternal side count?). Early life (before 30) is hard, full of hard work and difficult situations, but later life will be very happy.

Beware of water.

The ages 16, 19, 23, 31, 41, and 69 will be hard years (so far, 16, 19, and 23 do stand out).

 I'll live to 85 (as long as I'm careful at age 69).


In my past life, I was either a spiritual person or a leader (a monk or a king). My future life is still not decided; it depends entirely on the good I do in this life.


While this in itself may not seem extremely impressive, the reading also referred to several specific life instances (which were a bit uncanny).

Later, I dream that I am a selfish King, who condemned the families of my enemies to death.  Perhaps this is because my head wasn't pointing East (my lucky direction) as I slept, and the hungry ghosts stole my good energy. Well, Kunga did warn me about those hungry ghosts. Come to think of it, he also warned me about dreams about conspiracy.

Maybe I really was a King, once, because it seems that I need my own personal astrologer to figure these things out for me.


Is any of it true? Am I a scientist or do I have more blurred edges on my definitions of reality?


You tell me, my friends.


2. Once Again, I'm of The Chosen People

Shortly after my experience dabbling in the intangible, I was approached by a Jewish man and young boy who were gathering tourists for the upcoming Passover events. Not particularly skilled in English (what an understatement), he seemed convinced from the first moment that he saw me that I was Jewish and could not be convinced otherwise. When I later told him my name (Schultz is a German Jewish name), I became eternally set in his mind as a German-American-Jewish girl who's reluctant to come to Temple. Even the phrase "Not Jewish," just elicited questions like "Temple no more?"

After being mistaken for an Israeli by the ayurvedic doctor the other day, I'm starting to wonder if there's something to this whole German-American-Jewish girl (who's reluctant to come to Temple) thing.

I reserve my seat at Passover dinner, giving him three dollars. In all honesty, I probably won't go (it feels a bit disrespectful and very dishonest), but I just didn't have the heart to try to explain to this innocent looking man and small child that another family with a good Jewish name had been Christian for several generations.

The Doctor Is In

In my long line of varied and interesting neighbors came Hannah, a middle-aged German woman with a fascination for homeopathic and traditional healing. She was completely cured, she told me one day, by an ayurvedic doctor with nothing but warm milk and raisins. Since then, she devoted several weeks of her vacation to learning ayurvedic medicine, a traditional school of Indian medicine, with her doctor/savior.


This isn't the first time that I've heard of ayurvedic miracles. An American ani (Tibetan Buddhist nun), whom I met while hiking, told me of a voyage to Kerala for the saving touches of an ayurvedic healer (in exchange for this treatment, she added, she only needed to give the doctor two shawls).

Curious, I decided to pay a visit to the local Ayurveda House for a general consultation. A few days later, I found myself sitting face to face with Dr. Kusum, whose qualifications include a Bachelor's Degree in Ayurvedic Medicine and a certificate in yoga and naturopathy.

She starts taking my bio; as she asks "where are you from?" an eyebrow raises just a little bit. After I tell her, she smiles in relief. "Oh, I thought you were Israeli!" She laughs and nods knowingly when I say, in response, "maybe that's why I'm getting weird looks." I'm not sure if I can count the number of times I've heard Indian shopkeepers, etc, complaining about Israeli tourists. Personally, I've had nothing but good experiences (including watching a high Israeli man get tickled until he was yelling with laughter by an afro'ed Tibetan man- but more about that in another blog).

Dr. Kusum starts to whisper. "Don't worry, I'll be very discreet," she says as a way of introducing the topic of sexual history.  Dr. Kusum starts to blush, turning as red as the crimson Patiala suit she is wearing.

A short time later, she takes my wrist and tells me, "I am going to feel your pulse and tell you some things about yourself. Tell me if I am right."

"You are reserved, but lively with those close to you."

"You always have many things going on inside your head."

"Sometimes your belly feels hard."

"You're easily irritated."

"You're not a morning person." (Well...actually...)

I also have ten toes and enjoy air and sunshine. But please, continue.


At this point, I'm feeling a bit skeptical, but I lay down and submit myself to belly and feet probing. "Tell me with it's uncomfortable." She presses on an upper area of my abdomen. Beat. Beat. She pushes a little harder. "I think this is uncomfortable, yes?" I acquiesce, but mostly because she's pushing quite hard.

A short while later she tells me that the problem with my lungs (for I came in for asthma) is my liver. "It is covered with toxins, you see." She then proceeds to tell me the treatment: a seven or eleven day program of toxins exiting every orifice possible.

The eleven day program is much better, she tells me, because it includes both a day of induced vomiting (which is excellent for clearing toxins from the lungs) and a day of induced diarrhea (which is best for clearing the liver). Several enemas are also included, and at the end of the program she will arrange a diet perfect for minimizing toxins in my body. All for the low, low price of $200-$300.

Come to think of it, day to day life in India comes with these same treatments for free. 

She also offers medicines, but I earlier promised Daniel (after his extensive research into the amount of mercury and arsenic in Ayurvedic medicines) that I would run from medicine. So I tell her I will think about it.


I wonder how long it will take her to notice crane 60 in her examination room.

Makin' Momos with Sangye

With some time to spare between my classes and painting lessons, I decided to try a Tibetan cooking class. Today, momos are on the menu, so I excitedly make my way down to "Sangye's Kitchen," a highly recommended class on Jogiwara Road.

Through the doors, past the sign with a panda licking it's lips, I find myself at a large table with a half-dozen foreigners equally excited about the lesson. Sangye is young and lighthearted, friendly enough that the atmosphere quickly becomes one of light banter and enjoyment; the best kind of mood for those dealing with food. Laughing and joking, we start to learn how to make momos: Tibetan dumplings.

Sangye is a wealth of information about Tibetan culture. He shares stories of the baking powder that magically appears on the surfaces of frozen lakes in Tibet, a substance which is excellent both for making momos and for curing dandruff. When a Brit asks him, "Who taught you to cook? Your mum?" he informs us that it was in fact his father who was the skilled one, delighting the Western women with stories of sexual equality in Tibet and shared household chores, from cooking to children care. 

But there's more than food and banter here. Sangye is a refugee who left Tibet about a dozen years ago. As with many of the people here, stories of injustice, politics, and peace are always lurking on the tip of his tongue. After a bit of prompting, he tells us tales of the kidnapped Panchen Lama, of Chinese politics and the Dalai Lama's peace talks, and of his own escape through the mountains.

Worried that his parents would fear for his safety and try to stop him, he clandestinely made his escape, with no one but his companion aware of his flight. Traveling through the mountains for 28 days, they made their way to Nepal, eventually settling here (following, like many Tibetans, the Dalai Lama). For years, he sent letters to his family in Tibet, letters which were only destroyed by the Chinese authorities. Finally, in a cooking class, he met a Western couple who agreed to take his letters to his family. Later, they returned to Mcleod with letters and phone numbers; Sangye was finally able to talk to his family, who surely must have believed him to be dead.

As we knead the dough, flatten it into circles, fill and shape these beautiful momos, we learn about the situation in Tibet. For carrying a picture of HH Dalai Lama, one goes to jail. At all times, one must carry Mao's Red Book, and when one has idle time, he must study it. Manual labors, when given a few minutes of reprieve, must sit and study the book for fear of the authorities' wrath. Every night, there are meetings in which one must describe what he learned from the book that day. Traditional clothing and jewelry was taken from the Tibetans, earrings ripped out of women's ears, hair cut off of their heads, with a statement about the need for leaving the traditional behind and move toward progress.

With ease, the mood travels between grief and joy as Sangye, a brilliant storyteller, takes us through his world, which hangs symbolically, on his wall. A picture of a baby, Sangye's son, hangs next to the large map of Tibet and the painting of HH Dalai Lama.


I will not give you all of the recipes that we learned (my reason being something between forcing you to attend these classes and having my own secrets to cook for my friends), but I will reveal one: the chocolate momo. No, it's not traditional; according to Sangye, it's a recipe which was born in his own kitchen. But yes, it is delicious.

To make the dough, don't follow a recipe. Don't measure, says Sangye, because flour always reacts differently with water. For about 20 momos, mix two cups flour, 1 tsp baking powder, and water as needed. Mix it with one finger (not all of them) until the texture feels right (it comes out feeling something like play-doh when you've got it right). Knead for 5 minutes, let sit for an hour. Flatten into thin (but even) circles of about 3-4" diameter.

Chocolate Momo Filling 
4 tbsp oil (usually anything but olive will do)
2 tbsp flour
2 tbsp sesame seed
2 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp chocolate powder

On low heat, cook the ingredients until golden brown. Put in the center of the dough and fold.

Folding is quite a skill, one which you really need to see in order to reproduce (I suggest youtube). There are several types of momos, but the two most common, the round one (representing unity) and the half moon (representing the mountains around Tibet) take a bit of skill to learn.

Steam for 10 minutes. 

For those of you that know me personally, be prepared to eat some delicious momos.

On the way home, I dropped off two momos with Mittsu, who took them with both hands and touched the package to her forehead in thanks.

Momos about to be steamed

A combination of momos, HHDL, and Sangye's gesture really describes the class.

The Karmapa's Blessing

The 25 year-old Karmapa Lama, the 17th in the line of Karmapas, is head of the Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism and is considered the third most important figure in Tibetan Buddhism. His face can be found on Kagyu shrines and temples worldwide; he holds the place in many hearts as Root Guru, the great Teacher of Teachers, to which many Buddhists look for inspiration and wisdom.

And he lives only a short drive away.

There's something very powerful about seeing an important figure with your own eyes, and something powerful about idea of a boy or young man who is someone very special just by right of his birth (or, in this case, reincarnation). So when I took my seat in the shrine room and saw That Face, serious, young, smooth, and perfect, I was more than simply star-struck.

The room was filled with the sound of monks chanting in Tibetan, a noise that comes from deep in the throat and seems to penetrate the surrounding world. Massive drums, Tibetan horns, and symbols contributed to the din. In an environment such as this (especially if you are chanting as well), it becomes easy to slip into an alternative state of consciousness. As I listened, keeping HH Karmapa in my line of sight over the heads of the crowd, I passed into a state of relaxation and meditative quiet.

For a few brief minutes, as I watch HH touch objects of worship to his head in blessing (an action which fleetingly gave me a flash of what he must have looked like as a child), I became filled with this intense joyful feeling, something I could only describe as Buddhist loving kindness. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I was in love with this being, and then, just as suddenly, in love with all beings. Was the Karmapa such a massive person that he penetrated the entire room? Was it the lulling relaxation of the environment of chanting? Was this the result of thousands of hours of study which had created an image of the Karmapa in my head which was romanticized, mysticized? Or is it simply the case that, sometimes, there are people and occurrences in this world that we do not understand?

And why do I need to ask so many questions? 

Blessed by the Karmapa, I followed the crowd to place an offering on his teaching seat: crane 65 with a fresh, white kotta. Before leaving, I followed the crowds and circumambulated the building, placing a crane on each of the corners.

The main shrine room

I wish my pictures had come out better, because it really is a beautiful room. The Karmapa's seat is blocked by the heads of Westerners, but above it there is another teaching seat- the seat of HH Dalai Lama, which contains a cardboard cut-out of HHDL, life size, smiling!

A Few More Thangkas

Medium yab-yum paintings. ~14-16" tall. Moon: $52, Right: $40 (with brocade)

I'm in love with this one, the colors are wonderful, and there's a lot of detail in it. Large size (over 20") with gold details. With brocade ~$75

They've been making this one for weeks and weeks now, and it is absolutely the best painting I have seen in town. It's 30" tall and has three weeks of detail work left before completion. Almost every aspect of the painting will be detailed, with gold lining in many places. It's $125 with brocade, but enormous and worth every penny.

A medium simpler yab-yum, only $40 with brocade

Again, a medium yabyum with more detail work, $45 w/brocade

Medium 1000 arm chenrezig, $45 with brocade

I just realized that I didn't write down the price for this one. :P sorry

A large (over 20") 1000 arm Chenrezig. $75 with brocade. (Mittsu suggested adding more details, such as flowers along the edges).

Monastaries, Blessings, and Death Scares

About a week and a half ago, Cathy Jackson, who teaches sadhana and refuge classes at KTC (the Tibetan Buddhist Meditation Center in Columbus) arrived in Mcleodganj, jet-lagged but as vivacious as ever. A lively woman with short blond hair (as it has been ever since her days in retreat) she's led a fascinating life and always has a good story or meaningful knowledge to share. Like most KTC'ers, I tend to call her by the appellation "Lhamo," given to her by Kenpo Karthar Rinpoche during her retreat days. I took her to Shangri-La Restaurant, the one run by monks, before we parted ways just an hour after meeting. As a student of Tai Situ Rinpoche, she was off to a yearly Mahamudra Retreat, an intensive Buddhist teaching for which the students are given "homework" of two hours a day for a year.

Some time later, just before Lhamo was scheduled to return to Mcleod, she calls me and invites me to Sherab Ling, Tai Situ Rinpoche's Monastery and Institute, to take part in the Red Crown Blessing. Thrilled at the chance, I book a taxi (not my preferred way to travel, but a necessary one considering Lhamo's luggage) and, as the sun rises over Bhagsu, leave for Sherab Ling. My driver, as it turns out, is related to the family whose guest house where I've been staying. As with most relationships in India, this one is a bit convoluted: "He is my cousin's brother." Hmmm.  I'm quickly getting used to the fact that nearly everyone in Bhagsu seems to, somehow, be related to everyone else.

But leaving Bhagsu behind, we travel through two hours of hairpin turns and bumpy roads down into the valley. Sherab Ling sits just a short distance from Bir, where I spent a wonderful Losar with a Tibetan family, and the valley has become even more of a paradise than I remember. Up in Mcleod, there is no doubt that Spring has arrived: a million little flowers have appeared in the green landscape, the mountain goats, usually so content to munch on grass, have started butting heads. Butterflies have filled the air, so thick in some places that it looks like big, lazy flakes of snow are falling. Even the stray dogs have started acting more antsy.

But as beautiful as it is in the mountains, nothing can compare to the valley. If there is a shangri-la, it most certainly looks like Bir, with beautiful lush grasses, flowers, small bamboo forests (each one only a few meters across). Even the sun seems to be more perfect and more beautiful here.

The rocking of the car, totally without seat belts, rivals even a jeep on safari, and I'm glad for the chance to leave it's confines and explore Sherab ling. Nestled into the woods, it's unbelievably beautiful and serene. Crane 69 enjoys the path in the woods, while crane 68 sits along one of the 108 stupas lined along the path.

Lhamo's phone is off and on the door to her room is a note from another friend. With no answer, I assume that she must be at the main temple and head there myself. In the time I've known her, I've always known Lhamo to be both fiercely independent and insanely busy, so I assume that she must be attending to some pressing business.

Through the woods and fields of wildflowers, pausing to enjoy the view, I make my way to the temple. The space has already become quite crowded, and with time to spare, I decide to circumambulate , following old men and women chanting their Om Manis and holding their malas in the right hand. Tibetan families have dressed up for the event, women donning traditional dresses and men in their smart coats (usually with one or both sleeves hanging off their bodies), often with the traditional read roll of yarn around their heads. As I walk, I am greeted by Sonam Tsomo's mother, the great matriarch of the family in Bir, who had given me her handmade rugs for Losar. She is easily one of my favorite people in India, a warm and kind-hearted woman, who holds my hand and (according her daughter, I believe, although I still don't have all of the family members straight in this massive family), asks me to come back to Bir and wishes me "Luck on your journeys." An already beautiful day lights up as I see more and more members of this wonderful family.

Unable to find Lhamo in the growing crowd (which, I later learn, holds 1,500 guests), I decide to sit near the family instead. Next to me is a bearded man, from Kentucky, as he tells me, who happens to have known Lhamo for the last dozen years. "I haven't seen her in a few days, though," he says when I ask if she's in the crowd. This doesn't surprise me, for, like I said, she's very often quite busy. For over an hour we wait in the courtyard of the temple, sitting on the lightly carpeted floor.

Tai Situ Rinpoche appears and climbs the many stairs to the towering teaching throne (seat?); the crowd rises and prostrates. Part of the Karma Kagyu lineage, the current Tai Situpa is the twelfth to hold this title. He is said to be an emanation of Maitreya, the future Buddha. To put it simply, he is a very, very special, very important person and teacher in Tibetan tradition and I am very lucky to be here.

As with most empowerments I've taken part in, I only have a vague idea of what's happening. Rinpoche speaks in Tibetan, then reads the text at a rapid pace. He is empowering us, giving us permission, to perform the Vajrasattva sadhana (which, I believe, is a somewhat advanced and esoteric practice) while, at the same time, bestowing upon the crowd the Red Crown Blessing. The crowd repeats, in Tibetan, after him, then he rises to spread blessings over each person there (below is a video of the blessing). Like those around me, I hold out a bag of religious nick-nacks (in my case, dozens of blessing knots for the sangha back home), gathering the orange rice and blessing pills as if they were rupees. Crane 67 is given with my kotta (ceremonial white scarf) as part of the offering.

Blessed and empowered (and feelings so as well), the crowd disperses and I resume my task of looking for Lhamo. No sign of her. I return to the guest houses and ask the monks if she has checked out; one of them is her friend, and admits to not having seen her in some time. Rushing around the beautiful campus, usually a very level-headed and relaxed person, I can't help but think: I do not know the Buddhist death rites. If something has happened to her, I can't help her through the bardo.

It's a strange juxtaposition of worry and peace from the day's events. The monks and I finally decide to open her door in case she is hurt inside and unable to unlock it. The servant boy, an Indian of about twelve, cannot find the key; he smiles shyly at me, saying we can't get in. I'm torn between pity for him and wanting to make sure my friend isn't in danger. Finally, he walks (slowly) back down to get a monk to help us. About half-way through a bowl of unsorted keys in the monk's hand, the door finally opens of it's own volition. Lhamo stands, pale as a ghost, dazed. Sick, fevered, barely able to move, but alive.

"I remember thinking," she tells me, "that they watered the chili sauce down. A warning went off, but I didn't stop."

All I can say (I think we both can say) is thank God for the Z pack. Never leave home without super-antibiotics.

Once I'm assured that she will be okay, I return to my bumpy taxi and back up to the mountains that have my heart.

Prayer flags along the path.

The courtyard (click to enlarge)

Hundreds of monks and nuns come to the ceremony.

Rinpoche looks quite regal here.

Smiling and blessing the crowd, somehow Rinpoche seems much more approachable.

Small, colorful flowers line the valley.

Thangka Time

For those of you who have asked- here are some images of Mittsu's thangkas. The images get a bit massive if you click on them, then click again in the new page. Prices are "friend prices" and include a brocade; they're all different, depending both on size and detail/quality, but in general  you can expect a small/medium (8-10 inches tall) to be $25-$30 with a brocade, a large to be $40-50 with brocade, and an intensely awesome massive on to be $60-70.

I can only bring a limited number home (due to space), so if you want one, you'll need to tell me relatively soon.

Also, behind each painting are several others, variations on the same deity/theme. So there are a ton of options.

These are about 8-10" tall (~$30 each with brocade)

About a foot tall, also about $30 with brocade.

These are quite large, ~16-20 inches, $40 with brocade.

These are massive, about two feet tall, and gorgeous (very intricate). About $60 each with brocade.

This is really a master quality painting (also very large). Notice the gold detail work. $75 with brocade.

And example in brocade. This one ~$55.

Another amazing and massive peice- also about two feet tall. ~$75 with brocade.

Not the best image, but you can get a general idea (I'll take close-ups of those requested)

These are great- very detailed and quite large.