How I Came to Hug a Tree

In India, there are always new gurus coming out of the cracks, crawling out from under the carpet, or, in this case, lifting themselves from their comfortable seat in front of the TV.

It seems that, while I was off gallivanting across India, my home in Dharamsala has been invaded by a new Guru. For a few days after my return, I had been seeing a lanky-haired bespectacled man around town, smiling contentedly as he plastered fliers covered with pictures of a new-age spiritual trinity: the smiley face, the peace sign, and the pink heart. “I Am Happy” the signs announced, listing a schedule of meditation classes, movie times, and spiritual guidance sessions.

This in itself was nothing new. The upper part of Dharamsala is covered with many bills, which are mounted anywhere from the side of a shrine to a large rock on the way into town. What was odd, however, was the address: “Behind Hotel Akash Deep.” Behind Akash Deep? There is nothing behind Akash Deep except my own residence.

“Hellooooo!” shouts the lanky-haired man from an upper balcony as I make my way home one evening. Apparently he's the look-out, ordered to herd in visitors equally confused by the address on the sign. He's gesturing me to come up, and I make some feeble excuse, (“oh, no, I just live right there,”) before giving up and seeing what this is all about.

He opens the door to one of the rooms, gesturing with an open palm: “my Guru.”

The guru is a man in his late thirties, seated on a type of Indian daybed, watching the Cricket World Cup on a large screen LCD TV. He mutes it as I enter, his eyes flicking to it whenever he thinks I'm not looking.

Sometime later, he's still telling me about the “I Am Happy” movement. “Tradition is not important,” he asserts, “we just want you to be happy.”

A group is coming the next day to participate in what's called the “Jungle Five Elements Meditiation,” which take places up in the forest of Dharamkot. This promises to be interesting, to say the least, so I agree to join them. 

So Monday morning, I find myself at the Himalayan Tea Shop, waiting for my New-Age adventure to begin. I don't have to wait long. While the blue-jean sporting guru takes a walk with the majority of the group, a middle-class Indian family, I sit with the lanky-haired man and another Westerner named David, who, when asked, describes his nationality as “The World.” The two discuss death fears and Happiness, Osho and Hinduism. The lanky-haired man, who has been serving the guru as he travels across the country, admits to the other: “If I am to be honest, I am not Happy.” 

I simply sit back and enjoy my mango juice, wondering what on Earth he means by “being Happy.” As I drink: I notice another Indian English absurdity: "Drown yourself in the rich taste of delicious mangoes. Give into [sic] the dripping sensation of NEW MANGO SLICE." How did they know I like to think about drowning and dripping when I drink mango juice? 

We hike a small distance, up onto a small peak in the woods. A local stray has followed us to our meditation enclave and firmly refuses to move from the spot beside my feet. The guru seems pleased, something about my communion with animals; I, on the other hand, think it may be because I'm the only one around who doesn't try to kick the poor girl away.

Find a rock that suits you and sit. Remove your specks and cap. The guru turns on his Ipod, which begins releasing a tune into the air; pan-flutes and synthesizer fill up the airspace that was one occupied by natural bird songs and the sound of the wind. Close your eyes and relax.

Sometime later, relaxed, we give our Earth element to the Earth, feeling it drain out our feet. Our fire element goes to the sun, water to clouds, air to wind, and space to the sky, until we are nothing but small amorphous blobs of true being, pure and innocent like infants, being loved and nurtured by Mother Earth (or, as he puts it, "the Creation").

But I'm paraphrasing.

We reassemble ourselves, asking sky/clouds/sun/space/Earth for pure elements with which to compose ourselves. When we're finished, the guru tells us to stand “slowly, and go hug the tree nearest to you.”

Ever the obedient servant, I go and hug the tree. “Touch your heart center and bellybutton to it;” I hug the tree harder. The guru begins to walk around, perhaps to investigate the strange pattern my breathing has taken as I stifle giggles, and just in time I manage to prevent myself from breaking into laughter, putting on a serene, meditation face as he passes. Inside (and outside) I'm laughing, but despite my skepticism, I'm also really, really relaxed.

When I was around age 11, in a bi-weekly class called “Guidance,” our guidance counselor arranged us on the floor with the lights out, and took us (mentally) through a field of wildflowers and all sorts of nifty places. I had largely forgotten those days until my tree-hugging experience brought with it vivid flashbacks.

I will admit, however, that this type of experience is a testament to the power of words. There are a number of experiments out there which reveal the interconnectivity of repeated words (such as “pure,” “whole,” “happy,” and “calm”) and relaxation (/hormone release). 

 

Meditation ends, or, doesn't end, as the Indian couple remain entranced for some time after the finish, the man hugging the tree and crying, the woman sitting in lotus position and apparently asleep. After a while, the man moves around to hug everyone in sight, wearing a soggy smile very similar to that which the lanky-haired man wears around town.

“Aren't you cold?” Thomas asks the guru, who is wearing only blue-jeans and a thin cotton shirt. “No, no,” he replies, “once you have made friends with the elements, the wind cannot hurt you.”

Crane 85 stays in my place on “the rock that suits me.” On the way back down the mountain, I fold crane 84 out of the meditation flier.