I will admit, I've been home from retreat for a few days now, enjoying being a complete baby and sipping orange juice. Retreat, first of all, was an incredible experience- one about which I'll tell you when I return up to this beautiful mountain enclave for another retreat on May 5-12. Unfortunately, while I was hiding up in a luxurious version of a yogi's mountain cave, hot winds finally made their way into town, carrying with them some vicious allergen which left me to lounge in bed (albeit wheezing, coughing, sneezing, and occasionally sleeping fitfully) to read The Art of Happiness as well as youarenotsosmart.com/ lesswrong.com (which, by the way, are some of the world's best blogs).
Who am I to complain?
1. Coming Home
Humans, the amazing and terrible primates that we are, always manage to find a way to keep things interesting. The phenomenon we like to call "home" is one of the juiciest intangibilities we've managed to invent, and one which I've had (far too much) time to contemplate lately. Since that day in August, shortly after I had turned 18, when I first moved from a town of 5,000 people in New Hampshire to Manhattan (the West Village, nonetheless), I've been grappling with this concept of home. There are few experiences in this world that can compare to spending time in a new city, getting to know her like a new lover, growing and exploring each other until, one day, you realize that she has your heart.
Six years later, my heart is spread out all over the world, a bit of it resting in each of those places which I somehow, mysteriously, came to know as home. India is no exception, and Mcleod, most of all, has become another nest for this vagabond.
This was a sentiment cemented by my choice to move in with a Tibetan family for the last month of my stay in India, and it was here that I returned when I climbed down the mountain from retreat.
2. How it Happened that Nancy Pelosi Fell Asleep in My Lap
Smack dab in the middle of Mcleodganj, on the side of a small, street-side bakery stand (selling, perfectly, dark chocolate dipped tsampa balls) is a sign advertising Tibetan Homestay. Everyday, I walk past this, up the stairs, pausing at the stand to chat with the man inside after a greeting of "you're back!" or "welcome home!" Up the stairs to the second floor, I pass my bedroom door, behind which lies a homey room with enormous windows, from which I watch the afternoon foot traffic and the vegetable vendors through a garden balcony. In front of me, down the hall, is the bakery: an old-fashioned gas oven and the invariable smell of fresh baked goods. In the mornings, I wake at six or seven to the smell of fresh baked bread and the quiet hum of life in this modest bakery. To the left is the family kitchen, nearly always housing at least one member of the family and something good to eat; past this is the family room, where I sit down on one of the sofas and receive the dual greetings of the 12 year-old Choeyang and the family dog: Nancy Pelosi.
In the evenings, I share dinners with the family (the best Tibetan food I've eaten), listening to the recent news from the Tibetan diaspora, quizzing Choeyang on her spelling bee words, or playing around on the computer with one of the family members (Kelly? Would you help me make a facebook page?). As with most Tibetan families I've met, this one is not only extremely large (the one time I helped to make dinner it was for 11 people), but has rather blurred edges; various friends, monks, uncles, etc, are always stopping by.
Next to my juice in the fridge is a ball of homemade butter (a Tibetan tradition, of course!), part of which goes to the monks and part of which remains to be enjoyed by the family.
Most of my interaction is with Choeyang, her mother, Chuki, and one of the uncles, Tenzin (not to forget Nancy). Chuki is an incredibly hospitable host and overall sweetie, giving me the up-down and saying, "you've slimmed down," nearly everyday, or grabbing me by my natural waistline and saying "so small here." Choeyang, a loving and extroverted girl, alternates between giving me hugs and showing me the newest dance moves she's learned. As it gets closer to my time to leave India, she asks me: "but what if I never see you again?"
I reply: "I'm coming back to India soon."
"But what if I die first?"
Pause. "Then I'll see you in your next life," her response to which is a beaming smile and a jumping hug.
Meanwhile, I've made a traitor of Nancy Pelosi, who jumps off the laps of family members to snuggle with me. Oops. Tenzin is a constant source of information, patiently answering my questions about Tibetan culture (so Tibetans have two first names?) and using words like "autodidact." If there was ever a person who embodies that word, it is him.
Every so often, I'll go up the the rooftop of the house to enjoy the sun, watch the street, or pretend I'm not watching the passing monkeys (who have taken to playing on the rooftops of Mcleod so much more in the warm weather). From here, I can see the whole town, from the main square to Amdo village below, from the snow-capped mountains to the valley. A home in the heart of one of my homes.
Who am I to complain?
1. Coming Home
Humans, the amazing and terrible primates that we are, always manage to find a way to keep things interesting. The phenomenon we like to call "home" is one of the juiciest intangibilities we've managed to invent, and one which I've had (far too much) time to contemplate lately. Since that day in August, shortly after I had turned 18, when I first moved from a town of 5,000 people in New Hampshire to Manhattan (the West Village, nonetheless), I've been grappling with this concept of home. There are few experiences in this world that can compare to spending time in a new city, getting to know her like a new lover, growing and exploring each other until, one day, you realize that she has your heart.
Six years later, my heart is spread out all over the world, a bit of it resting in each of those places which I somehow, mysteriously, came to know as home. India is no exception, and Mcleod, most of all, has become another nest for this vagabond.
This was a sentiment cemented by my choice to move in with a Tibetan family for the last month of my stay in India, and it was here that I returned when I climbed down the mountain from retreat.
2. How it Happened that Nancy Pelosi Fell Asleep in My Lap
Smack dab in the middle of Mcleodganj, on the side of a small, street-side bakery stand (selling, perfectly, dark chocolate dipped tsampa balls) is a sign advertising Tibetan Homestay. Everyday, I walk past this, up the stairs, pausing at the stand to chat with the man inside after a greeting of "you're back!" or "welcome home!" Up the stairs to the second floor, I pass my bedroom door, behind which lies a homey room with enormous windows, from which I watch the afternoon foot traffic and the vegetable vendors through a garden balcony. In front of me, down the hall, is the bakery: an old-fashioned gas oven and the invariable smell of fresh baked goods. In the mornings, I wake at six or seven to the smell of fresh baked bread and the quiet hum of life in this modest bakery. To the left is the family kitchen, nearly always housing at least one member of the family and something good to eat; past this is the family room, where I sit down on one of the sofas and receive the dual greetings of the 12 year-old Choeyang and the family dog: Nancy Pelosi.
In the evenings, I share dinners with the family (the best Tibetan food I've eaten), listening to the recent news from the Tibetan diaspora, quizzing Choeyang on her spelling bee words, or playing around on the computer with one of the family members (Kelly? Would you help me make a facebook page?). As with most Tibetan families I've met, this one is not only extremely large (the one time I helped to make dinner it was for 11 people), but has rather blurred edges; various friends, monks, uncles, etc, are always stopping by.
Next to my juice in the fridge is a ball of homemade butter (a Tibetan tradition, of course!), part of which goes to the monks and part of which remains to be enjoyed by the family.
Most of my interaction is with Choeyang, her mother, Chuki, and one of the uncles, Tenzin (not to forget Nancy). Chuki is an incredibly hospitable host and overall sweetie, giving me the up-down and saying, "you've slimmed down," nearly everyday, or grabbing me by my natural waistline and saying "so small here." Choeyang, a loving and extroverted girl, alternates between giving me hugs and showing me the newest dance moves she's learned. As it gets closer to my time to leave India, she asks me: "but what if I never see you again?"
I reply: "I'm coming back to India soon."
"But what if I die first?"
Pause. "Then I'll see you in your next life," her response to which is a beaming smile and a jumping hug.
 |
| Nancy |
Every so often, I'll go up the the rooftop of the house to enjoy the sun, watch the street, or pretend I'm not watching the passing monkeys (who have taken to playing on the rooftops of Mcleod so much more in the warm weather). From here, I can see the whole town, from the main square to Amdo village below, from the snow-capped mountains to the valley. A home in the heart of one of my homes.
 |
| The shrine corner of the living room |
 |
| Out my bedroom window. |
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