In MacLeodganj (upper Dharamsala), a popular drink among locals and visitors is ginger lemon tea, with or without honey. It's on many restaurant menus, and Tushita Meditation Centre, up on the hill above town, usually keeps urns of this tea on hand.

The tea is easy and inexpensive to make at home, considered to be healthful, and definitely is refreshing and habit forming. I bought fresh ginger and lemons last night when I found them at my local Grocery Outlet, knowing that I already had some honey on hand.

To make the tea, put some slices of fresh ginger in a teacup. Squeeze in some lemon juice. Pour hot water into the cup. Stir in some honey if you like (it's optional), let the mixture steep for a couple of minutes. It's then ready to drink.

Here are the ingredients I just used to make myself a cup:

On Saturday afternoon--which felt like very early morning to me--as I gazed sleepily out the window of an Asiana jet that had just crossed the Pacific, I first saw coastline. Not just any coastline, I realized with a start, but that stretch of rocky Olympic Coast beach just off Lake Ozette. I had walked the boardwalk trail out to that stretch of coast last summer.



There was Cape Alava, and Lake Ozette, too, sliding beneath the plane's wing. I knew that Wedding Rock would be below us, too, with its mysterious petrogylphs, far too small to be visible from that height.



Soon, the plane was flying over the mountains south of Port Angeles, where my brother E and sister-in-law L live, and the high ridgeline where we had scattered our father's ashes a few years ago. As we banked to begin a turn towards Seattle-Tacoma airport, familiar silhouettes came into view: first Mt Hood, far to the south, then Mt Adams, then the huge bright-white bulk of Mt Rainier, and finally Mt Baker, far to the north, shortly before we landed.

I made my way through Customs and then through the airport to the light rail train that took me, along with some excited tourists, into downtown Seattle. Then a two-block walk to the bus stop, a few minutes waiting for a bus, a half-hour ride, another short walk, and finally there I was opening my own door to my own little condo near the north shore of Lake Washington. None of it seemed quite real.

Since then, I've been slowly adjusting to my change of time zone and circumstances, glad to have had a long weekend and few immediate agenda items. Each morning since arriving, I've awoken to find myself relaxed and peaceful but also completely disoriented, wondering where on Earth I am. After a few seconds, the smell of the tatami mat under my futon tells me, untruthfully: Kyoto! Then I realize, no, that can't be; I took a plane from Kyoto recently. A moment or two or three later, I'm finally awake enough to know where I am: home again at last.

I've been in Kyoto for nearly a week, enjoying the beauty of this ancient city and time with my brother P and my sister-in-law C. Because P has been helping me use Picasa to organize my trip photos, I decided to do some photoblogging today.

The following photos show you what you'd see if you decided to take a trip to Mt. Kurama, as I did a few days ago. It's a magical place! Some believe that it is the home of Mao-Sen, a powerful spirit who came to Earth millions of years ago to help all living things. Deep within the peaceful forests of the mountain, that thought doesn't seem so impossible.

To get to Mt. Kurama, you need to take a train to Kurama Station, up in the mountains north of Kyoto. The trip takes about half an hour. Once you take a few steps uphill from the station, you meet one of the mountain's guardians, shown below.


Above that guardian, a stone stairway leads up the mountain.


You follow the stairway up the mountain, passing many small shrines where you can pay your respects to the resident deities of the mountain.

Here and there, a dragon spits spring water into a bowl, so you can rinse your hands and drink.


You pass the Chu-Mon Gate, guarded by giant cedars. This spot makes me think of how the set for the Lord of the Rings movie might have looked, had it been constructed by nature-loving Buddhists.

Here and there, as you climb, lamps light your way, because it's dark under the tall trees.

You keep climbing up the stone stairway through the thick forest.

Finally, you reach the main temple, not far from the top of the mountain (this view is from above the temple).

If you arrive on a certain June day, as I did, then you can see the annual Takekiri Ceremony. According to legend, about a thousand years ago, a monk was attacked by two enormous serpents, but managed to subdue them. Each year, groups of monks reenact this legend by competing in cutting up big bamboo poles, which represent the serpents. Here, priests arrive at the temple to open the ceremony.

Here, the two four-monk teams face off in the temple.

Monks from the two teams take turns trying to sever each bamboo pole with the fewest cuts. Their swords are sharp--I was glad not to be one of the team members holding up the pole.

I was impressed by the swordsmanship, but wasn't sure who won in the end. Never mind, though, the ceremonies finished with enough daylight remaining to walk to the mountaintop, first passing along this part of the trail that runs across thickly interwoven tree roots.


A bit further along is a shrine to Mao-Sen, which I think marks the mountaintop. It's possible to continue down the other side of the mountain to make a loop trip back to Kurama Station, but darkness was beginning to fall, so I returned the way I came.

I`m sitting on a tatami mat in my brother`s house in Kyoto, after arriving here late yesterday. And what a feeling I`m having of having gone, like Alice, through a looking glass.

I left Mcleodganj on Wednesday evening by autorickshaw, though that hadn`t been my plan. Nearly a month before, I`d reserved a seat on the state government`s Volvo bus that runs from Mcleodganj to New Delhi every night. A variety of other public and private buses go to Delhi every night, but the Volvo bus is widely seen as the most comfortable, and I`d decided to splurge on it. Wednesday evening, my friend A, with whom I`d been staying after my meditation retreat, insisted on accompanying me to the bus stand. Not only that, but she insisted on telephoning her young Tibetan friend, T, to ask her to help with my luggage. No need to trouble yourself or T, I protested; I`ve carried my pack by myself for more than 5 months. But A was hearing none of it, and now I`m glad that she resisted my pleas.

An interesting aspect of travel in India is that while things usually work quite smoothly, once in a while something breaks down completely. At such times, as A knows better than I--she`s English but has been living in Macleodganj for years--non-native speakers are at a big disadvantage. A, T, and I arrived early at the bus stand. There, we found no buses, and no one to tell us why they weren`t there or where to find them. The bus stand had been gated off, perhaps because Wednesday was the anniversary of the Buddha`s enlightenment, and there had been ceremonies earlier that day in the Main Temple. Someone thought that the buses might be picking up passengers at the Church of St John in the Wilderness, not far outside of town. So A, T, and I trekked down to the church, asking other people along the way whether they knew anything about where to find them. People had various ideas but no firm facts. No one had seen the Volvo bus, but a few people assured us that it would come soon. At the church, there was no sign of my bus, and I began to feel a bit worried.

Before long, growing bands of confused Westerners and other travelers, including us, were wandering along the road out of town, still trying to find the vanished buses. A wisely asked T to go up to the next small settlement, and ask around there. About 20 minutes passed, and A`s mobile phone rang. T had managed to find out that the buses weren`t coming up to Mcleodganj that evening, but instead would leave from the bus stand in lower Dharamsala. T then managed to find us an autorickshaw. We piled in, and hurtled down the road towards the lower Dharamasala bus stand, about 12 kilometers away.

On arrival, T discovered that the Volvo bus had been cancelled, and she raced up to the ticket window, pushed her way through the crowd that had gathered there, and got me a ticket on one of the other buses leaving that evening. You`re my new best friend,I told her. We made sure that my pack got into the luggage compartment of my new bus, I paid the autorickshaw driver to take A and T back up to Macleodganj, and I took my seat on my new bus.

The trip to Delhi was without incident, and more comfortable than I`d expected. In the morning, three other travelers and I split the fare for a taxi to take us to the Paharganj district downtown. Once there, we split the cost of a simple guestroom for the day so that we`d have a place to relax and shower, arranged a taxi ride to the airport for that evening, and headed out for some last shopping.

On arrival at the airport, the sense of passing through a cultural looking glass kicked in. Delhi`s international airport is new, attractively designed, and efficient. Soon I had passed through security and was on an Asiana jet, headed eastward into the night. Flight attendants began to bring me cold drinks, and a video panel offered me a wide choice of entertainment options, along with the latest world news from CNN. I went into overwhelm and promptly fell asleep. By the time I woke up for breakfast, Korea`s green outlying islands were passing under the wing of the plane, and we smoothly glided into Incheon airport.

Of all the world`s airports that I`ve passed through so far, Incheon most celebrates consumer culture. The autorickshaw ride suddenly felt like part of a distant, vanished past as I walked past shop after shop of high-status, designer goods being sold by impeccably groomed young salespeople. At one point, I passed a small group of Tibetan monks who had been on my plane. Now they were inspecting a top-of-the-line briefcase, holding it up at various angles, their faces expressing gentle humor and a hint of perplexity as they appeared to be wondering how on earth one might us it.

A few more minutes passed, and I was walking onto another plane bound for Osaka. Two hours later, we had glided into that airport, and I had piled into a shuttle van, bound for my brother`s house in Kyoto. Two members of the reservation staff had consulted with the van driver to be sure that he`d know exactly where to take me, and how to call my brother if needed. A tourist office representative had made sure to give me a beautiful tourist guide to Kyoto and had wished me a pleasant stay. The van cruised smoothly along an expressway--no cows, no motorcycles carrying entire gracefully-balanced families, no cyclerickshaws gamely pulling huge piles of cargo, just a few other late-model vehicles.

Now I`m borrowing my brother`s laptop while he and my sister-in-law C make a quick run for fresh vegetables for tomorrow. So far, we`ve had two walks through this beautiful city, admiring the two rivers that flow through town, the green mountains that surround the city, the famous Philosopher`s Path along a crystal-clear stream, and a beautiful Shinto temple and its extensive gardens. I`ve learned how to take the bus and have had wonderful snacks and meals. Kyoto is as lovely as I`d imagined, and it`s easily the cleanest city I`ve visited.

I can tell that I will love the 2 weeks I will spend in this beautiful princess of a city. But I don`t want to leave you thinking that Mother India suffers in contrast. True, her streets are dusty and noisy, and traveling through her lands can sometimes challenge travelers from elsewhere. But there`s a part of her that will always live in me. I was reminded of that during my last, sweat-drenched day in Delhi, drinking the chai offered by a Punjabi tea merchant whose face reveals his passion for his products, the young shoe-shiner who did his good-natured best to beguile the beautiful young Norwegian who accompanied me, and the Kashmiri bazaar owners who got the better of me during a bargaining session but made the experience a pleasure. Not all that`s beautiful in this world is orderly.

I'm back from a wonderful meditation retreat, as of today, and will have more to say about it later. I'm borrowing a friend's Internet connection right now, so I'll just quickly post two links to photos from the retreat. Sadly, there are no photos of the resident monkeys snatching food from the plates of unwary retreatants--a very common happening during mealtimes, though they never got anything from me.

Photos of the retreat

Photos from a special teaching session

I may post more tomorrow, or may wait until I arrive in Japan--this Friday! I leave tomorrow evening by overnight bus to Delhi, then am scheduled to fly off very early Friday morning.

I hope all is well with you!

From tomorrow until June 13th, I'll be offline at Tushita Meditation Centre, participating in a silent retreat. Please don't worry about me! I'll post an update once I'm back in town.

Walking up Jogibara Road this morning after breakfast on the rooftop of the Carpe Diem restaurant (which offers good cheer and the best muesli in town), I was enjoying the usual schoolday parade of parents bringing their youngest children downhill to the Tibetan Children's Village (TCV) preschool. Since I first arrived here in March, I've loved this heartening sight: the dozens of wide-eyed children, each dressed neatly in a school uniform and sheparded by one or both parents, or sometimes an older brother. During rainstorms, the children perch on their mothers' or fathers' shoulders, sheltered by umbrellas. Meanwhile, on both sides of the road, Indian and Tibetan stallowners and shopkeepers set up for their day. Yesterday, I noticed an Indian stallkeeper silently praying, his forehead pressed against the wall--his way of beginning his business day.

Today, without warning, came a disruption to this usual order. All the Tibetans began sprinting for the small gap on the downhill side of the main chorten, through which pedestrians can squeeze to get to Temple Road, which leads up from the main temple and His Holiness' residence. For a split second, I was startled. But then I realized what must be happening, and I began to sprint for the gap, too, just behind a panting elderly woman with her cane. The sound of a police siren confirmed my guess: His Holiness was traveling up Temple Road from his residence to the main TCV school, off the Naddi Road above town, where he was scheduled to begin two days of teachings. Everyone, including me, hoped for a glimpse of him as he passed by.

We were too late, though, and the crowd slowed to a stop. "Too late!" someone commented to me, smiling, and an elderly man grinned at me, as we all turned back.

Several minutes later, as I continued my walk up the steep Dharamkot Road to Tushita Meditation Centre and the morning meditation session there, I heard the siren again from the opposite hillside, which the Naddi Road crosses. I stopped and watched the line of cars, led by a police vehicle, moving slowly in the direction of the TCV school. By now, I've learned how to tell which car would be carrying His Holiness. I watched quietly, tears coming to my eyes, until the cars passed around the corner and out of view. I'd seen this same procession pass by me four or five times as I walked up from the Tibetan Library, where I'd been taking classes. On one rainy April day, I'd been alone on a stretch of road as the cars passed by, and His Holiness had bowed, smiled, and met my eyes as I bowed back. One doesn't forget such an experience.

When teaching my English class, I sometimes collected short news articles from around the world to discuss with my students. The challenge in doing this project is that most reported news is grim. I sometimes managed to depress myself as I searched for a few articles that were not about war, violence, greed, anger, or other forms of destruction. Hope returned as I watched His Holiness make his way to the TCV school. I knew that he was scheduled to introduce the children to the fundamental Buddhist principles of compassion and interdependence. Watching the cars move across the hillside, I was reminded that on any day, all over the world, countless people of goodwill are quietly doing the work of peacemaking, though very few of them ever make the news. And if one shares the belief of Tibetan Buddhists--or is willing to entertain the possibility--among them could be Chenresig, the Buddha of Compassion, considered to be embodied these days as the 14th Dalai Lama.

Walking down from Tushita Meditation Centre just now, I passed by the big white stupa that marks its entrance. Circumambulating that stupa was a monk with his cellphone held to his ear, conversing loudly in Tibetan. The ancient and the modern mingle in India like nowhere else on Earth (that I've been to, anyway).

Watching my own mindstates, I can tell that I'm entering a time of transition. I finished teaching English yesterday. This Saturday, I'll begin a 10-day meditation retreat at Tushita. Two days after that, I'll take an overnight bus to Delhi, and then, after a few hours appreciating the a/c in the airport, I'll fly to Osaka, on my way to begin a visit with my brother P and sister-in-law C in Kyoto. I'll fly home to Seattle at the end of that visit--a fact that seems a bit incredible just now.

As for mindstates, for the past few days, I've noticed myself being more easily aggravated than usual by the unavoidable irritating aspects of life here--the heavy traffic and constant honking in the narrow streets, which usually amuses rather than irritates me; the truly annoying British tots clambering around this internet cafe; and so on. But even more, now, there's also nostalgia for the marvelous aspects of life here that I'll soon leave behind, especially good friends, some of whom live here and some of whom have already left or will soon leave. And there's particular sadness about finishing my teaching stint yesterday and saying goodbye to my students, whom I've adored working with. Tibetans are easy to love and admire. And I've so appreciated my chance to learn something about their lives and concerns during our weeks together.

Yet there's also, now, happy anticipation about my upcoming return home on July 2, which should coincide nicely with the beginning of the high mountain hiking season in the Cascade and Olympic Mountains (I did bear that in mind when scheduling this trip). And besides the hiking, I find myself looking forward to the small ordinary things about resuming life at home: first of all, seeing friends and family and resuming Tuesday evening meditation sessions with the Seattle Insight Meditation Society. And next, the many pleasures of summer in the Pacific Northwest besides hiking: e.g., farmers markets, evening bike rides, and the Shakespeare in the Park season, which will start up about the time I return.

Impermanence and constantly shifting mindstates! I'll have plenty of fodder for reflection during those 10 days at Tushita.

Too many things happen in the course of a day, or just an afternoon, here that I've learned not to try to give you a comprehensive view of events. Today in particular, I'd like to tell you about just one thing: the work of one of my most inspiring friends here: Heather Zimmerman of Maine, USA.

Heather has been a volunteer English teacher here in McLeodganj since last September, and she kindly helped me learn the ropes when I took over the Intermediate English class at Lha (a Tibetan NGO). But she is especially devoted to helping with the work of Tong-Len, a Tibetan-run aid organization. Tong-Len is an expression of the Tibetan people's gratitude for the generosity of the people of India, who have given them a new home. The organization is directed by a Tibetan monk, Jamyang, under the guidance of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. With the help of volunteers like Heather, Tong-Len works to improve the lives of Indian people displaced within their own country, particularly the residents of a slum in the town of Charan, in the valley below McLeodganj.

The more I learn about Tong-Len's work from Heather and other volunteers, the more impressed I've become with the organization. The overall objective is to help people to raise themselves up from the poverty of the slum. I'm especially excited about the student hostels that the organization has been building. In these hostels, children from slum families are able to live and study in safe, calm, supportive settings, close to their families, where they receive the guidance and help they need to successfully attend the local school. The idea is that if one child from a family can gain an education and bring themselves up from poverty, they eventually can raise their family out of poverty as well.

Tong-Len's first student hostel has been so successful that they are now completing a second hostel, which will be ready for occupation by new students in early July. The one problem is that there isn't quite enough money--about 1,000 USD per child per year--to host all the children that the hostel can hold.

Heather, who works with other Tong-Len volunteers each day to bathe, feed, and train the younger children in the slum, decided to organize a fundraiser to help garner the remaining money needed for the 12 new students who are not yet funded. To publicize her fund drive, from early this morning until late tomorrow, she is making 12 round trips on foot (running and walking) between McLeodganj and Charan (a one-way distance of 6 miles and 2,000 vertical feet). Each round trip represents one of the children who can come to live in the new hostel if enough money can be collected.

I encourage you to consider donating to Tong-Len to support these children, because I've come to believe that Tong-Len is one of the most effective and compassionate organizations fighting poverty that I've ever encountered. You can learn more about Heather's fundraiser from her blog. You can learn more about Tong-Len and make an online donation at its website.

Go, Heather!

Three things converged to keep me from posting as often as usual during the past few days. First, like many here, I was a bit under the weather with a mild stomach flu for much of the week. Second, I've needed to put more time into the English class I'm teaching, both because there's more for me to do as we near the end of the class (at the end of this month), and because some of the students are so enjoying writing in English that they've been handing in more pieces of writing than I've assigned. Third, I've now been here long enough that my social circle has expanded to the point that I can rarely go anywhere without having a good, long conversation--time I otherwise might have spent online.

Something I love about India in general, and which seems especially dramatic here, is the remarkable diversity of experiences and encounters that happen within a short period of time. Take this weekend, for example. In this normally calm town, my days start and end with the sound of gongs and chanting from the nunneries across the street, and nearly every other person strolling along the street is a Buddhist monk or nun. But Mcleodgang turned into Party Central this weekend, because three Indian Premier League cricket matches are being played in lower Dharamsala, just below us, starting today. Cricket is to India as baseball is to the US, only more so, and passions are especially high this year because India won the Cricket World Cup just a few weeks ago.

Friday morning was calm enough. I started that day as I start each day except Sundays these days: after a quiet breakfast, a walk uphill through the cool deodar cedar forest, evading roving bands of rhesus monkeys (the big males can be very aggressive), to Tushita Meditation Center for the morning meditation session followed by tea on Tushita's deck overlooking the forest.

Later, off to the Lha office to teach my 2pm English class. To provide English listening practice, I used a computer speaker and my iPod to play an ancient Buddhist teaching tale (Jataka Tale), which we then discussed. Emerging onto the street after class in an open-hearted state--the tale had been touching--I found people lined up, three or four deep in some places, along Temple Road. His Holiness must be returning from his US trip, I initially thought, and joined a group at a good viewpoint. But there, I discovered that people were waiting not for the Dalai Lama, but for a famous Bollywood actress. A few minutes later, a luxury bus pulled up, and out stepped a team of cricket players, to be met by enthusiastic cheering from their Indian and Tibetan fans.

As a Bollywood fan myself, I was quite tempted to wait for the actress, but I had a very different appointment at the Main Temple complex, where a Western nun, who recently was awarded a Geshe degree (the equivalent of a PhD in Tibetan Buddhism), was scheduled to give a teaching on the philosophically complex concept of Bodhicitta (luminous mind). My friend C and I had some trouble finding the lecture hall, but finally were pointed in the right direction by an obviously senior monk. Though he had the air of a very distinguished teacher himself, he immediately set aside his work and stepped out of his office to be sure we found our way.

Over the course of the weekend, the traffic in the narrow streets and concomitant honking have reached levels I haven't seen before, and the streets were jammed last night by excited fans and onlookers. Cars and motorcycles careened in the wrong direction along the one-way roads through town, pedestrians (including me) and animals scattered and jumped aside to avoid being hit, and I saw one motorcyclist skid out to avoid a crash. All in all, Mcleodganj looked more like the site of a Super Bowl party than the home of His Holiness in exile.

Today has been calmer so far, probably because the first game is being played in the big stadium in lower Dharamsala. Just now, the car traffic is markedly reduced, and I've been watching several cows, goats, and sheep, and one water buffalo who've reclaimed the road for now and are ambling towards Bhagsu village.

I spent this morning at a rooftop table in the shade of the yak-hair tent at Llamo's Croissants restaurant, breakfasting, preparing lessons for this week's classes, and then having a long discussion about green business and other not-necessarily-related subjects with a traveler-philosopher from Montreal. Then it was time for lunch with my friend C, who's headed home to Oakland tomorrow, and T, a researcher working for the Tibetan Government in Exile. T is investigating how health insurance and improved health care could be provided to exiled Tibetans living in India, so that was a main subject of our lunchtime discussion. So was the arrival last week of newly-elected Dr Lobsang Sangay, who will soon be inaugurated as the new Kalon Tripa (Prime Minister of the Tibetan government-in-exile). Having just left his job as a law professor at Harvard, he is making a major transition. Given that the Chinese government recently declared him a terrorist, he will have his hands full.

Who knows what will happen next? My plan is to have a quiet evening back at Llamo's Croissants, watching a documentary on the yogis of India. But perhaps on my way over, I'll encounter a cricket or Bollywood great instead.

“Some people may ask, ‘Why should the problems in Tibet stand out in a world filled with suffering?’ I think it’s because of the Tibetan people’s unbroken spirit, strength, and desire to find compassionate solutions, instead of falling into despair or pursuing terrorism or violent acts against their enemies.” - Tom Peosay

Today in the Intermediate English class, we had an interesting conversation after I asked the students to discuss whether Emperor Asoka was a good or a bad person. I had previously asked them to read an account of a pivotal episode in that emperor's life, which was described by Sharon Salzberg in her wonderful book "Lovingkindness."

As Sharon had explained, Emperor Asoka, though immensely wealthy and possessed of a vast empire, hungered for even more, and had been waging war after war to increase his territory. One morning, after an especially bloody battle against the tiny kingdom of Kalinga, he walked across the battlefield among the countless dead men and animals. He had been a miserable man in any case, and now, seeing the extent of the devastation he had wrought, he felt even more miserable. Perhaps for the first time ever, Asoka felt remorse.

Not far away, a Buddhist monk also was walking across the battlefield. Something about the monk's peaceful, serene demeanor, even in the midst of the devastation, touched the emperor. Asoka walked up to him and asked, "Are you happy? If so, how is it possible?" And so, as Sharon explained, the monk who had nothing (apart from begging bowl and robe) introduced the emperor who had everything to the teachings of the Buddha.

Asoka experienced what must have been one of the most profound changes of heart in all of history. From then on, he was a generous and loving ruler. He became Buddhist and vegetarian, and sent missionaries, including his own children, across the world to spread the Buddha's teachings. As it happened, Buddhism essentially died out in India not so very long after Asoka died. Had he not been so active in spreading Buddhism elsewhere, it might have died out in the world.

All the students felt that Asoka was a good man rather than bad, because of his sincere remorse and his later efforts to do good. They noted the similarity between Asoka's story and that of the great Tibetan saint, Milarepa. Milarepa, at his widowed mother's request, had learned sorcery in order to take revenge on an uncle and aunt who had refused to give his mother money that was rightfully hers. He used his sorcery to destroy the aunt and uncle, and many others. Soon afterwards, though, he too repented, sought out a great Buddhist teacher, Marpa, and became enlightened in a single lifetime--something that Tibetan Buddhists consider no mean feat.

Because monks make up about a third of the class, I asked about Asoka's and Milarepa's karma. I was told that Milarepa, having become enlightened, had freed himself of his karma. The class consensus was that Asoka had become free of his negative karma because his repentance had been so sincere and his later life so virtuous.

So from a Buddhist point of view, I asked, should we say that it's a bad thing to kill someone who has incurred negative karma, since that person then would be deprived of any opportunity to repent of what they've done in that lifetime? Of course, the students replied.

I may be the only person you know who got the news of Osama Bin Laden's death from Tibetan monks. I was in the daily Conversation Class here in which all are invited to come chat in English for an hour. (Many monks come here from monasteries elsewhere specifically to learn English, because--thanks to the large numbers of Westerners here--there are lots of willing volunteer tutors, teachers, and classes here.)

Though I'm not that far geographically from the location of the killing in nearby Pakistan (I'm roughly 200 miles away), I got the news many hours after most of the rest of the world. Only a few minutes before, I'd glanced through today's Times of India, in which the lead story was a NATO attack on the Gaddafi family compound in Libya. So when my conversation partners asked what I thought about what the American Air Force had done, I thought they meant Libya. Äctually, it was a NATO attack," I insisted. We talked at cross purposes until they were finally able to straighten me out.

The monks asked again for my opinion about the killing. I said that what first came to mind was Mahatma Gandhi's comment that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. I said that any death was an occasion for regret, not celebration. I also said that President Obama would not have had any real choice in ordering the attack, given the political constraints on him. We all essentially seemed relieved to discover that we saw the situation about the same way, and soon moved on to other topics. Eventually, we gave ourselves a break from the deeply serious issues of the day to address the question of whether, if invited, we would have attended the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. We were unanimous in agreeing that we would, and one monk added that he would have wanted to offer special Tibetan prayers to ensure that they would have a harmonious family life.

Afterwards, being both hungry and reflective--I had not had lunch--I walked over to the Kungra Restaurant for a meal on their terrace. On the way, I met a Swedish friend in a similarly reflective mood. She was with a Frenchman who did his best to entrap me in an argument over whether President Obama is a lying politician, but I was having none of it, and was a bit curt about it. I got a gently sympathetic look from my Swedish friend.

I found a table to myself, and sat looking out over the landscape, which was serene in the evening sunlight, despite the violence that had happened so close to us and so recently. Swallows dipped and soared above and around us. I remembered an evening long ago when I'd sat on the shore of the Sea of Galilee watching swallows flying over the undulating water. The water surface had looked so firm and elastic that it had been easy to imagine Jesus walking out onto it. I thought of him, his life and words, and a comment he'd made that is a favorite of mine: "The Kingdom of Heaven is all around us, only men do not see it."

I take his comment to mean that the divine is much closer to us than we know, and that we should do our best to find our way towards it, and away from the confusion, anger, and pain that so often seems an inevitable part of the human condition.

Later, my Swedish friend and I agreed to take tea on Tushita's deck after the morning meditation session tomorrow. And then I walked off through the darkening streets, past the prayer flags flying above us all.

It's a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon in McLeodganj. I've just come back down from Tushita Meditation Center, where, as of a week ago, I've begun attending daily morning meditation sessions. This decision required me to relinquish my classes in Beginning Tibetan and Tibetan Buddhist Philosophy at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. But the truth is that this was a very easy decision to make (though I do regret stopping my Tibetan study for now). During last Saturday's meditation session, I had an epiphany: This is what I was particularly looking for when I came to India. The teacher, Richard, has a welcoming, kindly manner, yet real mastery of many types of meditation. So since last Saturday, my days (except for Sunday) include a morning meditation session (followed by tea on Tushita's deck, overlooking deodar cedar forests and Mcleodganj far below) and an afternoon of teaching. I'll stop teaching English classes at the end of May, and then am scheduled to take a 10-day residential meditation retreat at Tushita beginning in early June.

This morning, Richard led us in doing a Vajrasattva purification session, in which one visualizes the Buddha of Purification and recites his mantra in order to clear away mental negativities. This sounds more esoteric than the session was in practice. And probably sounds less effective than I experienced it as being--this meditation is one of many things in life that's easier to experience than to describe, I think.

My Intermediate English class has been going very well. Thursday was another high point, when the class interviewed a US friend of mine, Carol Keslar, assistant director of Chaksam-pa Tibetan Dance and Opera Company, based in San Francisco. Carol has been doing wonderful volunteer work publicizing the company's performances and the performances of other Tibetan performing arts groups, obtaining funding, and helping performers to arrange for the visas needed to come to the US. To my delight, the students asked lots of questions. I hadn't been sure that they would feel confident enough, or that everyone would be able to understand enough of the discussion. But I think we were all delighted by the interview, and the students seemed genuinely moved that a non-Tibetan American is working so hard on behalf of Tibetans and Tibetan arts.

Here's a photo that Carol took of the Intermediate English class:



Carol has generously shared some of her other photos with me (credit for all photos: Carol Keslar).

In this photo, she and I are enjoying excellent vegetarian thali at Moonpeak Thali, a local restaurant near His Holiness' residence:



Carol took this photo of Lama Lungrig Nyima, who has been a student in my Intermediate English class, during a farewell get-together yesterday. He now must return to his monastery in Ladakh (where he himself has important teaching responsibilities):



And here I am at Moonpeak:

It's a beautiful evening in McLeodganj today, clear and warm. As I write, I can see lots of strollers (Indian, Western, Tibetan) passing along Baghsu Road.

Yesterday, I took advantage of the clear, warm weather to take another crack at hiking up to Triund (a 9,000-foot viewpoint on a high ridge above town). I had turned back 2 weeks ago when the weather began to deteriorate, but yesterday, I was lucky. I reached the ridgetop sooner than I'd expected, soon enough to allocate 2 hours to sit lazily on top of the grassy ridge, drinking masala tea (of course, there are tea stalls at Triund) and enjoying the unobstructed view of the huge, snowy Dhauladhar range. The hike up had taken about 3.5 hours. I'd hiked solo, but as I'd expected, I encountered a very international collection of other hikers on the way up, including lots of Indians who'd come from New Delhi, the Punjab and elsewhere for a cool weekend in the mountains, a few local Tibetans, and Westerners from England, Europe, and the US. Lounging at Triund, I met and chatted with a Dutch nurse I'd befriended earlier, and also agreed to hike down with two women from Finland and England.

The three of us walked back down to McLeodganj without incident, enjoying conversation, the beautiful views, the evening light, and chats with other hiking parties. Reaching the top of town, our Finnish companion hurried off to a massage appointment she was now somewhat late for.

Walking on with my English friend, I noticed ahead of us one of the two older women beggars whom I often encounter here, and whom I'm pretty sure are lepers (both have gnarled stumps where their hands should be). I often give each of them a few rupees, so I dug into my purse.

As I bent down to greet her with a "Namaste, Madame," and to put my money into her tin can, life suddenly flipped--in a way likely recognizable to any Western traveler in India--from under-control and pleasant to confusing and quite frightening. She is usually cheerful (though perhaps a bit addled), but now she seemed tired and agitated, and badly wanted our help with something. But initially we couldn't make out what it was that she needed.

As she waved her arms about and spoke Hindi much too rapidly for me to guess at what she needed, we eventually realized that she wanted us to support her so that she could take a few steps to a more comfortable location. I wasn't comfortable touching her, but I also knew that leprosy is treatable and not very communicable (I also knew that it's not unlikely that she's been treated and is not infectious). We each put a supporting hand under one of her elbows and helped her to her new spot. Next, it became clear that she needed something else. My alert English friend soon realized that she needed a drink of water, and a helpful tea stall attendant filled her tin cup with fresh tap water. She took a long drink, holding her cup neatly with the stumps of her hands, and I realized that she was very thirsty--how long might it have been since she'd had a drink of water on this warm day? Had she had a drink all day?

Next, she needed help transferring her collected donations into a plastic bag so that her water wouldn't spill onto it. As we helped her collect her coins and small bills, she continued to wave her arms agitatedly, often touching my hands, arms, and clothing (an outcome I'd hoped to avoid). With her money transferred, my English friend was ready to leave--"I think it's time for me to extract myself from the situation"--and I followed suit.

Heading down Jogibara Road through town, I realized that I was feeling shaken--partly because of a concern about infection (probably not that warranted, but still), and partly because I'd come face to face with someone's truly profound suffering. On reaching my guesthouse room, I hurried into the bathroom to wash my hands and flip on the geyser (a wall-mounted water heater common in India). I waited impatiently for the half hour it took for the water to heat, then soaped myself over and over in the comforting warm shower. I'd piled my clothes in a corner of my room, being unsure what to do with them, I usually have my clothes washed by a local dhobi wallah (washer), but didn't want to spread any possible disease agents. Those clothes are still in the pile this evening, and I suppose the best bet is for me to wash them with hot water and soap.

Once thoroughly washed and in clean clothes, I felt somewhat calmed during the rest of the evening. But I spent a restless night, partly wrestling with out-sized "what if?" fears for myself, and partly feeling in a very immediate way the horror of the beggar woman's situation. My healthy hands and fingers seemed an immense gift from the universe. Without them, how would one take care of oneself, change clothes, wash, use the toilet? Could one ever brush one's teeth? Worst of all, I thought, would be if your very presence frightened everyone, so that no one would ever want to touch you. I thought about how I take hugs and simple touches for granted, and vowed never to do so again. During that restless night, Mother Teresa seemed the most remarkable and inspiring person in the universe. I imagined how many people she and her colleagues must have helped to feel comfortable and loved--people who might not have felt that way for many years, if ever. I saw the gulf between what Mother Theresa had done in her life, and what I've so far accomplished in mine.

Another blue-sky day, a morning meditation session at Tushita Retreat Center, and a cup of hot tea on Tushita's deck has put me back in balance, and I went on to enjoy teaching this afternoon. But I'll be reflecting on yesterday evening's events for a long time to come. I don't think I have a right to forget them.

It's been a busy week, and a stormy one as well, with a few lengthy power cuts that kept me out of the internet cafes. With all Mcleodganj's computers frequently down, the only thing to do at times was to put my feet up on the windowsill of my guesthouse room and enjoy watching the spectacular lightening, thunder, and pounding rain. There's nothing like a good thunderstorm in the mountains! Yesterday and today marked a welcome change, however, with sunshine and warmth most of each day. And the trend towards good weather is likely to continue (I just learned this from the Mcleodganj Weathergeek, who was a US meteorologist for 8 years).

Despite the sometimes drenching rain, cold, and heavy clouds, which preempted my usual Sunday hillwalking, the week has been a real high so far because of the inspired work of my Intermediate English students. On both Monday and Tuesday, we started off class with high-energy 15-minute conversations. On Monday, I asked students to pair up and tell each other a story from their childhoods. On Tuesday, I asked them to talk about people who inspire them. On both days, the conversations started immediately and would have continued unabated had I not stopped them to return to (oh, joy!) discussion of the present perfect tenses. And yesterday, we read the story of Emperor Ashoka's transformation from tyrant to Buddhist after encountering a monk on a battlefield, and then had a very active discussion about it.

The big high point came yesterday afternoon, though, as I sat on the outdoor deck of the Kunga Guesthouse's cafe to review the first batch of written assignments that my students had just turned in for my class. I had asked them to write at least 2 or 3 sentences about a childhood memory. I quickly realized that each student had taken the assignment very seriously, and each had written a much longer story than required. Best of all, I learned that Tibetans are born storytellers! Every story was remarkably well told, despite understandably imperfect grammar. I have to wonder whether their skill has to do with having grown up in a world devoid of the modern distractions that can so fragment our attention these days.

The stories, taken together, created for me a window into a lovely and non-Western world. Several of the writers described their experiences when looking after their families' herds. They had typically been given that responsibility in childhood. Some described the natural beauty of their motherland (most spent their childhoods in Tibet). One commented on how wonderful it was that everything they needed was provided by Nature. Another described feeling frightened as a child by Westerners with their strange, light-colored hair, and encountering a group of them when out alone herding sheep. One student described riding her horse so far from home that her late return frightened her mother. Another writer described learning his (Tibetan) letters from his father in the evenings after a day of herding. One student described how he could not go to school for a few years because his family needed his help (at age 6!) herding the family's livestock.

Just after I'd come up to the classroom yesterday--the day that the writing assignments were due--the students had arrived en masse, with eyes and faces bright. I think that they had been sharing their stories with each other up on the office roof. Today as they gathered before class, they were quiet with anticipation: what would their teacher have to say about their carefully crafted stories? The first thing I did in the classroom was to write in large letters on the white board: "Thank you for your wonderful stories!!"

At the Kunga Guesthouse yesterday, I had reflected for a while on how best to respond to their impressive efforts. I had particularly wanted to do their work justice, being pretty sure that these stories were the most substantial pieces of English-language writing they'd produced. So I had lightly edited each story and also had written a short note to that writer to thank them for their story, to say what I'd especially liked about it, and to point out two or three areas to focus on in their future writing projects. (For example, use of articles like a, an, and the, which aren't used in Tibetan.) I handed both documents to each writer. That feedback seemed to be well-received. For the rest of the hour, we practiced with the several aspects of English grammar that were most challenging for the writers. I noticed that during this discussion, many of the students were speaking with less reticence and more assurance than before.

The Buddha taught that because circumstances are constantly changing, one is wise not to cling to pleasurable circumstances when they arise, but rather to cultivate a state of mind that adapts comfortably to whatever arises, without judging. It's a good thing that I've tried to take this teaching to heart over the years (which is not to say that I've mastered it), because my Friday English class was far more subdued than Thursday's class (described below). Perhaps it was the effect of the on-coming weekend, or perhaps the Buddha was right. Ah, well! Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Meanwhile, you may remember an earlier blog entry in which I talked about learning Tibetan. I explained how I've been testing my pronunciation by trying out my favorite practice sentence, "Di yak karpo rey" ("This yak is white") on Tibetans to see how many actually understand what I'm trying to say. Approximately 4 out of 5 Tibetans understand me when I say this, and 1 Tibetan completely breaks up laughing. Now I'm pleased to share with you this photo of a white yak, kindly given to me by my friend Carol Keslar, who encountered it a few days ago in Manali.

Teaching, I'm learning, is as experimental a process as research science. For the 2+ weeks that I've been teaching the Intermediate English class, I've been trying different approaches to generate substantial conversations in English among my students. Encouraging the students to talk when they don't yet feel confident of their English skills has been the hardest part of my job. On most days, my methods have prompted only a little conversation, and once or twice, my efforts have fallen flat.

Today, though, something went wonderfully right. At the beginning of the hour, I asked students to arrange themselves in pairs, and then to practice with the present perfect continuous tense by taking turns asking and answering the following Q/A pair (which I wrote on the board):

Q. How long have you been studying English?
A. I have been studying English for ___ months/years.

The students efficiently divided into pairs, asked and answered the questions, and then, to my surprise--since I expected this exercise to take 5 minutes at most--they continued to talk animatedly for the entire hour, moving on to compare notes on studying English, living in Mcleodganj, traveling elsewhere in India, and a variety of other subjects. They were careful to continue to speak English for the whole hour, which the exception of only a few very brief forays into Tibetan to explain something.

I could have stopped them to move on to the verb tense exercises I'd prepared, but that didn't feel right. Instead, I circulated among the student pairs, answering questions and cheering on several people who felt least confident about their English skills. During the course of the hour, faces gradually brightened and the energy in the room remained high. None of the conversations flagged. By the end of the hour, I could tell that most of the students were truly excited to discover that they could converse for so long in English.

I remained at Lha for the daily conversation class (in which a monk, two young Tibetan women, and I explored the potential for starting a new restaurant here featuring chocolate momos--I would be the first customer, I pledged). Afterwards, I encountered one of my least confident students in the hallway. He had a serious question to ask a fellow teacher and me: Did we think he was ready to read a Sidney Sheldon novel? Go ahead and try, we encouraged him. If you don't like it, you could try an easier book from the Lha library first (the library contains many good books for learners). As it turns out, he'd already bought his Sidney Sheldon book. So we're crossing our fingers--tightly--that he'll enjoy this new adventure.

Yesterday evening, a ferocious storm rolled in, pelting Mcleodganj with heavy rain and powerful lightning bolts, and temporarily turning the steep streets to fast-running creeks. Today, though, we awoke to a cloudless blue sky and the heart-lifting sight of the huge peaks that loom above town, now covered by fresh snow.

On days like this, Mcleodganj could be mistaken for Shangri-la. But now and then, I'm reminded that it's located on Planet Earth along with everyone else.

Lha, the Tibetan-run NGO I've been volunteering for, hosts a "Conversation Class" every weekday afternoon that's open to all. I almost always go. The conversation class begins just an hour after I finish teaching my Intermediate English class, so it's convenient to work on lesson plans in Lha's library for that hour, and then to join a conversation. The idea is for English speakers and English learners (nearly all Tibetan) to form small groups and to talk together for an hour of language practice.

Today I joined a group of two monks and a young Tibetan man. All three came originally from Tibet but now live as exiles in Mcleodganj. Our conversation soon turned to the difficulties that people in Tibet are currently facing. My conversation partners all share strong concerns about the erosion of Tibetan culture that's taken place since Tibet became part of China. They see deliberate efforts by the Chinese government as being largely responsible.

One of the monks had heard that the Chinese government has recently decreed that Tibetan is no longer to be spoken or taught in Tibet. (I just checked Google News and found a news story explaining that the Chinese government "plans to enforce Mandarin as the primary or possibly sole teaching language" in schools and universities in Tibet. I didn't see evidence that Tibetan can no longer be spoken or, presumably, taught to children by their parents at home.) My conversation partners expressed their worry that Tibetan will gradually decline until no one can speak it.

I commented that along with many other Westerners, I have been studying Tibetan for the last few weeks, and I treated them to my best rendition of "This yak is white" in Tibetan (that the monks easily understood what I said is a highlight of my day today).

The monks were delighted to learn that Westerners were studying their language. But this didn't satisfy the young man, who argued that it's time for the Tibetans to take up weapons and free Tibet from China by force. "It's been 50 years, and Tibet has already lost too much. Without weapons, we have no power and the Chinese will never listen to us," he said. "When we have weapons, the Chinese will have to listen." He looked searchingly at me as he expressed his opinion that the U.S. should provide those weapons.

In my experience, this isn't a common opinion among the Tibetans here in the home of His Holiness, who repeatedly expresses his belief in nonviolence. Still, the young man's comment set the direction of our conversation for the rest of our hour. I brought up the obvious example of how Mahatma Gandhi and his followers had achieved India's independence from Britain by only nonviolent means, and noted that for many years, the people of India probably didn't believe that independence could be gained without fighting. I said that ever since that day, the whole world has known that nonviolence is powerful, and that countries can use it to free themselves. I talked about the Jasmine Revolution countries in which common people have managed to change their governments without adopting intentionally violent means. The monks expressed their strong support for nonviolence and their belief that the Tibetan people should follow His Holiness in supporting peaceful autonomy for Tibet within China, rather than independence.

The young man was having none of it. What about World War II?, he asked: It wasn't won by nonviolence, nor could it have been. And besides, he said, China is far more powerful than the British Empire ever was; England was in decline when India won its independence. The US and the West have only been talking, he argued; now it's time for them to supply the Tibetan people with the weapons they need. I pointed out that then two nuclear superpowers would be at odds, putting the whole world in danger. I also noted that my country has often tried to use weapons to solve problems for several other countries in past decades, and that it's not yet clear to me whether those efforts have helped in any of the cases. The monks quietly nodded in agreement.

But then our hour was over. The young man left with his opinions unshaken. Perhaps the monks had the same thought as I: how many other young Tibetans share his feelings?

It's an overcast Sunday afternoon, with rain threatening. After a long, happily meandering conversation with a Swedish friend in an outdoor cafe, I've taken shelter in the Green Hotel's internet cafe.

Yesterday, though, was a beautiful day, sunny with high clouds. That morning, I paid my first visit to Tushita Meditation Centre, where I'm scheduled to take a 10-day meditation retreat in early June. Tushita offers drop-in guided meditation sessions each morning except on Sundays, so I walked up to the center and found my way to the lovely Medicine Buddha Hall for the morning meditation. Afterwards, I sat with a cup of tea on the main wooden deck, quietly watching the small forest birds flitting through the tall deodar cedars and the scenery below me (Tushita is perched on a steep hillside above McLeodganj, and surrounded by forest). Tushita is a remarkably peaceful setting, and I felt quietly delighted that I have a place in the June retreat.

Eventually, I continued up to the village of Dharamkot, and then returned to a quest I'd begun earlier: to find the footpath to Triund, a viewpoint on a high ridge that offers spectacular views of the 17,000-foot-high Dhauladhar Mountains. The Dhauladhars are the nearest of the true Himalaya peaks, and loom over McLeodganj. Were there not a few trekking outfits that make part of their living taking paying tourists up to Triund, the footpath might be signposted, but it isn't.

First, I walked up a forest track from Dharamkot to Gallu Temple, which I'd visited before. When I asked directions from the owner of a tea stall next to the temple, I learned that the footpath to Triund begins just behind the temple.

I set out onto the path, which took me diagonally higher and higher through pines and rhododendrons along the side of a steep ridge above Dharamkot. It soon gave me views steeply down to Dharamkot and out to other villages, McLeodganj, and the main city of Dharamsala below and beyond.

If you've taken the dugway trails up to either the East or West Rim of Zion Canyon in Utah, the Triund path will seem familiar. It is constructed of large, flat stones fitted together with Civilian Conservation Corps-like exactitude, with fitted stone steps in some of the steeper places. (During the Great Depression in the US in the 1930s, the Civilian Conservation Corps employed young men to build trails and other structures in many national parks). In some places--especially reminiscent of the dugways--there are steep dropoffs on the outer edges of the path. But the path itself is wide and secure.

I had the path mainly to myself until I reached the "Magic View" tea stall (there's always a tea stall in India!), which I am guessing is about half-way to Triund. There, I lingered to drink tea and chat with the friendly owner and a group of university students from Chandighar, who were headed up to Triund with overnight packs. The owner lives year-round behind his tea stall, and gets new provisions when needed via donkey trains from time to time.

A little later, after the students had moved on, an English walker and his tiny puppy arrived. The puppy, Sembay ("Snow Lion") had insisted on walking all the way up, and he immediately flattened himself in a patch of shade for a restorative nap. We two-legged creatures relaxed and continued to chat on the veranda of the tea stall. With the sky clouding over and the temperature dropping, I had realized that the "Magic View" would be a good turn-around point for the day's walk.

I started back down at around 3pm, encountering a few other groups of trekkers on the way down, as well as the first snake I've seen in India. The snake and I scared each other: I jumped backwards as it hurried off the path into the brush below the path. Once it seemed safely off the path, I continued down. Later, I had the troubling thought of what could happen if tiny Sembay were to encounter the snake when coming down the path, but I remembered that his owner planned to carry him down, and guessed that the snake would be far from the path by the time they passed by.

Once back in McLeodganj, I looked back up to the ridge I'd walked along, and noticed that from here, I can see the Magic View tea stall, which now appears as a blue dot near the ridgeline far above town. I plan to return to the path soon to walk all the way up to Triund and, I hope to stay overnight there. There is a government rest house and a private guesthouse at Triund--and no doubt a tea stall or two as well.

Of course, the best thing about traveling is the people you encounter, and the opportunity to glimpse at least a small part of their lives and perspectives. This wonderfully diverse--and talkative--subcontinent offers that opportunity in spades.

Here in Mcleodganj, each day I get glimpses into the experiences of the Tibetan and Indian people I'm temporarily living among. Many of my best conversations have been during the informal "Conversation Class" held each weekday afternoon at the Lha office (Lha is the NGO I'm volunteering for as an English teacher). At 4pm, immediately following the Advanced English class, Tibetans (including many monks and a few nuns) and people from around the world all squeeze into a classroom until it's laughably crowded, and divide into small groups to talk together in English for the next hour.

Yesterday and again today, I talked with two vivacious young Tibetan women; one of their friends joined us today. As has been the case with many Tibetans I've talked with here, I learned that they had walked out of Tibet in order to get to India. Generally, Tibetans are noncommittal about their journey here, which had given me the impression that perhaps it hadn't been so terribly difficult to do--sort of a long hike, like the final scene in The Sound of Music. But the conversations I had with these young women yesterday and today indicate otherwise.

One of my new friends walked away from her home at the age of 13, leaving behind her entire family (who had chosen to let her walk to safety). The other was just a few years older when she left her family to travel to India (both are in their 20s now). Each traveled in a group led by a guide (which I've learned is typical); they traveled in different groups and met each other here. Each group traveled first to Nepal along a route over relatively easier terrain. In each case, the trip to Nepal took several weeks. They had to hide during the day and travel only at night, in order to evade Chinese patrols who search the known routes for refugee parties. It was so cold hiding in the snow, and they were at constant risk of being shot or imprisoned during their trip, my young informants cheerfully explained.

Once across the border in Nepal, they were not yet completely safe, because the ties between that country and China have been strengthening in recent years. There was a possibility that they would be turned back to China. In the end, though, both were allowed to travel onward to India. Now that the Nepalese government has been taken over by the Communist Party, my young informants explained, the situation has become much more difficult for people escaping Tibet, because the Nepalese government has become much closer to China, and now is much more likely to turn refugees back or imprison them.

Nevertheless, they told me the same thing that I'd heard from others: that back home in Tibet, the ordinary Chinese people remain very sympathetic to the plight of their Tibetan neighbors. We all thought that in the long term, Tibet's best hope may lie with ordinary Chinese and the changes they may eventually insist on bringing to their country.

Today, our conversation then turned to topics closer to their young hearts: travel and fashion. They had asked where I'm from in the US, so we spent much of our hour inspecting a world map. We digressed for a few minutes to the topic of whether it's true that it stays dark for many weeks in the winter in Alaska (I explained that it is true, and circled one tilted fist around the other to try to demonstrate why). But the conversation then turned to a topic of greater interest: what it's like in the countries in Europe they'd love to visit. Switzerland and Austria rank high in their lists because of the beautiful mountain scenery and the alpine pastures with animals (Like Tibet!, I remarked). And France, too, especially Paris, which we agreed is probably the world capital of fashion. I described a recent story I'd read in the Times of India about US fashion designer Donna Karan's visit to India, and how much she'd liked the clothing she saw in India. I speculated that in a year or so, we may see India-inspired designs on the runways in Paris and New York. We all thought that traditional Tibetan chubas were bound to hit the fashion world soon.

I saw my much younger self in them as we talked and ran our fingers around the Europe section of the map. I felt regret that they were unlikely to travel the world as I've been lucky enough to do in my life. Even if they somehow obtained the money, their passport-less state would create complications (as refugees, they have only ID cards). With their bright young faces in front of me, it was easy to remember how exhilarated I'd been at age 22 when I first traveled Europe as a frugal backpacker. But I could not detect a flicker of self-pity or envy in my young friends. They seemed to epitomize the adage, "Bloom where you're planted."

It's noon on Tuesday, and I'm taking a quick blogging break before I need to prepare to teach my English class at 2pm.

As always in Mcleodganj and in India generally, so much happens in a day or two! For one thing, on Saturday, India, which had won the semi-final game against Pakistan, went on to win the cricket World Cup after besting Sri Lanka in what must have been a very exciting final game. I didn't watch the game, but it was fun to see the streets so quiet and empty. A short story in the Times of India yesterday reported that many Pakistani cricket fans were expressing pleasure that their "next door brother" had won, and their sense that the best team had won. Maybe sports really can help to bring peace between these two countries.

Saturday evening, I had dinner with a new American friend who had just returned from a short trip to Kashmir. S was recently widowed and is nearing 70, but once you meet her, it's soon clear that she has no intention to retire from life. She'd never done anything like visit India, much less Kashmir, where there are security concerns, but she decided to join a friend on this trip, and she's having a ball. Kashmir was generally cold and rainy, and she and her travel companion nearly froze in their otherwise lovely houseboat on the storied Lake Dal by Srinagar. And no one, anywhere, was able to accept her credit card, which she'd assumed she'd be able to use everywhere as she does in the States. But nevertheless, it was clear that they'd had a very good trip, and that she'd be showing her photos and telling her stories back home in Pennsylvania for a long time to come.

She also had learned, and passed along to me, that a puja (blessing ceremony) had begun in the main Temple, for the purpose of blessing the medicinal herbs that have been collected and that soon will be used to make this year's supply of Tibetan medicine. I went over to the Temple on Sunday afternoon to watch the puja. Inside the main upper chamber of the Temple, long lines of monks chanted, rang bells, clashed cymbals, and blew huge Tibetan horns, in order to bless the big stack of burlap bags of herbs towering over them. This puja continues for days, I'm told. Imagine if we in the West had this relationship to the medicines we use to cure people? It's hard to imagine a process that's further to the other end of the spectrum than the highly commercialized drug manufacturing and delivery processes of the US.

Whenever I visit this upper part of the Temple--which I do at least once a week--I like to circumambulate it on a designated walking path, and I did some circumambulations once I'd watched the puja for a while. It's always a very peaceful, centering thing to do, and there are long rows of big prayer wheels to turn as I walk. I'm never alone, either in walking or in turning the prayer wheels, and the wheels are rarely still. There are always Tibetans, many of whom appear to be older refugees, and always lots of visiting Indians as well as Westerners. A group of young Punjabis from a town near Amritsar asked to take my picture with them. I was happy to oblige, and told them how impressed I had been by our visit to Amritsar and the Golden Temple. Farther along, I encountered a young Tibetan father and his young son, who was just learning to walk, and who was sporting tiny sneakers that squeaked like ducks as he tottered along the walkway. His father and I grinned at each other with delight as we watched him.

Meanwhile, outside the Temple gates, a small crowd had gathered, in part because news had gotten around that His Holiness was about to arrive, on his way back from a meeting in Delhi. The crowd by the gates included a large group of local students fasting for the day in honor of a young Tibetan monk who had immolated himself in Lhasa several weeks ago to protest China's restrictions on Tibetans (many of us were fasting along with them, in solidarity; it was probably a bad day for Mcleodganj's restaurants). At a booth opposite the students, I made a donation and signed a related petition to the Chinese government. I suppose that none of us who stopped by the booth are going to hold our breaths waiting for changes in Tibet, but then, large political changes usually happen in small steps. Think of the decades of patient work it took Mr. Gandhi and his colleagues to win India's freedom!

The crowd included mostly Tibetans, along with Indians and Westerners. It was an attractive group: so many people, young and old, many already with palms pressed together in prayer. Love and devotion beamed from many faces. A moment or two later, we could hear a police siren in Temple Road below us, then a police vehicle drove past us into the Temple gates, and then, as I'd already learned to expect, in the passenger seat of the second car was His Holiness, glimpsed just for a moment or two before his car passed through the gates and out of view. I walked back up the road, reflecting on his heavy responsibilities, and how he must know very well how many people rely on him. There will never be such a thing as a quiet retirement for him.

Right now, the crack Indian and Pakistani cricket teams are competing in a World Cup semifinal game, and this nation is riveted on the game.

Regardless of who wins, a couple of things I've noticed seem to me to highlight a widespread open-heartedness that I find so typical of Indian people in general, and that I love.

First, Indian Prime Minister Singh (whom I like a lot in any case) invited Pakistani Prime Minister Gilani to watch the game with him. Happily, his inspired invitation was accepted, and Google News is presently displaying a nice photo of the two leaders chatting together.

Second, the following article (abbreviated a bit by me) appeared in the Times of India today. I found it so heartwarming that I'm going to use it as a class reading exercise tomorrow:

THEY GAVE UP THEIR TICKETS FOR PAK FANS

Chandigarh: They have all done a good turn for Pakistani cricket fans, but for different reasons. They are Indians who have given up their prized Match tickets so that enthusiasts from the neighboring country can be at Mohali for Wednesday’s big match.

A case in point is theater personality Sudesh Sharma. Inspired by a short story by Mohan Rakesh about a Pakistani hockey spectator’s search for his roots during a match at Amritsar, Sharma donated his son’s and his own tickets for Wednesday’s match to Pakistani peaceniks. Sharma also said that India gains from the visits of Pakistanis as they will aspire to achieve what India has already done.

Ranjai Sodhi, an 18-year-old from Hardiwar, felt a touch of spirituality while persuading five college friends to hand over their tickets to Pakistanis. He said, “Offering your seat or possessions to somebody whom people have branded your enemy is a journey to destroy stereotypes to explore peace, friendship, and love.”

A manager of Union Bank of India, Dileep Khanna, gave up his tickets to salvage India’s corrupt image, caused by black marketing of the semifinal tickets and a number of scams. Khanna said that by offering tickets to Pakistanis, “I’ve sent a message that India is not just a home to black marketers and scamsters but also to those who adjust for somebody who wants to see the match and promote peace.”

#

I'm near the end of a busy day. I took over the Intermediate English class this week, and my students are whizzing expertly through the verb tenses review that I thought would take much longer. I can see that they will have me hustling to keep up with them for the next two months. I am very much appreciating their energy and enthusiasm, and their geniality. All are Tibetans, and about a third are monks.

I'm now at a busy internet cafe up the road from my guesthouse, packed in between a young German having a tearful heart-to-heart talk via Skype with her partner, and others emailing and blogging. Even in the shadow of the Dalai Lama's palace, the human condition is alive and well in Mcleodgang, in all its manifestations.

My weekdays now start with breakfast at a rooftop cafe with my Swedish friend E, and then a half-hour walk down the hill to the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, where I'm taking my morning classes in Tibetan language and Buddhist philosophy (E is also taking the language class, so we walk down together).

I walk back up the hill when my classes end at noon. Today's noon walk reminded me that an essential aspect of life in India is that the sublime can appear in one moment, and the devastatingly tragic in another. One can never predict which will appear, or when. Rounding an uphill bend during my walk, I noticed a line of stopped cars above me, and then heard police sirens. "An accident!," I first thought, with alarm. It would be too easy for a car to strike a pedestrian or motorcyclist on this narrow, winding road, or for cars to collide.

But that wasn't why the cars were stopped. Seconds later, a police car swept past me with a line of cars following behind. And of course, there was His Holiness in the passenger seat of the second car, smiling gently at the many people--including me--waving and bowing to him as he passed. He must have been on his way to a meeting somewhere. A highlight for today!

And now, an update on the "old man" I wrote about in my last post. I've since learned that he's actually just 3 years older than I (hence I'm leaving the "old" off my descriptions of him from now on), and his name is A. His situation is now very much improved, thanks to my Swedish friend E. She went to see him late last week, discovered that he'd had to spend a night on the street, and went into action to find a better solution for him. She called her various contacts, and some of her Tibetan men friends proved especially helpful. "They're my heroes!," she exclaimed to me when we met over breakfast on Monday. A longer-term guesthouse stay was soon arranged for him, and one of the Tibetans will stay overnight with A for the next month, in return for modest remuneration from A. He now takes A over to the Green Hotel in the morning--where A generally prefers to spend his days--and picks him up in the evening.

So we're all relaxing a bit on this score, but the experience of trying to help A is making us all reflect. Further, my Calcutta friend P asked a very pertinent question in a comment on my last post: "If the man was a poor Indian, would you have helped this much?" Though I don't like to think it, I suspect I wouldn't. The difference mainly has to do with how one naturally feels more hesitant when crossing language and cultural barriers, and what I'm even able to notice or figure out about a person's situation, given that very few poor Indians speak English and my Hindi is still poor. It's simply far easier for me to communicate with an English-speaking Westerner who uses the same cultural cues I do.

The difference also has to do with the fact that I've only encountered a single Westerner who needed significant help, while in contrast, each day, many Indian people ask for money from me, or appear to be in possible distress. I try to be intentional when I'm asked for money, typically giving money mainly to older women who seem to be alone and to physically disabled people. It may seem paradoxical, but I've stopped giving money to mothers with young children who are asking for money to feed those children (this is common here). That's because I've been told by development volunteer friends that at least here, there is subsidy money for parents who need food money, and that children are often kept out of school in order to be used for begging. One friend who helps out in a slum in lower Dharamsala knows a very attractive and bright little boy who's being kept from school because his parents make so much money by having him beg. I certainly don't want to encourage the removal of children from school! P, I would be especially interested in your thoughts on, um, my thoughts. Encountering the destitute while recognizing my relative prosperity is easily the most deeply disturbing kind of experience I've had in this country. But then again, I've had the same experience among the homeless population back home in Seattle...

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with big black kites soaring in the thermals above the forested ridges across from Mcleodganj, a few rumbles of thunder sounding behind the high peaks, and yellow butterflies flitting among the potted flowers on the balcony of the Green Hotel, where I just had a light lunch. I just returned from a day of hill-walking: I made my way up to the village of Dharamkot, explored some higher trails, then walked across the hillside to the village of Bhagsu, and then walked the road back around to Mcleodganj. All in all, a lovely day out in the sunshine, among flowering fruit trees and new spring growth in the terraced farm fields.

Sometimes, I feel that I'm a temporary resident of Shangra-la. Other times, I'm reminded that even this lovely town is part of the human condition.

On Thursday, Geshe-la, the very wise teacher of my Buddhist philosophy class, quoted a comment by His Holiness to the effect that we typically find it easier to show compassion if the object of that compassion is attractive. I dutifully recorded that comment in my notes.

That evening, while having a late dinner in the Green Hotel, I noticed a disturbance behind me. An old man, white-bearded, sunken-cheeked, and bent over, was fiercely arguing with the taxi driver who had just brought him here from New Delhi. The man, who was quite angry, would not back down during this argument, and the driver eventually gave up and left.

I turned my attention back to my dinner, thinking no more of what I'd seen. Later though, I realized that the old man was still sitting, still bent over, in a restaurant chair behind me. A young German couple joined him to find out whether he needed help. They had to bend very close to his face to hear his weak voice.

I eventually asked the Germans what the situation was. It emerged that the old man has traveled independently for many years in India, and perhaps no longer has a permanent home, though he's originally from New York. The Germans had gotten to know him last year in Goa. He has Parkinson's, the old man explained to me himself, and he came here in search of a cure. As best the Germans and I could make out, he had simply hired the taxi and arrived here alone. He had hoped to get a room in the Green Hotel, which is a popular guesthouse, but they had no rooms and he had no reservation. The proprietress called several other guesthouses to see whether they had rooms. None were available, however, and the hour was now late--the restaurant would soon need to close.

Conversation with the old man revealed that he would much prefer to go home with either the Germans or myself, but the Germans live in Dharamkot--an impossible uphill walk for the old man, especially at night--and I have a small single room in a guesthouse at the lower end of town. I did not want either to share my bed or sleep on my cold floor, and didn't want to spend my night helping the old man, who cannot use a toilet during the night without assistance. I also didn't want to become, overnight, his defacto caregiver. I asked a party of Tibetan monks at a nearby table whether a space in a monastery for the night would be an option, but they had just arrived from South India and did not know. Someone thought that the Tibetan Welfare Office might be able to help, but it was closed for the night.

The German man and I went off to search for a room for the old man in nearby guesthouses, and finally found one, though it was reluctantly offered. We effusively thanked the guesthouse owner, and returned to the Green Hotel to retrieve the old man and his baggage. He was reluctant to leave the Green Hotel--he clearly would have preferred to stay there, plus someone had gotten him a slice of cheesecake that he was very slowly eating--but though the proprietress was sympathetic, the hotel needed to close for the night.

Finally, as the lights were going out in the restaurant, we moved the old man and his baggage to the other guesthouse. The Germans decided to spend the night with him in his double room so that they could help him during the night. I gave them money to cover that night's lodging, and left for my guesthouse. I knew very well that leaving as I did freed me of the responsibility of helping the man find longer-term lodgings and personal assistance the next morning. I felt relieved but also thoroughly guilty about not doing more for him, given how helpless he seemed to be.

I still felt guilty the next morning as I walked down the hill towards the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives for my morning classes. I ruminated about how, yes, it indeed seemed to be easier for me to help more attractive beings, such as my Tibetan English students, than someone old, sick, helpless, and a bit grumpy.

Once at the Library, I found my new Swedish friend E. I recounted my experience to her. "Oh, the old man is back!," she exclaimed happily. She was able to fill in some history details for me. He has spent many months, perhaps years, here over the course of numerous visits, and has an extensive social circle. E remembered that he typically has stayed at the Green Hotel, and that she often saw him in the restaurant there, usually attended by friends helping him with his exercises, or otherwise keeping him company. Her point of view was that I had given the man help when he needed it, and that I should expect that many others would also be helping him out, as they'd done before. She felt that it is very beneficial to the old man to be back here.

My heart felt lighter then, and became lighter still when another friend later confirmed E's observations--she had photos from years ago that included the old man before he had become ill.

After my guilt-filled evening and my following morning conversations, I reflected that so often in life, we encounter situations--including tragic ones like this one--where all we can do is muddle through moment by moment, while trying to keep our hearts as open as possible. Somewhere in another dimension, there may be people who can consistently ride to the rescue like the Lone Ranger, consistently knowing exactly what to do. Not hardly in this dimension. But the good news that I take from my experience is that we probably are not as alone as we may feel in the middle of a difficult and confusing situation, that we may be doing a better job than we give ourselves credit for, and that ordinary people are quite capable of finding their way through the confusion to a good solution, even when the likelihood of such as solution looks especially minute.