Detach

Namaste,

They needed masks.

They needed to understand the underlying unconscious animist mysteries inside their masks of death. They confronted the realm of spirit. They bought masks in open air markets on their pilgrimage, masks signifying the dignity of their Being, thwarting demons, Being demons and ghosts dancing in light. 

It was all light in their shamanistic interior landscape. They learned to let go of the ego, detach from outcomes, eliminate the need to control, trust their spirit energies and remain light about it.

Inside light with slow fingers and long thin ivory nails they turned clay into pots. Spinning circles danced turning on a Wheel of Time.

They finished throwing them, used them for tribal ceremonies and smashed delicate clay pots to earth. They exploded into air creating volcanic ash coating everything in a fine dust.

Metta.

June danced

Namaste,

june said fare-thee-well o little
one dancing inside a red mask
celebrating innocent language tongues
flapping in himalayan winds

waving her sword of knowledge
cutting through ignorance
children scatter laughing
adults ran crying

Metta.

myth stories

Namaste,

the stories we live
comprise the mythology
of our lives
and in that mythology
lies the key to truth and mystery

Metta.

88 seconds in Nepal

Namaste,

Namaste means I salute the light (god) within you.

 

It is the daily Hindu greeting between people with your palms and fingers together raised toward your eyes in a blessing. Smile. 

 

He visited Nepal for 88 seconds. First was Bhaktapur, outside Kathmandu.

No traffic. No pollution. Cool fresh air. Limited electricity access. Daily power outages are the norm. Ironic considering Nepal has the second highest water volume energy source on Earth.

 

It is an ancient town, filled with Hindu temples, daily rituals, ringing bells, flowers and incense offerings, old hand carved wooden windows, brick homes, brick streets, tiled roofs, pottery, yogurt, vegetable and fruit life street market squares, amazing flowing sari and shawl rainbows, gentle people. It's on the old trading route from Tibet to India. 

 

There is no home plumbing. If you need water you go to the community well after dawn and before dusk. You drop your plastic container down brick shafts. You haul it up hand over hand. You pour it into narrow necked brass or copper urns.

 

You drop it again. You haul it up. Repeat until urns are full. You carry them on your hips through narrow brick alleys filled with friends and families. At home you filter it.

You boil it.

You drink it.

You use it for cooking, washing clothes, brushing teeth (a popular outdoor activity) and bathing.

Recycle, reuse, refresh. You return to the well.

Women and girls do all the water hauling, heavy water lifting and daily manual labor. So it goes. 

Metta.

songlines

Namaste,

"Poetry proper is never merely a higher mode (melos) of everyday language. It is rather the reverse: everyday language is a forgotten and therefore used-up poem, from which there hardly resounds a call any longer." -Martin Heidegger, 'Language'

+

"Have you seen the Indians?" asked the son of the Emir of Adrar.
"I have." 
"Is it a village or what?"
"No," I said. "It is one of the greatest countries in the world."
"Tiens! I always thought it was a village."

+

"Useless to ask a wandering man
Advice on the construction of a house.
The work will never come to completion."

-Songlines, by Bruce Chatwin.

Metta.