To Bring Back Home

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Like a crack to a stone, frozen in a high mountain clime, warmed by a sudden release; Tashi, then Loti, and then Shampa came back into my life, as I their's. We met on the streets, upon the steep hills of McLeod Ganj, spontaneously, by the will of what is.

It started with an early arrival on the 5th. 5:30 AM, freezing, a small pack and the British Airways blanket cloaked as a shawl. Kicked off the bus at its final destination, I wandered down familiar paths toward Tashi and Gyathar's home. I arrived, half numb, and waited outside with the intent to not disturb its inhabitants. Time ticked; one hour, two hours—I drifted in and out of sleep, haunted by flash-dreams of frostbite until the owner of the property emerged from his room.

"Tashi," he inquired?

I nodded, when in actuality I was shaking.

"Last night—not here. Tashi's not home."

I still shook, added my nod, and with little else to do I stashed my bag behind a wooden crate and took to the hills, climbing to town in search of familiar faces.

It wasn't until 11 o'clock. I had found the activities to fill my idle hands—e-mail, tea, a pastry, another pastry, more tea, then back to wandering. As I passed The Dogga (where volunteers provide English classes to Tibetan students) my gaze led to the roof. The sun was at a high angle, shining intense warmth within the altitude. In the background tall youthful peaks rose to a clear azul sky, representing the southern foothills of a massive, dream-entranced, nomadic-inspiring range of the Himalayas. Their slopes were bare, a rough grey of granite and basalt. Pine trees led down to civilization; slate-roofed housing, white-washed spires of the scattered Hindu shrines, and hawks drifting in a silent updraft.

My eyes took it in, but they froze on one subject. The views, the mountains, the housing, shrines, and hawks were all familiar; a feeling of home within the present surroundings, and it was so comfortable—fulfilling. But what broke the seal of a carbonated heart, bubbling once shook with expectation, was a pair of eyes, likewise frozen in mine. Heart skipped. Shaken. Its cap popped, and simultaneously, both pairs broke away to find the nearest junction.

As I ran up the steps, and as Tashi ran toward their top, I couldn't help but chant Tashi, Tashi, Tashi, which immediately discontinued as we embraced—full arms, flooded hearts—continuing to release our bubbles of joy, our cracks of warmth, to dear soul friends.

What followed were the subsequent reunions with my other brothers Loti and then Shampa, held and shared, never wishing to let go.

That was over a week ago, and now settled in Tashi's room, absent of Gyathar's presence whom has been away with his parents for the first time since arriving to India, some twelve years ago. Together we cook food, eat, and drink Tibetan butter tea; laugh and share stories and dreams. Tashi's will always be to travel to China, Europe, and the US teaching yoga and remaining firm to his Buddhist vow.

Loti and Shampa share a similar hope; living and working in a western country where they can learn the fluency of the English language and make a comfortable life without the limitation of remaining a refugee in exile. Between them, Shampa has the upper hand after recently marrying a French woman. Together, the couple has traveled India and will soon meet Shampa's parents for the first time in five years. Two nights ago he had the chance to speak with them. On the phone, his father was speechless, choked with tears by the anticipation of a reunion with his son. I can't say I know the feeling of either.

But over a year ago I spent six weeks with these soul friends, teaching English and sharing one another's culture. And to have returned, and to witness and be a part of the change within their lives has opened my heart with the confidence of their higher dreams, with a re-established compassion and faith reaching abroad after the impactful experience of Africa.


As I sit within the slate-stone courtyard of the Thekchen Choeling Temple listening to His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama give teachings on the "Chapter on Meditation" from Shantideva's A Guide to the Bodhisattva's Way of Life, I am relaxed in the cool shades of numerous pines and naked deciduous trees. Within my week and a half stay, I have taken Tibetan cooking classes and attended a daily Tibetan language class. But the days wind down as Tashi and I prepare for our departure on the 23rd of this month. We will be joining a Peace Walk commemorating the 75th anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi's Salt March; a walk protesting the prohibition of the production and sale of salt among Indians inhibited by the British rule. For three weeks we will be retracing Gandhi's steps starting in Ahmadabad, ending on the coast of the Arabian Sea. It has been organized by Ven. Bushito Morita, a Buddhist monk of the Japanese order Nipponzan Myhoji. Tashi's excitement rises over these prayer-full days as we prepare for a different kind of puja.

Walking, walking, and walking—one foot in front of the other—through rural Gujarati villages with the surrounding of peace within us; with the remembrance of the type of change, the role of the teacher, we can all become. There are numerous among us, each individual influencing each other on a moment-to-moment basis, handing over the lesson to see how we choose to handle it.

On Tuesday, the second day of the five-day teaching, His Holiness spoke of selflessness; opening one's perspective to see all others, neither as inferior nor superior to you, but completely capable, and having equal right, to be in your shoes—and you theirs. I was humbled as my heart lifted. Questions arose: Why have I been competing with others, especially the beggars and lepers of the streets? Why am I resistant to share my good fortune? Haven't I given enough; Tashi and Gyathar, Shampa, Loti, Africa, and the mail and more mail from charities back home?

To be honest, I have been completely disconsolate toward them compared to last year when I was open and felt empathy for their condition.

More questions: Has Nigeria changed me by such amounts? And in what way?

The beggars, the lepers, the mothers and their children in rags are people just like me, my family and friends, and they have all the respect and potential to be who I am today, but it is because of their classification as human beings in India's archaic system that prohibits their potential. And as I walk by, I have felt a disgust at the manner of their begging. "Sir, sir! Namaste Baba!" They don't want anything but my money. One woman reached toward my shoulders indicating, "Blanket. Gimme blanket," while a young woman with a child in her arms and two towing behind her asked for milk, rice, or chapatti. Anything.

Again, I have been sour and disconsolate toward them. But as the Dalai Lama related his message that afternoon; Do not compete with those inferior to you; the belief of superior and inferior is what creates this thought. There is no reason for this. There is no reason to compete with other sentient beings, I felt that crack in the rock widen—that warmth with the release.

At lunch, heading back to the temple for this teaching, an Indian man dressed nicely, casually, appropriate for errands and an afternoon stroll, approached me kindly.

"How pleasant it is."

"Yeah," I responded. "It's beautiful."

I walked on; a new companion by my side.

"It's a sunny day," the man observed.

I couldn't agree more.

"And how are you?"

Fine, you?

This led him to his entry point. He made it quietly. "I am hungry, but I need a little money for breakfast."

Typical, I thought. Looking over at him, I felt a recognition from last year; same man, same query. I said the first thing that came to mind—my reaction; "You know, if I gave money to everyone who asked me I'd be a poor man."

That was the extent of our conversation, but he kept by my side looking over at me with the same calm smiling face. I wanted to ask him about a job, his fine pressed clothing, the comparison of him and the lepers we passed; hands, feet, head wrapped in gauze. But I didn't. It was none of my business, but more, I didn't care.

What I felt was the same as with the others; he didn't want to know me, and likewise, he didn't care about me. He just wanted my money as much as I wanted him to leave.

With Nigeria—the volunteering—with Tashi and Gyathar, Loti, and Shampa, I also have the feeling like that's my whole share. As a young male, without a job, being the age of a student, how much more can I give? How much more can I give before I run out and have to stall my dreams, my travels, my ambitions? I have given so much, and what is important to me is to give to those who don't just want my money, but they're true friends; partners. That's my return.

But right here I find myself at a stalling point. Gears jammed. Pistons frozen. That's just it; I expect a return. I expect a performance. You could say my giving has been conditioned to what is given in return, not only to me, but to others.

What will the beggars give back? I can think of little else and nothing.

Then I ask: Is that of my concern? Apparently it is, but should it be?

I remember giving last year, openly and freely, and how wonderful it felt. My generosity brought me here today, but I've cut that. Do I still have the wish to help others? To end suffering? Then what's wrong? Selfishness?

As cold creeps across the shaded grounds, and the sun tilts lower and lower to a southern horizon, I head toward home with a handful of coins. In tin bowls, I drop change and some bills, and look into their red, pleading eyes. They turn grateful, full of joy, carbonated with the shine of appreciation. I smile. I've found that feeling. The beggars, the lepers, the mothers and their children—ordinary people with beautiful riveting souls—they respond, Namaste Baba!

Namaste.

Pockets grow large with the generosity of the gift, and I think of my soul friends here and back home, I think of my family and those who partnered with me and Global Citizen Journey to make it all possible. A message comes to mind: Make it your life's goal to benefit all sentient beings. Thank you.

I now open to you and inquire for your help and knowledge. For a year I have been supporting my brothers here and have been searching for a network to follow as to how to obtain the appropriate documents to bring them to the US. Though with persistence, each time I arrive at a dead-end. Does any reader know how we can help my friends Tashi, Gyathar, and Loti acquire the visa to travel, work, and live abroad? Are there any of you with the contacts and connections within such procedures for a few Tibetan refugees to gain the opportunity to feel the freedom that we all know too well? A friend within an embassy? A friend of a friend within an embassy?

And also, anyone know any publishers looking for a young, dedicated, developing writer?

In Peace, In Love,
cam

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Photos

Contrasts
At a Tibetan Reception where the Dalai Lama welcomes the new refugees from Tibet.

Shampa's Lunch
Outside Shampa's room for family...with family.

Dra Nyin
"Dra nyin"-a Tibetan instrument. "Dra" meaning sound. "Nyin" meaning rhythm.

International Monk
Tashi with a modern marvel to his life's experience.

Courting Desire
The courtyard outside Tashi and Gyathar's room in the late-afternoon sun.

Round and Round
The monkey goes

Night Chills
Tashi and I on our way to Ahmedabad to begin the Peace Walk

Comments

[JUDY]

BEGGING
FIRST, THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORY. YOU ASK AND PONDER LIFE'S IMPORTANT QUESTIONS: WHY DO I HAVE MORE THEN OTHERS? HOW CAN I SHARE WITHOUT RESENTMENT? MUST MY GIFTS BE REPAID WITH A PERFORMANCE OR WITH GRATITUDE? YOU BEGIN TO RECOGNIZE THAT YOU ARE LUCKY BEYOND ALL MEASURE. WITH YOUR GOOD FORTUNE YOU ALSO HAVE A SENSE OF RESPONSIBILTY. IMAGINE USING YOUR TRAVEL MONEY TO BUILD A SCHOOL IN NIGERIA, A COMMUNITY KITCHEN IN INDIA, FEEDING A FAMILY FOR SEVERAL YEARS WITH YOUR DISPOSABLE INCOME. THERE ARE MANY PEOPLE IN AMERICA WHO DO NOT HAVE HIGH PAYING JOBS WHO MAKE A COMMITMENT TO CONTRIBUTE TO SOMEONE WHO IS LESS FORTUNATE. THEY DO NOT NEED THE PERFORMANCE OR THE GRATEFUL EYES. THEY SIMPLY KNOW DEEPLY THAT WITHOUT RECOGNITION THEY ARE MAKING A DIFFERENCE. YOUR FRIENDS WANT A BETTER LIFE IN THE STATES. MY FAMILY CAME TO AMERICA FOR A BETTER LIFE AND FOUND IT. MAYBE WE SHOULD BEGIN TO MAKE SURE THAT PEOPLE CAN HAVE A BETTER LIFE IN THE PLACES THEY CURRENTLY LIVE. I LIKE THE OMETEPE MODEL. WISHING YOU SAFE JOURNEYS AND A GROWING COMPASSIONATE HEART. JUDY

[Susan]

sharing your spiritual challenge of beggars
Thank you for this soulful sharing, Cameron... I too experience that spiritual challenge each time I pass a panhandler... How to stay open and generous and yet a steward of one's resources. As I refelct on what you've written and stirred, my thought comes to: Perhaps the opening is not to expect any resolution but to greet the aliveness, tension and call of the struggele of each of those moments. A wake up call the questions, What is the state of my heart, is my generosity flowing, am I being caught by fear and scarcity. Am I at peace and radiating peace in this moment -- whether that includes a coin or not. I wish I had some help for your Tibetan friends... Sending you much love and WARM hugs. Brr.

[Dennis P.]

Sharing / Redistributing Money
Cam. Tell me you have a paypal account and what your user name is. Life speaks through your honesty. Your hand is open to share with your family as their hands are open to share with their families. We can add coin and paper to your/their smiles. Namaste Friend.

[Bryn]

Your questing gives us blessings
Thank you for challenging our awareness with your inquiry into the nature of selflessness. Perhaps when we give freely without fear of want we are sharing not only the material with which we dispense but the essence through which we give. seeking gratitude or acknowledgement for the gifts we share, distracts us from the initial act of giving- when called upon by our fellow being they give to us the opportunity to become aware of our own abundance and therefore the opportunity to let go without fear of want. (On a side note, your log challenged me to put to words my own feelings and understanding of selflessness. I wrote lucidly one time through and then accidently erased it. I was frusturated, although taking the time to write again lets it resonate more deeply with my conciousness.) Thank you Cameron. love, Bryn

[Mark]

Grist
More grist for Cameron's mill. Ask the questions, then meditate. To do the work of saving others we must save ourselves. A peaceful island can exist in a restless sea.

[Manue]

Jolie rapport. Je vais y passer un mois à Mcleod Ganj:) weezzz.