Tag Archives: mindfulness

Riding the Rails

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Literally billions of people ride the Indian Railways every year – 8.086 billion in 2022. Established in 1836, it remains the most utilized form of public transportation between cities in India. Cheap, reliable, and relatively comfortable, passengers can choose between at least 3 classes of travel from non-air conditioned, usually very crowded, sleeper class to air conditioned first class (not available on most trains) with only one person per berth. Clean sheets and pillow cases are provided. There’s a small table and individual reading light in each berth. The seats revert into beds. Often there is a western toilet as well as an Indian “toilet” and the bathrooms are relatively clean, although often stinky.

The reservation process is tricky.

We were fortunate our first time in India to be taken under the wing of the young man who arranged for us to see tigers in Bandhavgarth. Though not at all his job, he walked us through the complicated process of opening our own Indian Railway account. As a result, we’ve been able to purchase train tickets online on every trip since. Most foreigners use the ubiquitous travel agencies where they can purchase train tickets for an added fee.

The status of a reservation is crucial.

We didn’t understand what all the abbreviations stood for at first and learned by making funny mistakes which thankfully didn’t result in us getting kicked off trains, but only because Indians have inhuman patience with how life rolls.

There are many levels of waiting list status. The final status only becomes available 3-4 hours before the train leaves the station. That’s why so many Indian families can be seen sitting, or even sleeping, on the platform floor. Often they’ve brought stainless steel closed pots with food for the long wait.

If a seat has not become available money is automatically refunded.

If one traveler receives confirmed status, all travelers in her party can board the train but they may not have an actual seat. They can sit on the berth of the confirmed traveler…or on the floor.

And then there’s finding the correct platform and your particular train car’s position. The train may stop for only 2 minutes and each train is ridiculously long. If you read Tamil Nadu or Mayalayam you may not have trouble reading the electronic sign but, even so, the platform may change. The final platform may only be announced (thankfully also in English though so heavily accented sometimes that it’s a challenge to understand) 10 minutes before the train’s arrival. Being old and very white, people often approach us to ask if they can assist us in standing in the right place. Indian kindness and gentleness is found everywhere.

Our first time in India we had to keep asking where to get off the train. There’s no announcement of stations. The stations are often not lit up so there’s no possibility of seeing the name of the stations at night. At that time there was no live online running status as there has been for consequent trips. Again Saptarishi, our guardian angel on our first trip, stepped in to save us on one overnight journey. He called us as 4 am to tell us to get off at the next stop. Sweet guy. Who knows where we would’ve ended up?

There’s a sense of accomplishment in learning the twists and turns of using the train system. And not only fanagling our way effortlessly through the process.

Also realizing that less is more. Each trip I’ve packed less so as to be more comfortable getting on and off trains as well as having more space around me in the berth. And that’s a useful skill for every aspect of travel, imo.

Also being with Indian travelers and having some interesting conversations- glimpses into their lives. Once a large group of university students traveling to various cities to see different types of city planning. Another time two middle aged couples – friends – taking an annual vacation together. A few days ago a young man whose job it is to be sure used linens are removed and clean linens provided.

On one of our first train trips a 50-something couple, both professors, returning home from visiting their son at college explained the Hindu relationship with god/dess statues and shared their views on arranged marriages versus “love marriages” (they were shocked to learn that ours wasn’t an arranged marriage).

Another benefit is being able to move around, stretch your legs, and even do a little yoga if you’re so inclined. India is huge – Rajasthan, one state out of 28 – is the size of Germany. A journey between cities might be a couple of days or more. Hiring a car with a driver is relatively inexpensive but not only are you in a pristine bubble, removed from actual India, you’re also stuck in a car for hours and hours, day after day. Sure, you can stop whoever you want, and you can stay overnight in nice air conditioned hotels along the way, but it just takes that much longer and is, imo, claustrophobic.

Did I mention the vendors who hop on the train selling tea, coffee, snacks, and meals?

“Chai, chai, masala chai, coffee!”

So far we’ve only been on two train trips and I’m not sure how many more we’ll take this time around.

I’m already feeling a bit nostalgic..

A Gentler Way of Life

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We’re leaving Thumpoly Beach later today.
Yesterday I spent two hours happily painting with acrylics surrounded by paintings of local artists and classical music in a specially designated room in a local art gallery. The owner of the gallery, a retired professor of political science and engineering, provides this wonderful experience for any tourist fortunate enough to learn of the possibility and make a reservation. There’s no fee.
He explained as we shared a cup of (way too sweet) coffee that he left the university five years before the age of retirement because his wife left her teaching position and was at home. There was a hint of illness on her part but he didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.
I sensed that the experiential opportunity he offers is an opportunity for him to socialize with people from all over the world now that he’s restricted to this lovely but insular fishing village. We chatted for an hour as he brought out spicy roasted cashews and cookies. A little politics (a big Modii and Bibi fan). A little religion (he’s Christian and fondly recalled his pilgrimage to Israel). A little economy (India has a vastly more reasonably priced medical system and price of living).
A man happy with his lot in life.
As I walked home I thought it could be very pleasant to be in Thumpoly for an extended visit and share afternoon tea and conversation with him from time to time.
I recognized several of the women I passed in their colorful saris with an umbrella held overhead to protect them for the sizzling sun. We smiled at each other, wagged our heads and offered a soft ‘namaste’.
Most stores are closed for a few hours when the sun is at its hottest and only now, at five o’clock, people are again out and about.
My partner and I had agreed just that morning that, as wonderful as it is here, we were ready to move on. But as I gazed at The Arabian Sea and the young men strolling along the beach I realized that I’m a little sad to be leaving.
Every morning we see the fishermen heading out for another day of catching whatever they can – and it isn’t much this time of year. They throw their gill nets or small trawling nets and harvest what they can. A few shrimp. A crab or two. A kilo of very small fish if they’re lucky. Later in the day we see exuberant children walk by in their school uniforms. Inevitably they stop to say hello, ask our names (again) and inquire after our health.
In the late afternoon, when there’s more of a breeze, we see various village residents walking by on the dirt path along the shore in front of our balcony. No one is in a hurry. They seem to be enjoying the sea air and the crash of the waves as much as we do, even though they’ve undoubtedly lived here all their lives.
I suppose there’s gossip and intrigues here as there are everywhere; heartbreak, ill health, kids making life choices their parents don’t understand.
There are very big beautiful homes and tiny unkempt hovels.
But in general life here seems to have a gentle rhythm and people seem to smile much more than in the towns with which I’m more familiar.
Our friends here have two children, which is the norm. One, their daughter, was accepted into the engineering program at a prestigious university very far away. The other, their son, is finishing high school and plans to spend seven years in the army.
Our friend, Antony, raised in this village, the son of a fisherman, was a career officer, head of the anti-terrorist units fighting in Kashmir, and retired as a colonel, one of the wealthier residents of Thumpoly. His wife is a school principal who (in spite of her profession?) is almost always smiling and happy.
Antony and Teresa both give much of their time to the community. Whether from modesty or simply relaying this village’s reality, Antony has told us often that giving to the community is the norm and not the exception.
There are certainly downsides to life in this crazy patchwork of a billion and a half people, over 25 spoken languages, millions living in slums alongside the abundance of IT employment, jewelry production and export, and a caste system which refuses to die, just to name a few challenges.
At the same time, there is a gentler way of life and a serene inner beauty to those who have less, in many cases a whole lot less, but retain an appreciation for what they do have.
So, yes, I’m a little sad to be moving on, even while I look forward to better physical conditions and an evening cocktail.
Ah! The contradictions of life.

To each her story; to each his unique voice

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Marie Renee lives outside of Geneva in a small village and bicycles to work every day. Her husband is one of three people whose job it is to administer the village. Their two children are grown and live close by. She speaks with them daily and they meet for a chat frequently.

A charming story of a life well-lived.

Travelers tend to reveal the cracks in their narrative to other travelers sharing their breakfast table morning after morning or their view of the sea from the balcony.

As it turns out, Marie Renee’s husband began experiencing burn out last year. Discontented and unhappy, he disturbed the calm waters of their life. Marriage counseling for them and a psychologist for him and Marie Renee found herself with a husband trekking alone in South America and an empty house. Her inner voice guided her to a course of daily yoga and Ayurvedic massage in Southern India.

The morning she shared her last breakfast with us before leaving for home she talked about what her future looked like from here. She emanated a gentleness and calm as she expressed hope that her husband would come home happier and healthy. I think I could hear love in her tone. Her voice was confident when she said that she’d be alright and she’d be back.

Talk to yourself as you would to someone you love.

After our three year absence we came back to find Vijay still the go-to guy at our beach guesthouse. His wife and nine year old daughter stay with his in-laws near the northern border of India with Bhutan while he works in Southern India. He shops and cooks, arranges transportation, supervises repairs, and makes sure all guests have what they need. His English is rudimentary but his cheerful desire to communicate overcomes most people’s reluctance to attempt real conversation with those whose language they barely speak.

The train ride home at the end of the season takes three days and he travels sleeper class, the lowest class of travel, with wall-to-wall people, no air conditioning, inedible food, and increasingly disgusting bathrooms. He gathers his small family and they return to their own home for the six weeks he can stay with them before returning to work.

This is his life. The life he’s chosen. He’s loyal to his job and is grateful to be able to support his family.

If you concentrate on what you don’t have you’ll never have enough.

A month ago tall, willowy Lillian buried her almost-90 year old father in the Christian cemetery a five minute walk from our guesthouse. It wasn’t easy plowing through all the bureaucracy involved in burying a French citizen – a tourist – in India. She’s hoping that having her father buried in India will make it easier for her to remain in India for longer periods of time without the necessity of leaving for a day every 30 days. And, anyway, she has no family left in France to be uncomfortable with her father being buried so far from home.

Never married, an only child with no children of her own, she has no ties to France…or anywhere else. She had one aunt but she’s dead, as is her mother. She’s basically alone in the world.

She first came to Thumpoly Beach in 2019 and has been back four times. After her first time she began to organize small groups to come on yoga and Ayurveda retreats. She became friendly with the owner and his family and today they are more family than she has ever had.

When she returned to France after her first visit she tried many yoga studios but ultimately arranged daily yoga online with her teacher from Thumpoly Beach. She was unable to explain her dissatisfaction with the yoga in France other than to say “It wasn’t like yoga in India.”

She plans to return to France to take care of her father’s affairs and settle the technicalities of renting out her apartment to a neighbor. As quickly as possible she’ll return to this seaside guesthouse to begin as permanent a life here as the Indian government will allow.

Come home to you. It’s where you belong.


From Here to the Sun and Back Sixty Times

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Human knowledge grows at a phenomenal rate. Think of the world as understood in Medieval days and as we understand it today. No need to go so far back. Think of the average Western household in Ozzie and Harriet’s time and your own household.

My partner, who could be called antagonistic toward maneuvering through life via screens, came home one day not too long ago decrying how much even he relies on screen technology in the course of his day. He checked the best route into the city with Waze to avoid as much traffic as possible. He parked his car using the Pango app. He received and acknowledged orders from clients via WhatsApp. While waiting for an appointment he got caught up with local, national, and international news online. He called me from his cell phone to mine to kill time in traffic on the way home.

And traveling? How did we manage when we started traveling to out of the way places 30 years ago? No booking.com, Airbnb, TripAdvisor; no Facebook groups of like-minded people offering tips or asking for information. No Uber or Ola to find and get us to hole-in-wall locations at a reasonable price. No google to locate pure veg restaurants.

Okay, all that technology is amazing. It makes our lives so much easier and so many things more accessible. And it also, of course, has huge downsides and creates many distressing societal issues. But this isn’t about that.

Human knowledge doesn’t begin and end with technological advances like those.

The medical world has now advanced to allow for many previously terminal cancers to become chronic cancer; cancer with which, with continuous treatment, people can live a quality life for decades. Prosthetics moveable by thought. I could go on but I don’t really know even a minuscule percentage of all the incredible innovations in the world of medicine.

And what about all the new information coming from the James Webb Space Telescope? It can see what the universe looked like around a quarter of a billion years (possibly back to 100 million years) when the first stars and galaxies started to form. Astrophysicists are scratching their heads wondering how their science could’ve gotten so much so wrong now that the telescope is providing new information.

The study of the cell – that most basic of components in the biological world – has changed so much over the past few decades that today we know that if the DNA from the cells found in one human body were stretched out in one continuous line it would reach the sun and back sixty times, Sixty. Six-oh. We didn’t even know DNA existed before the 1860s. It wasn’t known to be the carrier of genetic material until 1944 and became a reliable profiling mechanism only 40 short years ago.

Amazing, exciting, miraculous advances in human knowledge.

And yet…

Yesterday I tuned into day three of The Dalai Lama Global Vision Summit. I happened to choose Dr. Joe Loizzo’s talk about ethical leadership. I got as far as his call for every person on the entire planet to commit to becoming an ethical leader. Certainly I agree that each of us can and should develop leadership skills in our lives but, seriously!?! If the prerequisite to improving the unfortunate state of a world in conflict is for every single person on earth to become an ethical leader, it just ain’t gonna happen, bubba.

I mean look at us.

In the United States you have the cancel culture, a city proposing that each household pay $600,000 to help pay reparations to people who were never enslaved by a state which never had slavery, part of another state wanting to secede from that state to join a neighboring state, and people afraid to express their opinion for fear of being fired from their jobs. And in one 45 hour period, in one state, there were three mass shootings resulting in nineteen dead.

In England there have been three heads of state in three years. In Spain the birthrate has plummeted to 1.23%. In France the divorce rate is over 50%. The crime rate continues to rise in the Baltic countries. In France a man was found not guilty of a brutal murder of an elderly Jewish woman by reason of marijuana smoking.

In India, Muslims in the state of Kashmir continue to fight for independence. A recent reactivated Sikh movement has begun demanding their independence in the state of Punjab. The Muslim minority in the southern state of Kerala is quietly taking over local political positions.

In Israel political, social, and judicial reform has provided an opportunity for those interested in strengthening social and religious divisions. Extreme and violent language has become acceptable on both sides of any given issue. Defamation of character, personal attacks, and demagoguery are representative while, unsurprisingly, compromise is less and less of an acceptable option.

Humanity seems to be like the proverbial snake swallowing its own tail

We can create, investigate, research, change, and vastly improve our physical reality. But what good is it ultimately if we tear ourselves apart as human beings inhabiting a common earth?

Contrary to what many of us have come to believe when our phones have achieved the capability of supplying so much of our needs, no (emotionally healthy) human being is an island. We do, in fact, inhabit a common earth. And one of animals’ basic instincts is, pardon the expression, not to shit in their own home.

People! We’re unloading a lot of crap in our own homes. And it will not end well for us.

How about trying this? The next time you’re faced with a person whose opinions are not your own, take a breath, think to yourself that she, too, just like you, is a human being who wants to be happy. First and foremost, a human being. Immediately afterwards, who wants to be happy. Choose to distance yourself from her if you must, but treat her with the respect and, if it’s not stretching it too much, caring, that could provide for a gentler, less threatening world.

As far as human knowledge has taken our understanding so far, we only have one world. And if there turns out to be others we would do well to practice protecting the one we know about or we’ll just destroy any others we discover.

Stories Our Parents Tell Us

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Just back from a dip in The Arabian Sea.

I’m sitting on the wooden balcony just outside our room, watching the mid-morning calm waves, really ripples, just as I’ve been contented to do most of my waking hours over the past four days.

There’s a rhythm to the sea. Several actually. And a rhythm to life here dictated by the sea.

The waves arrive from the south and break on the shore traveling northward, but oddly seem to recede back into the sea at the same time along the shore for quite a way. I’m sure there are physicists among you who can explain that phenomenon to me in language I wouldn’t understand.

In the morning the sea is so calm that the ripples have no sea froth. By mid-morning they are already small waves complete with white caps. In the afternoon the waves become quite healthy. At night they are loud and powerful and often stormy.

When they are at their calmest the fishermen in this small village of Thumboly are out in force. They employ several different techniques but none of them catches much, and the few fish they catch are tiny. We’re told there was a time when fishing was a viable industry here but that time is long over.

By mid-morning there isn’t a soul on the pristine beach other than the occasional tourist. By mid-afternoon the fisherman are out repairing their nets or playing card gambling games , sitting on the sand in groups of six to ten men.

It’s a bit of a mystery where the women are. Home, I suppose. We see the occasional woman shopkeeper and saw a little girl out playing with a little boy on their shared bicycle on one of our afternoon walks. But mostly we see men and boys. Playing soccer. Playing volleyball on the beach. Walking the village streets.

Our days are quite serene.

My partner takes a morning beach walk early every morning. He always comes home with a new adventure to tell me about. One morning it was two children out walking their crab…on a leash.

We have a breakfast of some kind of unfamiliar grain dish in various forms, a vegetable in soupy sauce to put over it, papaya or some other fruit, and tea.

Once breakfast is digested I spend an hour on my yoga mat. My practice immediately returned to its full glory with the first unfurling of my mat opposite The Arabian Sea. It had sadly stagnated for the past six months.

We read, write, and chat most of the day to the accompaniment of the sea’s music.

In the late afternoon we take a walk through the narrow byways of the residential area, where people happily greet us with a friendly “Namaste” and often ask us in to eat (which we politely decline) or into the small commercial area just past the large church.

Today, we decided, was the day we would venture into the water. We were out there at 9:45 when the waves were just starting to be more than ripples. My partner went in first to scout out the drop off and reported that it was sudden but not too steep. The water was warm and delightful.

In I went. But not far and not for long.

Sixty years ago my mother told me about her good friend, Joseph. They were childhood friends and both enrolled at Northwestern University in Chicago. He was an engineering student and she was a drama major so they didn’t share classes but they shared social circles.

In their sophomore year they went to the beach one afternoon with a group of friends. A beach on Lake Michigan they often frequented. Like Israel’s Kineret, Lake Michigan could be treacherous in the afternoon, with a strong undercurrent.

As the story went, on that fateful day Joseph decided to go back in the water long after the others deemed it unwise. As my mother and her friends watched helplessly he was rolled over and over, dragged under and drowned. No one could save him without endangering their own lives.

I love the ocean. If I have a few free hours I sometimes jump in the car and drive an hour or more to walk along the beach. On my way home from visiting grandkids I often take the slower, longer route to stop off for a half hour of breathing sea air and watching sea birds hop in the shallows.

I’m not convinced that my mother’s story about her friend, Joseph, was true or just a cautionary tale, but it accompanies me to the beach every time I go. I rarely go in the water past my ankles or, if I do, it’s only a little above my waist. I need both feet firmly planted. I have what I like to call a healthy respect for the power of the ocean, while recognizing it as anxiety that’s not always justified.

I enjoy my grandchildren’s fearless frolicking in the waves and beyond but only while keeping an eye on the lifeguard to make sure she remains alert. I’m happy that some of my children and grandchildren surf; proof that Joseph isn’t a filter through which they experience the sea.

I’d love to ask my mother if she actually had a friend named Joseph and if she actually watched him drown in Lake Michigan. But she’s been dead for twenty years and, really, does it even matter?

Beware all you parents out there. Stories our parents tell us are powerful beyond logic.

Whatever happens, I’m satisfied

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In Israel parents teach their children a saying very early on in life – Whatever happens, I’m satisfied. It rhymes in Hebrew and expresses a futile hope on the part of parents that it will nip complaining in the bud.

Pretty ironic since Israelis (and maybe Jews in general) are among the most, ahem, discerning (read critical, judgmental, complaining) people I’ve come across in my extensive travels. And I am one, so I’ve had plenty of experience.

On the positive side, perhaps that’s why we’re the start-up nation with more technological and medical innovation than any other place on earth. That squinting one-eyed gaze at everything around us and thinking…hmmm. I could do that better.

On the not-so-positive side, it’s a pain in the rear end to be so often surrounded by people who are almost never satisfied with the way things are. The food in the restaurant is never quite right even after an order reminiscent of Jack Nicolson in Five Easy Pieces (I’ll have omelette plain, with a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no butter, no lettuce, no mayonnaise, hold the chicken). The room temperature is too cold or too hot. The teacher doesn’t pay enough attention to my kid or singles her out for special (not good) treatment.

I wasn’t feeling great the other day. Stuffed up, headache, scratchy throat, didn’t sleep well. Here I am in southern India. Home of Ayurvedic medicine. Decided to get an Ayurvedic massage. For the uninitiated, this involves total nudity and more oil than a Mediterranean diet calls for in a lifetime.

The very sweet young woman spoke no English – zero – and my Malayalam is pretty rusty. There was absolutely no possibility of any request whatsoever. None of the usual massage direction – harder, softer, higher, lower. Nada.

As I lay there swimming in oil I thought THIS is the opportunity of a lifetime to fulfill that Israeli saying – Whatever happens, I’m satisfied.

I found thoughts popping up about how I might prefer this, that, or the other thing she was doing but they disappeared as quickly as they arose. They were irrelevant given our mutual lack of communication skills.

Ultimately, after she wiped off a lot of oil and I pulled my shift over my head – this not being my first rodeo I knew that less is more is the rule when committing to a Ayurvedic massage – I showered and crawled back into my stuffed up, scratchy throated, headachy nest and realized my headache was gone, my throat a bit less scratchy, and that prickly low grade fever feeling had disappeared.

I woke up this morning with more energy than the past couple of days. Had a peaceful, flexible hour on my yoga mat, and sat down to ponder the potential of “Whatever happens, I’m satisfied.” She knew what she was doing and any direction from me would have just gotten in the way.

It’s a continual conundrum in my mind. This contentment with what is versus the striving for improvement.

What do you think?

PS The above photo was taken from this very balcony three years ago. The most peaceful place on earth, Thumboly Beach


What’s the Deal about Travel?

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My partner and I love to travel Have you ever had a dog who was at the door every time she heard the jangle of the car keys? That’s us.

As soon as our youngest child was old enough to be left with his brother and sisters and a caretaker we started taking at least a month of our winters to travel to far-flung places.

We’ve been to the Peruvian Amazon twice, Patagonia, the Galapagos Islands and lots of other places in South and Central America, Spain, Amsterdam, South Africa, three of the more out-of-the-way islands in the Caribbean, and to India twice for over six months altogether.

We have a friend who says he prefers to see the world from the comfort of his easy chair on his big screen tv – without the humidity, bugs, crowded trains and lack of electricity and WiFi. I get that but it makes me sigh.

Traveling by small motor boat for four hours to reach a lodge deep in the Amazon forest, feeling the weight of the heat and humidity, hearing bird calls in a night that is totally black because there’s no electricity for kilometers in every direction, coming upon thousands of ants who eat all the leaves off a huge tree in a day or two, peeling a cocoa plant to taste the bitter chocolate inside; you can’t experience any of that watching National Geographic on your tv.

But when I might answer the question of why we like to travel so much with that paragraph somehow it still leaves people puzzled.

I’m reading a book called Under the Wide and Starry Sky by Nancy Horan. It’s basically a sweet romance between the Scottish writer and poet, Robert Louis Stevenson, and his American wife, Fanny. A pleasant story; nothing earth-shattering. Very nicely written. And then I came across a few paragraphs written about Stevenson introducing Fanny to all the places in Paris that he remembers from trips there with his parents as a child. Many have been changed by war and the interceding years. They also explore new places together. Only a few paragraphs but the excitement of sharing the sights and memories and it all came together for me.

The bonding and beauty of travel.

Experiencing a new culture together; realizing how different cultures can be and, at the same time, how many commonalities there are between people, seeing animals in the wild, on their turf, living in freedom, moving out of our routine and, sometimes, out of our comfort zone – together – sharing the confusion, the hilarious mistakes, the unexpected.

We were once surprised by an elephant who stepped languidly out of the forested side of the narrow road and stood 15 feet from us calmly staring at us and munching on big leaves, before sauntering off to the other side of the road.

There was the exotic, elderly Sadu (spiritual street person) with whom we shared a few words every morning on our way to Hindi class. One day he told us he wouldn’t be there for a few days because he was going home to see his family. What? His family?

We traveled by train, plane, and taxi for the privilege of seeing families of some of the 3000 remaining white rhinoceroses in the world – mom, pop, and children – wandering freely in large fields.

And the bonding isn’t only between my partner or child and myself on our trips but between other travelers with whom we share a few days or a week in a place foreign and sometimes challenging for us all. Travelers tend to share intimacies their long-time friends have yet to hear. A Latvian couple, traveling with their two young children, left their kids in our care overnight while they spent a day and night with a shaman in the forest. We shared dinner with a couple from San Francisco several times over the years after becoming friends in South America.

How often is one of us reminded of something from our travels that when shared takes us both back to something amazing or funny or breathtaking or just brings a wistful smile to our lips?

The magnificent noise and sight of a glacier calving into the water in Puerto Merino, hundreds of macaws congregated on a clay lick across from the small boat where we’ve spent an hour waiting for them to arrive, the impromptu street musicians sitting by the Laxman Bridge (where, incidentally, I was bitten by a monkey on one of our trips – ouch), the friendly guide who suggested we come home with him to meet his young family in their home in the slums of Mumbai.

The memories of the things that went “wrong’ are often the best memories of all.

My daughter and I alighting from a park employee transport in NE Thailand. The people on the transport knew no English but we understood from them that we just needed to follow the narrow asphalt trail to arrive at our bamboo hut in the cloud forest. Many kilometers later, with all our possessions on our backs, the asphalt path had become a dirt path and there was still no sign of civilization, much less our bamboo hut. At some point, after hours or walking, we had to put our backpacks down because we were giggling so hard that we couldn’t see for the tears of hilarity at our situation. No worries. We came upon the bamboo hut after about 10 kilometers and had an amazing time deep in the forest.

Driving a recommended shortcut through the mountains to reach an isolated farm, we suddenly found ourselves socked in by dense fog. I, the designated driver in countries where driving is on the left, literally photographed what I could see in front of me in my mind and closed my eyes in prayer driving each 50 feet, with a steep chasm on my right and a road not wide enough for two cars to pass each other. When we arrived, safely, at the farm, and described our hair-raising drive through the mountain pass he’d recommended, the wrinkled, crotchety old farmer wasn’t impressed. “Yep, it sometimes gets like that.”

Hill?!? Can’t see a sign thrugh dense fog, guys

I think many people don’t like to travel exactly because of all the surprises, challenges, lack of home familiarity and comfort, language issues, and that beast – the unknown. But in my opinion, all those parts make up the wonder and beauty of travel.

It’s a surprising and delicious world out there.

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and jump into it all with both feet, and someone you love to share it with. Take a chance on being clueless, making the “wrong” decision, taking a turn by way of eeny meeny mayni mo and exploring whatever you find there.

One answer to Mary Oliver’s question of what you might do with your one precious life.

If you thought you knew…

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I thought I knew about aging. After all, I turned 60 a full decade ago. In kindness to my knees, I stopped teaching hip hop and aerobics. Took up yoga instead. Out of kindness to my brain, I became more selective about the books I read and the movies I see. Out of kindness to my heart, I stopped following the news. Out of awareness of the generation gap and changing society, I became more curious about how my grown children were making child-rearing and professional decisions and less opinionated about all that.

I thought my practice of acceptance of the aging process in so many areas was pretty admirable.

Aching knees, varying levels of lower back pain, a 15-year acquaintance with sleep problems, sight issues.

Check, check, check, and check – all accepted graciously.

I think of myself as an optimist but not disconnected from reality. I realize that sickness and death are inevitable. Looking around me at friends with cancer, MS, joint replacements, and a general decrease in energy, I sometimes wondered what awaited me…specifically.

But no more than the occasional and very brief thought.

And then over a period of a week my quadriceps decided to work at 25% capacity and provide unwelcome pain, my shoulders and collarbone joined the party, and my knees refused to be left out.

I went from 90% mobility to 20% mobility over that week. One morning it took me twenty minutes to get dressed. Pain moved in as a permanent body mate.

I felt and walked like a 90-year-old woman…and not a healthy one.

In the past ten days, I’ve seen my family doctor 3 times. I began a series of tests for everything imaginable. Being fortunate enough to live in a country with excellent national health insurance and health care, the bureaucracy is daunting but the availability and affordability are there.

I’ve gone through the process of learning to let go of activities I love like a ninja on steroids. I haven’t driven to visit with grandchildren or taught a yoga class in over a week. I haven’t met friends for coffee, shopping, or a museum visit, either. My walks have gone from 4 or 5 kilometers a day to 1 kilometer on a flat surface…on a good day. Cooking, which I love, has become the simplest preparation with the least standing time. And sometimes I leave the whole thing to my very supportive, caring husband.

I love to read, but when that’s pretty much the only thing I can do it gets old. I love to watch tv series, but I’ve discovered the limits of that, too. I’m super appreciative of my friends who drop by to chat, pick up a few things at the grocery store for me, or just check in to see how I’m doing.

I’m pretty careful about the meds I’m willing to use and how much. I’ve always been very stringent with things like ibuprofen and even simpler pain medications. My pain threshold is pretty high. I went from an ibuprofen or two a week, to one a day, to two a day, and then on to something stronger. Waking up to debilitating pain in so many joints and muscles every day has turned me into a junkie for the 3-7 hours of significantly decreased pain that a Naxyn 500 pill can give me.

My kids are great. They call. They listen. They’re supportive.

The hard truth of this thing, though, is that all of the wonderful people in my life give me a big morale boost and are very logistically helpful, and necessary, but ultimately pain is an individual experience.

Twenty years of meditation and learning Eastern philosophy have been helpful to me in so many areas of my life. And I’m finding that they get me through the occasional moments of deep feelings of loss – loss of mobility, loss of the activities I love, loss of comfort in my body – and allow my natural optimism to revive from occasional panic.

Exercising my deep, mindful breathing muscles and doing a lot of acceptance, living in the moment, and letting go. My ego gets in the way from time to time and the monkey chatter gets really loud, but so far I mostly can reach that sweet spot of equanimity.

Hopefully, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Find a diagnosis and management plan that works. Hopefully, I’ll be able to go back to some or all of the activities I love. Hopefully, we’ll still make that 4-month trip to India in late February.

Meanwhile, it’s been one of life’s toughest lessons yet and I’m grateful for all the many blessings in my life that are coming to my aid.

Mediating with Being Old

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I just completed a 67-hour mediation course. The moderator/lecturer, Golan, was a charismatic guy in his early 50’s with vast experience and captivating stories about mediations he facilitated over the years. I wondered at the outset if I would be able to sit for five hours straight each Monday night without fidgeting and wishing I were elsewhere. Golan made the time fly. I didn’t have to do yogic breathing even once during the 10-week course.

One of the crucial concepts in mediation is the ability to differentiate the needs of the people in conflict as opposed to their positions, or presenting issues.

Eleven neighbors have entered into the mediation process regarding the parking lot between their houses where there are seven legitimate parking spaces. There are often clashes between people parked in legitimate spaces and people who park along the side of the lot making it difficult for those parked in legitimate spaces to extricate their cars. The eleven families have, between them, fifteen cars. As it turns out, two families do not have a car, one family has a driveway in which they park one of their two cars, one family has a driveway in which they park both their cars, one family does not park their two cars in the lot, and three families park only one of their two cars in the lot. One family parks two cars in the lot. Three families park one car each in the parking lot.

Have you seen this problem on a math test?

In case math wasn’t your thing, the eleven neighbors want to park nine vehicles in seven legitimate spaces.

Looks like a pretty cut-and-dry issue. Until it becomes clear that less than 50 yards away there’s a large parking lot that is virtually unused. So what are the actual needs of the people involved that must be addressed before the group can come to an amenable resolution for all involved? After all, they’re neighbors in a small community who have a common interest – living in harmony with one another.

Here’s a tip – it has more to do with the process of solving the parking problem than who parks where.

But what does this have to do with meditating with old age? And how can one meditate with old age anyway? It is what it is…isn’t it?

About seven weeks into my ten week course I found a small hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with a few tables outside on the cobblestone pathway. My partner and I, both Indophiles and aficionados of Indian food, were happy to find this place. The table was a bit unsteady on the cobblestones but we made do and had a great meal with lots of nostalgia. Getting up after the meal I rested my hand on the table for stability – stability from an unstable table? You can guess the results.

The cook stayed by my side until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics were extremely gentle and pleasant, in spite of the fact that they looked young enough to be in high school. My neighbor was one of the nurses in the orthopedic emergency room. The doctor was thorough and helpful. All in all, other than two weeks of being almost totally incapacitated with back pain, it was a smooth, fortuitous experience. It could’ve been so much worse.

Well-meaning friends encouraged me to sue the restaurant – never a possibility in my mind. Being in the middle of a mediation course, however, I did think about asking the restaurant owners if they would be interested into entering into the mediation process with me.

First I wanted to take myself through the mediation process of figuring out the difference between my presenting issues and my needs.

Issue #1: I was out approximately $700 for physical therapy, my deductible for the ambulance, and having missed teaching three classes. Not a huge sum but money.

Issue 2: I wanted to be reassured that the restaurant would correct for the instability of their tables on the cobblestones.

Need #1: I wanted to be seen as a person – not a fragile elderly person who lost her footing as a result of being old and unstable on my feet

Need #2: I wanted, as part of #1, for the restaurant to take partial responsibility for the objective elements of neglect which led to the injury.

Are you starting to get the point?

From the caring cook to the empathetic paramedics to the informative orthopedist in the hospital I thought I recognized that they didn’t really see me. They didn’t see a woman who teaches yoga eight times a week or drives six hours a week to visit with grandchildren, or who goes bowling, plays miniature golf, and spends months at a time in off-the-beaten-track places. For the first time in my life, I felt the invisibility that many elderly women describe. I felt small and irrelevant and “other”.

When I wrote to Golan that I’d only be coming to the simulation part of class because I’d had an accident, he had one kind of reaction. When I came to the simulation and mentioned that I was injured in a fall, his reaction was different. He thought it had been a car accident – happens to the best of us. A fall? Ah, elderly issues.

Clearly this may have all been in my head.

And that’s exactly the point. In life, as we all know, shit happens. The first arrow. Inevitable It’s our reaction to it that causes suffering…or not. The second arrow. Within our control.

In my recent revelations I realized that, yep, we can be in constant mediation with the aging process. Searching for our needs when hit in the face (or the back) with the issues. It’s an ongoing occurrence.

Not as easy as a one-time epiphany. Ah, yes, I can have a happy, peaceful old age through acceptance.

Oh yeah? What about when there’s a new challenge a few times a month? Or how about a few times a week? What about when it’s limited mobility? And how about the exasperation of the person who assumes you’re not getting his explanation of the electrical system in your home because you’re old?

The good news is that if you’re into the mediating process you’re well on your way toward living your life instead of killing time.

Or as Mary Oliver said, “What is it you plan to do with your one, wild and precious life?”

Glorious India

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The plan to spend an extended amount of time in India was conceived so long ago that trying to remember when, how and who initiated the thought leads mostly to fractured fairy tales.

I think it was my husband’s idea to change his life radically to serve the same function as cleaning your palate between courses. He was looking forward to total retirement and fantasized about a period of time to wipe the slate clean and begin to formulate a next stage in his life.

Life has a way of whisking away parts of our ideas and morphing them into other versions of themselves. Total retirement, when contemplated in the reality of the altering of lifestyle that financial change would necessitate, has been postponed for another few years and transformed into six months working and six months…not working. (Still no definition as to what that might entail.)

But that might be exactly what led us to sitting around the pool at The Fern Spazio Resort and Spa – which sounds far fancier than it is; though it’s very nice – in Arjuna, North Goa, India. It might be kismet, karma, or just one of life’s serendipitous events. It’s feeling a lot like one of those proverbial gift horses in whose mouths we’ve been forewarned not to look too carefully

Five days in bustling Mumba; a city with a population of an unbelievable 22 million people. Mumbai is a city of contrast. Extreme wealth in its commercial center and extreme poverty with literally millions living in the slums with which we became familiar in Slum Dog Millionaire (which, by the way, is quoted extensively by guides in Mumbai.)

We arrived during the Diwali Festival – five days of vacation celebrating the removal of darkness and ignorance; The Festival of Lights (not to be confused with Chanukah, though there are similarities). The fireworks were on Sunday so we missed them but we didn’t miss the crowds of Indians on holiday in Mumbai.

As we approached The Gateway of India, lovely architecture reminding us of the not-so-lovely period of British Rule when in 1911 the stone gateway was built for the king and queen’s visit, we saw a mass of humanity second only to the million people we joined at Woodstock. Dripping sweat in the hot Mumbai humidity, I could only smile at the outlandish possibility of inserting myself into that press of people. It seemed so ludicrous.

My children pointed out to me long ago that the only possibility of not having to stand in a long line for activities for kids is choosing really boring activities. I take my grandchildren into lines and crowds I never would’ve taken my children. The funny thing is that when I mentioned that recently to one of my kids she said she was happy that I take her kids to those crowded fun places because she’s not willing to.

A sweet young man was kind enough to show us the right line to be in to get onto the ferry to Elephant Island to see the caves, and seemed to be saying that the tickets would sort themselves out. The long but orderly snake line looked daunting but he assured us it would only take half an hour. Google advised getting on the 2 o’clock ferry so we were standing in the hottest sun Mumbai could serve up and it was plenty hot. At some point a man came and sold us tickets and, lo and behold, in 40 minutes we were on a ferry. The promised 45 minute ride stretched out to an hour and a half, but the breeze was welcome.

Elephant Island has no elephants and neither do the elephant caves. It seems that once upon a time there were two big statues of elephants at the entrance to the island. The British, as is their wont, stole them and took them wherever they fancied, but the name stuck.

We took a local guide, Harish, one of the 1200 inhabitants of the island, and made our way up 125 narrow stone steps, four and five abreast, with people packed in front of and behind us. Along both sides of the stairs was a market of trinkets, including wonderful Tibetan singing bowls for a tenth the price we pay for them in Israel. Carried along by the crowd, we ignored the vendors’ pleas.

The Portuguese (who also ruled here for a little more than 500 years) tried to destroy the elephant caves but the beautiful carvings of the nine images of Shiva as well as the caves themselves are made of basalt and remained mostly impervious to the attempts. The carvings are beautiful and their stories well told.

We went on a private car tour of Mumbai and a walking tour of the markets. The sights were interesting but the guides were more so. We saw the in/famous Mumbai laundry, got a peek at the slums surrounding it, and were fascinated by the Gandhi Museum.

Our driver/guide told us a tragic story that may or may not have been partially or totally true. He said his father died when he was 12 and his mother ran off. He slept on the streets or in temples and learned English from an old man who read the newspaper with him to teach him. He married and rents a tiny place in the slums for himself, his wife and their two children. We said hello to his two, very sweet, children on his phone.

There’s really no need for a guide in the Mumbai markets but our pleasant 25 year old guide gave us many tips for bargaining that have come in very handy as well as sharing his insights into Indian culture. He yearns to move out of his parents’ home and live independently, mostly to indulge his desire to have unbridled fun. He and his parents disagree about what he should be doing to prepare for his future as well as what his future should look like. (Sounds like young people here, or at least this one, have a lot in common with their age group in the States).

We both took to pure vegetarian food immediately again, as if we hadn’t been carnivores for the past 3 years since leaving India. We found our special place to eat dinner and ate there most evenings. At home I make an effort to get to 6000 steps a day; here I get to 11,000 and even 18,000 without trying. At home I’ve developed tricks to remain hydrated; here I swig liters of water constantly.

Feeling healthy and happy and relaxed after a week in Northern Goa. Met up with a wonderful yogi/teacher on the beach.

But that will wait for my next post.

Namaste