Sad Westernization

Posted on April 24, 2023 by gettingoutalive

Seven years ago, before leaving home for India, I received the name and phone number of a yoga teacher in Rishikesh. I’d been teaching yoga for six years and thought learning with an Indian master might add something special to my practice. As it turned out when I arrived in Rishikesh, that particular yogi was traveling abroad but his phone was answered by a young Sikh yogi and, since one unknown Indian yogi was the same as any other for me, I made arrangements to do yoga with him every morning of our five day stay there.

The studio was a large room with murals on one way and a large window overlooking The Ganges on another. We climbed a precarious metal spiral staircase outside to reach the room.

My newly-discovered teacher was very young and had only been teaching a year longer than me. But he was very sweet and I realized long ago that if I open my eyes, my ears, and my heart, lessons can be learned in unexpected places from unexpected people.

We met for 3 hours every day for the five days I spent in Rishikesh.

He taught me a long series of poses called Pawanmuktasana especially suited to loosening and strengthening our joints. My husband still begins every workout at the gym with poses from Pawanmuktasana and I often integrate some of the poses in my classes.

We exchanged interpretations of philosophical issues even if we didn’t always understand each other perfectly.

We learned a bit about each others lifestyles and cultures.

When our time together came to an end I asked him him how much to pay him. He said there was no payment to be made. At my urging he agreed to accept whatever I wanted to pay. I’d asked around and paid him a bit more than what was being paid at studios in the area, still about a third of what I would’ve had to pay at any Western studio for 15 hours of drop in classes.

Three years ago I was in touch with him before our return trip to India. We agreed that we would meet again for classes. By that time I’d been teaching for ten years and lost my enthusiasm for trying other styles of yoga and other teachers. I’d taken a two year yoga and yoga therapy course to receive Western certification, been to a dozen silent retreats of various lengths, been to yoga festivals, marathon sun salutation sessions, and taught hundreds of classes. Out of respect, I agreed to take two classes a week with him. My partner took an additional three classes a week.

This time he was teaching in a small, dark room with inadequate ventilation to save money and told us up front that there was a required payment per session. He’d begun teaching a few foreign groups from time to time and realized that it was possible to increase his income.

The classes were lackluster and the short dharma talks he gave lacked the depth of the hundreds of hours I’d heard over the previous four years from so many talented teachers.

Before returning to India on our current trip I asked for his input about lodging near Beit Chabad in Rishikesh. We were planning to be there for the holiday of Passover and needed to have easy access to a Seder, food according to the holiday’s restrictions, and prayer. The iconic Laxman Bridge is no longer in use and staying across the river is no longer a practical option.

He was very helpful.

During our first month in India we were down south at beautiful Thumpoly Beach at our friend Antony’s place, then Kanyakumari, Pondicherry, and Auroville. From time to time we got WhatsApp messages from him asking about our trip. Odd, but okay.

We spent a week in Rishikesh as planned, where one of our daughters and her three children joined us before we all headed off to Rajasthan for a week. While in Rishikesh our former yoga teacher asked to come by a few times. Out of respect, we agreed. Awkward, but okay.

On our first full day back in Rishikesh we happily explored learning possibilities for our month visit.

And then received progressively angrier and hostile audio WhatsApp’s from our former yoga teacher.

Inexplicably he was under the impression that we would be doing yoga with him every day for a month. He’d set aside that time for us and put off other potential clients.

He’d told us his days were filled with lucrative online classes of people from the UK, US, and Israel. We never dreamed he was counting on us for his monthly income. We weren’t even positive we’d be in Rishikesh for a full month because many people said it gets too hot to go outside (it doesn’t).

We were confused at his assumptions, dismayed by his feeling that we’d used him as a travel agent and misled him, and taken aback at his claim to be losing a 10-15,000 rupee payment. We offered to meet three times a week but kept getting more angry audio WhatsApp’s. Eventually we stopped responding, as did he, and we thankfully haven’t heard from his since,

My husband found an excellent yoga teacher just a five minute walk away, not surprising since if you toss a stone here chances are you’ll hit a cow or a yoga teacher.

Our new teacher. He’s also teaching me Ayurvedic massage and reflexology.

My partner is taking Hindi classes daily from the same pedantic teacher he studied with three years ago. He’s actually speaking Hindi to people already. He practices like a demon.

And I meet with a charming monk at a nearby ashram from time to time to learn to play the Indian flute, but mostly to listen to his stories, watch his expressive face, and soak in the atmosphere. He, also, by the way, refuses payment and is only willing to receive a donation according to what I feel is appropriate.

I feel sad when I think of the epitome of yoga I met seven years ago who taught yoga out of love and took payment only through Dana or Dan – personal giving from the heart.
I’m convinced that he became corrupted by his contact with foreign tourists and his online classes. He told us that he enjoys working with them since it doesn’t bother them to pay high prices. His Facebook is full of the new car he purchased and his many holidays. His messages to us were filled with ego and grasping.

Necessarily, in my opinion, the increase in the Westernization of yoga leads to a decrease in living and practicing according to the beautiful ideals of the eight limbs of yoga. It’s a huge challenge to combat that reality.

In my studio there are four teachers. Two of us are happy to charge little, encourage our students to attend class whether or not they’re able to pay, and remain flexible about keeping track of payment. One teacher lives with that approach comfortably but will probably be happy to earn more if she decides to work elsewhere. And one teacher constantly struggles with the studio’s approach.

They’re all excellent teachers. I feel that part of my role as the owner of the studio is that of helping all of us remain as much as possible within the healthy, self-nourishing framework of the philosophy of yoga. As I often remind them, and myself, we’re not an after school music lesson or drama group.

Being a yoga teacher is a commitment to a lifestyle.

Being a yoga teacher in this way is, first and foremost, a gift to ourselves.

It may be impractical and out of fashion in today’s world but I believe it still has a place that should be protected.

Udaipur: The Village Tour

Posted on April 17, 2023 by gettingoutalive

We met our daughter and her three children at the Delhi airport after they’d spent the weekend in Agra seeing the Taj Mahal. We flew together to UDAIPUR, a small, pretty city in the Rajasthan District. UDAIPUR is known as a romantic honeymoon location, home to the lovely Lake Pichola and impressive City Palace. My partner and I were there 7 years ago on our first trip to India and thought it would be a good place for children’s activities.

Rajasthan has its own rich history of colorful dress, dance, and music. We were sure the kids would love the cultural evening with the live Rajasthani music and groups of women dancing with bells on, fire pots on their heads, and especially the young woman dancing while balancing 10 colorful pots on her head. We were wrong. Luckily it was only an hour.

The next day we fared a lot better. All but one of us really got into the 3 hour art workshop where a patient, sweet, talented artist helped us each paint our very own miniature. Our daughter and granddaughter both created truly beautiful miniature paintings. My partner’s peacock and my dancing elephant weren’t bad but revealed that we needed a bit more instruction. Our youngest, a very active 7 year old, showed more focus and attention to detail in his prancing horse than I’d ever seen.

The 3 hour cooking class was a hit with all of us. It was very hands on – from the chopping to the kneading to the measuring and mixing of spices, to the frying…and, of course, the eating. The shy cook started off embarrassed that her English might not be good enough, but once she warmed up (and it’s hard not to warm up to these three kids!), she totally took over the instructions from her (very good looking) son, Gautam.

But the day none of us will ever forget is the day of the village tour.

My partner and I had taken a cab and driver out into the countryside 7 years previously. Our driver took us to several cottage industries – hand stamped textiles, pottery, a country art school for miniatures. We didn’t remember the names of the villages so after reading the glowing reviews of “Salim’s Day Village Tour” we decided to put our motley crew in Salim’s hands and follow wherever he led.

Salim, a devout soft-spoken Muslim, showed up dressed all in white in honor of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan. He brought another auto-rickshaw in addition to his own. We all piled in and off we went in the shimmering 35 degrees heat (95 degrees Fahrenheit).

About half an hour later he pulled onto a dirt and gravel road and then turned again onto a rocky path where he parked after another 100 meters. Our first sight was of two women in the distance washing clothes in the small creek. The second was a woman, also dressed in a traditional, colorful sari, with a stack of cow patties balanced on her head.

We followed Salim into a lean-to where five men of varying ages sat on a flat stone area and several women stood by a counter leading into a small hut. It turned out that the father of the woman of the house had died and they were celebrating his life according to their Hindu custom. Somewhat similar to the Jewish shiva, but not exactly an act of mourning since they believe that while his physical manifestation is gone, his (much more important) essence remains.

Oddly enough, one of the ways they honor their guests is to give them cigarettes. Maybe to hasten their reunion with the recently departed? There were giggles from the women and guffaws from the men when my daughter took one of the cigarettes and lit up. Indian women do NOT smoke. But my very white, very light haired daughter differs from them in so many ways that a puff on a cigarette didn’t offend.

We asked to see inside their one-room home and they happily acquiesced. One of the young women whisked off the covering from a large pot to show us the gas burners (my daughter told us later that a mouse came barreling out). Inside it was quite dark. There were big sacks of flour and rice along one wall. There was one bed with pots, pans, metal plates and cups on it. Salim explained later that the couple sleep in the bed and the children, in this case three, sleep on mats on the floor. There was no bathroom; it’s presumably outside.

We asked if there was electricity and a man pointed the one bare, unlit, bulb hanging in the entranceway.

After our goodbyes we moved on to a day care center not too far away. There were about 15 gorgeous three and four year olds inside.

To say the cramped space was dark, dirty, with virtually no toys doesn’t come close to giving an adequate description.

At one point a boy, who looked to be 8 or 9 years old, set fire to some kindling stuffed into a canister-looking contraption. We basically stood with our mouths open contemplating how many safety measures were being ignored while the smaller children heedlessly walked around the open flame. The lone day care worker put a pot of soup on top and began to prepare the children’s lunch.

Salim had recommended we bring candies. Our grandchildren had a great time handing out candies to the youngsters both inside the day care center and walking around the village. They were surprised that when they offered a candy to a child who, as it turned out, had already received one, she declined to take a second. What kid does that!?

By this time we were all drooping from the intense heat and more than ready to head back to our hotel. It wasn’t only because of the heat, though, that it was so quiet in the tuk-tuk on the ride back. There was a lot to think about.

We arrived at the gates to the 42 acres (over 160 dunam) surrounding our hotel. The turbaned guard called a buggy to come get us: goddess forbid we should walk the 150 meters to the entrance to the hotel. Along the way we saw peacocks roaming the grounds freely, smelled the fragrance of the beautiful flowers, and heard the splashing of many fountains.

Truth be told, we don’t usually stay in such elegant surroundings where there are so many impeccably dressed, beyond pleasant staff constantly bowing namaste in our direction over prayer hands. Our daughter is more accustomed to 5-star hotels and it’s actually much easier to enjoy a vacation with children, one of whom is a teenager, when they’re comfortable.

Inevitably at the dinner table when we talked about our impressions of our day, and after the grumbling about the schlepping around in too much heat for way too long, we all expressed our dismay at the parity between the lives of the villagers and the vacationing Indians sitting at the tables around us.

Almost 70% of the one and half billion people who live in India live outside the cities. As in most developing countries, every year people move to the city for employment or other ways of bettering the lives of their family – about 2% annually in India. The already overloaded infrastructure of the cities – Delhi with almost 33 million people, Mumbai with over 21 million, Bangalore with almost 14 million – is hard put to cope with more.

Prime Minister Modi, since his election in 2014, has instituted several programs to encourage villagers to remain in their villages. His government guarantees 100 days of employment to every villager who’s eligible. A gift of 150,000 rupee ($2000) is given to each village homeowner for home improvements, primarily to fortify roofs and walls to withstand monsoon season. 600 million toilets were purchased for the villages in the first five years of the present government .

And, still, the parity is huge.

We talked about the Indian trait of acceptance and the joy in the villagers’ children’s play. We talked about the bountiful nature of our own lives and how, even so, we so often strive for more and better. One of us reminds us of the pride in one man’s voice when he pointed out that his daughters were home visiting from college. So along with acceptance there can be a desire for change.

We conclude our conversation as so many of them end – knowing that we can only ever get a small peek into the depth and vastness of this amazing country called India.

None of us will ever forget these two weeks of ours as a family in India and this day will always stand out.

A Gentler Way of Life

Posted on March 23, 2023 by gettingoutalive

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

Posted on March 22, 2023 by gettingoutalive

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

Posted on March 21, 2023 by gettingoutalive

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

Posted on March 20, 2023 by gettingoutalive

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

Posted on March 19, 2023 by gettingoutalive

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?

Posted on December 5, 2022 by gettingoutalive

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.

Thoughts from Corona India

Posted on March 18, 2020 by gettingoutalive

Disclaimer: My thoughts are just that…MY thoughts. Based on my limited experience in India over the past week. India is a huge country and things may be very different in places other than those we’ve been. I’ve heard lots of stories from others, especially in two of my FaceBook groups specifically for people traveling in India, and they’re included in this post. Still – these thoughts only reflect my reality.

There are many wonderful things about India. That’s why so many people get bitten by the India bug and keep coming back.

Before the first trip there’s a feeling of trepidation. More so than a trip to South America or Canada. The names – of people and places – are ridiculously long and unpronounceable. They fly out of your head immediately, making it hard to figure out where to go and who to speak with. The food is spicy, fragrant (smelly), and unrecognizable, with names that don’t tell you anything. Driving is beyond conceivable. Rumored (and real) poverty and garbage everywhere doesn’t entice.

But a week into your first trip, you either want to beg to go home or you know you’ve found a place which will always occupy a part of your heart.

The country is full of color. The houses and the people’s clothing. It’s filled with people who radiate kindness in their smiles and in their eyes. They’re curious about you, open up their homes, their lives and their hearts to you. The natural wonders show the hand of God in a way that never ceases to be awe-inspiring. People are helpful beyond words. They love to help you navigate their food, their customs, and their railway system.

About a week ago, the background of positive curiosity and kindness began to change.

We were in a lovely hill station called Darjeeling. Neither of us knew why we wanted so much to go there – it’s way off the beaten track – but we felt a magnet drawing us there. The people there look very different from Indians in any of the other places we visited. Sort of Mongolian mixed with Chinese. The shops sell the types of mountain village items we’d seen in Mussoorie – another town in the foothills of the Himalayas but much, much further west.

The staff at the hotel were as kind and welcoming as every other place we stayed – which is to say super kind and welcoming. We wandered up and down the steep streets daily, drank tea (Darjeeling, as its name suggests, is a center for excellent tea), took the World Heritage Toy Train, ate wonderful food, and took in the awesome mountain views daily.

And then things began to change.

We’d been following the Corona situation along with the rest of the world. Things didn’t look good but they didn’t look frightening…until they did.

One afternoon our very attentive guesthouse manager showed us something he posted in his group of hoteliers which mentioned the increasing incidence of guest houses refusing to accept foreigners and cabs refusing to allow foreigners into their cars and his own comment that this was not good behavior and he, for one, planned to welcome foreigners as Indians have always opened their hearts to them before.

Wait. What?!

Very quickly we began to see online discussions about whether or not to grab the first plane home. Some people were panicky; while others were still posting lovely photos of where they were and recommending guides in various towns. The pressure mounted until we spent at least a couple of hours every day deliberating our plans.

We were reluctant to cancel our time in Shimla, a place we both really wanted to go, and our return to Rishikesh, a place we spent three weeks and loved it so much we were planning another ten days there.

Finally, the morning we were to fly to Shimla we decided we were in denial.

We were spending so much time worrying about our decision, and asking each other if we were fiddling while Rome burned, that what were the chances we’d enjoy Shimla?

With a flurry of activity, we canceled two flights (and were refunded 1/3 of each), canceled our Airbnb in Shimla (Airbnb, btw, was wonderful and refunded the entire amount of our stay), and reserved a hotel in Delhi near the airport to be ready to hop on any plane we could find.

We had already shortened our trip to the end of March (originally we were due to fly home at the end of April), optimistically thinking it would be okay to still go to Shimla, but decided that we could smell the fires of Rome creeping closer.

Decided to stay in a super pampering hotel (Radisson Blu Plaza) as compensation for our sadness in leaving India. Forget the fact that we’d already learned that the price of the food in these hotels is more than a 3-night stay in the level of places we mostly stayed.

The posts in my FaceBook group started changing dramatically. The panic was far more widespread. Entire regions of India closed off to foreigners. People being asked to leave their lodgings. More and more flights canceled. More and more countries closing their borders.

We’d reserved a flight on Ukraine Air only to hear the very next day that they closed their borders…and subsequently canceled our flight with no refund.

With the help of others in our FB group we found other options and eventually reserved tickets on Aeroflot (who closed their borders the next day) and Ethiopian Air (with a 17 hour layover in Addis Ababa – yikes!).

There’s no end to the getting home story yet, but we have boarding passes for Ethiopian Air for 02:40 which is 10 hours from now, so it’s looking hopeful. Aeroflot hasn’t canceled the connecting flight (Moscow to Tel Aviv), but we’ve heard rumors that some agents have said it won’t be happening. We’re not taking that chance. They’d advertised that because of Corona they’d give full refunds but now say that they won’t give any refund at all…and aren’t answering their telephones in India or Israel.

I don’t even want to start calculating the cost of all this. Money comes and money goes (as they say); and mostly goes. We want to get home, even though it means 2 weeks in quarantine in our home. Maybe that’ll be a good de-pressurizing time to gradually get back into our lives…in their new shape with this ongoing crisis.

One of the major points here, though, is the change in the social climate in India. There seems to be a natural desire to circle the wagons in face of fearful times, as can surely be seen in our crazed attempts to get home to a country which is in almost total lockdown. Many Indians have begun to fear foreigners as the source of Corona, in spite of the statistics which show that there are about 7 foreigners in India with Corona; all the others are Indians who came in contact with Indians returning from abroad. They want to distance themselves from the “other” and surround themselves with the familiar.

In our hotel there are mostly foreigners who are waiting to get a flight home. I keep imagining that this is how it must feel to be a foreign national fortressed in luxurious surroundings after a revolution, waiting to be evacuated home. The feeling is one of unpleasant desperation. The lower members of the staff are still helpful and kind; the upper levels not so much.

It’s impossible not to think of families in lockdown in small apartments, or people who are on forced leave from work (or fired) and have no income, or the elderly who are now isolated from everyone because of the danger to their health.

It’s important to keep our own experience in perspective. We’ve learned an important lesson about community, but we’re healthy and safe…and together.

When we all leave our bunkers once the danger passes, the world we find will be changed one. Entire sectors of the economy will have disappeared or altered drastically (air travel, hotels, tourism in general); debts will have incurred which may take years to tackle; styles of personal interaction will have to be rebuilt.

But as my oldest daughter said – maybe the changed world we find will be a better world.

From her mouth to God’s ear.

What is it About Rishikesh?

Posted on February 19, 2020 by gettingoutalive

My partner and I spent 10 days in Rishikesh in 2016 and 3 weeks there so far on our current trip. We’ve decided to go back for another 10 days in April. We ran into many people there who told us they’ve been coming to Rishikesh every winter for the past 6 years, or 10 years or an incredible 20 years. One young person we spoke with last night (in Delhi) said he was there a month ago and finds that something about it is pulling him back.

So what is it about Rishikesh?

Rishikesh is a small city of a little over 100,000 people. It sits on both banks of The Ganges with two lovely suspension bridges spanning the river.

On one bridge, Ram Jhula, a few cows and monkeys maneuver between the foot traffic, motorcycles, carts, and bicycles. Things get busy on Ram by 9:30 am and don’t let up until twelve hours later, when the cacophony of horns and bicycle bells finally stops.

On the other, Laxman Jhula, they’ve recently installed barriers so there are no motorcycles or bicycles, but the monkeys there are far more numerous and aggressive (I was bitten by a monkey there in 2016).

The small streets and alleyways are full of signs enticing people to take classes of all kinds – 200, 300, and 500 hour yoga certification courses, meditation classes, Hindi classes, music lessons of all kinds (harmonium, chanting, tabla, sitar to name a few), Ayurvedic massage and therapy classes – all for very low prices.

Some signs are in Hebrew, and many local people can speak a little Hebrew – a sign of how many Israelis visit and how much we make our presence felt wherever we are (for good and for bad – but mostly for good). In general, the average Indian is a big supporter of Israel, and especially of Bibi Netanyahu, expressing admiration for our strength in the face of great adversity. They enjoy the Israeli bonhomie and exuberance, responding to Israeli travelers’ warmth with readily extended friendship.

We’ve met with kindness, extraordinary customer service, warmth, and beauty all over India. We’ve been awed by the colors, the noise, the crowds of the huge cities and the striking isolation of much of the beaches, jungles, and countryside. And, still, Rishikesh inspires an attachment that’s different.

Maybe it’s The Ganges. Considered holy, originating from the matted hair of the Hindu god, Shiva, The Ganges starts in the western Himalayas, emptying finally into the Bay of Bengal. It becomes continually more polluted as it flows south and east. In Rishikesh it’s relatively clean. It also manages to be majestic and serene at the same time.

Half an hour before sunset, students and teachers from ashrams and schools congregate in their respective uniforms to sit by the river to prepare for the Puja ceremony. They chant to the music of the harmonium and the dholak drum. The ceremony culminates in fires being lit in small baskets of flowers, which are then put in the water to float downstream. As a Hindu ritual of reverence to the mother river, it is very removed from my own religion and culture. Yet the sound of the music and the sight of the small fires floating on the water are beautiful and moving. The respect for and love of the divine and nature found in India is close to my heart regardless of the different directions and beliefs that take us there.

Rishikesh is probably known best as the yoga center of India. Yoga practitioners from all over the world come to practice with Rishikesh yogis. Many of them come to take certification courses of varying lengths. From late February to mid-May it’s common to see people of all ages, speaking many different languages, walking through the streets of Rishikesh with a yoga mat slung over a shoulder.

The city is equally well-known as a spiritual center, hosting gurus such as Moojii for annual month-long retreats. Preparations begin several weeks in advance and in addition to meditation and satsang sessions for registered retreatants, a daily public talk with a Q&A session is open to all.

Orange is the color of Rishikesh. It is a sacred color in Hinduism, representing fire and the burning away of impurities. It’s the color worn by holy men…and many tourists. It brightens the atmosphere and, though thought garish in Western countries, is the norm in Rishikesh, just as the sound of bells – on anklets, cow collars and bags – is commonplace and cheery.

The Ganges, the chanting and music in the air, yoga, meditation, classes, cheery colors and sounds, cows and monkeys and dogs living in harmony with Sadus, spiritual seekers, tourists, shopkeepers and teachers. It’s all part of the magic of Rishikesh. But ultimately I really don’t know what it is about Rishikesh that imbues so many of us with peacefulness and calm smiles and burrows deep into our hearts.