There's one in every trip- usually surfaces suddenly, oftentimes after a bad night's sleep and is almost always tied to money or being hasseled for it... or jipped out of it. India's was today. The lead up details aren't that important, and honestly, I am a little proud of myself for lasting this long.
The moment was in a traveler cafe. It was modern/Western-run by "cool" Tibetan dudes with long hair playing Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers and the like on a set of loud speakers. I ordered coffee and museli with fruit and curd, two things I was really looking forward to enjoying, and we were chatting with this great woman from Pennsylvania who teaches high school history and came here for a month to teach Tibetan refugees English. The food and coffee arrived and tasted awful- the stale bitter of tastebuds under antibiotic assault. Then the Beatles came on, blaring trebel. The whole experience swallowed me- Tracy from Penn talking, horns beeping, food disappointment, max music, energies in the room, my red lips and the black hair of locals, envy, other travelers' clothing, grace, backpain, suspicion, flashes of last night's journey, sugar on the table, anger. I felt panic and confusion and just sat through it, waiting, watching my reaction. The noise subsided. I gave up on breakfast. Tracy shared good information. We paid and left and life moved on.
But the anger remained. I just continued to watch it- on our search for accomodations, walking on the road. I do not know when anger became my default reaction or where it's rooted. It feels deep and linked to trust and being a woman and hope and guilt and ineffective logics and endurance and inequality and destruction and helplessness and defense and disrespect (in the most innate forms) and power and posturing and weapons and, and, and, and, and....
Each step on the road shot another thread to anger into my hand and I caught it, watching.
Here we are now, on an elevated cafe terrace, overlooking the Himalayas, a part of the monastary where we will stay the next few nights. It is relatively quiet and there's the first blue sky we have seen since the start of this trip. But most importantly, there is a one-eyed orange cat, curled up to Jefferson's back with its paws touching the top of my foot. I dare not move and disturb this blissful creature. As I look at its striped, partially collapsed skull, I feel a deep compassion. And with each moment I allow myself this emotion, I am able to loosen my hold on all those threads. Every second I wish the best for this spirit and smile softly at its yawns, the knot in my chest detangles just a bit. I am watching. And I think I am starting to understand.
The moment was in a traveler cafe. It was modern/Western-run by "cool" Tibetan dudes with long hair playing Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers and the like on a set of loud speakers. I ordered coffee and museli with fruit and curd, two things I was really looking forward to enjoying, and we were chatting with this great woman from Pennsylvania who teaches high school history and came here for a month to teach Tibetan refugees English. The food and coffee arrived and tasted awful- the stale bitter of tastebuds under antibiotic assault. Then the Beatles came on, blaring trebel. The whole experience swallowed me- Tracy from Penn talking, horns beeping, food disappointment, max music, energies in the room, my red lips and the black hair of locals, envy, other travelers' clothing, grace, backpain, suspicion, flashes of last night's journey, sugar on the table, anger. I felt panic and confusion and just sat through it, waiting, watching my reaction. The noise subsided. I gave up on breakfast. Tracy shared good information. We paid and left and life moved on.
But the anger remained. I just continued to watch it- on our search for accomodations, walking on the road. I do not know when anger became my default reaction or where it's rooted. It feels deep and linked to trust and being a woman and hope and guilt and ineffective logics and endurance and inequality and destruction and helplessness and defense and disrespect (in the most innate forms) and power and posturing and weapons and, and, and, and, and....
Each step on the road shot another thread to anger into my hand and I caught it, watching.
Here we are now, on an elevated cafe terrace, overlooking the Himalayas, a part of the monastary where we will stay the next few nights. It is relatively quiet and there's the first blue sky we have seen since the start of this trip. But most importantly, there is a one-eyed orange cat, curled up to Jefferson's back with its paws touching the top of my foot. I dare not move and disturb this blissful creature. As I look at its striped, partially collapsed skull, I feel a deep compassion. And with each moment I allow myself this emotion, I am able to loosen my hold on all those threads. Every second I wish the best for this spirit and smile softly at its yawns, the knot in my chest detangles just a bit. I am watching. And I think I am starting to understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment