Mother Goddess of the Universe
Chomolungma. The word resonates like a hymn. Vast and humbling, Comolungma, also known colloquially as Mt. Everest, stands even above the massifs that isolate and protect this lonely Himalayan region.
In the mountains, the insistent driving forces of our modern world fade back to the more subtle rhythms of nature which permeate these ancient lands our ancestors were so curiously drawn to. Out here there is no God, only man. So man becomes God. For, there must be something primal in us that reverts when faced with such raw staggering power beyond our control. Here the act of survival becomes a concentrated meditation in reverent harmony with the natural elements. The sweeping winds of the Khumbu Glacier evokes wistful thoughts for a way of life destined eventually to perish.
If the people here were to pick up and move on, scars on the rough landscape would be few. Yet a faint reverberation would linger, refusing to be forgotten. An ancient way of being permeates the rarified air.
The edge of a precipice
Fear as meditation. A form of coping against the agony of survival. Only humans could turn danger into paradise. Through sheer force of will they carved a foothold into this precipice. Untethered and lost, floating against the current, does a ship feel the backs of each drop of water that carries it? In the dark a guiding light strikes, if only just for a moment, to shine the way. Even if it misses the mark its imprint will not soon be forgotten. Something draws you to the edge. The rain hurts, there’s no way your clothes are enough. The wind almost takes you over. You only feel one thing, fear. To capture the moment, no words could suffice.
The mind watches from outside in, as thunder and lightning crackle around the body. That couldn't possibly be me.
The floor of a meditation center
Love as meditation. Our language proves to be especially lacking in discussing this kind of thing. Too much of our taxonomy comes encumbered with subtex or connotation. The set of words we use is too religious, or too cold. The concepts come heavy, but with the wrong weight. So drop all that aside. Four days in isolation, cut away from civilization. Surrounded by strangers most of whom speak little English if at all. The days are hard and long, the yoga and meditations are designed to exhaust your body and your mind. So that in the end, you don’t have the strength to move, you don’t have the strength to think. You can only be.
Your senses are honed. Smell — an hour a day is spent opening your lungs and clearing your nasal passages. You can smell food from across the compound. Sight — most of the day is spent blindfolded. In yoga, in meditation, in thought. When the blindfold is finally removed, the sight is overwhelming. As if the mountains were not already staggeringly beautiful enough. Taste — you taste nothing. The food is hearty but bland. It doesn't matter anyways, by the second day you have no appetite. Sound — the rushing rivers provide a constant white noise. The music is repetitive and strange.
You cry for no reason. Its not because you’re sad. Its too hard to explain. You’re not the only one. The last day is initiation. The ceremony takes an hour and a half. The guru speaks to you. A token is presented. He places his hand on your head. At that moment everyone around you bursts into tears. You lie down. You feel nothing. When you sit up, it takes a moment to register, but everything is beautiful. For the first time in your life, you truly feel love.
The mind watches from outside in, as a group of complete strangers surrounds the body. A group of strangers who perhaps before had someone love them in the same way and were so overcome by the sensation that they couldn't help but stay. That couldn't possibly be me.
The top of a mountain
Suffering as meditation. The brain is drowning. So are your lungs, but you don’t feel that as much. You’re filled with nothing. Your body gave up hours ago. Your mind is the only thing pushing on. Even that gives up soon. The only reason you don’t stop is becasue you are strapped to your guide. He drags you up. Together you walk up the mountain, one step at a time. Dirt and sweat are baked into your skin. Your body scars. You have nothing left to give. You said that 3 hours ago. Maybe this lifetime was meant for suffering.
The mind watches from outside in, as a stranger slowly drags the body. That couldn’t possibly be me.
