Returning to India - the next chapter

Despite the desperate last-minute nature of my race home for the holidays, it never really occurred to me not to come back. As I made that difficult decision on the morning of the 24th to 'abandon ship,' I was asked by the people who talked me through it if I would pack up everything - in case I didn't want to return.  I declined.

Perhaps I didn't want to risk giving myself the 'out', if I changed my mind on the other side, but I also knew that India and I weren't finished with each other.  The journey was incomplete.  I wasn't quitting, just engaging in a temporary strategic retreat in order to regroup.

Now that I'm back, I've been asked if it was difficult to return.  The answer is yes, no, and yes.  It was hard to leave my loved ones all over again.  It was also with genuine anticipation that I got on the plane, and with excitement that I navigated my way through Heathrow, and out from the Delhi airport back to my guest house.  I smiled, even as I choked on the noxious smell of Delhi rising to meet the plane as it landed.
And it was hard to return to this country of immense and constant paradox, feeling only marginally more prepared to navigate her pathways. 

Perhaps, most of all, it was hard to return to the site of my humility.  To this place where I am faced, over and over, with my own ego and pride, with my privilege, and assumptions and stories.  To the place where I get to witness my own shadow in its fullest embodiment as I am faced with constant ambiguity, and the reality of how truly not-in-control I am.  Because if there is any place in the world to get *really* clear that control is just a big 'ol illusion - Mother India is the place.  She tolerates no insubordination from her children.

One of my favourite jokes is the line, "Want to make God laugh?  Tell him your plan".  That would be Mother India.  Go ahead, make her laugh: get attached to your plans, or to being on time, or to your reservations, or your belongings, or to your identity.  It is suddenly of great clarity to me the correlation between the philosophical concepts of non-attachment, and their geographic place of origin.  Non-attachment is not just a spiritual precept here.  It's survival.

So I'm back, with a very loose plan, holding it very lightly . . . . ready to see what will unfold.

Three Weeks in India. I can go home now.

 The last time I saw my 'boss' before I headed off to India, he said to me, half-jokingly,  "please promise you'll stay at least three weeks?"  I know that he's never been to India, but I think in that moment he suddenly had some deep connection with the immensity of this journey he was sending me on.  And he's a wise, wise, man.
Because at the 3 day mark I was ready to pack it in, but I couldn't, because I promised.  At the week and a half mark, I was SOOO ready to come home!  But I couldn't.  Because I promised. And at the two and half week mark . . . yep, you guessed it:  I want my mommy, and I want to go home.  But . . .I bet you know what's coming: I promised.  So, here I am at the three week mark, and I can go home now, because I've kept my promise.

Funny enough, now that I have the choice, I'm ready to stick around and really experience this place. I don't know how Peter picked 'three weeks' as the magic number, but it appears to be just that.  The last week has been an emotional roller-coaster, dominated by frustration, impatience and irritability.  (To all my friends and family who have borne witness and listened to me vent, Peter and I thank you.) Something shifted last night as I slept, and I awoke softened, more open, more able to see what is . . .and what's possible. 

There is so much to learn from this incredible country, from its people, from its heritage.  When I pause to think about a place with thousands of years of history and heritage, as compared with my country that really only recognizes a couple of hundred years.  wow.

I won't say I'm smitten with India; just like Delhi streets, the relationship is just not that clean.  But, somehow, I'm hooked, and I'm ready to open myself to her.  And there are so many opportunities here to both look outside myself and look deep within as Mother India shines her mirror back at me.

The paradoxes and contradictions here boggle my mind. Every day I pass poverty on the streets like I've never seen. I spent Sunday afternoon with a friend and colleague at her golf & country club, surrounded by immense wealth, and had a powerful conversation with her about holding that place of paradox.  I know that part of my journey here is to make peace, hopefully once and for all, with the incredible wealth that I already have, and the freedom it provides me. (I have a Canadian passport.  I actually kissed it the other day, as I recognized just what privilege and freedom that passport affords me).   We talked about that balance, the ever grey lines around what is enough . . . and the implacable, painful realization that no matter how much we give, we cannot solve all the problems around us.

Literally, my head begins to ache as I think about these things.  Some part of me can't let go of the notion that there is a systemic solution or a system of solutions that could change how we all co-exist in the world . . . . like a series of threads that if we could just reconnect them, would return us to balance.  I am grateful to know that even as I get older, wiser, and generally more cynical, I remain an idealist.  May I never grow up or out of that.

And may I never be hardened so that I can't see and feel the pain of the children on the streets, or the dogs that limp along hungry.  And may I continue to open my heart to see the balance, rather than getting trapped in the sorrow.  To laugh at the simple joy of children playing; even as they weave amidst the traffic, trying to sell me things through the car window . . . and get distracted into playing tag when I won't buy.  Dogs, sleeping in the sunshine, looking content in that moment.  The cabbie smiling at me, surprised, as I give him a 20 rupee tip (about 50 cents).

I truly do not know what this journey holds for me.  I have spent the last three weeks struggling against the not-knowing, wailing against the injustice of the universe demanding that I surrender into trust.  I can't promise I won't continue to put up a fight occasionally, or that I won't continue to have moments of home-sickness, overwhelm, or just general India-fatigue.  In fact, I think I can promise that all of the above will resurface again and again . . . .but I'm ready for them.  I survived my first three weeks in India, and fulfilled my promise.  Now I'm here because I choose to stay, because I am willing to trust the path unfolding in front of me.  Because I can't resist, like a child in front of a christmas tree laden with gifts, the opportunity to unwrap the packaging and see what I find.

PS: Of course I know that I always had a choice to go home if I really wanted to, and I never really considered throwing in the towel . . . but it was touch and go for a moment or two, I'll admit.

Riding the Wave of Transition

I am riding the wave of transition. Moving from one life into another. I know what I am moving away from, and I know the critical elements of what I am moving towards, but it would be a lie to say that I have a clear picture of where I am going. I know that I am moving towards a life where value and worth are measured by who I am and how I connect (with people, with the earth, with spirit), and away from a life measured by what I do (accomplish), how much I have (or don’t) and how independent I can prove myself to be.

I know that I am choosing to measure abundance in sunshine, relationships and possibilities, rather than in dollars. I recognize, indeed have already experienced, that this will not always be a socially acceptable measure. I accept that. Life is a continuing series of choices and trade-offs. I am trading the freedom of what money could buy for the freedom of choosing how I live, without basing it on the ever-present shadow of needing to earn yet more.

It has been an intense two year ride of transition . . . and I continue to ride that wave.

Two years ago I was finishing up a master’s degree, working full time, and beginning my coaching certification. I was aspiring, potentially, to be an executive in the Public Service, or a high-priced free-lance consultant. I was essentially qualified to pursue either one and hadn’t decided yet which had a greater call. Either way, it was a continuing quest for success – always focused on what was next, rather than where I was in the moment. In the moment, I was still hurting from the relationship that dissolved mid-way through my studies . . . . but I didn’t have time to stop and grieve it – I had too much to do.

I have self-identified as having “too much to do” for as long as I can remember. Frequently overwhelmed, and for the last several years, making constant apologies for being unable to attend to the relationships in my life the way I wanted to. I was startled and a little horrified to discover that many people in life agreed on the word “driven” to describe me – so out of touch with myself that I didn’t notice how my natural enthusiasm, passion and focus had turned into a force that was driving me.

The turning point came for me that summer as I finished my studies. Two days after sending in my final paper, I left for a one-month vacation. In anticipation of completion, I had registered to spend an entire month at Hollyhock Retreat Centre on Cortes Island as a Karma Yogi (a work exchange guest). That month was transformational. I discovered quiet like I had not experienced in my adult life. I found stillness within as well as around me. I will never forget sitting on the beach and realizing that the thwapping sound I was hearing was the whoosh of wind under the wings of the great birds as they flew over-head.

Over the course of that month, I slowed down – my movement slowed, my speech slowed, and even my thoughts slowed down. What a relief! I discovered what it was to measure days by
the sun, not by a computer screen or alarm clock. I experienced falling into bed pleasantly tired at the end of a day of physical work, rather than spiritually exhausted from a day of buzzing around an office, fighting bureaucratic fires. Quite to my surprise – I found home.

My body knew it quite quickly . . . my mind was a little slower on the uptake – I didn’t see
how it would be possible to live on this small island. I still don’t fully see . . . but I trust and one day at a time, I am doing it.

Nine months after my experience at Hollyhock, I left my job as a Public Servant (technically on leave, but we all knew I wasn’t coming back), and my life in Vancouver and moved up to Cortes Island. The last year and a half, from that pivotal experience to this moment, has been a series of synchronicities, turning points, challenges and little deaths. It has been filled with joy, possibilities and the grieving of letting go.

I settled into the community quite quickly, getting involved in the local forests protection group, and serendipitously landing the job as “manager” of the Friday Farmers’ Market. (Really, this is a political appointment - I still think I got paid to get to know my community). By the end of summer I was selling gluten-free baked goods at the Sunday market and feeling pretty settled in.

In the fall, I began the merry-go-round of trips back to Vancouver, following my plan to be a consultant that lived in paradise, but worked in Vancouver. It was more than a little nuts – and a lesson in how deeply ingrained my ‘busy-ness’ patterns were. A dear friend commented one day on “how important” I seemed, since I was always so busy. It was humbling.

Just as I began the merry-go-round, I also moved into a cosy little cabin 20 feet from the ocean. My stuff moved in several weeks before I actually did. It has been a privilege to be based from this cabin over the winter – though, truly, I have spent far less time here than I would have liked. I have treasured every moment I have been here, however. This winter I learned to chop wood and dig for clams in my ‘front yard.’ I also learned to be ok with going days (weeks) at a time without “working” . . . watching my guilt and shame stories play out about work ethic, productivity, responsibility. I discovered, in watching those stories, how truly I have been defining myself by external measures: productivity, accomplishment, money . . . .

Cortes is known to many as the island of transformation, or the island of death. (Metaphorically, not literally) Over and over this year I have been called to surrender my ego to the flame – to allow my identity to die little deaths. It has been both painful and liberating. It is a journey of letting go of attachments – both of external material things and, perhaps more painfully, of stories and beliefs.

This spring has demanded of me a deep cleaning of my life – of my spirit, my beliefs, and my belongings. Last weekend I had my storage locker delivered to my girlfriend’s house, where
I sorted through and sold off treasured belongings that I hadn’t seen in two years. What I realized was that it wasn’t the things themselves it was hard to let go of, but the stories I had attached to them; dreams of what my life could be with them, stories about who I am with them, and as a result, who I am not without them.

Many times through the selling process, I questioned my sanity, my choices, this path that I am on. I wrestled with the question of WHY and WHAT IF over and over. And ironically, as I returned home to Cortes, I looked at the boxes in my car that I did keep – and was startled to find my overwhelming urge was to seek out a match. I am exhausted by my stuff. I don’t want to carry any of it anymore. I find myself envious of those who truly live out of a knapsack or a suitcase. It seems so much lighter.

After a day of rest, mind you, I was ready to deal with the boxes in my car, and delighted to set up my copper table (a family piece I have promised never to part with). I accept that things change every day.

When I chose to move to Cortes I set in a motion an energetic domino effect. I let go of my regular income, surrendered any guarantee of year-round housing, and got off the hamster wheel. In choosing to stay on Cortes, I am choosing to continue down the rabbit hole I have opened. This month, I am ending my relationship with credit, and choosing a simpler life, truly within my means.

I continue to be connected to the consulting community that I joined in Vancouver, but on revised terms. I bill at a much lower hourly rate so that I can work from home – rather than on the road. It turns out that I don’t need so much when I live simply on a remote island.

I don’t know what will come next on my path . . . . but I am open to it, and curious to see what will unfold.

Surrender and Attachments

"There is a difference between watching the mind and controlling the mind. Watching the mind with a gentle, open attitude allows the mind to settle down and come to rest. Trying to control the mind, or trying to control the way one's spiritual practice will unfold, just stirs up more agitation and suffering."

-Bhante Henepola Gunaratana, "Eight Mindful Steps to Happiness"

Learning how to watch the mind when all my life I have been taught to control my thoughts, my words and my feelings is a powerfully challenging experience. I am certain the Buddhists would tell me it's because I am trying too hard . . . but it's remarkable how hard it is to just BE, when my life has always been about DO-ing.

I have over the past several years been brought to humbling awareness of my fierce need to control – myself, my thoughts, my feelings, my environment. Until very recently I spent an immense amount of energy fighting against being out of control in the most amazing ways, creating an abundance of misery for myself (and frequently for those I love).

My current path is one of surrender. Frequently that means reminding myself (over and over) to let go, even (or perhaps especially) when I am terrified to do so. Increasingly, however, I notice that it is not a super-human effort to let go, instead finding myself almost surprised to experience an ease, or equanimity, as I witness my life unfold. This is perhaps most surprising to me because of the immensity of life transition I find myself in. Perhaps it is because I recognize that it is the path I am being called to, and so I am walking it, even though I can’t see where it is going. That in-and-of-itself is simultaneously terrifying and well . . . not. It just IS.

In between my moments of equanimity, mind you, I continue to be chagrined by how much my thoughts and behaviour are driven by deep fear. Somehow I keep thinking I should be more evolved than to be so driven by fear. Of course, as a recent article I read pointed out, I create my own suffering by judging my suffering (or in this case, by judging my experience of fear.)

Buddhists talk about releasing attachments (be they to joy or to sadness) for happiness in this lifetime, and I recognize in this wisdom the core of my life-long angst. From a young age I have grasped, with tight fists, to whatever I have, or want, or feel I need, should have . . . terrified of the idea of loss. This pattern of attachment has meant that I have held on to many things, including relationships, long after they have ceased to be healthy for me. Of course, this has often led to much discomfort for both myself and for the people around me.

One of the less obvious ways that attachment shows up is in the stories we are attached to - about ourselves, about others, about 'the way things are.’ It is amazing how powerfully we can stay unconsciously attached to a story that stopped serving us many years ago. It is especially humbling for me when I finally become fully aware of I have contributed to holding onto a story by unconsciously re-creating in my life over and over again.

For example, my story, for a long time, was that I had to do everything myself and essentially, things would fall apart if I didn't take care of them. Funny enough, this often appeared to be true . . . until I finally became aware that on an unconscious level I was helping to engineer that story. When others tried to help, I got in their way such that they couldn’t really help me. You know - 'supervising, doing it for them, etc., or I simply set people up by not clearly articulating my need/desire for help (not that I would have admitted that in the moment) or best yet - I simply did it myself, without asking for help, telling myself, "what's the point - no one will help anyway."

Once I began to recognize the story for what it is - a story, and my part in creating and maintaining it, I am able to choose how I want to be with it. As a starting point, I am able to witness myself acting it out, and just notice it, or find the humour in it, or pause in the process and choose a different behaviour. Whatever I choose, by recognizing the story, I am then able to begin to release it.

As I walk this path of surrender, it continues to mean letting go in ways big and small, again and again and again. Next month, it will mean letting go, physically, of much of what I own in the world. I have been mentally/emotionally letting go of those possessions, bit by bit, for months as I have moved towards this decision to sell off or give away the belongings I have kept in storage for almost two years. What finally tipped the decision for me was connecting with the stories I have nurtured around those belongings; stories of who I ‘should be’ by ‘this age’ and what I ‘should have,’ and the home ‘I deserve,’ and ‘what it says about me’ if I have furniture that matches or if I don’t.

And so I find, as I let go of the stories, that I am far more ready to let go of the stuff. When I realize that the beautiful, almost new chocolate brown couch is just that – a couch, no matter how new or beautiful, and not a representation of a life I ‘could have’ . . . then I am ready to be released from the weight of carrying it around with me.

Of course, all of this clarity doesn’t mean I won’t have a good cry (or 3 or 4) when I see all my possessions walk away with other people, but it does mean I have absolute confidence that I will be ok, however things turn out. It does mean that, increasingly, I trust that the universe will take care of me, and I don’t have to work quite so hard manage it all.

As I reflect on this prospect of finally letting go of my things, I feel my ego reaching out for that feeling of satisfaction – of the ‘look what I did – I got rid of all of my stuff,’ and I let go of that too. I return to my awareness of the connection between attachment and suffering - and I notice, with gentle humour, that I have been playing with the idea of selling/purging everything for almost 2 years. I recognize that over this time my attachment to the story that I "must let go of my attachments" that has made this journey so much more painful than it ever needed to be. Oh well - now I am choosing to let go because I am ready - not because I 'should,' and not surprisingly, I am not suffering for it.