TM 4 Seeing others in Buddha

This is part 4 in my travels to Myanmar- I’m still visiting pagodas in Bagan
As I mentioned earlier, the pagodas here are filled with statues of Buddha, and each statue is slightly different from the next. I’m not sure if this is intentional or not but it had an interesting effect on me.
At the third pagoda that I visited, there was a large marble statue on the periphery of the pagoda. As I approached it, I immediately saw my good friend’s face, in the statue. It had the exact same expression as she does in her facebook profile photograph.
“Oh look,” I thought. “It’s Maggie!” and I laughed. It was so funny to be in the middle of Asia and feel like my American friend was hovering five feet above me, carved in marble. Then I stepped inside the pagoda, to see the statues of Buddha. At about the seventh or eighth statue, I saw Steve Stucky’s face in a Buddha. “Oh weird,” I thought. And then, I started seeing more people I knew in the Buddha. I saw my former second grade student, I saw two of my good friends from the zen center, sitting side by side, I even saw Blanche, surprisingly on a small Buddha, looking up at a larger Buddha.
“This is kind of neat,” I thought, seeing all these familiar faces in the Buddha. It surprised me how different people’s faces just popped out at me- there was no rhyme or reason to it, just certain expressions or facial features. And the people who I saw weren’t from any particular ‘category’ in my life, they were from all different times and places. As I walked around, unexpectedly met by actual people in these Buddha statues I thought, “This is really interesting. I bet that if you were surrounded by these statues, and were constantly seeing different people in each of them, after a while, you’d see everyone in the Buddha. You’d see that we all are Buddha- that it represents all of us.” Then I thought, “I wonder if it works the other way too. I wonder, if you’re constantly seeing everyone in the Buddha if, after a while, you see Buddha in everyone. I wonder if, after a while, you see everyone in this status of ‘enlightened being’ of ‘deserving of your respect’ of ‘offering peace and tranquility.’
This experience lasted throughout the rest of my visit in Bagan and continues each time I visit a pagoda filled with Buddha statues. I think it’s an important experience, to feel surrounded by this diversity immersed in equality. I’d love to make an Andy Warhol like poster, depicting a myriad of diverse practitioners sitting in meditation the way these Buddha statues are- just to show that we all are Buddha, that the Buddha represents each of us, and that, if we’re willing, we can see the Buddha in everyone. 

TM 3 Being a present tourist

This is part 3 in my travels to Myanmar (I’m in Bagan, visiting Pagodas)

The driver drove past and along the long entryway to a pagoda, then stopped right next to where a woman and her daughter were sitting. The driver motioned to the steps at the entrance to the corridor, next to the woman and her daughter. “You leave your shoes there.” As I walked past the woman and her daughter, I was unsure what to do. I had to step past them in order to put my shoes on the step. I wasn’t sure if they were in charge of shoes or if I needed to give them money or… And then I reminded myself: just meet others with compassion and kindness- treat them as equals and give them your respect. So I did, I nodded to them as I stepped passed them and smiled after I took off my shoes.

As I got out of the car, I was grateful that I had visited a pagoda the prior day with my friend because it meant that I knew the routine of visiting pagodas. Basically, you take off your shoes and then walk, along a long corridor, that leads to the actual pagoda. This corridor is lined with people, calling out to you, offering you their handicrafts to buy. 

As I walked up the steps, I began to plan how to negotiate the walkway full of people selling things. Should I pretend to be interested in what they’re selling, even though I don’t want to buy anything? Do I not make eye contact so I don’t get sucked in? Do I just keep walking as quick as I can and hope they get the clue? I had walked about 10 steps when a man called to me, “Tee shot? Tee shot?” as he held up a white t-shirt with an image of the landscape of Bagan on its front.

“No,” I said as I walked past him.

“No thank you,” he admonished, and turned to walk the other direction.

And he was right, I should have said ‘no thank you,’ should have acknowledged that he was offering something, thanked him for the offer and then said no to it. I noticed then that I had been walking past all these people, not present to them or my surroundings at all, completely caught up in navigating my way through this scene, instead of actually experiencing it. So, I slowed down and began looking around: at the architecture, at the entire set up. I didn’t look at people’s handicrafts, I looked more at the entire setting. 

I continued to walk down the corridor and was mostly called to more subtly from people who remained on the edges, close to their handicrafts. I nodded to people who made eye contact with me and said ‘no thank you to a few,’ then I walked up the steps, finally reaching the actual pagoda. In front of me was a large seated Buddha, and two people sitting in front of it- either in prayer or meditation.

Again I wasn’t sure what to do, do I wait until they’re finished meditating or do I just walk around them? I decided to wait a little bit, but then it seemed like they were in for the long haul and other people were walking around them so I decided to walk past them, with kindness and compassion. I walked quietly past them, careful not to disturb their meditation, and approached the Buddha statue. After looking at it for a bit I thought to myself, “Okay, where am I supposed to walk to next?” I looked around to see where others were going but there were people in all directions. I turned to my right, “Is that a statue to look at?” and started walking toward it.

Once I stepped inside, I decided that it wasn’t part of the pagoda, that it was some kitchy thing designed to get people to donate. And then I said to myself, “Dude, don’t do that. Don’t judge some section of whatever this place is- just see it, as it is.” And so I did, and then I turned to the left and walked to the next thing. “Wow, that’s tall,” I thought and then walked inside a covered area.

There, lined up inside a case, were about 18- 20 Buddha statues. I started at one end and walked to the other. As I looked at each Buddha, I started to notice that every single one of them was different from the one next to it- some obviously so, others more slightly. I was really surprised by this. I’ve always seen the different statues at the zen center but I always thought those were different because they were depictting actual different Buddhas like Avalokiteshvara or Manjushri. But these statues were all the same Buddha image, just with slightly different eyes, or noses, or hands or expressions or even postures.

“Oh I get it,” I thought. “The Buddha is you so they made a bunch of Buddhas that look like a bunch of different people, ‘cause we’re all Buddha.” And I thought that was really cool and I decided that if I ever made a Buddha statue, I’d put it in Burmese pose, so that all of us Burmese- sitters would feel represented. Then I stepped out of that exhibit and continued on my way, all around, in, and through the pagoda.

I walked really slowly, and was amazed at the detail I saw by just seeing, instead of looking for something. I saw designs that I wouldn’t have noticed, recognized patterns, saw the things that statues were mounted on instead of just the statue, etc. At one point, I walked into what I thought was a building for a statue but once inside, realized there was no statue at all. Before leaving I looked up. Above me were intricate designs and beautiful paintings that I would have completely missed had I only been looking for a statue.

As I stepped out and to my right, I saw a golden Buddha statue, framed above by the branches of the tree it sat under and framed below by brilliant purple flowers. I was immediately drawn to this Buddha sitting in its natural state- outside surrounded by life. I felt peaceful as I walked around it and found three more Buddha statues- presumably one for each direction. I felt the need to capture this Buddha, to hold on to this feeling of peace, so I attempted to capture its image on my camera. I tried every which way but no angle seemed to adequately represent the vibrancy and peace that I felt. Nonetheless, I took a bunch of pictures with the intent of framing one of them and making it the beginning of my first altar at home.

TM 2 Learning the language and enjoying the ride

This is part two of my week-long trip from my friend’s house in Yangon to a couple of tourist destinations in Mynamar.

“Hoteh o sightsee first?” asked the driver.

I thought about this. I really wanted to go to the hotel. I wanted to put my stuff down and settle in but I also knew it was hot, and going to get hotter. Plus, I thought it was kind of silly to come to Bagan to see a hotel. But then I thought, “Yeah, but you really do want to put your stuff down and repack your bags for sightseeing” so I said, “Hotel.”

As I stepped in to the hotel lobby, I took out my travel voucher and handed it to the woman who was walking toward me. She greeted me warmly and directed me toward one of many wicker couches with plush cushions.

“Welcome, sit down,” she said as she took my voucher and passport. “You wait,” and walked away, toward the counter across the room.

A man approached me as soon as I sat down and gave me a hot towel. Then another person handed me a glass of fresh juice. The woman walked back across the room toward me and handed me my travel voucher.

“This is for Inle Lake,” she said (the place I was going to visit next, not the hotel I was currently at) and turned around and walked away.

I started to search desperately for the voucher for the hotel I was at.  I searched through my money belt. It wasn’t there. I searched through my backpack, it wasn’t there either. I finally took out all of my travel documents and methodically checked through each one, hoping it had just gotten caught between two other ones. I found the receipt for the travel package I had bought and thought, “I paid for this, she must know that I paid for it. Why do I have to give her that piece of paper?”

She came back and said, “Many travel documents,” and smiled.

“Maybe it is in the car?” I asked. “I go look?”

“I have,” she said.

“Oh,” I said in absolute relief. “I thought I lost it, I was looking for it.”

“Oh,” she said. “I give the Inle Lake back to you. I have Bagan.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“That’s okay,” she said. As she filled out the documents for me to sign, I looked around the lobby. Just to the left of the hotel counter was a small marquis sign. It read:

Myanmar Treasure Hotel Welcomes: Shannon Blyant

“Oh my gosh,” I thought. “I think I’m the only one here. I think I am their sole hotel guest.” And then I laughed because normally those signs are for conventions and I thought, “Oooh look, it’s the Shannon Blyant convention- and I’m the guest speaker and the only attendant. I wonder what they’re giving as door prizes.”

The woman finished filling out the form, explained it to me, and asked me to sign. She asked me about my trip and shared a bit about herself: how bored her kids are when school is out, that her daughter was 8 years old, how much she loved her country, and then she mentioned that they practice Buddhism.

“I study Buddhism, a little bit,” I said, and I motioned small, with my index finger and thumb.

“You meditate?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said smiling.

“In the morning and the night our minds are…” and she motioned in the air, a whirlwind of activity.

“Yes, yes!” I said, and we both smiled.

“My name is Kim,” she said, and offered her hand.

“I am Shannon,” I said.

“Shaw Lin,” she said.

“Shan in.”

“Shah Lin,” she said. I didn’t know what to do. Shahlin was fine but I had heard her say MyANmar and BagaAN so I knew she actually could say ShAN in. I didn’t want to insult her by smiling when I knew she was saying my name wrong- it just seemed demeaning to her intelligence.

I tried one more time: “MyANmar?  ShyANin.”

“Sha Lin” she said.

I nodded and smiled and she gave me my room key and directed me toward a man. He took my bags and walked me to my room. After he put my things down I asked, “When I want to sightsee, I go there?” and pointed to the parking lot.

“Yes,” he said and walked away.

I put my things down, put on sunscreen, walked to the parking lot, and got in the van with the same man who had picked me up at the irport. As we backed out of the parking lot he asked me, “You want Pagoda o Mal-kuh?”

I looked at him, a little bewildered. I had heard the word pagoda but I had no idea what the other choice was.

“Ummmm, I don’t know,” I said.

“Pagoda? O mal kuh?” he said again, enunciating his words.

I decided to practice right speech and just tell the truth, “I do not understand the second one. Pagoda yes. Other one?” and then I shrugged my shoulders.

“Okay,” he said.

We turned out of the driveway on to the main street and I saw lines of shops.

“Oh!” I turned to him. “Marrrket!” and smiled.

“Yes,” he said, and pointed to the shops. We veered to the left and he pointed to a bunch of people gathered around someone speaking through a megaphone.

“Democracy,” he pointed. “NLD,” he said and I saw the banner for the National League Of Democracy flying above the speaker’s head.

“I love this,” I thought to myself. “I love that democracy is a sight to see in the tour of Myanmar, that it goes right along with shops and pagodas.”

We continued to drive this way, him pointing out sights to me and describing them. At first, when he would describe things, I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me in Burmese or English because I didn’t understand any of it. But after a while, I concluded that he must be speaking in English. And so I started to listen for English and when he described things that I could actually see or said familiar words, I listened for patterns in his accent and what he was saying. “Oh,” I thought to myself. “This is kind of like making harmony with others. I’m learning him in the same way that I learn others and myself, I’m trying to find a way for us to do this together.”

 After quite a bit of driving, I noticed that we kept driving past the pagodas, like, seemingly, all of the pagodas. He seemed to be talking about them but we weren’t  stopping at any of them.

“Hmmmm,” I thought. “I wonder if this is a driving tour of the pagodas. I wonder if we’re just going to drive past them and only see them from the outside.” And then I pictured my friend, who had said that I must go to Bagan to see the pagodas asking, “You mean you went all the way to Bagan and drove past all those pagodas and didn’t go in to any of them?” And then I pictured Paul, leaning back, opening his arms wide and shrugging his shoulders all the while saying, “That’s what it was…” with a broad smile.

And so I leaned back and decided to enjoy my driving tour of Bagan. I started looking out the window at the things beside me, instead of wondering when we would get to the pagodas and which ones we would go in to. I noticed people, and dogs. I started to see shops, and landscape. I actually started to see the place I was in, instead of imagining the place I was going to. It was cool, and I was glad to be having this tour of Bagan-  to be seeing all of the people here and their home. But then I began to wonder if this was going to be a really short tour, and what I would do with the rest of my day.

Finally, we turned off the main road and down a driveway. “Oh,” I thought. “I guess we are going in one.” (stay tuned for part 3)

Travel Meditation (TM) 1: planes and airports

This is part one in a series of posts about my travels in Myanmar. They're different from my normal blogposts, definitely longer, but I had fun writing them so I hoped you might like reading them. Toward the end, they tell more Myanmar itslef, and I thought you might like reading about that too.
 There is seated meditation (za-zen), there is walking meditation (kin-hin), today I attempted travel meditation (tour-in).

Though I’m staying with my friends in Yangon, they have to work during the week so I booked a trip to visit Bagan (the site of many ancient pagodas) and Inle Lake (a beautiful lake area). I booked the trip last minute, from my friend’s office at the embassy, over the phone in halted English and had to fumble my way to the tourist office to pay for the entire thing in cash (crisp $100s) at 4 o’clock on the Friday before my trip.  So on Monday morning I was going on absolute blind faith that the documents that the people gave me would somehow get me on two different plane flights, two different  hotels, sightseeing, and transportation to and from the hotels and airports. I speak only two words of Burmese: JaySuBay (thank you) and MaynGuhLaBah (hello) so I had no real way to negotiate my travel if anything went wrong. This is not how I normally travel. I normally plan everything in advance and know exactly what I’ll be doing. But it just didn’t turn out that way, this is the way things happened instead.

My friend dropped me off at the domestic airport in Yangon at 5AM.

“Do you have your ticket?” he asked.

“I hope so…” I said as I produced a booklet which contained four carbon copies of handwritten flight numbers, departure cities, and departure times.

“Okay,” he said with a hopeful smile. “See you Thursday at 6:50, right?”

“I think so…” I said. 6:50 was the time that I wrote down on the scrap of paper next to the phone when the woman told me, in broken English, what time I would be returning to Yangon from a place called HeHo on Thursday night.

I hitched my backpack onto my shoulders and spied a hotel tour group walking through the doors to the airport. “Score!” I thought as I followed them through the double doors, hoping that if I followed them, they would lead me to the check- in counters. They promptly turned left, into the men’s restroom. “Darnit!” I thought. “I have to do this one on my own.”

I continued walking through the airport and easily found the Air Bagan “check in counter” (it was a kiosk). I walked up to the lovely women there and gave them my booklet and passport. They smiled and asked if I had any bags. I didn’t really want to check my backpack.

“Can I bring it as a carry on?” I asked, as I held up the large yellow backpack. She called to her strong assistant. He took the bag from me and I watched as he struggled to fit it in the frame you use to check to see if the bag is too large. It totally didn’t fit. He lifted it out again.

“Yes!” he smiled, and brought it back to me.

“Hmmm,” I thought. “I guess it’s an empty flight.”

The woman then handed me my boarding pass and kindly stuck a sticker on my right shoulder. Then she went back to what she was doing.

“I am okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said and pointed away from the counter. “Immigration first,” she said in the same tone of voice a parent would say ‘dinner first’ before dessert. I looked at my boarding pass: no gate number. I looked around: no apparent ‘Air Bagan’ section of the airport. “Guess I’ll just figure it out when I get there,” I sighed.

I walked over to immigration (which was also a kiosk) and handed them my passport. They looked at it and directed me toward security. I put my bags on the conveyer, walked through the security thing and then there I was, with everyone else, waiting for my plane: still no gate number, still no ‘Air Bagan’ section. I looked around and noticed that this terminal was identical the terminal in Papeete, Tahiti. There was a restaurant on the second floor and a bunch of kitchy tourist shops on the first floor, surrounding a bunch of plastic seats. In Papeete, everyone waited in the same place, regardless of the flight or airline. You just got up when they called your flight. I hoped it was the same deal here, but then realized that I had no choice in the matter anyway. I started reading but also kept my eye on my watch, mostly to know when to panic when my flight had left without me.

At around 5:55 (my flight left at 6:15), I saw the women from the Air Bagan kiosk cross the waiting room area. I followed their every move and then I saw someone walking around with a sign that said “Now boarding flight 315.” I quickly put away my book and made my way toward the women. Once there, I was directed toward a bus. As I got on the bus, I watched myself choose my seat. At first, I considered taking the first open seat, but then reconsidered because it was next to people who I thought didn’t speak English and I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to say. Next I considered taking the first single seat, but that seemed anti-social. Finally, I sat next to a couple who appeared British. “Nice,” I thought to myself. “You came all the way to Asia to sit next to people from England,” and then I sighed and listened in on the conversation of the people across from me.

We got off the bus, got on the plane, and then I heard the captain say “Mandalay."

“Oh s***,” I thought. “I’m on the wrong flight! This plane is going to Mandalay. I’m supposed to be going to some Nee Ow place.” Then he said the flight number and I whipped out my carbon copy thing. It was the right flight number, I don’t know why he said Mandalay.

Finally, we took off. I looked out the window and decided to try to be present to the moment. I concentrated on my breath, cleared my mind, and began to actually feel the force of the plane as it accelerated down the runway.

“This is so cool. I am totally present to the motion of a plane taking off!” I thought to myself.

But then we veered to the right a little, and then to the left, and I thought, “Oh, not so much, I don’t want to be present for that. That’s a little too much.” And then we straightened out and we took off, and I was okay.

As we lifted away from the ground, I reached for my book, but then I thought, “Oh, maybe I should be present for this, maybe I should be watching the ground below me.” So I did, I watched as we flew over Yangon and I was pretty sure I saw the pagoda near my friends’ house. Then we soared higher, through the clouds, and I decided it was okay to read my book.

About a half hour later, we began our descent, so I put my book away. As I looked down, I saw one building that had a swimming pool attached to it.

“Dude, I bet that’s my hotel,” I thought both excitedly and ashamedly. I had gotten a great deal on a really fancy place, because it’s monsoon season. I doubt the place is run by locals, I doubt the place is eco-friendly, I’m sure I’m doing bad things my giving my money to them AND, you can see the place from the air. But oh-my-gosh there’s a pool, that you can see from the air!

We touched down in the Nee Ow place and got off the plane. We walked through the terminal to the arrivals area where five people were standing holding signs with people’s names on them. When I had asked the travel agent how I would get from the airport to the hotel, she said there would be someone waiting there, with a sign, with my name. I scanned the signs: none of them said my name. I scanned the hotel names: none of them said my hotel’s name. I sighed, and dropped my shoulders.

Then I was pointed toward some sort of tourism board counter and was directed to buy a “cultural pass” for ten American dollars. I had read about this in the Lonely Planet guide and knew that it was sort of a scam, but it was a governmental scam, so you might as well go along. I paid my ten bucks and stepped back to where I had been before, dutifully waiting for someone to appear with a sign, with my name on it.

“Maybe my plane was early,” I hoped. Then I decided that there were other people flying in today so the driver had decided to come a little after my flight and a little before theirs. Either way, I decided that the only thing I could do was stand there, and wait. After a while, I pictured the guy from the hotel, standing somewhere else in the airport, waiting for me and now thinking, “Well, I guess she never showed up,” and putting away my sign and driving away. 

Then I spied a van, at the curb outside the terminal and I thought, “Maybe they’re waiting for me out there.” But then I was afraid to leave the airport. I have this ridiculously irrational fear that once I leave the airport, they won’t let me back in. So I stood there a little longer. But then I pictured the guy giving up on me and leaving and so I forced myself to walk outside, to the curb.

As soon as I stepped through the doors, I saw three more men standing, with signs, and the third one said my name (actually, it said my first and my middle name). I waved at the man and pointed to myself. He smiled, put down his sign, and turned around and walked toward his van, and I followed him.

As we got in the car, I started to worry. What if there’s another Shannon Elizabeth? What if there’s some Mr. Shannon and I’m in his van and going to the wrong place. But then I looked at the sign, which was now placed at the corner of the windshield and was relieved to see that in fact, it said, Miss Shannon Elizabeth. (stay tuned for part 2)

Lost in small mind

I had been in Myanmar two days before I finally left the house and when I did, it was under somewhat scary circumstances. On Thursday afternoon, we received a notice from my friend’s son’s preschool that “Due to rumors of unrest, school will be cancelled tomorrow.”

We had heard a bit about this ahead of time, as my friends work for the U.S. Embassy. There were rumors of a protest to be held on Friday. It was related to the strife between Muslims and Buddhists in Western Myanmar. The fact that the rumors had reached the level at which the preschool would send a letter to parents and actually cancel school was somewhat alarming and so we decided that we all would stay home on Friday. 

When my friend’s husband came home from work at the embassy that day, he had good news. It appeared that the rumors were just that: rumors. No one seemed to think that the protests were actually going to happen. He was excited about this because he knew that he would have a definite break in his work schedule on Friday so he could take me to lunch, “to get real Burmese food,” he said with a smile. His wife frowned, and then they went into another room to discuss the situation.

These two are my good friends and it was quite sweet to overhear them discussing the pros and cons of the situation in regards to my safety. I decided it was good practice for them for when their boys become teenagers and want to go to a rock concert. In the end, it was decided that we’d see how things were in the morning and, if all was safe, I’d take a taxi to the embassy to meet my friend for lunch.  

I was excited and scared. I was excited because I wanted to use the internet at the embassy to put up blopgposts (the internet at their home is definitely monitored) but I was scared about the protest. I pictured myself, in a taxi, which then had to stop, as the protest progressed into the streets. I pictured the car being approached by angry, screaming, people; pictured myself being dragged from the car, robbed, and left by the side of the road. Basically, I pictured myself in what Western Media portrays as “foreign protests.”  Then I got a little more scared because when I mentioned to my friend that I wanted to go on the internet, he explained that I couldn’t really go in to the embassy. This surprised me. I was American, wasn’t this my embassy? Who was it for if I couldn’t go there? He explained that if he had time, I could use the computer in his office, he just had to be with me. “It’s, just, there’s so much risk around security,” he explained.

And then I realized that it wasn’t that the embassy was keeping me out, it was that so many people might be trying to get in- to infiltrate the American Embassy. They were at great risk of being attacked by anyone and so they had to be extra cautious.

On Friday morning we heard from the local police that it really was just a bunch of rumors. So my friend asked the guard at their house to hail a taxi for me.
“When you get there,” she said, “Just walk down the path and to the left. Then you’ll see the entrance. You have your passport, right?”

“Yes,” I said, patting my money belt, and walked out of the gate with the guard. Inside my head, I was freaking out again. I had to walk down a path? I wasn’t going straight to the Embassy? Who was going to escort me down the path? Was I being watched as I walked down the path? And who was watching me? I couldn’t figure out whose enemy I was: the American’s or the government of Myanmar.

The guard told the taxi driver the address and he seemed a little unclear at first, but then seemed to understand. We drove through town but I had absolutely no idea where I was (I had arrived I night so I had seen nothing of the streets yet). For all I knew he could drop me in the middle of nowhere and I wouldn’t even know I was lost. After about 15 minutes, we made a u-turn and he dropped me off at a gate, attended by two guards.

“I am here to see…” and I said my friend’s name.

“You have an appointment?” the guard asked.

“No,” I answered honestly.

They pointed toward the path and I walked down it to the consular office.

“Hello,” I said to the guards inside the office. “I am here to see…” and I said my friend’s name again.

“You have an appointment?” they asked.

Again, I said, “No.”

“You are here for a Visa?” they asked.

“No,” I said. I didn’t know what to say next. I wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be having lunch with me on government time. I didn’t know whether to say that I was just a friend, visiting from out of town. It felt like I needed to be official, but I knew that I wasn’t.

“He knows that I am coming,” I said. They looked at me, blankly, then looked through their notebooks, presumably for my name. I gave them my passport and they looked through their books some more and made some phone calls. I watched them, wanting to help them but not knowing how. I also didn’t know whether to be friendly, to let them know I wasn’t a spy or something, or to be serious, to let them know how important I knew this was, that this wasn’t a time for jokes.

I was also scared about what was going to happen. I didn’t know how to communicate to my friend that I was there, waiting for him. I kept glancing at the doors, hoping to see him walking through them. I kept waiting for the sound of laughter as they made their phone calls, of acknowledgment and relief that this-is-just-a-friend-visiting-from-the-states. It never really came. Something happened that made them give me back my passport and say, “Okay, you wait here.” So I did, and, finally, my friend arrived. He introduced me to the guards and they were super friendly. Actually, they had been friendly the whole time, we just didn’t really know how to say what we needed to say to each other.

After lunch, my friend explained to me how to walk out of the building and what to say to the taxi driver. But then he saw the look on my face and said, “Why don’t I walk you out.”

As we walked toward the entrance, he told me how to direct the taxi driver. “No one will understand if you just give them our address. You can always just tell them to take you to the Thai Embassy, which is around the corner from our house. But I’m just going to tell them the intersection where they picked you up this morning.”

I looked at him in fear, “They picked me up at the house,” I explained.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, it’s just one block. Walk one block away from the pagoda when they drop you off.”

“Okay,” I said and got in the cab.

We drove back toward the house and I began to recognize some landmarks: Happy Town, the Ice Cream shop, but still really didn’t have much of an idea about where we were going. We got to a big intersection and the driver motioned to the side. I started to get out. Then he pointed ahead, turned right, and pulled over.

“JaySuBay,(thank you in Burmese)” I said, handed him the fare, and got out. On my right, I saw a road that I assumed was the road that lead to my friend’s house, so I started to walk down it. As soon as I started walking down it, I was approached by a guard.

“Oh, I must be at the Thai Embassy,” I thought. “He must have dropped me off at the Thai Embassy.”

The man directed me to a small covered cement area, a guardpost, where there stood three other guards. I took out my passport and handed it to them. They wrote down my passport number in a book, handed me a badge, and handed me back my passport. I didn’t really know what to do, so I just walked away, trying to walk down the road to my friend’s house. The road looked nothing like the road in front of my friend’s house. But I also knew that I was at the Thai Embassy which was around the corner from my friend’s house so I figured if I just kept walking, eventually I’d get to a corner, and turn, and be on my friend’s street.

As I walked down the road, I saw, in sadness, that the road turned, but then circled back. It was a cul de sac, it only lead right back to where I had come from, the road leading to the guard post. I stopped. I didn’t know what to do.

“I have absolutely no idea where I am,” I thought. “I can’t show them my friend’s address because no one knows where that is. I don’t have a cellphone to call my friends. I don’t even know their phone number and I don’t know how to explain where they are. I am in the middle of Myanmar but I don’t know where in the middle of Mynamar I am. I could be a million miles from them, I could be in the middle of some field some where. I have absolutely no bearing of where I am or where I am supposed to go. I am scared because I don’t know if those guards are here to help me or watch me. But mostly, I am scared because I don’t know where I am and I don’t know where I am going.”

I started to cry because I really didn’t know where I was and I really didn’t know how to get to where I was going and I pictured myself staying there, on that cul de sac, as the sun went down.

And then I looked at the guards at the end of the road behind me. They were my only hope. Even if they captured me and put me in some detainment place, at least I would be somewhere, instead of on this dirt road, in the middle of nowhere.

I walked up to them and said, “I am sorry. I am lost. Can you help me?”

I showed them the piece of paper where I had written my friend’s address. I pointed to where my friend had written Thai Embassy in his horrible handwriting and pointed to where he had written the name of the intersection where the taxi driver was supposed to drop me off. There was much discussion and many looks at me, in bewilderment. There was a calling over of other people and more discussion. Then there was a writing in the book and a collection of the badge they had given me.

That’s when I got really scared. Had I offended them? Had I walked in to some place and pretended to be someone that was supposed to be there but wasn’t? Was I in trouble now?

Then one of the guards pointed, toward the main road, and motioned for me to walk there. I started to walk, then turned back to them, and pointed toward the road again.

“There?” I asked.

He pointed, emphatically. I started walking, hesitantly.  He followed me, walked me to the main road and motioned, across the street. I waited and watched as a woman entered the intersection, and followed across the road with her. As soon as I crossed, I saw the road sign for my friend’s road, and I smiled as I walked down it. Less than a hundred meters later, I was standing at the gate in front of my friend’s house. If I wanted to, I could have waved at those guards from where I was standing.

I laughed at my small mind. I had been ‘utterly lost in the middle of Myanmar’…300 yards from my friend’s house. Had I periscoped out just a little bit I would have realized that I had simply been dropped off on the wrong side of the street. It was so silly, but so real at the same time. I was grateful to be home, grateful to the guards, embarrassed by myself but a little glad too, that I had relied on people, and they were there to help me.

Zen Party

I decided to have a party. First, it was really simple. Then, it got all complicated. In the end, it was sweet: a bunch of people sharing themselves and spending time together.

My room mate told me that he was going out of town for the weekend and I thought, “Oooh, it’d be fun to have a party at my house that weekend. When we had that party for that girl who was leaving, it was really mellow. We just sat around, some people drank and ate, and I got to talk at length with some people, to get to know them better.”

But then I thought, “Wait, I’m leaving on my trip that weekend. I might not want all those people in my house, I might not want to have to clean up.” And then I thought, “Wait, these people are going to be in my house, they’re going to be in my living room, that’s kind of scary, I don’t know if I want that.” But then I reminded myself again of the party we had for that girl and I decided that it would be fine.

I hopped on the internet and sent out an email to the Young Urban Zen google group announcing my party. I told people to bring their favorite dessert/ late night snack (I think I felt the need to have a reason for the party to distract from the vulnerability of saying: I like you, I’m hoping that you’ll come to my house so that I can talk with you and get to know you better)I gave the details of the event and asked people to RSVP so that we didn’t end up with a bunch of the same dessert.

Two people RSVPd by email. A couple of people told me in person that they were coming. And then, when I talked with my good friend about seeing her at the party she said, “I’m not so sure if I can make it. It’ll depend on how I’m feeling that night.” I was confused, but then I remembered: she had been trying to cut sugar out of her diet because it wasn’t exactly making her insides happy. “Oh my gosh, I totally forgot!” I said. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll probably come anyway, it’s just dependent on my state that night. I’m sure I can do it but it’s kind of like being sober, and going to a bar.”

I felt horrible but I also thought, “It’s not like we’re only going to eat dessert at the party, we’ll be talking and doing other things too.” But at the same time, I completely understood where she was coming from. Bars are no fun for me and that’s because I don’t even like alcohol. She likes desserts, this could be a total bummer for her.

About a week later, I got an email from my same friend asking me what I’d think about having the dessert party also be a clothing swap/ book exchange. She had been trying to have her ‘Naked Lady’ clothing swap party for months now and a bunch of people in YUZ had been saying how much they wanted to have a clothing swap too.

When I read the email, my first thought was: No. I do NOT want to turn my dessert party into a clothing swap. None of the boys are going to come now and it’s going to ruin it by making it into an event instead of just a party. But then I thought, “Wait, you don’t even know what a dessert party is. How can you decide that her clothing swap is going to ruin your dessert party? Your dessert party is your dessert party, let it be a clothing swap/ dessert party and see what happens.”

And then I thought, “You know what… if it’s a clothing swap, she will totally come. Let it be a clothing swap ‘cause you know she’ll come for that.” So, I sent out a second email, updating the status of the party. I stole her ‘Naked Lady’ title and called it something like Naked People, Open Books, and Dessert. I also announced the party at Young Urban Zen that night. Later, as I said my long goodbyes because I knew I was leaving for five weeks, people kept saying, “No, I’m going to see you at your party, on Friday night.”

And then I started to get scared. All of a sudden, I pictured all of Young Urban Zen at my house on Friday night (and that can be up to 40 people). I worried about where they would all fit. I worried about the clothing swap and which room we would have it in. I considered having the party in the back yard so that we would fit. Then I worried that if we were outside for the party and inside for the clothing swap it would segregate the party by gender….

At the same time, I had started inviting people at the zen center who weren’t on the YUZ google group because I wanted to share dessert with them. But then this got complicated too. How did I invite one person and not another? And why did I invite one person and not another? And what if one person who got invited talked with another person who wasn’t invited? I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but there were people who I knew it would feel weird to invite to my party and there were others I knew who I totally wanted to come to my party. How could I be true to these different relationships without making people feel uninvited?

I shared this with my room mate and he said, “I find that it never hurts to invite. You should invite the people whose company you enjoy and not worry so much about the number of people at your party. People will come who can come and it will be fine.”  I thought about whose company I would enjoy, and I realized that those people, who I thought would think it was weird for me to invite to the party, were people whose company I did enjoy.  So, I put an announcement, of my party, in a place where all those people whose company I enjoy would see it, and left it at that.

Meanwhile, people started talking with me about what they were going to bring to the party and it was super fun. I heard fond memories of late night Froot Loops, found out that other people ate raw cookie dough too, and discovered that some people were savory, not so sweetly inclined.  At one point someone called and asked, “Would it be all right if I brought my crepe pan? And made fresh crepes?”

“YES!” I answered and thought to myself, “This is going to be the best dessert party ever.”

On the day of the party, I worried some more. I worried about plates, napkins, glasses, spoons, etc. I put everything out, imagined where people would be, tried to place things in a way that would control the motion of people throughout the house, and finally felt like I had done everything I could to make the party go well.

All my worrying and placement of items was completely unnecessary, because a little after 7, people showed up, and they were lovely, and sweet. They brought their desserts and snacks, they brought their clothes and books, and they brought themselves. For all my attempt to control where we would fit, everyone stayed in the kitchen. We shared each others’ food and we talked: about snacks, about our futures and pasts, about our lives. And when it was time for the clothing swap, everyone who wanted to be in the clothing swap, went to the clothing swap; and the people who weren’t interested stayed in the kitchen and talked too. The clothing swap was fun. As people held up their clothes, we got to see their style, hear about the roles the outfits had played in their lives, and then they got to pass these parts of their lives on to others.

Around 9:45, everyone left. I still don’t know if they left because I had warned in the initial email that I get grumpy around 10 or if they just needed, or wanted, to leave. Regardless, by 10 o’clock on a Friday night, my house was clean, all the extra clothes and snacks had been taken away, and I felt loved- honestly, I did. And I felt this way not because of my preparation, not because of the events of the party, but because of the people, who just showed up…and shared.

Fear of forgiveness

This weekend, I took a class on being Mindful and White at East Bay Meditation Center. We were doing some role playing and guided meditation around being confronted with issues of race. The teacher asked us to think about a time when we were confronted by another person around issues of race. As she guided us; she asked us to see the people in the room, to see our selves, to feel our response... and then she asked us to hold ourselves in compassion, to acknowledge our attempt in the situation, to forgive ourselves for whatever we might be struggling with.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't see myself in the scenario and say "It's okay, you tried your best."

I didn't want to be forgiven.

And I was afraid. I was afraid that if I did that, if I forgave myself for what I had done, that I would do it again.

I don't want to do it again. I don't want to see someone as less than, to act out of power, out of fear, or to act from a place of privilege. I don't want to be that anymore- I never wanted to be that- but I have been that. And I really am afraid that if I forgive myself for it, I'll do it again.

I raised my hand and shared this.

The other teacher thanked me for sharing and explained that it's a common belief that we act out of guilt and shame and that guilt and shame will keep us from repeating the same behavior. The first teacher also explained that, honestly, we're going to do this over and over again. We're going to continue to make mistakes, mess things up, but that the action isn't what's important, it's how we respond to it, what we do about it once we are aware of what we have done.

I appreciated their comments and, cognitively, I get that I need to accept what I have done. I know that punishing myself or judging my behavior isn't going to make it go away or keep me from doing it again. I know all too well that this is about seeing my behavior, seeing my habits- it's the only way I can begin to interrupt them. I also know that I'll see them a lot more clearly if I just accept them as they are, not place them in a value of good or bad.

But this forgiveness piece, I just can't do it. I don't know what to do about it but it doesn't feel right to forgive myself for this. It feels just as privileged as the act itself.

Hammock of a spider's web

I'm about to get all ephemeral on you so go ahead and say it now: "A spider's web? Getting caught in it? That means the spider is gonna suck out your blood and eat you. No way are you going to compare that to the feeling of being held, weightless, in a hammock, on a lazy afternoon."

You're right, it doesn't work, but still, this feeling of containment that used to feel like restraint for me, now feels like I'm being held, cradled, nestled in the crook of someone's arm. I don't know how else to express this juxtaposition of being held without feeling restrained so, there you go: the hammock of a spider's web.
I was chanting in the Buddha hall at the zen center this morning and a funny feeling came over me: connection. I felt connected- by a string, by an outstretched hand, by a net- I felt like a part of whatever entity it was that was chanting. It was really nice. I felt held, as if someone had their arm around me, keeping me in and safe as I sat on the edge of an open-bed truck, watching the bumpy road go by. I could feel the ups and downs as we drove, could see the potholes and the uncertain landscape, but I watched all of this without fear of falling off.
I thought about how different this feeling was from when I first started to even think about being a part of the zen center community. Back then I was scared; but the interesting thing is that I was scared of the same things that comfort me now. I was afraid that if I became a part of a community, I would lose myself, I would give up my individuality, I would place the needs of the group above my own. And guess what, that's actually what I'm consciously choosing and putting effort into doing right now. That's literally what I'm thinking about. It's the exact same thing I was afraid would happen to me but now, it's what I am actively doing. Instead of being swallowed by the zen center, I am walking into its mouth. This is kind of funny but also really interesting. How did my fear turn into my desire? How did the exact thing that I tried so hard to avoid become this thing that I happily pursue?
I wrote a post a long time ago about the 'rules of containment.' It was a post about creating boundaries for my kids that made them feel held rather than restrained, safe rather than controlled. And maybe that's what the zen center community has finally materialized itself to be for me.
It's interesting, when I had this feeling of connection while we were chanting, I thought about the kids in my classroom and what a gift it would be for them to feel held in the way that I was feeling held that morning- to feel connected, safe, a part of a bigger something. I thought about how often I focus on meeting the needs of the individual in my classroom, how afraid I am of a parent getting upset with me for not "challenging" their child to go further, to push ahead. And I pictured these kids, forging ahead alone; challenged and intellectually stimulated but also, all by themselves. I thought they might be a little lonely out there. And I thought about the kids in my class on the last day- how two or three girls came up to Girl 1 and asked her to sign their books and how they told each other that they were friends. I wondered about saying to the parents: "Look, I know you want your child to be challenged and to pursue their own interests and follow their own path but I also know that they might feel lonely in that- they might feel disconnected. I want to give them the greater gift of connection."
I thought about how we often have to wait for another kid in class to figure something out or to settle down in to their behavior, etc and how much I have placed a negative value on that, how I see it as a burden on the kids who have to wait. But then I thought about the kids in my class and how much they want to help each other, how good it feels to help others, to be of use to another. I also thought about the gift that I would be giving them by creating the feeling in our classroom that 'of course we wait for each other, we're all one thing, we're all one class, we are connected to each other and we are all equal in power and status with each other.' I think this would make them feel loved, cared for, important and that would be way more important to their overall well-being than pushing them ahead to fourth grade curriculum all by themselves.
I don't know. I know it's not that easy nor is it a black and white issue of this or that. I can do both and all of these things in my classroom but I'm realizing what a disservice we can do to our children by focusing so much on them as individuals- how this can make them feel alienated, separate, and alone.

Do not look around in the zendo

This was one of the sentences that I heard as the Ino read the admonitions on the first night of sesshin. I remember thinking, "Wow, I am SO glad that nobody told me this before now because I never would have figured out anything if I weren't allowed to look around in the zendo."

"Looking around" has meant lots of things for me during my time at the zen center. In the beginning, I spent all my time looking around. I was fascinated by all the workings of the ceremonies- who was doing what, when, why, and where. Then, when I actually started participating in the ceremonies, I was looking around for survival- watching everyone around me to see what I should do next. And I guess when I looked around in this way, it was more of a peripheral vision kind of looking around, whereas before I had been blatantly watching, observing, staring, looking out of curiosity, almost like a tourist. Then after a while, I started to watch and participate at the same time, so I began glancing around for confirmation of what I should do next. And I still do this, it's just become less of a grasping, a fear, and more of a "Hmmm, okay, shoulda done it this way" or "Oh, cool, got it."

Even during sesshin, especially during oryoki, I have found that I still do need to look around in the zendo. I actually need to focus my awareness back and forth between the forms of oryoki and the actual event of oryoki in front of me. I need to make sure that I'm doing what I need to do to eat my food but at the same time, because I'm eating this meal with everyone else in the zendo, I need to be aware of what is going on in the zendo. I need to know if it's time for seconds, if it's time to wash my bowls, if it's time to chant.

And I think that this going back and forth, between being aware of what you're doing and aware of what the people around you are doing, is a bit of a parallel between the "practice" of zen and the actual living of zen. It's kind of what we do. We try to know ourselves and keep our attention focused on the moment but at the same time, we need to be aware of others and the world in which we live. It's this teeter totter between inward focus and outward awareness, this balance between the self and the world, the constant back and forth that, I think, allows us to create harmony, make peace with ourselves and with others.

But this admonition, this direction to ‘not look around in the zendo’ still stands, and I think that it’s okay. Because I think that what it’s saying is to not look around in the zendo: to not get distracted by who is serving, what just spilled, or whether or not you are being watched by others. It’s okay to look, to be aware, but don’t get caught up in it, don’t get pulled around by it, don’t get carried away by this outer world of distractions and thoughts- notice them, but keep coming back to your self, your breath, your quiet.

Burmese Swim Lessons

Today, I went to the pool with the two little boys I’m staying with (the sons of my friends) for swim lessons. As we drove through the streets of Myanmar, I wondered where these swim lessons would be held- was there a YMCA in Myanmar? Would it be at someone’s house? Was there some sort of waterpark? The scenery offered no clues. All of the buildings looked the same to me, not because they were the same but because there seemed to be no relationship between the type of building and its use. What looked like an apartment complex to me, was (there was laundry hanging outside the windows, plants on the balconies) but next to it, in exact architectural style, was a neon shopping center sparsely inhabited by both clothing shops and an occasional restaurant. Because of this, there was nothing to grasp at, no ‘we’re almost there’ or marker that we were approaching a ‘swim center,’ so I just watched in complete wonder.

We finally stopped at a green gate and the driver said something to the effect of “Now they will check us.” I watched as two men in blue uniforms wearing police- like hats approached the car. I assumed they were checking us, so I removed my sunglasses. One man approached the front of the car and lifted the hood. I joked with the driver, “Wouldn’t it be nice if they checked your oil and replaced it?” He smiled and started in on a story about the price someone had charged to replace the oil and filter in the SUV we were driving. Meanwhile, the other guard walked around the car with some sort of implement. I couldn’t see it but I presumed it was some sort of metal detector, or maybe they were checking for bombs or explosives, I have no idea. Apparently, we passed the ‘check’ because they stepped back, pulled open the gate, and waved us through the entrance to what I later discovered was ‘The American Club.’ I watched as we turned left and drove past a well- groomed baseball field and the pool itself, before turning right and into a parking lot.

“Aidan! Aidan!” the boys yelled as they saw a friend of theirs playing on the play structure adjacent to the parking lot. “Can we play with Aidan?”

“After your swim lessons,” Mia (the nanny) consented and ushered the boys out of the car and up the steps to the pool. The pool was set up similar to the ‘swim club’ that I grew up with, only a bit smaller. There was a long pool, surrounded by a deck on which were tables, chairs, and loungers. There was a shower and a smaller pool (which may have been a Jacuzzi). Mia took the boys around the corner to change into their suits and told me I could sit at one of the tables.

The water in the pool was a brilliant azure and in it, swam three little boys around a man, fit and in his mid-twenties (he appeared Burmese to me). As our two boys approached and jumped in the water I counted the ratio: five children, one adult. “This just wouldn’t fly in Marin,” I thought. “Where are the life vests? Where is the one-on-one instruction? Why isn’t my child being attended to at all times?”

But as I watched the swim lesson, I saw that the boys, aged 4-6, were doing exactly what boys aged 4-6 need to do to learn to swim: move around in the water. The two oldest boys were racing each other across the pool, showing each other diving tricks, and practicing submerging and surfacing. The teacher was working with one of the twin boys who were also there for a swim lesson. He was pulling him along, then letting him go and coaxing him to swim toward him. Meanwhile, the other twin was bobbing up and down with his water wings. Our younger boy was alternating between desperately clinging to the edge of the pool and swimming away from it. I noticed that as the teacher approached him, he actually went closer to the edge, and that when the teacher worked with the other students, he swam a lot more on his own.

The swimming lesson continued in this fashion, with the kids playing and swimming around the instructor as he would approach them and give them individual instruction. He taught the breast stroke to our younger one, encouraged one of the water-wing twins to cross the pool, and praised the older two for their racing and lengthened holding of their breath.

I compared this with the swim lessons my niece encountered last summer. Though there were over 20 students in the pool, each student was ‘clustered’ by apparent swim level, there were two instructors for four children, and there was a clear progression of ‘swim skills’ that the kids were supposed to ‘master’ by the end of the week.

I’m not making a judgment on this- I’m just noticing the difference between the two and my initial reaction to seeing one adult and five children in the pool as a ‘swim lesson.’ My first reaction was “Huh, this isn’t going to be much of a swim lesson- how can he teach five kids at once, especially since they’re all just swimming around?”  But I had been reading Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind that morning so I was considering the idea that ‘the way to control a sheep is to give it an open field’ and ‘the way is the way, immerse yourself in it.’

 I thought about how much we want there to be a progression of things, a way or path of learning and that we like to know where we are on that path. But then I watched the kids in the pool; watched one twin remove his water wings and splash around in freedom while the other one diligently dog paddled around, buoyed by them. I thought about directing someone’s learning, and how repressive that might feel if they just weren’t ready to learn that particular aspect of the skill yet. I thought too about our need for safety in the pool (small child-adult ratio) and how constant attention from adults might actually keep the kids from exploring on their own. Again, I’m not passing judgment on any of this.  It’s just that I watched this teacher, surrounded by five little boys and apparently not controlling any of them, approach each kid as they needed him, give them a little instruction based on what he saw them doing, and then move on.

As we got out of the pool, our younger one said, “I want my burger now,” and I laughed as I recalled that my favorite part of the swim club was the snack bar too.

Doing two things at once

I've always been an efficient person. I've always been aware of time. I definitely used to try to do two things at once in an attempt to "not waste time." If I was waiting for water to boil, I'd put away dishes. If someone was late to meet me, I'd catch up on stuff. I felt like every minute needed to be "used," that I always needed to be "doing" something.

I can't say that I'm not like that anymore, but I can say what happened to me this morning, two weeks after sesshin, when I started to saute vegetables for my polenta casserole. Last night, my room mate had been listening to a good station on Pandora. So this morning I thought, "Ooooh, I want to listen to Pandora while I chop and saute my vegetables."

I used to listen to music in the kitchen every morning, but I stopped for two reasons: first, to be quiet for my room mate, but also, to try to be present to the task in front of me: making my oatmeal and tea, pouring my juice, keeping myself from getting caught up in thoughts. So it was kind of a treat for me to listen to music and I honestly thought that I could listen to music and chop vegetables at the same time.

I turned on our radio and picked out a good station on Pandora. Then I walked over to the cutting board and started chopping the mushrooms. But then, as I chopped each mushroom in quarters, I wondered about the song that was playing. I wanted to actually listen to it, to the lyrics, to hear the sounds, but I couldn't, because I was paying attention to the mushrooms. But I couldn't start paying attention to the music. I considered it, I considered walking over to the radio and listening to it, but then the mushrooms wouldn't have gotten chopped.

I realized, that I couldn't... actually... do both of them at once. I suppose I could have, I could have kept chopping, somewhat absent mindedly, and I could have heard the music, in the background but I didn't want to do that either. I actually wanted to listen to the music, with all of me. And I couldn't do that while I was chopping mushrooms. So, I turned off the radio. And I focused all of my attention on sauteeing my vegetables.

Later, I was able to do some other things two-at-once: chop while water boiled, get ingredients while oil was heating, and go to the store while onions softened. But still, it's kind of weird that I can't do it anymore. Actually, I guess it's kind of nice that I don't want to do it anymore. That I actually want to be there, completely, for what I'm doing.

zen travel fears and expectations

I had been going back and forth between my zen- traveler self (it’s all fine, it’ll work itself out) and my normal travel self (must prepare, must have everything organized and ready) as I prepared for my five week trip to Asia. My normal travel self was extremely frustrated with Orbitz for its electronic ticket policy. It sent me a mixed message of sympathy: we know that you need a document to pass through security and reality: so we have given you a record locator. I can’t tell you how many times I clicked on that ‘record locator’ link fully expecting it to give me a link to a download to a printout of a boarding pass. No such luck- all it would ever do was to link me to a reminder that this was an electronic ticket. Finally I decided that I was too early, that the link would only appear once I was within the 24 hour window of departure. But the morning of my flight, the link remained the same. Despite all my friends’ assurances that this is how it worked, you just gave the record locator number to the guy at the counter, my normal travel-self won out on this one. In desperation, I printed the page of the screen that had the link on it, attempting to find security in a piece of paper.

Meanwhile, I was struggling with planning. My flight did not leave until 1 AM on Monday. This meant that I didn’t need to be at the airport until 10 PM on Sunday night. So, ostensibly, I had a gloriously full Sunday to pack and get everything ready for my trip. But then the planner in me set in: it’s Sunday, so you won’t be able to go certain places that aren’t open on weekends, you won’t have your car because you’re leaving it at your dad’s house so everything will take longer that day, you should pack your bag now so that if it’s too small you can get another one before the trip. I started backwards planning: I should go to Bed Bath and Beyond to get that sunscreen so that in case they don’t have it, I can go to REI instead, I should get their coffee today because I won’t be near Blue Bottle on any other day this week, I should go to the toy store here first to see what they have so that I know whether or not I need to go to the other store.

All this planning was fine, it supported me to be efficient and feel like I was in control of the situation but the reality of each of the situations remained the same: the sunblock was at Bed Bath and Beyond, but I discovered it was cheaper at REI (after I had already bought it at Bed Bath and Beyond), there weren’t good toys at my local store, but there also weren’t good toys at the other one, and the Blue Bottle Coffee thing- I ended up walking right past Blue Bottle on the day of my departure.

It was fine, apparently I needed this but in other ways it was not fine. This planning, this setting up of ‘if I do this, then I’ll do that’ created a bar against which I was constantly evaluating myself as I prepared for my trip. It ended up creating anxiety and disappointment in an otherwise completely empty Friday and Saturday. I even missed out on seeing a good friend because I had designated Friday as my ‘running errands’ day. I’m not saying it wasn’t smart to set aside a week day to get a bunch of shopping done for a trip to Aisa, but this concept that things needed to happen a certain way kept me from being open to the possibility of spending time with her. Clinging to ‘getting things done’ kept me from accepting this offer of human contact- of spending sweet time with someone whom I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Sunday night finally rolled around and I was ready. My friend showed up at 9:30 to take me to the airport and we talked for a bit. Then my room mate came home and we talked for a bit. Then I asked my friend if we could stop by the library to drop off my book, she asked if she could mail some letters, and we realized that we needed gas. My normal travel self and my zen travel self had quite the conversation as we made our way to the airport: It’s three hours before arrival for international, you should actually be there right now vs. do you really think they’re not going to let you on the plane for being 15 minutes late? It usually takes 20 minutes to get to Target, the airport is before Target so I think we’re fine vs. Looking at the clock, determining the time has absolutely no effect on when you’re going to get there- you’ll get there when you get there, the point is that you get there: relax and enjoy this car ride with your friend. And we did, after all our errands and talking, we got there at 10:03: plenty of time to spare.

I took my place in line at Cathay Pacific. A ticket agent began walking through the line, asking how many people were in each party, and whether or not they were in a rush to get to Hong Kong. I heard the words ‘same flight duration’ and ‘seven fifteen’ and thought, “Oh great, it’s over booked. I hope there’s space for my luggage in the overhead bin.” But then I thought, “It’s not the end of the world if you have to check your luggage- Erin and Andy will just have to wait a bit, but it’ll still be fine. “

Finally, it was my turn, and I approached the ticket counter, armed with my only proof that I was on this flight: the printout of the page with the link. I immediately handed it to the agent. He set it aside and asked for my passport instead. I watched as he opened my passport, and swiped its outer edge through a machine, as if it were a credit card, then placed it back on the counter. He looked at his computer screen, then picked up my passport and ran it through the machine again. This time when he looked at his screen, a look of surprise appeared on his face, then interest, then he typed a few letters in to the keyboard and leaned closer to the screen. I held my breath and watched as he picked up my passport a third time, and swiped it through the machine.

“Am I denied?” I thought. “Did they revoke my Visa? Did they change their mind and decide that a teacher was too risky to have in Myanmar?” Then I remembered how I had made an error on the date of issue of my passport when I was making a hotel reservation and I started to worry that I had done the same thing when I applied for my VISA and that this glitch, this mismatch, was the end. I expected the agent to say, “I’m sorry but the dates do not match. You’re going to have to go back to the passport office and work this out. In the meantime, it’s unlikely that you’ll make your flight.” Then I pictured him handing me back my passport and directing me toward customer service.

Instead, he folded my passport closed, placed it on the counter, then leaned back, all the while looking at his computer screen. “What is he doing?” I thought as I watched his hands reach below the counter. “Is he getting some ‘you’ve been denied’ document that I now have to fill out?” His hands reappeared with first one, then another, envelope-sized piece of thick white paper: my two boarding passes. My shoulders dropped in relief as he placed them inside my passport, handed them to me, and directed me to the boarding gate- reminding me that we would board at 12:30.

I laughed at myself as I walked happily toward my gate. That process had taken all of 3 minutes, the email printout was completely unnecessary, and I was always booked on this flight, I didn’t have to prove it or make it happen, it was just waiting there for me, all along.