Decrepitude

September 25, 2013

All things, good or bad, eventually come to an end. The driving force of the Universe is change. Every moment, every thought, every life, and every single one of our possessions will one day cease to be. Most heat-breaking of all, my twenties have ceased to be. Two days ago I turned thirty.

I spent my big ‘three-oh’ in a solitary mood. I was with my thoughts, and didn’t speak a word all day. I was at a meditation retreat, and talking was not allowed. I meditated for 11 hours every day, including my birthday. Over the course of the ten day retreat I lost track the days and nearly missed my own thirtieth birthday. Not that it would have mattered. To be at a Vipassana retreat is to observe change, and develop an understanding of the impermanent nature of all things. In fact, Vipassana retreat is probably the best way to spend birthdays which might otherwise cause an existential crisis.

Birthdays have never meant that much in our family. As a youngster it was a rule that my brother and I could have a large birthday party only once every four years. All other years we kept it simple. We could invite our respective best friend over to play and celebrate along with the family, and my mom would make the occasion as ceremonious as possible. I often helped with making the cake, and my mom would put out decorations. We’d open presents, sing Happy Birthday, and my brother and I gleefully accepted the challenge of making wishes come true. We walked around all day secure in the fact that it was our special day.

During our teenage years my parents increasingly hazy memories combined with adolescent apathy to turn birthdays into a transactional affair. My parents could never recall when our last “big birthday” was, and my brother and I were more interested in going out and getting hammered than in connecting with the family. We got a year older, collected a check, and significantly improved our case for why we could eternally blame our parents for turning us into fucked-up adults.

“A house by the ocean? Vacations in the Caribbean? College paid for in full? But, I would have traded it all for fond memories of my birthdays.” – My brother and I, forever.    

My mother was the doer of all things domestic, so naturally her birthday was habitually forgotten. She threatened to move her day of celebration from whenever it is to the 4^th of July so that we’d have an easier time remembering. She gave up on that project when she realized that men are chronically enfeebled when it comes to noticing things of import to woman, even when the hint is as subtle as the sky being on fire.

My father’s birthday comes just two days after mine (Oh, happy birthday Dad :-), and so it was easily remembered. I’m not sure what kind of celebration he expected to take place, but if I had to guess I bet he expected kingly accolades, with his royal subjects – that is, the rest of the family – parsing him around the clock for being such a good provider, which he was. But enthusiasm for birthdays in our family fell far short of that. He was also a very difficult person to shop for. With all the money he saved by skimping on our birthdays – a practice he called “budgeting” – he could already purchase everything he needed. He was no great receiver of gifts either. Upon opening a gift he would inspect it, and promptly inform the giver about where they went wrong. Valuable information, you know, for selecting the next present to get him.

Had I even a rudimentary understanding of compassion at the time I may have thought about the situation differently. We all knew he had grown up in a troubled household. An alcoholic mother, an icy father he saw only once a year, and on his own since his sister left for college when he was twelve. We might have surmised that he never received all that many gifts in his life, and perhaps he never learned what participating in family was all about. However, my brother and I were teenagers. Instead of “being the change we wanted to see”, as Gandhi would have advised, we preferred being angry and punching holes in the wall.

“Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the only person to get hurt.” - Buddha

Unlike my poor mother, all of my birthdays have been recognized by friends and family alike. Hence, they must all be counted (there is an upside to everything mom!). No matter how under-celebrated this most recent birthday was, I am forced to admit that I am indeed thirty. I’m not bemoaning this fact as a sign of being old. I’m fully aware that I still feel quite young because I am quite young. However, my twenties are done and over with. Gone forever.

Physical signs of ceaseless change in the universe appeared right on cue. I shaved my head a few months back, and was shocked to find undeniable evidence that I am beginning to go grey. From what I can see it’s only a few small patches so far, and it didn’t bother me much. However, as my hair grew back in I gradully noticed what appeared to be evidence of a receding hairline, and for some reason that was cause for great alarm.

I’m suspicious that what I saw as evidence of thinning hair was actually surprised paranoia about my nascent grey hairs. I can’t tell what’s going on up there now that my hair has grown back in more fully. What I do know, and what this most recent Vipassana retreat reminded me, is that it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I was reminded that, so long as I maintain a skillful Vipassana practice, it won’t matter to me whether or not I eventually go bald; or whether I’m rich or poor, a success or a failure, recognized or repudiated. It’s astonishing what diligent mind training can do. I won’t change the external reality, but it will change how it is interpreted.

I left this retreat feeling quite unknotted. I’ve witnessed how a considerable proportation of the things we worry about are constructed in the mind. We then live with the experience of problems we have created. The patent insanity of generating considerable angst over the unstoppable loss of non-functional hairs becomes clear. This past retreat was my sixth such ten day retreat. Every time I go, and every day I practice, I am able to deconstruct some of the problems in my mind, and I no longer experience them as problems in the external world.

I’ve had some really great experiences at my Vipassana retreats, and one of them has been temporary freedom from all worry. For fleeting moments I could drop it all. I could have died right then and there, free from all fear of annihilation – happy, content, overflowing with love for all that has been; love for everyone I ever met, and those I have not. Overflowing with compassion for people who get angry, sad, nihilistic, anxious, or fearful; compassion for all the needless suffering in this world, and compassionate understanding that suffering is inextricably tied into temporal existence. But also, I’ve developed an understanding that with some kind of mind training there might be a way out of such suffering.     

These kinds of experiences have all been temporary, but they can give one direction in life. I have experienced the knowledge that I don’t need to attain anything in life. A great surge of fear washed over me when that experience was over. Could I really just let go, and live a life that impressed nobody? Was a really free to stop caring about what others think? Did I really need more than is necessary? Is it possible, without being brash, foolhardy, or arrogant, to let go of everything, including the deep seeded fear of certain annihilation? A veritable heaven on earth seemed to be the reward, but the metaphorical pearly gates open slowly, and only with effort.    

I’ve been sorting out these kinds of issues since I quit poker two years ago, with varying speeds of progress. Finding the right balance of ideas is challenging. I don’t intend to run away and meditate forever. I think I could help more people if I didn’t do that. However I’ve noticed that, during this past year in particular, I’ve been hesitant to take bold steps towards dedicating myself to either lots of meditation, or helping others directly. I’m still fraught with all kind of pointless worry from time to time. My mind waders endlessly, and has trouble deriving conclusions from conflicting information. I have my insights from meditation on one hand, and my own personal wants and desires on the other. I think the insights are gradually gaining ground, but I don’t for sure.

I’ve imagined scenarios that might strike a balance between my spiritual insight, and life in the modern world. However, a good meditator has the benefit of observing his own insane fantasy’s from time to time. Underneath every desire to start this big organization, or that big charity, are my private highlight reels of being recognized, praised, financially successful, and generally looked up to for being such a great guy. Perhaps this is just one way the mind motivates itself to right action, but I have my doubts. Such a desire to help – while good at some level – clearly has its roots in selfishness. The aim of most spiritual traditions is transcending the Self, not reinforcing it.   

Some of my friends asked in e-mails how I felt about being thirty. The more I think about it, the less I have to say. Thirty is thirty; forty will be forty, and eventually I will cease to be anything at all. So it goes. Change will come, has come, and will continue to come. Being that I’m helpless to stop it, I think I’m going to go with it.

There are, I think, better and worse ways to enjoy temporal existence, and I’m starting to learn how to dance in accord with the rhythm of time. You can have things, but you can’t hold on to them forever. Best not to be attached. You can want things, but the bucket of desire is bottomless. Best to develop an understanding of what is truly necessary. You can enjoy things, but these experiences are also impermanent. Best to dance with equal grace, compassion, and love for each passing moment.    

To Nepal.

September 14th, 2013

I left Delhi in the early morning about a week ago today, heading for Nepal. I was ahead of the morning traffic for most of my way out of the sprawling metropolis, but in India great masses of humanity are everywhere. The roads are never truly empty. I had no map, but the GPS on my phone provided a decent back-up. Mostly, I played attention to the major way-points, and stopped to ask people whenever I lost my way.

The bike and I are more of a spectacle outside the major cities. Despite the fact that India is a heavily touristed country, the majority of people have never seen a foreigner in the flesh. I had forgotten that crowds will most assuredly gather wherever I come to a stop. Like water bursting forth from a tiny crack in a dam, there is an inflection point where a few curious onlookers quickly becomes a crowd. At one refueling stop, I got some tools out to make a simple adjustment to the chain. I looked up only to notice that I had been encircled by nearly twenty people who had stopped to gaze at me, and the bike. I let loose a flurry of greetings and smiles, climbed back on the bike, and went on my way.

I reached the sleepy border town of Mahendranagar just before nightfall. I expected a battle with customs, but it was one of the easiest border situations I have ever experienced. The Indian official knew exactly what to do with my Carnet de Passage. The motorcycle was temporarily exported from India, and then temporarily imported into Nepal with 20 minutes. I purchased my visa on arrival for Nepal, and I was in.

Exhausted, I called it a night in Mahendranagar, and slept until nearly ten the next morning. I had splurged for a decent room with air-conditioning, and milked my stay until the last possible moment. I didn’t get riding until almost 1pm, but I was in no rush. I rode along what is probably the best road in Nepal, a lightly trafficked stretch which lies in the planes of Western Nepal.

It was nearing the end of the rainy season and the rice fields were twinkling emerald. The foothills of the Himalayan range were visible to the north, but the were small, green peaks were obscured by the haze of the planes. As the sun descended behind me the light improved, and nearing sunset the planes looked like an electric green fire. Not since Indonesia had I seen such beautiful rice fields.

In the late afternoon I met a middle aged Bengali man, Sujoy, man riding a 100cc bike from Leh, India, across Nepal, through Bhutan, and onwards to Arunachal Pradesh, India before returning to his home in Calcutta. In my eyes he was the greater spectacle, and probably the greater adventurer of the two of us. His trip would span just 70 days, which is a brisk pace considering the distance he is covering. We rode together for the last hour of daylight, me on a massive 750cc bike, Sujoy on the tiny 100cc engine that could. We were capped by the top speed of his bike, 60 Kph (just under 40 mph), but I wanted to stick with him. This man clearly had some things to teach me.

We split accommodation in a random Nepali town. Broken streets, dusty air, dimly-lit shops, power lines hanging everywhere – the standard for urbanizing zones in the developing world. Unsurprisingly, Sujoy and I share the same basic philosophy that all vagabonds: things won’t make me happy, simplicity is the way to go, personal freedom is hugely important, responsibility to others must be addressed; eventually. That’s the basic scaffolding, anyhow.

It was truly inspiring to share some time with Sujoy. He proved to me what I probably knew at the outset of this trip, but didn’t acknowledge due to fear of the unknown. I didn’t need a big bike to do this trip; I hardly needed anything at all. I didn’t need all the complications I created over paperwork, costs, getting parts, etc. I think I would prefer a smaller, simpler bike too. Of course, I’ve let go of this because there is no use regretting the past. And, at the end of each day, I’m quite happy with my bike. It wasn’t all that expensive. It is a complicated piece of machinery, but that is somewhat off-set by its reliability (finger crossed). It is cumbersome to maneuver in some situations, but it saves me from disaster in others. I think my overarching point is that anyone have these kinds of adventures, and that makes me glad.

Sujoy and I got an early start, and we were both headed towards Pokhara. The plan was for me to go ahead and find a place to stay, and he’d meet me the following day. We had 400km to cover. The road was decent, but the mountains would probably slow Sujoy to a crawl. I sped to the major way-point of Butwal, and made for Pokhara, slaloming around curves all day. I was comfortably sipping a beer in the garden of my hotel when Sujoy called. He had made it to Pokhara in one day, which shocked us both. It was his best day as far as distance covered, and time on the bike were concerned. 

He rested a day in Pokhara before taking off for Kathmandu. I followed a few days later, and am currently in Bhaktapur – a town near Kathmandu, but is far more beautiful. I thought I had visited Bhaktapur on my 2010 trip to Nepal, but clearly I was mistaken. Bhaktapur is stunning. There is a relatively outrageous entry fee for the privelage of entering the city-center. Much to my surprise at least some of that money (about $10 per ticket) actually goes to keeping Bhaktapur clean and beautiful, which is the antithesis of Kathmandu’s’ backpacker enclave, Thamel.

The garbage has been thoroughly picked up, the streets are swept daily, and most building are either fully restored or conform to some agreed upon, aesthetically pleasing architecture. Garish signage might be considered a problem, however, when compared to similar tourist hubs in the developing world, I don’t even have to ask a local to know that signage is regulated, and as under control as they can make it.

Central Bhaktapur is the ancient part of the city, and it’s still beautiful and functional. There are early morning markets, and local residents everywhere. Everything in Bhaktapur is a bit pricier than in Thamel, but for the aesthetics and pleasure of strolling through the red rick labyrinth, I’d say its well worth it.

After only two days in Bhaktapur, I'm off again. I won't be going far, or doing much when I get to my destination. I'm scheduled to attend another 10-day Vipassana retreat, and I leave for the center in just a few minutes. I've done several of these retreats, which are famous for the fact that they are silent. For me, that's virtually a non-issue, but it seems to be tantamount to outrageous for most people I talk to. Personally, I can be heavily introverted, and might go 10 days without uttering more than a few words while I'm traveling. This is not to say the courses are easy, but rather to say that trying to meditate for 11 hours a day is the hard part. Not speaking is a comparative blessing. 

I've got the normal jitters, but I am still looking forward to the retreat. They are very strong experiences, which can lead to beautiful insights about morality, ethics, and how to behave in this strange world in which we live. To exist itself is strange enough. What is self-awareness, and does it mean anything to be self-aware? What is that sense of 'I' we all have in our heads? My guess: 'we' are a story the brain tells the mind. What that means: I don't have a clue. Somehow that compels me to be kind. Life is confusing. Life is hard.   

And then there is the practical world in which we live; an interconnected web of geopolitical groups of humans, cultural values, and interdependent economies. How did this world arise, and how do we live in it? Here, I also don't have much of a clue. However, with regard to the philosophical and the practical, inward searching and reasoning has lead me to feel that I will be okay. I have the benefit of always having a humbling perspective close at hand. How many human beings did I pass on my way from New Delhi to Bhaktapur who are leading lives I find difficult to even contemplate, much less accept as my own? One million? Ten million? I don't know, but I see humble hero's every day. 

Notes #1 - Spiti

September 10, 2013

While I was in Spiti Valley the electricity was out, and I was unable to cobble together ideas using a keyboard, which I now prefer to actual writing. Occasionally, I would scribble down random thoughts in a passport size notebook which I keep in my back pocket when I travel. These tiny notebooks are usually reserved for making to-do lists which never get done. Alternatively I use them to collect peoples contact information, which I later realize is illegible either because they have horrible handwriting, I have horrible hand writing, or the ink has run. The notebooks, which ride around all day mere millimeters from my rear-end, routinely get soaked in ass-sweat.     

About a year ago I came up with a grandiose plan which would more fully realize the potential of these notebooks which I obsessively cart around every trip. I had the idea of writing down a small synopsis of each passing day, and assigning it a score of on a scale of one to ten. The scale would be arbitrary; a generic barometer of how “good”, or “successful” each day had been, all things considered. Eventually, I would chart each day using some meaningful schema, and see if I could detect any correlation between either high or low scoring days, and my account of that day. I could even do some hard statistical analysis if I wanted. That project survived intact for about ten days. Almost a month had passed before I realized that I had abandoned the project.

Next, I decided I would write down thoughts and observations I found amusing during the day. The idea was to capture the little things that I love about travel, but had begun to register in my consciousness. At some point it just becomes normal to see livestock roaming in the streets, to go out to dinner for $1, to have a maniacal tuk-tuk driver, or to see a raucous group of people strolling down the street dressed like circus performers, for no apparent reason. That idea is now a year old, and it managed to last almost two weeks before I forgot about its existence. I recall thinking that I had memorialized some good moments which might have otherwise escaped my notice. However, in due time, I lost the notebook, and can’t recall a single thing I had written there.

I resurrected this procedure for capturing the seemingly mundane while in Spiti Valley. From the start, the projected morphed into something other than I expected. I had ample free time, and notable things don’t happen all of the time when traveling. Instead, it became a place to put down whatever crazy thought came to mind while riding; a place to record sound bites from my mind.

I didn’t return to my mini-journal every day, but I did get some things down which I might have otherwise forgotten. In an attempt to make a permanent home for these snippets from my stream of consciousness, I am officially transferring them to a place where I probably won’t lose them: here.

August 16 – 30^th, 2013. Spiti Valley.

The kid at our home stay in Tashigon, population 24, has a facebook account. Wish I had said: ‘W-T-F?’

Haven’t showered in four days. For a contemporary person, a clean soul is inversely proportional to a clean body.

When cows ruminate, they chew cud. When people ruminate, they chew ideas. Either way, it should be done with the Zen-like poise of our ungulate friends.

The surest path to riches is contentment without. Attainable and boundless, such an ability continually purchases happiness where ever one goes.

[A friend] once told me that walking in the rain actually gets you less drenched than running through the rain. I just rode my motorcycle briskly through a storm and concluded that [my friend] is an idiot.

The people in Spiti lead such arduous lives, but have a kind and gentle way about them. Note to self: always be kind, no matter how hard things get.

At the apparent level, other people and external circumstances occasionally upset me. In the final analysis, I only ever upset myself.  

Camping is awesome. 

Back to Civilization…

September 1st, 2013

About a week ago I made my way out of the isolated Spiti Valley and rode quickly back to New Delhi. Due to problems with the hydroelectric power station in Spiti, the entire valley was without electricity during my two week visit. It had been without power for over a month before I arrived. I suspect the power is still off. I’d wager that its either because some inconsiderate person refused to bribe the right people into fixing the problem, or that, in order to turn the power back on, the bureaucracy needs the proper paperwork to be printed locally, Xeroxed, and stamped in octuplicate – which they can’t do until the power is turned back on.

Regardless, I didn’t need much electricity when I was there. I had made my way to Spiti from Leh – with my Australian friend Tarin as passenger – nearly three weeks ago. We camped a bunch, both on the way to, and while in Spiti Valley. We had batteries for our headlamps, food and gas for the stove, and the bike carried our gear. We were a fairly self-sufficient, mobile unit of tourism. 

Getting into the valley was a bit of a challenge. Abnormal rains caused landslides which blocked the main road in. Tarin and I took the less traveled route, which was not in good shape either. Some parts of the roads were washed out, but the bike preformed like a champion and managed to get us to Kaza, the capital of Spiti, without too many complications.  

Spiti Valley is quite similar to Leh, although the tourism industry is 15-20 years less developed. Most people in Spiti Valley lead simple lives, and survive by farming peas and barley. Shepard’s graze yaks, goats, sheep, and donkeys to make ends meet as well. Despite the hardships of such a lifestyle, the people of Spiti were some of the kindest people I have ever met in all my travels.

The primary language was commonly referred to by the locals as “Spiti Language”, and I was told it was very similar to Tibetan, the border of which is only 150 km. away from Kaza. Most youths and twenty-somethings are proficient in English, particularly in and around Kaza. I found this even more impressive when I learned that the teaching of Hindi, the most common language in India, was only introduced into the schools of Spiti Valley in 1990. English was introduced at about the same time. Even the older locals have a knack for languages. I saw many people, who had to have been in their thirties when Hindi was first introduced to the area, have fluid conversations in Hindi with the handful of Indian nationals who were touring the valley. I was even more surprised to discover that some of the shepherds I came across – who looked positively ancient – knew a word or two of English, which is strange when you consider that they might not have even seen a foreigner until they were in their thirties or forties.

I enjoyed my simple and peaceful time in the stunningly beautiful valley, but decided to head back to New Deli when I learned that a fellow traveler – an Indian traveler named Anish, from Hyderabad – was heading back to Delhi at nearly the same time I was.       

We made the trip in record time, going from Kaza to Manali on day one, taking a full days rest there, and then we made a huge push for New Delhi the following day. That last day of riding was as exciting as it was brutal. I clocked almost 14 hours in the saddle, with a passenger and all of our gear in tow. Anish and I went from the pine-tree covered mountains of Manali, into the sweltering summer heat of New Delhi all in one long day. We passed herds of goats and sheep on the way out of Manali. Arriving in New Delhi, we were greeted by cows which meandered on the median, as well as two elephants which were parading alongside the expressway immediately outside of Delhi, probably on their way to wedding.       

With a 6am departure from Manali, I made it to New Delhi in time for dinner in with my friend Girish, who had hosted via couchsurfing.com back in June, and who also joined me for some adventuring when I rode up to Leh and Kashmir in early July. Over dinner with some of his friends, we exchanged stories about travel, thoughts on life, and I inhaled some much needed spicy Indian food followed, of course, by some sweets and tea.     

I had made a speedy transition from one kind of environment to another. From the unspoiled peace and simplicity of life in Kaza, to the hectic and ever-changing cityscape of modern New Delhi in just a few days. I had electricity again; Internet too. Urban life buzzed all around me.

A week ago today, I was camping on the outskirts of Comic, population 36, the highest city in Asia at an elevation of 4572 meters (about 15,000 ft.). The houses are ramshackle, yet picturesque. The air is fresh, and natural vistas stretched to the horizon. The people often wave and say hello visitors, as well as to each other. Currently, I’m back in New Delhi, population 16.5 million. The streets are cracked and broken; crowded by people walking at a brisk pace with their heads down, looking up only to dodge honking cars, sputtering tuk-tuks, erratic motorbikes, and traffic that sneaks up you from behind because its driving the wrong way.

The vibe in New Delhi, and I suppose any large city, is frenetic but alive. If you know how it works, its anything but overwhelming. Bustling city life is invigorating in a way that’s wholly different from places like Spiti. There is an order to the chaos here in New Delhi. However, there is chaos in the chaos too. The air is thick with pollution; homeless people and beggars sleep on the medians near busy intersections alongside their families.

I’m not sure either mode of living is better than the other. Life is extremely hard in Comic for some reasons; extremely difficult for some residents of New Delhi for other reasons. I was, however, struck by the implications of my return to “civilization”. If civility had anything to do with civilization, I think it could be argued that I was running away from civilization. However, according to Merriam and Webster, civility is merely an ancillary component of civilization. According to the dictionary, reaching a high level of “culture, science, industry, and government” is what primarily defines the word ‘civilization’.

The dictionary doesn’t define what a high level is, nor does it give any hints as to when levels of “culture, science, industry, and government” are sufficiently high. How much of these things is enough? Do we keep increasing science, industry, and government until homo-sapiens unequivocally Win The Planet, or go down trying? Does New York have more civilization than, say, Paris? I think these are then kinds of things philosophers are supposed to sort out.

Personally, I wonder if we have enough of these things already. I think I do. I think many people probably do; some realize it, and some don’t. I think much of the world could use more civilization. They don’t yet have access to its core components, but development is on the way. Places like Spiti remind me how fortunate I am to have enough of everything already. I don’t think there’s anything more that I truly need. In Spiti, I quite easily melted into a lack-nothing state of being. My existence was simple, and simplicity makes me feel whole.

That said, modern convinces – which are certainly complex – made my trip to Spiti both possible and more enjoyable. I’m no Luddite. I love technology. Fortunately, I know enough about technology that I avoid updating it like the plague. Very rarely are new devices, models, or versions worth the hassle. It takes serious awareness to be well informed, an enthusiast, yet remain hassle-free. My lifestyle helps me out with this to a large degree. I simply don’t have access to new gadgets, new websites, or new gossip. I wouldn’t have any use for these things anyhow. In places like Spiti, I forget such things even exists. How can one be bothered by something they don’t know exists?

I don’t think living life with my head in the sand is any solution to problems that come along with development. However, time away from advertising – from companies which advertise products, from peers which advertise themselves, from ones’ own mind which generates the familiar ad campaigns of ‘I, Me, Mine’ in response – can be life changing. Who and what are we? Where is the line which separates needs from wants? How, when, and in what ways does the pursuit of things we want, but may not need, make us happy, or unhappy?

It’s far easier to figure these things out when there is nobody around to supply the answers. And, I think it’s imperative that everyone thinks about these kinds of things. As the Harvard psychologist Dan Gilbert pointed out in one of his wonderful TED talks, humans have the unique ability to miswant things; that is, to want something which, unbeknownst to our conscious mind, make us unhappy. What a tremendously counterproductive use of time, effort, and resources! Are you miswanting anything? I sure hope not. I hope I’m not either.   

Yes, I used my beloved Kindle while in Spiti, and yes, thanks to my laptop I had access to thousands of books, and of course, because of my upbringing I could comprehend most of them. Additionally, I happily used my trusty motorbike to get around, and I even found a petrol pump in Kaza which supplied the fuel which makes it move. Modernity is unavoidable. Time, if it exists, has an both arrow and a preferred direction. Change is inevitable, such is the nature of things.  

Companies definitely exist, and they have to make a product if people will buy it. But, the things we have and use are not who and what we are. The products people need are only a tiny sub-set of the products people will buy. A lot of convincing gets done in order to make people buy a product or service. Companies have to convince us to want things more than we would otherwise. Not only is this state of affairs mostly unavoidable, it’s also completely fine if one learns how sort these things out for themselves.

In Spiti there was nothing to remind me that I was in need of anything else. I rarely felt any sense of lack while there. After being in New Delhi for a few days, my mind caught up with the pace of the city; the pace of modern, urban life. The world, and its environments, will do what they will do. For me, I find that it is important to understand how the surrounding environment affects my mind. Doing this is simply a matter of objective observation. I simply observe and note how the environment affects my mind. I observe how the external environment makes me feel. I note what kinds of thoughts arise because of the environment around. A moment of repose is critical. Only in such moments of pause do I truly understand how the environment is effecting me. Thought arise in response to the environment. In New Delhi my mind is more revved up. When I walk the streets, I want this thing or that thing – usually food. Upon closer inspection, I realize that such wants are likely miswants. Do I really need to eat three lunches? Probably not.

In this way I can more efficiently sort out my needs and wants. For example, I get momentarily excited when I see and smell a place serving a good Thali, or a sweet Ladoo, or hot chai, or cold Kulfi, or fresh-squeezed juice, or fried sugar covered in syrup, or… There is a lot of food in India. But, the same goes for gadgets and potential gifts I pass by. I get excited for a couple of moments. I note my excitement and impulses, but I try and keep walking. Eventually, the excitement fades. Over time, I enjoy the freedom of a light bag, few objects which need to be attend to, and a stomach which isn’t upset around the clock. In general, I find that I need surprisingly little. It has become less about impulse control, and more about recognizing impulses and desires for what they are: ephemeral.     

I enjoyed my time in Spiti immensely. It is a beautiful place. My life was cheap and simple, and the locals were exceedingly civil. Personally, I had enough culture, science, industry, and government to suit my needs. Every day was carefree. Tarin and I went where we pleased, and did what we enjoyed. Mostly, we took in the scenery, and basked in the freedom each day provided.

I have enjoyed being back in New Delhi, too. It’s been fun to reconnect with Girish, and it’s been nice to have electricity and Internet again. I got my laptop fixed, I download some new music, I emailed friends and family. However, I must admit that I wasted an unconscionable amount of time mindlessly browsing the Web. I was able to catch myself here and there. Sometimes I was able to refrain from researching which version of Linux I would theoretically install should my laptop break (Mint 15 with XFCE for sure). Occasionally, I was able to walk away from my mindless hunt for cheap laughs (blooper reels, memes, and the fail-blog are my nemesis). Sometimes I was stuck for hours before I woke up to what I was doing. Part of my growth has been realize what it feels like to be truly awake; to be intently aware of what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.   

Coming back from Spiti, from Big Nature, from a summer in Ladakh, has been great. What I noticed most in my first few days back was how much the environment effected my mindset. I like New Delhi. I like cities and “the fast life” from time to time. In the past, I’ve noticed my tendency to become the effects of the environment which surrounded me. Hectic places made me hectic. Peaceful places made me peaceful. Social places made me more extroverted. Places of solitude made me a contented introvert. 

For the first time ever I think I’m finding a way to be what it is I want to be in any environment. I basically know how I work and what I truly want, and I think I can attain that in almost any environment. Being a happy person is an aspiration of mine; so is being a helpful person. I’m still looking for a way to combine to two, and I’m still sorting out what I am, what life is all about, and how to more positively engage with it. For me, being fully awake seems to be a good first step.