I’ve had a lot of different muscles in my life. Golf muscles, gym muscles, bharata natyam muscles, yoga muscles. So far, these volunteer muscles from the meditation center are my favorites. Stirring mammoth cake batters gives you serious triceps, folks.
And in other news of changing bodies, my head now looks like a watermelon. Not in a bad way, just in the sense that I have no hair, because a friend buzzed it off for me. The effect is somewhere between the Dalai Lama and Ani DiFranco. And it seems to have heightened the ethnic ambiguity. But it’s wonderful, tingly, and perfect for a pilgrimage (see “WALKIN’ “), where showers will be scarce and too much hair would prove a nuisance.
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Well friends, that’s it for now! Wish me luck — at least half of what I wish for you.
Lately I’ve noticed that The Cool is slowly and steadily dying away from me. Can’t say I’m sorry for its passing. Despite its beauty and allure, The Cool gets in the way a lot. It crowds out the tender, more delicate qualities — sincerity, earnestness, silliness, openness. Chokes their roots, hogs the water, blocks the sunlight.
I got rid of a good deal of it in high school, and shed some more in college. But The Cool is sneaky, and very tenacious. It can assume different forms. Some are cliché and therefore easy to spot: Beautiful Woman, Brilliant Student, World Traveler, World-Weary Activist. Others, though, are harder to detect. Some of The Cool’s most clever disguises include Polite Young Lady, Devoted Daughter, Good Friend, and more recently, Serious Meditator. It catches you off your guard.
Still, I’m getting wise to the tricks of The Cool, and I see it weakening. If there’s ever a funeral, you’re invited to come and celebrate. :)
Bienvenue, folks. Especially folks from Facebook who came here hoping for nudie pictures on the beach! (My stat count shot up like three times the normal hits after I posted that picture of my bare back.) Hope you’re all doing well.
Just a coupl’a quick announcements. First, I’ve added a Friendly User Guide with a few tips on interacting with the site, so check that out and let me know what you think!
Also, for the next two weeks or so, starting tomorrow, I’ll be serving at another Vipassana Center (this one in France). Which means no internet for this little dhamma elf. However, thanks to the wonders of technology, I can set up posts to publish themselves automatically — so every other day there’ll be a new batch of photos or a snippet of email. (We’re almost all caught up, by the way!) So stop in while I’m gone, have a look around, and we’ll reconnect when the month changes over.
Ok, I think that’s it. Je suis très fatuigée après d’un voyage de 15 heures en bus de la nuit, de Barcelone á Paris. I am thinking of the African couple and the South Asian man who were taken off the bus by the police in the middle of the night, when we stopped for checks at the French border. I hope they are doing all right. The whole episode, difficult to watch under any circumstances, seemed especially surreal at 3 in the morning, after having being quasi-awakened by a grim-faced officer demanding my passport.
It’s a crazy world, friends. I’m grateful to be going to the meditation center, to keep learning how to handle the craziness, and to help others learn how to deal, too.
My friend Nuria grew up in Catalunya, so she knows where to find the quiet beaches here. No screaming babies, squawking vendors, or complaining tourists. (Though those scenes have their own charm, too).
This Sunday she took me to a tiny one, 45 minutes by train outside of Barcelona. Maybe two dozen people in the little nook we picked.
We had a simple day, enjoying the sun and sand and water on our skin. (Bathing suits: unnecessary. Ya feel me?)
But even the simple days are also, inevitably, complex. When you escape the crowds, sometimes you find the loners.
First there was the white guy crouching in the rocks above the beach. Nuria’s eyes narrowed. “Qué hace?” she hissed, hackles visibly raised. She stood up to get a better look. When she was reassured that he had left, we talked about the violence of voyeurs. Men who spy on naturist beaches to ogle and masturbate. A couple of shady characters I encountered on The Camino. Nuria is one of the most loving people I know, toward everyone she meets, but she also has a temper, and this behavior is a big trigger. She has been known to throw stones.
So we talked about the ways in which these men are suffering from addiction, lost deep in their own pain and ignorance, and doing such harm to others because of it. How almost everyone on Earth, including ourselves, at times, is addicted to pleasure in some form or another.
And how, fortunately, most of the time, the collective, family vibe among nude beachgoers (who tend to have a higher level of comfort with their own bodies, and less sexual neurosis about nudity) overwhelms the negativity of predatory intruders. As we talked, Nuria opened up about her past, her own painful histories. Even on the simple days, these things tend to resurface.
Then there was the long-haired argentino dude who sat down next to us, asking for rolling papers and tobacco. His speech was so rapid and his accent so heavily Italian that I gave up trying to follow. One thing I did catch: “. . .parejas?” “Partners?” Pointing to both of us. Well, we are in Spain, a country that recognizes same-sex marriages. Maybe assumptions here are different. Maybe this was a heartwarming break from heteronormativity. Except that…it clearly wasn’t. I didn’t have to understand this guy’s words in order to see his intentions. Just the same old sexist fantasy: girl-on-girl action. And even better — a white girl with a brown girl.
Oh, dear.
Why does a day at the beach have to be so complicated?
Except that…it doesn’t.
There’s a lovely saying I’ve heard a couple of times recently, in different contexts. Just as darkness cannot survive the arrival of light, suffering cannot survive the arrival of equanimity. When you become equanimous — that is, fully present and accepting — toward something that is bothering you, it stops bothering you. You just see it for what it is. Someone is acting out their insecurity. Someone is doing harm. If the harm occurring is severe, requiring action to stop it, take action. If not, let it be. Let it pass. Either way, the first step is to observe, without a knee-jerk reaction.
Eventually, not finding the response he wanted from us, the long-haired dude left.
Did racist patriarchy spoil our day at the beach?
Well, we took some photos. You tell me.
——— [Heads-up: nothing explicit, but maybe not the safest for work]
Ok, so this section is about language, not kvetches, but it was too good a pun to pass up, no? :)
Cool, language. My Spanish is getting better, and even though I often end a day completely exhausted from trying to speak and understand, communication certainly has its benefits. Two weeks ago, I hit a major milestone: made my first friend by speaking only Castellano. A nice old dude in my favorite tea shop; he recently published a book on el amor del alma (love and the soul). In keeping with my inability to meet Spaniards in Spain, though, he was an Italian Jew. Oh, well. :) Tonight I’m having dinner with a for-real Spanish family — I met the mother at the meditation center, and she gave me a standing invitation to visit their home. People have been incredibly friendly and generous — with their homes, their belongings, and their patience while I struggle to find words and keep up. Feels wonderful.
In other fun news: false cognates!
1) If a friend asks whether you’re constipado, they are not being gross or rude — they’re just concerned that you might have a cold. The word means congested.
2) Since the suffix “eria” indicates a vendor (a gelateria sells gelato; a peluqueria sells haircuts), you can imagine my disappointment when I found out that a ferreteria sells hardware.
3) Mealtimes at the meditation center, we had to make sure to give extra food to the women who were embarasadas. Pregnant. Heehee.
And how’s this for a dairy-alternative brand name? Yo Soy.
Beautiful blogger Katie left a comment recently, “be your own best gardener!” I love it. I’ve been holding it. Be my own best gardener…. and I’m trying. Sensing out what it is that would feed me, leave me feeling well cared for. What it is that my roots are asking for. And trying not to go into shock as I’m feeling a bit uprooted at the moment, raw. Best to start literal in this case. So I headed to the nursery with my box of plants in hand.
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Bethany’s post, with so many gorgeous green photos, just left me speechless. This is the most I can hope for from my blogging, or from commenting on other people’s blogs: to give someone the little nudge they needed to go seek deep joy. To nurture themselves.
Bethany, I can’t thank you enough. This was exactly the encouragement I needed, today. Quieting the little voice in my head that says: “What are you doing with your life? Why are you wasting all this time on the computer? Why don’t you do something useful; something practical; something that earns you a living; something that fights oppression; something that actually helps people?”
That voice has been ebbing and stilling lately, but the other day it swelled and got loud again. Thanks to you, though, I can smile and whisper back to it, with all my lovingness, “Shhh…it’s okay. I know. You’re afraid. But don’t worry. Just take it moment by moment, and together we’ll wind up fine.”
Kloncke 
