Category: Uncategorized

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This has been a month of reflecting on Dekeling’s past year, in order to prepare for 2025, and so naturally I have also spent a lot of time thinking about our possible futures as a community.

Today, just before waking up, I had a dream about a future where I attended Dekeling as a student of the people who practice there now. That’s you.

You.

In the dream, I came to Dekeling and I stayed for some years, and learned the way of compassion from those who were well-trained and steadily focused on the well-being of others, and I was pleased to see that they were very much on the way to alleviating their own suffering by having devoted their life’s energy to the Bodhisattva Path while they worked as carpenters and pilots.

I learned fearlessness from the Green Tara practitioners who chanted in English and Tibetan in a beautiful room devoted to Tara and her many blessings. The Green Tara folk had come to rely on awakened compassion as a means to see through the allure of worldly attachments and the sticky cleverness of klesha-mind. They were noble in their countenance—both the very young and the very old—and I noted the way that they were ready to spring up on a moment’s notice into action. There were Medicine Buddha folk, and Chenrezi folk, and the masters of the smoke offering and other rituals, who gathered every morning at a large fire pit outside to confess our harms, and to renew our aspirations to be harmless, open, and loving.

I learned from the generous young bookworm-scholars, happy to correct my incomplete knowledge and flimsy facts, and I was glad for their nonjudgemental commitment to accuracy of transmission. Many were fluent in Tibetan and Sanskrit, as well as Spanish and Chinese and several indigenous languages, and there was a calligrapher washing old-school brushes at the sink.

I learned community building from those who took western knowledge and seamlessly joined it to the dharma understanding of interconnectedness and who had, over years, strengthened the living container of sangha for future generations, including me in the dream. These folks held a living knowledge of our lives together across time. There was a chant about our history that was sung on the lunar New Year.

I learned without ever speaking a word about anything from the ‘secret practitioners,’ those whose main quality was ‘no-big-deal’ dharma. These yogins lived simply and carefully practiced what they’d been given, free from the useless clutter of intellectualizing and pride. They glowed. They laughed, they were quiet, they brought little trays of healthy snacks so neighbors stopped in sometimes just to enjoy.

I learned from those dogged Lojong folk in so many disguises—business people, writers, tech innovators, actors, healers and plumbers—how to open my heart in each moment of the ordinary person’s day, and how to use the steel will of bodhicitta to melt hatred in all of its forms—including self-criticism. They were a wise and steady bunch with great senses of humor. They were helpful when I locked my keys in my car.

I learned art practice and the marvelous way it lifted me up right out of thinking mind into a sublime experience free from the fetters of words; and I learned sacred music, and it permeated every service, and even our work. There was a community choir and several composers.

I learned from the temple space keepers, the tea-makers and the cooks, the greeters, the cleaners and those who cared for the sick and dying. I learned from the children and old-wise-ones, and the mysterious, unusual person sleeping on the bench by the wall near the shoe rack. I saw someone confidently setting up the altar and someone else tending the many plants. Everyone was teaching someone else something. There was no gate-keeping of knowledge and power.

I learned in a beautiful library, and an old person sitting quietly at a desk organizing the books and the reading glasses while children drew and whispered.

I learned from George, whose voice and heart survived on podcasts we made way back when. It seemed like I remembered his voice.

I learned from visiting the stupas of Chozen and Hogen, my old friends. And I saw a small reliquary for my teacher, Lama Michael. Bokar Rinpoche and Khenchen Rinpoche had special gratitude gardens in their honor. Medicinal herbs were thriving nearby, all labeled, with special scissors and help for taking some home. The paths were clear and wide and many people did walking meditation and lay on the grass. Dogs wandered in the little dog playground.

I spent time in the dharma treasure room and ancestor room, where people sang songs of our spiritual ancestors three times each day. It was always open for those with yearning hearts to sit quietly in good company. I learned from those beings, without ever having met.

In the dream, I really just came one day for the tea, but I stayed for decades, and the whole place felt like home, so I learned a lot gradually and without arrogance or pride, because even though everyone was teaching someone something—no one there seemed to be teaching those two things at all. In fact, I never heard those words mentioned in the dream, now that I think of it.

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After crossing the country from New York City to Portland, Oregon, I landed with dear friends, with a couple of days to spare to get ready for a month-long backpacking trip with Dharma teachers Soten and Shinei. A couple of days quickly passed, and became a couple of hours, becoming mere moments. My dear friend Eric drove me up Mount Hood as I continued to shoot off text messages.  It was an hour to drive, and he had a good story to tell, but I was about to be off my phone for a month and I still managed to have some loose ends. I was a bad listener. Sorry, Eric! He was a great driver.  Thanks, Eric!

We arrived to our destination, where a number of humans and a dog huddled around food by the roadside. I saw old friends and met new ones, weaving stories within our very first interactions.  We were Colin, Mimi, Veronica, Tom (him), Thomas (me), Soten, Shinei, Robin, and Cata.  Remembering now our first day on the trail, I think back with such fondness—our naivete, our blister-less feet, the kind and wet landscapes on the west side of Mount Hood.  “Leg one” of our three-leg hike would be circumambulating the mountain, seeing her majesty from all sides!  We moved through mountain meadows and rocky trails. In one moment, the mountain would sparkle with life in all manner of ways—flowers, butterflies, waterfalls.  Then we would walk through a burn, and later on, the rocky side of the mountain, where patches of snow interspersed an otherwise dry landscape. 

Each day we would wake around 4:30 and started meditation with an awakening energy practice, along with tea and a small piece of chocolate.  After our morning meditation, service, and breakfast, we would breakdown camp and got to hiking.  By now it would be about 9 AM, and we would hike until lunch—dependent on a mix of timing, distance, and mood.  Until lunch, we hiked and practiced in silence.  At lunch, we broke silence until dinner.  Hiking in community, we moved through different constellations of connection, each pair or group finding their own way of inter-being. As we walked slowly or quickly, gathered water, tied shoes, or took breaks, new constellations of relationship would form, weaving us more thoroughly together. The first leg of the trip we hiked about 40 miles, out of almost 200 during the whole trip.  Plenty of time to be with the mind, and to be with friends.

At the end of our Mount Hood segment, we camped above the Timberline Lodge and attempted to make reservations for breakfast in the morning.  Things looked gloomy as Soten’s try at a reservation fell short (for lack of charisma, let’s say.) Yet, it was not without hope! Shinei’s shining smile, and her Jedi mind-tricks helped to manifest a breakfast reservation when morning came. We drank coffee, and ate richly.  The Timberline Lodge bustled with tourists, hotel guests, and Pacific Crest Trail hikers, a unique assortment of beings living luxuriously, and others encountering their first warm water in days or weeks.  I found the Timberline Lodge to be a beautiful setting of comfort and compassion, as so many different kinds of people came together to enjoy the mountain in their own way.  They even let us use the bathroom.

“Leg Two” was the stuff of legends.  It took us down Mount Hood, around Mount Jefferson, and then to the Three Sisters area.  Did you know you can walk from one mountain to another? Something about that was surprising and deeply empowering.  As the days passed by, knees aching and toes blistering and muscles wearying, our schedule slowly shifted.  The reality was that we were going slower than expected, and that we needed to be going just that slow.  We started sleeping-in one more hour each day, while Soten continued to get up early, honoring the silence before the sunrise.

We cannot forget our dear friend Samaya.  We don’t know why Samaya was named Samaya, whether she broke samaya in another lifetime and re-incarnated as a dog, or perhaps some good omen, seeing that she, as a puppy, crawled out of the trash and was quickly adopted by Soten and Shinei as they walked by in Central America.  Samaya knew we were her pack, so one night when she didn’t come back for a little too long, our collective concern grew.  Soten ran one way to check for her, and then back the other way, and finally again in the direction that we would be going the following day.  The rest of us stayed back by our water source and stayed the night, wondering about Samaya and Soten and their travels through the night.

The next morning, we started hiking south to follow Soten and, hopefully, Samaya.  Pacific Crest Trail hikers are generous in their information sharing, and several had either seen Soten or heard of a dog hiking south.  This was another example of the constant exchange of information that exists on the PCT—where is the water, where is good rest, what can I expect. The rest of us continued hiking, hours and miles behind Soten and Samaya, and intermittently received messages with our spotty service, hinting at Samaya’s presence on the trail.  As we hiked, the fire of bodhicitta was ignited, and Mimi, the most blistered among us, proposed that we finish the previously planned two-day hike in one day, making it a 17-mile day.  The women of the group led while the three of us men just tried to keep up.  It was a feat!  We were the last to camp, where we were greeted by happy hikers, Samaya, skittles, beer, and the promise of two(ish) days of rest.   We had crossed the threshold into being halfway through the trip.  The next week was our longest half, and was often threatened by, or affected by, the smoke.  At Olallie Lake, our halfway point, we saw smoke rising up over the distant Mount Jefferson. 

As we got back on the trail, two hikers decided to step off the trail.  One for a few days (our heroic Mimi, to care for her blisters) and another, who left to Great Vow Monastery also to care for her heavily-walked-upon feet.  This was one of the more difficult days of hiking, at least emotionally.  At lunch, I left the group after singing our lunchtime song to go cry in the stream made by melting glacial waters.  The heart doesn’t just open one way, it opens all ways and in every direction.  And that’s a lot. Best to let the water take it, the rocks to hold it.

Hiking southward the east side of the cascades, in this section of the hike we encountered miles upon miles of burnt forest.  Day by day conditions would change, with varying levels of smoke to walk through, each of us with our sensitivities, reactions, and meanings attached to what the smoke meant for our body, our world.  This section of the hike felt like a pre-apocalyptic training ground.  What a treat, to meet the end of the world with a roving band of bodhisattvas.  Where else would you rather be?  Where else could you be?

Did I mention the huckleberries?  No.  Come to Mount Jefferson in the high summer and nibble to your hearts delight.  Do not plan to walk fast, there is much, MUCH snacking to do!  But Soten is waiting ahead at our new camp.  One more huckleberry.  On our night at Mount Jefferson, we made the collective decision to sleep in an extra hour.  Only two of us did. The others woke up before the sun to greet the stars and mountain, much to my benefit  There’s nothing quite like sleeping within the vicinity of meditating people.

We hiked for another week across the cascades, about 10 miles a day.  We crossed the lava fields and Highway 126, the road that I probably most love in the world.  Strange to love a road.  We wound our way into the Three Sisters Wilderness, and down to the lake where our dear Veronica ended her journey with us, and picked up four fresh new meditators with lots of food.  Apples! Cheese! Greens!  Finally we were on our last leg.  Once a creature becomes three-legged there’s really no counting how many it might grow.

In all reality, this pilgrimage had become a many-legged beast.  But one of the many legs was our weeklong retreat by a hidden mountain lake.  It sounds idyllic.  And it was!  Alas, many of us know the idiom: “Wherever you go, there you are.”  For a week we sat in a circle, breathing together, and singing together.  The simplicity unveiled itself: all we were really doing was sitting, eating, and sleeping.  On sesshin, we speak few words, lending our ears, and attention, to the Earth. The sounds of water gushing out of a mountain spring. Of rocks tumbling.  The afternoon delight of watching friends swim.  It was here I remembered, while swimming across our little mountain lake (a pond, perhaps) — “Oh yeah! I love being alive!”  It struck with both grief and joy, as I had forgotten.  Life had become a problem.  I fear that I’ve done it again—made it a problem—and I pray to remember again: “Oh yes! I love being alive!”

We walked back down the mountain, towards Bend, over a couple of days.  By another lake, on a rainy night, we started our first fire of the whole month.  The warmth penetrated through the cold night air, and the mountain monks gathered with few words, enamored by light and the play of flames.  Wendell Berry writes “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light; to know the dark, go dark.”  It’s nice to know the dark.  But it’s also nice to know the light and warmth of fire, and of good Dharma friends.

What did we do on our journey? We walked a lot, and I think we got closer.  Closer to each other, of course.  But also closer to the Earth, and closer to the stars.  We got closer to the mountains, and to the huckleberries, and to the mountain goats.  Closer to the fire.  Close enough to see, to taste, to smell.  Closer to our footsteps, and closer to our breath.  There’s something else too.  I’m not sure quite what it is, but I think we got closer to that too. 

The past four years, I have been living primarily in Brooklyn, New York. I moved here to study at Union Theological Seminary, to eventually receive a “Masters of Divinity” and work as a chaplain. After graduating from seminary, and completing my chaplaincy residency the mission was complete. However, the mission was overlaid with significant life changes, including the death of my father, which left me feeling depleted. Unlike most of my chaplaincy cohort, who moved on to other work, I decided to take a step back to have time to process all that had taken place—and more deeply, to find a bit of the spark within myself that I used to know and love. It wouldn’t have done anyone any good to keep chopping through the thick vines of samsara as I had been, calling myself a bodhisattva. All the other bodhisattvas let me know as much. They lovingly said, “Get out of here!”

I decided to take a long road-trip, across the country to my homelands of Oregon and California. I was pulled by the gravity of dharma and friendship; and I was pushed by a wish for peace. With the intention to, for a time, put down the struggle. What soon became obvious—as with any (some? all?) retreats or pilgrimages—was the disappointing reality that, “Wherever you go, there you are.”

One of the themes that came up quickly while leaving New York, and entering the road trip, is the question: what happens when we have time? I spent many hours looking at the ETA while driving—devising solutions for how to pass the expected amount of time. Often, 7-10 hours. Likely, I spent more time devising solutions than actually implementing them. And time passed anyways. Several days in this earlier part of the roadtrip, I would set out to leave, only to be stopped or slowed down by a torrential downpour. “Go slower,” the universe whispered.

And then, what happens when we have time, with friends? What is it like to feel like there is enough time? I recall seeing movie promotion for James Bond while riding the subway to work— No Time To Die was the name of the film.This felt just like the energy of the city. Who has to time to die around here? Most of the time, we see nothing of death or sickness. Let alone look at our own. I am waiting for the train, looking at my phone. There is no time for this. No Time to Die say the faces and bodies of so many of us bustling about. Leaving the energy of the city, I came to find so many kind presences that could sit and listen, share and be heard. Which, in some way, feels like a celebration in itself. Listening to and celebrating each others’ existence.

With the intention of heading West to Oregon, I first went… East. I drove up to Maine, and a small part of sweet spiritual community I have been a part of in New York City. One of these friends owns a small house on Acadia Island, and there we had a small retreat of rest and healing, and much fun. We sang songs and prayed, but mostly we hiked and played. It was the quick reset before the long reset. I even got to see my childhood friend, Celine O’Malley, who would meet me at the swing set at the elementary school between our houses.

I left from Maine and started driving West. Ultimately I would drive about 3,000 miles from Acadia Island, Maine, to our Dekeling retreat near Otis, Oregon. I stayed with family in Trumansburg, New York, hometown friends in Cleveland, a family motel in Colfax, Iowa, and in the beloved Medicine Bow mountains of Wyoming. I visited a college friend and her family in Logan, Utah, and re-met a fellow road-tripper in the middle of Idaho. In Oregon, I stayed with a dear friend turned organic farmer in La Grande, and then with my dear friends, Eric and Maggie in Corbett. (Many of whom are pictured here)

And everywhere in between, I found kindness. I recall a conversation with a worker at REI, telling me about his happiness for his daughter who moved to Colorado. And a conversation with an old mechanic friend in Oregon, who affirmed that if my car broke down, “I’d just come and get you.” In the driving, and in the decision-making, I encountered the spaces where my Dad used to support me. Especially across the Mid-West, I encountered these spaces as empty. Or perhaps not empty, but new. I grieved in my confusion as I drove West, but was constantly caught by the kindness of new and old friends. I felt very alone, but found myself to be very supported. Often not knowing where the next day would take me, I would ask for advice or connections from friends, and find that between the nurturing Earth and good ol’ interdependence, there’s almost always a bed waiting. Learning to ask, and learning to receive, and learning to meet this new life. The road-trip, pilgrimage, whatever we may call it, is a practice in walking out of the comfort zone, into the unknown, and finding that we’re still here. That kindness is still here. Thousands of small decisions to nourish life and notice how each road leads to the next one.

And, there is a mutuality in being caught. At least, I hope. To arrive into the home of a friend who lives hundreds or thousands of miles away. To witness the new manifestations of their life, the comings and goings, feeds the reality of our mutual lives. Most precious to me, I found, was being a part of the morning routine, as kids get ready for school, or work needs to get done. The enchantment of being a new visitor fades into the reality of daily life. Learning to look at the small moments.

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It’s Saturday, December 16th and we are preparing to leave Nepal for a few weeks in Thailand. We’ll jump from 64 degrees to the mid-eighties as we disembark in Chiang Mai—another place saturated in Buddhism. A dharma friend of mine will meet us at the airport and we’ll check into our hotel and then go out for an early breakfast. It’s two short flights to get from here to there, but we’re leaving at 6:30 PM local time and have a 7-hour nighttime transit in Bangkok—so arriving at 7:15 AM.

The time in Kathmandu and the surrounding areas has been rich and educational. After settling in here, we then travelled to Mirik, India, to visit our monastery. Then we drove to Darjeeling, an important city in the northern Indian hills, where tea plantation entrepreneurs escaped the brutal summer heat of the lowlands in the early part of the 19th century. Darjeeling is at about 7,000 feet (about 2,000 feet higher than Kathmandu) and so it was quite cold already.

In a near-miraculous route of return that mostly relied on luck and karma, we made it from Darjeeling back to Kathmandu in one lonnnnnggggg travel day.

The Delhi international airport is modern and it was an easy stay since we didn’t have to leave the terminal. Outside the airport, Delhi has shockingly bad air pollution—with AQI once reaching 550—nearly 200 points worse than when the Pacific Northwest was experiencing dangerous wildfires several years back. This was an important experience, really driving home the cost of letting air pollution get irreparably out of control. It’s hard to image how India could reverse Delhi’s poor air quality, even as it slowly decreases both the quality of life and life span of all of its citizens, including humans and animals.

Just for reference, the AQI in Kathmandu is 72 today—50% better than a few weeks back and in Portland it’s reported to be 23. At 150 in Kathmandu, one is well-advised to wear a mask and I’d say half the population has a chronic deep cough when the AQI is in the 150 range.

Both Nepal and India are fascinating intersections of ancient and modern culture. Of course, both are predominantly Hindu countries, but both are also strongly impacted by Buddhism. I see it in every moment of life here. There is a tenderness and joy that flows freely in everyday interactions, despite the effort required to simply get by here. Down at the stupa, many stray dogs have little coats, fashioned from old sweatshirts and jackets. I don’t know, of course, if the jackets are helpful or not, but it seems clear that they are intended to keep the old street dogs warm as they lay in the sun near the stupa.

We have been at our hotel, Lotus Gems, long enough to know many of the staff by name. Some have shared their stories and all have enriched us by being the very embodiment of kindness and care. This is the second month’s long stint I have been in residence here. I can hardly imagine a nicer, more supportive place to stay. The hotel is run by a Tibetan family and the proceeds from the business are offered to their dharma teacher’s many humanitarian projects. He is here regularly, meeting with people and conducting the business of benefitting beings.

The hotel is at the end of dead end street, and is just a few feet from the entrance to Ven. Thrangu Rinpoche’s old monastery (He built a magnificent new one about an hour outside of town, in the hills near Namo Buddha a few years back. We visited that, too.) My alarm clock has been the 5:30 gong of the monastery, calling the monks to morning services.

Both Julie and I got the usual Kathmandu bronchitis, related mostly to pollution. It’s a deep, persistent and sludgy cough, often accompanied by a mild eye infection. I visited the clinic twice, since mine is complicated by asthma. The CIWEC clinic was founded decades back by a Canadian team, and now includes a hospital wing with a dozen or so beds. At this point, I think all the staff are Nepali.

In Thailand, I’ll be slowing down a bit—taking time to enjoy the warmth and wandering around Old Town and doing some practice in my hotel room. We’ll also meet up with friends and eventually drive 3-4 hours to the northern countryside in Chiang Rai. I am especially happy to return to the small communities of various ethnicities in the mountainous regions. I learned so much last time I was there.

I am almost done lighting lamps here. A couple of emails about folks to remember came later, so I will light those and recite the names of those people when we’re back from Thailand. I am thinking about making an offering at a temple in the jungle for Dekeling community’s many animal friends, too.

On the topic of offerings, I made an offering to our monastery in Mirik and also one to Venerable Bokar Rinpoche’s tulku (incarnation) as well. These offerings were made by our community as a whole—you included. Our offering will be used for daily operations of the monastery and its activity, including education, healthcare, and housing for monks and nuns training under Ven. Khenchen Lodro Donyo Rinpoche. Due to the vision and generosity of Ven. Bokar Rinpoche, many of these same services are also extended to the surrounding community as well.

Travel here is quite different than in the USA. Things are pretty much completely unpredictable. There’s lots of information online, for example, and much of it not even remotely accurate, even on official government websites. Taxis may lack tread on their tires and oomph in their suspension and doors may or may not stay shut. Cultural and language are challenges even when intentions are to be flexible and collaborative. Most objects and most processes are about 70% functional, and to be honest I have come to appreciate ones that are that effective as ‘above the grade.’

So each hour of a 14 or 18 hour travel day must be met with near complete patience, openness, and acceptance. I know if I have to sit and wait for two hours, it’s excellent good fortune to actually have a place to sit. Even more lucky to have a hint of information about what might happen next. It’s a wonderful practice of letting go. When I can do that, things always seem to work out fine, even if quite different than I expected.

I am ducking out to have a bit of lunch at the cafe next door before putting my luggage in storage and hailing a cab to the airport, where the rule is ‘hurry up and wait.’ Still—flying to Thailand certainly beats the other options.

I think of you all every morning as I sit snuggled into many blankets, watching my breath make small clouds on the out breath. Much gratitude for your practice and your regard for each other and all beings.

Lekshe
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You can follow Lekshe’s travels via her Facbook page.

This is Boudhanath, the neighborhood where I am staying. The photo is borrowed from the internet, because it’s a drone shot. I am three minutes’ walk from the stupa in the center. 

This is how the stupa looked when I was walking home last night. 

Last year I had the good fortune of staying at a hotel called Hotel Lotus Gems. It’s owned by a local dharma family with deep roots in Dolpo, a region of northern Nepal, close to the Tibet/China border. The proceeds from this hotel go to the humanitarian projects of the family’s Tibetan Dharma teacher. 

Last year I was one of a tiny handful of guests at the hotel so there was lots of time to get to know staff. One of the front desk staff is a young man named Karma. He hails from Dolpo, as many of the staff here do. One day, I was admiring a painting on the wall and I asked Karma about it. He said, “It’s a painting of life in Dolpo. My father, Tenzin Norbu painted it.” 

A view of Dolpo in Nepal:

Yes, Phoksindu Lake is actually this color. I have seen it:

This could be us in Dolpo:

This year the hotel is full of guests. This morning at breakfast, I can hear French and Chinese guests enjoying morning conversations. But Karma is still here, and in between large groups, we still manage to connect and I am learning more about his life and family. He’s a little shy, so these conversations take time, but I can tell he enjoys sharing about Dolpo, his family and his life. The longer the conversation goes, the faster he talks and the straighter he stands.

Yesterday, he carefully drew a map of how I could get to a place called Caravan Cafe. It’s location included a lot of hints like, “There is a sign that says Dolpo Gallery, which is actually not there, any more…”

So after breakfast I took the small scrap of paper that was the map and went down the stone paved road near the hotel and rounded the corner onto the muddy lane that leads to the stupa. It took a bit of wandering, but finally I found it:

It appears that Cafe Caravan used to be Karma’s father’s gallery. Now his father has moved back to Dolpo and works there again as an artist and leader of some humanitarian projects like schools. 

The cafe name is a reference to the French movie Caravan. Here are a few clips from the film on YouTube. It was nominated for an Oscar for best foreign film the year it came out. 

Karma’s father, Tenzin Norbu, was a technical advisor for the film. Tenzin was trained in thangka painting and is in a family lineage of 400 years of thangka (Buddhist scroll painting) artists. But at some point in his life, he met a Frenchman who took him to France and together they visited many museums, gallery’s and other cultural scenes.

It occured to Tenzin that he could step outside the thangka tradition of painting in a very carefully prescribed way of Dharma story telling to create paintings in his own style. And after the long visit in France, he came to feel that his own culture was a kind of art, which could be expressed in the thangka style and so he began to paint everyday life in Dolpo—in the thangka brush style. 

Here is Tenzin as a young man, working on a painting:

Here is Tenzin’s painting of a snowy night in Dolpo:

Dolpo can be visited today so that one can see these things for oneself. Tenzin has illustrated children’s books, which you can find online.

The Dolpo people live a Tibetan lifestyle. They have many kinds of herd animals, including yaks. Yaks are especially revered by the Dolpo community becuase they are the most hardy of the herd animals. Not only can they carry heavy loads, but they give milk, which can be made into butter and yogurt. The movie Caravan shows the relationship between the Dolpo people and their yaks. 

Last night I was having tea at the Caravan Cafe with a young woman named Sonam Lhamo that I met last year at the gallery where I bought Dekeling’s Green Tara and Chenrezig thangkas. She is college age and hails from a village in the far, far west of Nepal, called Limi. (Limi, she told me, means the people near the river’s border.) Their village is right against the Chinese border. 

Sonam is smart and remarkably confident. In her village, the environmental conditions in winter are quite harsh, so even children have to work hard. She told me that their yaks liked to be out in the out-of-doors all winter, so they let them wander. Then in spring and they would go collect their animals and get ready for their time together. Sonam told me a yak in deep snow can survive for up to a month without food or water, unlike the goats and sheep which would die if not close to the village. 

This is a yak:

And this is a yak:

And this is a yak with clothes made by people who value their yak-friend:

This is why you see yaks in so many of Tenzin’s paintings:

Sonam Lhamo and I were looking at dozens of prints of his paintings (they make canvas prints here). She got teary-eyed seeing the very life she lived as a child treated as precious art. For two hours she kept pointing out tiny details my eye might have missed. She said these details were all accurate and tell many important stories which are quickly disappearing. Looking at one kind of striped wool bag for storage of grain and salt, she explained to me how these bags were made and how, as a child, she had to twist yak wool threads to make ties for the bags. 

Here is Tenzin Norbu working on a large-scale painting which is stretched in the traditional style used for thangka, paintings as well. He works in stone color—a very, very laborious process that involves grinding the stone to make pigment:

Some of Tenzin’s paintings are not about village life. (Or maybe they actually are, now that I think about it.) Such as this one, a traditional mandala, but it’s melting. (At the bottom is an ice cream cone, immortalized.) I don’t know what this painting is about—maybe climate change? Or the change of village culture (melting away?) 

A few of them are quite unique and their meaning is lost on me—fodder for future questions to Karma and Sonam. 

Dolpo in spring. This is very much how I remember Tibet:

There is a painting here in the hotel of a person standing at Lake Phoksindu, out on a small point of land in the water. In the sky, a dark grey cloud looks like a dragon. There are a few yaks in the lower right hand corer, kicking up their feet and running. Two birds are flying in the sky.

I asked Karma, “What do you think your father was thinking of when he painted this?”

He said, “Well, that cloud is thunder, and I think the person is just standing there, enjoying the thunder. The yaks are startled by it because they don’t know what it is—only that is a a powerful noise, which could indicate some danger, so they are frightened and are running away.”

A whole moment of Dolpo life captured in a snapshot. 

This is why I come to Nepal. I am not as much interested in sightseeing as I am in seeing into the stories and lives of ordinary people. I would rather follow one good story like this over a few years, in multiple conversations with multiple people than I would visit the great ‘modern wonders’ of the world. 

I also enjoy giving a listening ear to those whose voices have not really been heard. Especially to young people who can come to value their own culture and past by telling the stories they have lived. I appreciate their openness and their generosity in sharing these stories and the beautiful details of their lives, which are slipping away moment by moment. I also enjoy hearing about how they are navigating the rapid changes that are happening to them as electricity and roads and so-called ‘improvements’ reach their homeland. 

I wish you were here. 

Lekshe

November 20, 2023

Hello, Friends,

It’s early in the morning—frosty and dark outside—and such a good time of year to turn inward. Off in the distance I hear jets at the airport warming their engines. I am aware of the good fortune of a safe and comfortable home.

Thank you for your efforts and your altruistic intentions in 2023—they are bearing such good fruit. In just a few short years so many of you have developed a steady shamatha practice and are now beginning to integrate insight mediation. Some have also connected to regular Green Tara or Medicine Buddha practice and inside that, have nurtured friendships and lively support for each other. Our Lojong study and practice is friendly and flourishing.

I see the dawning of an experiential understanding that practicing in the Vajrayana is a gradual process that will necessarily span years of more or less continuous effort and investment. Little by little I see you letting go of society’s demand that we should measure and judge practice and ourselves as we do our secular endeavors: let us not succumb to that. I delight in watching you act on the understanding that the challenges of our lives are not obstacles to practice but form the basis of the path itself. As you practice in that way, I see you responding more and more with patience, humor, and grace in all kinds of demanding situations. What a good sign!

Slowly, slowly, personal connections are forming among community members. To those of you who are such good shepherds of that, thank you for adding joy and stability to our community.

In 2023, many of you were able to take days or even weeks off to do retreat. I know it takes effort and determination to make this happen. Thank you, and your significant others, too. And thank you to our teachers and benefactors. In these challenging times, strong and compassionate hearts are medicine for the world. Thank you for your abiding presence as fellow travelers on the path
of wisdom and compassion.

With sincere gratitude for our continued connection, and for your goodness,

Lekshe