Something in the Air

​There’s something about this place, Dharamshala, exuding love and anything else you need no matter how little everyone has to give or how long any one person knows another.
It’s infectious, generosity, a skill I’m continuously sharpening officially being here for a week and a half. Who was I not to catch it since I was basically handed a reset button arriving back in the little village after spending a week in the deplorable Delhi. My re-arrival was a parallel to the initial experience. The bus I rode on was exceptionally comfy with plush seats, air conditioning, space to relax, and good company to escort me to my exact destination, guaranteed.

Being released from the Delhi authorities custody seemed like an adoption process that couldn’t be finalized quick enough. I anxiously bit at my nails waiting for my volunteer coordinator to arrive so they could be assured I was safe. We met at the Snow Lion cafe where I had been the first day I was here. The exchange of words in Hindi had me on the edge of the seat as I could see my freedom waiting for me just outside the window. Tsering Wangdue, my volunteer coordinator, wrote a statement in which he signed with proof of identification. We all shook hands and I held my breath with excitement.
Mr. Wangdue offered me to stay for breakfast and although I was hungry, I politely declined. The taste of freedom was a bit more fulfilling at the moment and I was eager to get out of the raunchy outfit I had been wearing for the past week.  I walked down the narrow streets free of hyper taxi drivers, merchants, and tourists so early in the morning. I strutted proudly in my aged garments knowing that I was back where I belong, among the Himalayan air and small town culture that felt similar to my home I grew so fond of in Carbondale.
I greeted all the dogs still snoozing on the big staircase down to my hostel. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the big blue northern sky above my head.
Marilyn, my roommate for the time being, greeted me warmly and didn’t rush conversation as she knew I was exhausted with the details. She was dealing with recent news of family illness and expressed my return as quite timely. The theme of most of our conversations was that everything happens for a reason and has continued to be relative in our time and space together as well as our personal lives.
“You’re not tired?” She asked in her French accent.
I told her I slept comfortably on the bus and had so much energy built up I needed to be out in the town.
We spent that Sunday parlaying in cafes reading books, eating, window shopping, and even playing with mystical stones in a crystal shop.
Later that evening I left her to her daily meditation while I met my other friend for tea on the rooftop. On the balcony of the hostel I found fascinating women gravitating to our once small table that eventually became a table of four feeling like much more.
Krukita, 29, a journalist from Mumbai shared some interesting stories from her humble beginnings as a fledgling writer. She’s now ghost writing a biography for the Indian Navy. She was so warming and knowledgeable I had no choice but to get her contact info to stay in touch. Sitting there that night created a connection, a force of some kind that no man within a 3 meter radius could penetrate, mostly ran by men, they stood huddled in the indoor reception wondering how us strangers could become so familiar so easily.
 
My 2nd first day at Lha was just as exciting as the first. The editor gave me an article to write on the subject of wrongfully imprisoned Tibetans allegedly involved in the 2008 Lhasa protests. It took me only two hours to finish and I left the office feeling more than qualified to do this on a regular basis. Constructive criticism from editor in chief, Jenny James made me realize I had to shift from creative writing to technical writing. The hard and cold facts, news. I understood my blind error, edited my writing, and ended up with two more small assignments the following day.
As my week became full of purpose and I was revving up to teach English classes next week to eager students, I found solace in the confines of my room to rest and revel in my daily activities. Yet, all I was able to discover was my Canadian house wife, Marilyn, bright eyed every afternoon sitting there taking up most of the space. We shared a room with no wall or curtain so the bathroom was the only other room in our space. She was on a three week vacation so most of her days were filled with napping, reading, and talking on the phone with friends and her new partner, Tom. Occasionally she’d be gone for coffee and a read but not long after I had arrived back home she gravitated back to the room like a trusty stead. Unable to force her out, I would spend nights sitting out on our balcony. Some nights I’d lie down with music in my ears  and practice inverting my consciousness to create a space for myself inside my head. It didn’t help swimming in those murky thoughts.
I started practicing yoga in the mornings with my Yogi friend Greta since it was hard to sleep past 6 am, which helped me physically and mentally become aligned for the day.
I met a spiritual scientists who invited himself to our dinner one evening. He said he had a message to deliver:
•Individually we are the most powerful force in our world.
•Life is good as long as we can breathe in and out. Life experiences are what they are but they do not define us. When we resist emotions and feelings they will continue to persist. Let them go through you but do not dwell because we are not these things that happen. We can not control anything but our way of being.
•We can be conscious observers of our own lives by breaking the addictions of human suffering.
These concepts were a bit dense to digest since I had just had dinner but I had thanked him for his knowledge and stored it for when I was ready to apply it.
Marilyn unconsciously draining me with her dragging on about her upcoming travels to see friends in Chunai and flying to see her family and her boyfriend in Thailand and lalalala. I become internally claustrophobic and disconnected. I let her talk until she tired herself out, shutting her eyes and lips respectively. I tuned her out with my music to avoid any last minute conversation. The night was upon us and something had come over me. A rush of energy and emotions hit me and I erupted with tears. My heart started to ache as I sobbed silently facing the opposite wall to respect her sleep. I did not resist these feelings though, I felt the sadness take me until I fell asleep.
The next morning, Saturday, I woke up feeling well rested for our organization’s volunteer luncheon. I received a couple interesting books that day, The Dalai Lama’s Cat by David Mitchie and N-W by Zadie Smith. Accompanied by a couple other books I brought with me, I rotate them out for a chapter a day as if it they episodes to watch on television.
 
All week I had been excited to take this extensive hike called Triund to the mountains I saw in the distance every morning. Since Marilyn was leaving this upcoming week, we decided to spend this Sunday venturing to the beyond.
 
The headache, inflamed knees, and swollen hands were worth the experience. We left at 6 am traveling around 2,800 km up to Triund and returning around 2 pm.
 
I know I’ll feel the burn in the morning but there’s no time to sulk in the soreness, everyone is going to hear His Holiness the Dalai Lama speak at 9:30 am.