A couple of months ago, my girlfriend and I went to Thailand. I was 2 months into my unemployment and about to crawl out of my skin. My cave was looking darker than usual. It felt as if the earth was slowly pinching me off from the rest of the world and then suddenly, one day, I might wake up and realize that I had been cut off from all reality and forever lost in a world of depression and paranoia. I stopped working on things and began to stall for time. I had to get out. Only days before a national election I couldn't avoid and a Halloween that would once-again find me without a costume or party, I got on a plane, lost 12 hours worth of time zones, then stepped off a plane in Bangkok.
In Thailand, anyone who even remotely looks like a tourist has to expect a little hassle. There is always someone willing to take your money if you are sucker enough to part with it. Tuk-tuk drivers (the motor-scootery mosquitos of SE Asian transportation) regularly stand within a block of every tourist destination so they can tell you that the Palace/post office/train station/holy shrine is closed (Buddhist holiday) and offer transportation to the opposite end of the city. As a 6' 3" white male, I was not only a target, but one that could be easily spotted a block away. My blonde girlfriend only served to underscore our intense need to be hustled. The only place (for the most part) where a tourist could catch a break was in a wat. A wat is a Buddhist, temple complex. They are beautiful, quiet and mercifully-free of tuk-tuk drivers... inside the gates. As an added bonus, like a Starbucks in urban America, there are wats EVERYWHERE. They quickly became effective bunkers where I could take a drink of water, pull out my Nancy Chandler map and plan my assault on the next tourist attraction in the city, without the chaos of traffic jams and smiley glad-handers interrupting me every 30 seconds to ask me where I was going.
About a week into the trip, I was sitting in a Wat Suan Dok, in the northern city of Chiang Mai, when I realized that these wats were more than simply escapes where I was 'tagging up' before jumping into the fray of aggressive tourism - it was a place where I was settling my mind and re-centering myself. I was a first-time visitor to Thailand who was being hustled endlessly and who spoke very little of the language. My escapes were tangible and my escape route clear, but this escape was taking on a deeper aspect. The rules that govern wats are universal - wear modest clothing that covers your shoulders and legs, take off your shoes when you enter a bot (ceremonial building), sit on the floor, be quiet, and don't point your feet at the Buddha. By this time, I was watching others and becoming more thorough in my behavior. I burned candles and nodded in respect before the Buddhas before standing and leaving a bot. I am not Buddhist, but there was a respect and reverence that I found myself admiring in those spaces. For the first time, I was beginning to recognize that these rituals weren't simply perfunctory motions to be followed, but actions that contributed to these spaces through the respect they gave. In all my summers of Bible Camp, Sunday school and endless sermons of my youth, I had never understood the importance of ritual, and especially that ritual was an opportunity for me to take responsibility for my actions and contribute to these spiritual spaces. It was at this moment that I reached an epiphany - my cathedral in Mahhattan had fallen.
In northern Manhattan, there are very few places where one can escape the car alarms, beeping horns, and bellowing speak of the community. My experiences with christianity have not been the most affirming moments in my life. I have a significant amount of personalized baggage with churches, so those spiritual spaces offer little respite. The park, however, was such a place. Inwood Hill Park is the most beautiful park in New York. Prospect Park has beautiful lawns and wooden gazeebos and Central Park has... well, it's Central Park. Inwood's park, however, doesn't have the man-made feel of other city parks. The forest (or what is left of it) is old. The trees aren't simply look old - it FEELS old. The park's caves (unlike my own) are nestled against a beautiful horseshoe-shaped rim that gazes into the midst of a solemn mass of trees. There it is. My cathedral. I would walk into that nestled dell, sit down and gaze up into those stunning pillars of living wood and feel that I was living on another world. Even the distant rumble of a Metro North train heading to Poughkeepsie or a jet that just left La Guardia only added to the transporting feeling of sitting among those trees. Without ever consciously realizing it, I was sitting in my spiritual space. My silence, my respect and even the shoes I chose to wear whenever I visit that park, were all part of a reverence I offered to my cathedral.
Then, there was Sarah Fox. Last summer, a Julliard student was jogging through the park when she was abducted and murdered. To date, the murder hasn't been solved. The occassional poster dots the 207th St. subway station and bulletin boards, but there is still no indictment. For weeks after the murder, I didn't return to the park. I didn't think of why except that it had disappeared from my plans, like a spot of white-out on a page of 'Things to Do'. Later, I would take short walks along the remote paths with friends, firing off a dark stare upon every man we saw. I wouldn't walk alone anymore, unless it was along the outer rim, to peek into the dog park or sit along the salt marsh. I didn't fear for my safety, but my mind restlessly wandered with discomfort to the desecration of my cathedral. It was gone. It had a history that could be neither undone nor unforgotten . Other fell deeds have certainly been performed beneath the canopy of my spiritual santuary, but they were never a part of my experiences and this event weighs endlessly upon my mind... and it was at the feet of a Buddha in Wat Suan Dok, in a northern city in Thailand, 13 hours of flight time from my cave and my fallen cathedral where I could finally see what I had, what I'd lost and perhaps a glimpse of the road I'd been blindly travelling.
In Thailand, anyone who even remotely looks like a tourist has to expect a little hassle. There is always someone willing to take your money if you are sucker enough to part with it. Tuk-tuk drivers (the motor-scootery mosquitos of SE Asian transportation) regularly stand within a block of every tourist destination so they can tell you that the Palace/post office/train station/holy shrine is closed (Buddhist holiday) and offer transportation to the opposite end of the city. As a 6' 3" white male, I was not only a target, but one that could be easily spotted a block away. My blonde girlfriend only served to underscore our intense need to be hustled. The only place (for the most part) where a tourist could catch a break was in a wat. A wat is a Buddhist, temple complex. They are beautiful, quiet and mercifully-free of tuk-tuk drivers... inside the gates. As an added bonus, like a Starbucks in urban America, there are wats EVERYWHERE. They quickly became effective bunkers where I could take a drink of water, pull out my Nancy Chandler map and plan my assault on the next tourist attraction in the city, without the chaos of traffic jams and smiley glad-handers interrupting me every 30 seconds to ask me where I was going.
About a week into the trip, I was sitting in a Wat Suan Dok, in the northern city of Chiang Mai, when I realized that these wats were more than simply escapes where I was 'tagging up' before jumping into the fray of aggressive tourism - it was a place where I was settling my mind and re-centering myself. I was a first-time visitor to Thailand who was being hustled endlessly and who spoke very little of the language. My escapes were tangible and my escape route clear, but this escape was taking on a deeper aspect. The rules that govern wats are universal - wear modest clothing that covers your shoulders and legs, take off your shoes when you enter a bot (ceremonial building), sit on the floor, be quiet, and don't point your feet at the Buddha. By this time, I was watching others and becoming more thorough in my behavior. I burned candles and nodded in respect before the Buddhas before standing and leaving a bot. I am not Buddhist, but there was a respect and reverence that I found myself admiring in those spaces. For the first time, I was beginning to recognize that these rituals weren't simply perfunctory motions to be followed, but actions that contributed to these spaces through the respect they gave. In all my summers of Bible Camp, Sunday school and endless sermons of my youth, I had never understood the importance of ritual, and especially that ritual was an opportunity for me to take responsibility for my actions and contribute to these spiritual spaces. It was at this moment that I reached an epiphany - my cathedral in Mahhattan had fallen.
In northern Manhattan, there are very few places where one can escape the car alarms, beeping horns, and bellowing speak of the community. My experiences with christianity have not been the most affirming moments in my life. I have a significant amount of personalized baggage with churches, so those spiritual spaces offer little respite. The park, however, was such a place. Inwood Hill Park is the most beautiful park in New York. Prospect Park has beautiful lawns and wooden gazeebos and Central Park has... well, it's Central Park. Inwood's park, however, doesn't have the man-made feel of other city parks. The forest (or what is left of it) is old. The trees aren't simply look old - it FEELS old. The park's caves (unlike my own) are nestled against a beautiful horseshoe-shaped rim that gazes into the midst of a solemn mass of trees. There it is. My cathedral. I would walk into that nestled dell, sit down and gaze up into those stunning pillars of living wood and feel that I was living on another world. Even the distant rumble of a Metro North train heading to Poughkeepsie or a jet that just left La Guardia only added to the transporting feeling of sitting among those trees. Without ever consciously realizing it, I was sitting in my spiritual space. My silence, my respect and even the shoes I chose to wear whenever I visit that park, were all part of a reverence I offered to my cathedral.Then, there was Sarah Fox. Last summer, a Julliard student was jogging through the park when she was abducted and murdered. To date, the murder hasn't been solved. The occassional poster dots the 207th St. subway station and bulletin boards, but there is still no indictment. For weeks after the murder, I didn't return to the park. I didn't think of why except that it had disappeared from my plans, like a spot of white-out on a page of 'Things to Do'. Later, I would take short walks along the remote paths with friends, firing off a dark stare upon every man we saw. I wouldn't walk alone anymore, unless it was along the outer rim, to peek into the dog park or sit along the salt marsh. I didn't fear for my safety, but my mind restlessly wandered with discomfort to the desecration of my cathedral. It was gone. It had a history that could be neither undone nor unforgotten . Other fell deeds have certainly been performed beneath the canopy of my spiritual santuary, but they were never a part of my experiences and this event weighs endlessly upon my mind... and it was at the feet of a Buddha in Wat Suan Dok, in a northern city in Thailand, 13 hours of flight time from my cave and my fallen cathedral where I could finally see what I had, what I'd lost and perhaps a glimpse of the road I'd been blindly travelling.
2 comments:
Wow, that was great. Everyone needs a place where they can retreat. Everyone needs a cathedral. For me personally, it were the cornfields behind my parents house. They've been replaced by factories now.
I know, that doesn't really sound impressive, but it was sufficient at times when I needed it.
Keep writing your great blog, Deckard.
Many thanks.
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