Trust and Obey are my right shoe and my left. I wear them always and they have never worn out or led me astray. Every right step is a step of trust, every left step is a step of obedience... so I walk onto buses, trust obey trust obey, down streets, trust obey trust obey, through markets, trust obey trust obey, around temples, trust obey trust obey... it is my heartbeat, the rhythm of my every day. I have measured nearly this entire city with such steps.
So don't tell me that the turmoil which has taken up residence in my heart is a result of lack of trust. Don't give me that felt board cut-out, molded like a pat of butter on a plastic tray of goopy airline food answer.
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I walked down the main road, trust obey, to meet a friend and was given a gift greater than gold when a small beggar girl who I had once had a conversation with recognized me and beamed. I didn't have any small money but I had come equipped with some dried fruit candies which I gladly donated to her small plasic bag. She offered another sweet smile and then quickly shuffled away and I too resumed my direction toward my friend. She had returned nearly one year since her sudden departure to Beijing and when I saw her walking up the uneven pavement holding her hobbling old mother's chuba clothed elbow I couldn't resist running over to give her a hug like life preservers must feel when in use. One glance at her remarkably Tibetan face caused a flood of memories to rush over me and visions of bike accidents, noodles, tea, nunneries, walks, sour yogurt, laugher, and family swarmed around us like hungry ghosts. I greeted her mother whose milky eyes and thin gray braids reflected a sweetness that a lifetime of idol worship hadn't been able to mar and silently committed my afternoon to them. We shuffled stepped slowly along, trust obey, chattering and blocking up entire alleyways linked arm in arm.
Two chance meetings with other random locals we both knew later, and we ended up in a teahouse drinking that Tibetan salt tea which I have jealously coveted ever since a sip on a two day train ride caused me to have flashbacks to a home I didn't realize was home. We drank and laughed to the amusement of her mother, and ordered another thermos when her monk cousin who has always completed our threesome arrived first as a silhouette in the doorway, and then as a comedian at our small bench drinking tea faster than we could fill the small white bowl before him.
We drank salty tea until the quest for a bathroom became urgent and we stumble ran arm in arm across the street, trust obey, and down an alley and into a restroom that was basically just a trough where the icey wind chapped our behinds and made steam rise from the porcelin floor. By the time we got back her aging mother had to go so she made the trip again and I chatted with the monk who asked me questions about a camera, remarked how sad it was that I would be leaving, and assured me that he would miss me. Really.
We left the teahouse, this time I was her mother's charge and the old Tibetan woman took my hand in such a way that wasn't really holding it so much as warming it and we hobbled slowly slowly, trust... obey, over to meet some other grandmothers and relatives who then escorted my friend away. But not before I was assured of a future meeting with her before she left. I trust obeyed over to a bus stop and the sky went cold.
No sooner had I arrived there than my phone rang and I was off again around the corner to meet another friend waiting to take me to dinner a block away. Pushing through the crowds of bustling shoppers, trust obey, I ended up nearly running right into this second friend. We went to a nearby chicken restaurant to have a favorite dish and watched the beggars file in and out and the sky get heavy. We ate and chatted and it started to snow and I bemoaned my lack of adequate clothing. We parted while great damp flakes settled in our hair and I dashed to catch a bus, trust obey, through the muck of a snow moistened Lhasa.
I arrived back at the slightly musty apartment building at the same time as the head of the personnel department who is my neighbor. The mountain behind our school steamed and glistened in the snow and I climbed the stairs, trust obey, and answered questions about where I had eaten most recently. Back inside the phone rang again and I laughed through a conversation with a former colleague which seemed the perfect way to finish off such a day.
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So you see, trust and obey, there is no other way, not for me. I have trust obeyed through lunches of riddles told by monks, in homes which are really teahouses where random staff gather to fuss, into restaurants with former students who could now tell me all the gossip of experienced primary school teachers. But I am coming to understand, more and more, that these shoes aren't always worn by those lounging in green pastures beside still waters and this way isn't walked by people who are afraid of confusion and unfamiliar with grief.
Trust and Obey. I wore these shoes to come here before I even knew for certain how they would fit and I will wear them to leave... and I will wear them should I ever have the mingled joy and pain of return for which I secretly hope.
