Hot potato offering

I think the heat from my feet, like two hot potatoes, just boiled the ice cold water in the plastic bucket I put them in. Tea time?

They were already hot this morning when I walked across the blistering pavement with my student to her relative's house where meat dumplings, chunky butter tea, and bags full of walnuts awaited us. Panting in too many clothes by the time we got up the third flight of stairs, I was refreshed by her sweet demeanor and eagerness to chat. I never cease to be amazed that chatting slowly shyly about nothing can open doors to storehouses where so much something lies...

One potato, two potato...

Hours and countless dumplings later we hopped on a bus together and she shyly sweetly said you know my small cousin loves you. You don't know him, but when I showed him the picture that you gave me for Christmas two years ago he loved you. All my family loves you. My mother put the picture on our wall. She loves you. When people come to our house she always makes sure they see your picture. In awe of such admiration for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I made a mental note to hang her picture up in my family's house in America...

Three potato, four...

My now smoldering feet trundled off the bus into the blare of taxi horns and I was quick to dash down an alley into a dumpling restaurant where three friends waited for me. More dumplings, I politely refused though it was difficult. I insisted we go to the teahouse distinct only for the mildly crazy grandfather who always manages to find us there. We laughed, gave walnuts to beggars, drank too much tea, and discussed the pronunciation difference between 'snake' and 'snack'. I was loath to leave their all too familiar company, but knew I had promised my evening to some students back up the hill.

Five potato, six potato...

The bus sputtered to a stop outside our school gate without a peep from me. Sometimes it pays to be the only foreigner on the bus route. The three former students were waiting for me at the gate. Feet all but charred, we marched farther up the hill to the most dilapidated tea house on the street, the nunnery tea house where all of my nun friends and one midget work. Over noodles, bland butter tea, and gratuitous sweet tea, the boys joked and spoke of dreams and the possibility that they might come true. One boy, renowned as an extreme traditionalist, leaned back and said Ms. Kelly you ask me this question about is next life true. I often have this question. I can't say I believe in this thing but I am thinking about it. I have so many questions and I want true answer. I nearly fell out of the window, hot feet and all.

Seven potato...

By the time I got back to my stuffy apartment that evening and peeled my socks off my steaming feet I knew I would write about today. I wanted to write about becoming a part of a family album in a village I may never actually go. I wanted to write about the mystery of familiarity in a place where I remain as foreign as a creature from outer space. I wanted to write about traditions coming under question and truth being sought and a Holy One coming down and making a way just as He promised He would and now that I have I can't help but wonder if you may think it's all just small potatoes...

more...

Small potatoes yes. But they are hot. They are burning questions into souls, lighting lives on fire, and leaving blisters on the stories of those who dare to touch them. May He receive this potato offering and multiply it in the way that only He can.

They inherited lies

Oh my Strength and my Stronghold, my Refuge in a time of distress, the nations will come to You, from the ends of the earth, and they will say,
"Our fathers inherited only lies, worthless idols of no benefit at all."

Yesterday her fingernails were hot pink. She had helped me bargain for a variety of gifts to take home with the dexterity of a mildly raging young twenty something Tibetan girl. She didn't know the area well and I showed her to a trusted and popular momo teahouse which she had, up until that moment, never knew existed.

The teahouse was populated with monks and nuns and couples and an old grandmother sipping beer and stuffing momo's into her nearly toothless face. My student whipped out a slip of paper and gave it to me. This is a gift for you from my grandfather. She said. You must take it to America and show all of the people.

I opened it up... I didn't recognize the folded, stained, torn, little piece of rag that was inside. She took it out and held it gingerly. Do you know what this is? Nope.

But as I looked the mystery became clear to me: what her grandfather had given me was a 100 sang note. Tibetan money, hailed from a time long ago when they used their own money printed in a nearby monastery. It doesn't exist anymore, no one under the age of fifty would have ever touched one of them, and no one under the age of thirty would have ever seen one. In shock, I stuttered that I had never seen one before and didn't realize there were any more left... my student brushed some loose hair away from her face and said, me either.

I insisted that I go and meet her grandfather.

She took me higgildy piggildy through some alleyways so narrow that a few inches less and my shoulders would have scraped both sides. We arrived to a hyperactive chihuahau and an old man with a red nose sitting crosslegged wearing long underwear under his pants despite the nausiating heat and sipping a large wooden bowl of frothy butter tea. His eyes were sun stained blue around the edges and he had an endearing habit of running his stiff, wrinkled hands through his gray black hair. When we would make eye contact he would grin to the point of laughter and insisted that I was no older than sixteen.

I asked him to tell me a story.

And so he wove out a story of Milaripa's youth. He spoke episodes to my student and while she translated the gravely speech heavy with Lhasa slang he picked fluff off the Tibetan style carpet on which he sat. I rubbed the dog into submission and and listened in wonder that a grandfather could tell this story of a Tibetan hero's half myth half history as though it were his own. And the only story worth telling.

We left a good while later when he had quite obviously become fatigued but not until after I assured him that his gift to me was safe and thanked him profusely. His nearly ruined eyes twinkled a little and I was suddenly struck with the understanding that all his hope, all his dreams, all his aspirations for himself and his people, lay wrapped up in a fantasical story of half truths and a now valueless piece of rag given to a foreigner.

He had inherited only lies and worthless idols of no benefit at all. And he was passing them on as his most precious possession to his granddaughter. Who would in turn pass them on... and on and on... until they, the lies and the people who believe them, are destroyed.

I stood waiting for a bus in the sun so hot that buildings became wavy and I started having visions of air conditioning and before I knew it I was mildly humming the Star Spangled Banner. But my heart was broken, shattered by a lostness of a people here at the very tip of the earth.

Oh my Strength, my Stronghold, my Refuge... what will it take for them to come to you?

Dumpster reflections

There he was.

Shoulder length greasy black gray hair combed neatly away from his face in order to reveal the maximum amount of dirt. Charcoal suit jacket wrinkled, collar bent, too long in the sleeves but at least it matched his suit pants which were cinched around the waist by a cracked belt. His hands were black with grime but his face held an expression of absolute calm. A breeze ruffled the leaves on the nearby trees but didn't even budge the stiff filth of his hair.

There he was reading a newspaper.

He held it open wide. He scoured the pages. He shook it when the wind put a wrinkle in the wrong place. He turned the smudged pages carefully and didn't seem to notice that his own dusty hands were making the biggest mess of the paper.

There he was reading a newspaper in the middle of a garbage dumpster all by himself.

Slimy half eaten instant noodle remains, paper cups, napkins with outrageous stains, shreds of cloth, broken glass, and plastic debris completely concealed his feet up to his ankles. It was impossible to tell if his shoes also matched his suit. It was impossible to tell if he realized where he had chosen to stand to read the news. It was impossible to tell if anyone else on the street noticed it either.

I stopped to watch the man read. My mind fluttered around and landed haphazardly on this thought: Here is a filthy man reading a newspaper in a filthy place. Who gave him the newspaper? Was it good news? Was it good enough to make him clean? Perhaps, in another time, I was that man.

I looked up. The sky was so blue I shuddered in the Lhasa afternoon heat. The man remained standing in the garbage dumpster reading the newspaper all by himself as I walked on down the street.

Bones

Yesterday I walked down the street, shoulders slumped, heart aching, just wishing that someone would throw me a bone. Then, right there in the middle of the dusty street taxi horns blaring, there was a bone. A yak bone, scant meat left on it but a little bit of hair. I nearly tripped over it. And then I wrote this...

I can feel it in my bones.
The eager urge to go home.
America's national anthem and a variety of patriotic songs hummed unintentionally in stressful situations.

I can feel it in my hair.
The dry crackle of things not there.
Words and languages which I'm desperate to catch pass like a breeze through the open window of my mind.

I can feel it in my skin.
Patience wearing thin.
The slightest distracted student in the most clumsily planned class feels like the fury of untold hoards of utter defeat.

I can feel it in my eyes.
A tangled web of lies.
A change in plans which sends the universe reeling but actually only betrays a shocking state of exhaustion.

I can feel it in my hands.
So many shifting grains of sand.
The list of things to do expands and shrinks and is forgotten and remembered ad nauseum.

I can feel it in my heart.
The way things fall apart.
Needs so deep and complicated look like empty hands tickling filthy street children.

I can feel it in my soul.
A longing to be whole.
Such completion only found at the majestic throne and merciful cross of the One who is complete.

I can feel it.

What's in a name?

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

But at least, dear Juliet, the rose has one.

We had just washed down her far too salty vegetables with my far too sweet brownies and settled in for a lengthy conversation. By conversation, I mean her rendition of a Tibetan fairy tale, which she clarified as history, happening in India a long time ago... a story that would last over thirty minutes without the slightest peep from me. But stories are what I love and listening is my thing and I couldn't have been happier with such an indulgence.

Once upon a time there was a prince. He was very generous, so generous in fact that he had the strange perchance of giving away anything anyone asked for. Anything at all. One day he asked his father, the king, if he could invite all the beggars to the palace and give them anything they asked for. The king realized that his son had a generous heart and agreed. Except this one very valuable diamond, everything in our house you are free to give away- said the king to the prince. But if you give that diamond away- warned the king- you will be punished.
So the big day came, the palace was full of beggars and anything they asked for they received from the prince. The pantry was cleaned out in minutes, the royal dressing rooms had scarce a piece of cloth left in them, the walls were bare... in short there was not one thing left that anyone wanted. The prince was so pleased that he had been able to give people everything they asked for. Then, just as sun was setting, a old grisly man appeared at the palace door. The generous prince, never being able to turn anyone away, asked him what he wanted. The man grinned slyly, knowing the prince's weakness, and said: I want the diamond.
The prince thought and thought. All things he gave away but not this one. It didn't seem right to the prince, so he went upstairs and gave the very valuable diamond to the wily beggar and wished him luck.
The prince slept well that night, but the next morning when the king found out his son had given away the one thing he specifically asked him not to, he was furious. In haste and anger, he banished his son to exile in a remote and fearsome place for twelve years. The prince, understanding the price of his generosity for the first time, packed up his belongings to set out. His wife and three children also prepared to come with him. At first the prince refused to take them. However, when he saw their earnest desire to accompany him in his punishment he gave them this ultimatum. If you come with me- said the prince to his wife- you have to understand that if someone asks me for anything I will give it away. Even if they ask for you or the children. The devoted wife readily agreed and off they went.
On their journey the met many beggars and it wasn't long before everything they carried had been given away. The children's feet were blistered, they hadn't eaten in days when three beggars crossed the generous family's path. What do you need? asked the prince to the beggars. Really, we need three servants to help us carry our things because we are old and tired- replied the beggars. The prince looked at his three small children, up at his teary wife, and gave the children away. He had never refused anyone, and he never would.
The prince and his wife carried on. But, though he didn't know, the extremity of his generosity had come up before the gods. The gods wanted to see just how generous he was willing to be. So they transformed into beggars and went to the prince. What do you need? asked the prince when he saw the three false beggars in his path. Your wife- they answered shortly. He squeezed his wife's hand and agreed. And he carried on his way.
The gods were so impressed by this that they allowed his wife to return to him, though he had nothing they provided for him as he made his home in the cave in the remote and fearsome place. For twelve years, he and his wife always had enough to eat, they were never attacked by animals, and their clothes never wore out. When the twelve years was finished the prince and his wife returned to their home, on the way they found their children, now all grown, again. The king had long forgiven his son and there was much rejoicing throughout the land. Even the sly beggar who had caused all the trouble by asking for the valuable diamond in the first place showed up to give the diamond back.

The light was dim by the time the story finished. Storm clouds promising snowy mountain tops in the morning rolled through and concealed the sky. I stretched. She said: what do you think of this story Ms. Kelly.

I: In the story, there are three gods. What are their names?
She: Names? They don't have names Ms. Kelly.
I: Then how do you know they're real?

How does that visage languish...

I have a story to tell but no ability to tell it.

It begins with a monk, with a car accident, with a broken leg that even a month of rest wouldn't heal.
But it doesn't begin there at all.

It unfolds with a conversation, with a deep conviction for healing, with a chance missed, with another one gained.
But it doesn't unfold at all.

It ends with this:

In a small cell only three: a teacher, a student, a monk. A teacher with visions of a man who gets up, picks up his mat, and walks out of the monastery forever. A student with his own story to tell. A monk in absolute misery and fury at the hand he's been dealt. I only saw three. Only three. But really there were more... maybe thousands. Legions battling it out for possession of a soul.
For forty-five minutes the abuse and scorn which issued forth from the monk's mouth, now blasphemous, now bitter, now ridiculous, now resentful, left no room for more than a handful of other words from anyone else. It was like something obnoxious and bent on destruction had taken over his mouth and made a game out of interrupting. He began interrupting himself. He told me there was no god and our gods were the same. He wanted me to point to Hawaii on a map. He agreed with me and called me stupid. He told me that his leg was healing perfectly even as he looked at the x-rays showing a complete gap between the pieces of bone. He assured me of the most blatant lies. When he began to make accusations of homosexuality, I knew there was no healing going to take place that day and I rose to leave.

But it didn't end there at all.

As I walked out of the door, my heart shattered and my stomach sick, he nearly threw himself from the bed to say to me: Your face lady... it's so strange today. And my student, the shocked witness to the whole horrible visit, paused in the doorway to tell him in Tibetan: Really you need to go to the hospital, you are wrong to say those things to Ms. Kelly, she really worries about you and wants to help. And, though by now well outside the room, I heard that man say: I know.

After all the things I'd heard him say, that was perhaps the only thing I'm convinced that he, himself, actually said.

My face was pale when I walked out of the monastery that afternoon, but I was seeing only another face... one that had filled with anguish, sore abuse and scorn, a visage that had languished... And I remembered that all that He had suffered was all for sinners gain...

So before that face, underneath that suffering... I place this story and all of the characters. He can end it better than I. He is, after all, the Author.

Count 'em

Count your many blessings, name them one by one... Count your many blessings see what He has done...

I went for a walk in an alarmingly difficult effort to find a noodle shop that wasn't crammed full of hungry customers like a stomach lining with packed with butter. In my haste, and distracted by the rumblings of my own empty stomach, I nearly stepped into a lone little boy with big watery eyes teetering in his too many clothes and only one yellow shoe. I stopped. I picked up the missing shoe, still bright yellow despite the obvious wear, and handed it to the boy... whose grin of utter surprise and gratitude outshone the brightness of the shoe.

Blessings like lost yellow shoes.

I found a noodle shop undergoing renovation by two obviously new owners. It was deserted, typically a bad sign. I managed to completely fool the couple into believing that I spoke Chinese when all I really know how to do is order a bowl of noodles. As the wife dashed upstairs to make the noodles, the husband, a man whose eyes got lost in wrinkles and underneath a shock of dusty black hair every time he laughed decided to keep me company and carried on a conversation nearly entirely with himself as my only contribution was a nod of assent every time I thought I understood a word. When he discovered the truth about my Chinese fluency he retrieved two apricots from a ripped plastic bag and gave them to me to keep me company instead.

Blessings like apricots from a generous hand.

Belly full of noodles, I made my way to meet a friend for tea. Realizing that though I drank all of the soup from the noodles and some paper cups of hot water for lunch I was probably dehydrated... the expectancy of tea was welcome. Until she ordered. My Tibetan being infinitely better than my Chinese I knew immediately that she had ordered butter tea... Not awesome in the best of circumstances, this particular thermos gave off that mildly revolting aroma of sickly bland butter. Within a cup I was sure I wasn't going to drink more. Until my friend suggested to the waitress to take it back and add more salt. To my delight, a few additional teaspoons of salt being the difference between undrinkable and refreshing.

Blessings like gratuitous salt to bland butter tea.

The effect of the tea was drowsiness to my weary self. We were both so tired we were silly. I half moaned half laughed when I remembered that I had promised to go and teach a night class on English idioms to some former students... wondering if I could discretely pinch myself to prevent passing out at the chalkboard I wandered into the classroom amongst students I haven't seen all together in a year. The lesson began, the enthusiasm of the students was overwhelming and before I knew it the idioms were through and I was just telling them stories. Stories about places I had been, things I had seen, people I had met, stories that made me laugh and stories that confused me. At the end of each one I made for the door and was brought back to the front by a room full of imploring faces, hands with one finger raised, and lips which said "guchi guchi tell one more..."

Blessings like requests for stories and students with one finger raised.

The next morning I taught a lesson wrapping up everything we had studied about teaching this term. Closing remarks being motivational sayings and the assurance from my heart to theirs that they could be great teachers. The rumblings in my stomach portending an afternoon over the squatty, I took a breath and glanced up before declaring class over. What I saw was forty-one silent students whose desperation to believe the words of affirmation they had just heard was slowly welling up in their eyes.

Blessings like eighty-two watery eyes.

Sure enough my stomach went on hiatus for the remainder of the afternoon. With an hour until my afternoon class I made the imminent decision to cancel class or have my bowels cancel it for me. Moments after sending the declarative text message, two students from the canceled class knocked softly shyly at my door. One carried a bag of mystery fruit, the other a liter of sprite. They came in and sat with me for about ten minutes whispering that they were worried and that I should take medicine before disappearing softly shyly back out the door.

Blessings like soft knocks at the door and liters of sprite.

The truth is our Father blesses. He does it all the time. You couldn't count them even if you tried. It's only a matter of receiving.