Black Bile (the practice of maturing wisdom)

At 9 a.m. the heat is already oppressive.  The Bodh Gaya mosquitoes have found a hole into our netting and hang bloated from the inside of the white curtain, their bodies glutted with fresh blood.  Perhaps the blood is not mine, though, as I can't remember being disturbed in my sleep.

This morning I feel the weight of the heat oppressing me. The air seems difficult to breathe and yet this is not the hottest part of the year.  Little wonder that the Lodge is nearly empty.

I muse on the purpose of our journey:

"The feeling of not being connected to any specific tradition leaves one at sea.  Sure, I can be an artist here in no-man's land (this land of the Intrepid Tourist, depending on your point of view) but where is the captive audience? And there's no sense thinking of myself as an artist explorer, since every tourist with a plane ticket has gone this route before me and probably much further into the mountains than I'll ever reach. So where are we exactly and of what possible interest could our location be to others?  Aha!  A dawn of light. Is not our position only relative to the position of others?  And have I not often gauged my own "location" in my meetings with other travelers on the road?  On the road to where is beside the point.  It's just that, from my point of view, being on the road, being fully present here, is the whole goal and object, not some specific or even undetermined destination, outwardly. And so the trip to Nepal could also be a trip to Disneyland, depending on the point of view."

With my newly shaved head and dressed in my bright colored Indian-made clothing I sit breathing and being, my journal poised on my lap, feeling the pull of gravity, dreaming, outlining imagined possibilities, appreciating, trying to define, listening, trying not to judge.  Dealing with my "bad mood".

My thoughts now turn to music.  We have been invited to a pot luck dinner tonight at the Kagyu Temple and I was asked to bring my "instruments".  However, I find I am hesitant to do so because the whole scene has the feel of a diversion and an entertainment.  What am I thinking?  I'll probably enjoy myself.  Yet the thought of sharing music just to "strut my stuff" does not appeal to me. I would rather the music be in a prayerful, meditative setting.

My conceptions are killing any sense of fun I might be having. My stuffed up head and congested nasal passages are also killing my sense of fun but this is not enough to stop me from enjoying a milky cup of mucous-producing coffee with my toast this morning.  My fear of others seeing my own shortcomings is killing my sense of fun.  Will they even like my music?  I don't want to be just another bored westerner, spending time with other bored westerners in India, yet here is my karma coming at me again.  Deal with it my son!

This morning I have been thinking of Nicholas Roerich.  "His life in India was heavily creative, mingling elements of art and religion.  I like to think that I am traveling here with similar motives and yet what kind of creative work am I actually doing? Roerich was connected to artistic and religious circles.  Who am I connected to?  What meaning does my interest in art have for others? What effect am I actually having on the world around me?  As far as I can see, none or very little.  Only my love of art and truth keep me playing this role in my life. And as I see it, most of the time it is a protection against a possible, less-idealistic life such as day-laborer, taxi-driver, civil servant, wage slave, etc.

I choose my own highest conception, happy in the ability to play the role of make-believe so well, while others are trapped in killing self-images which their lifestyles crystallize around them."

I find it interesting in talking to Karen later that she is also going through a similar period of self-doubt, sorting and processing things in her mind.  This bout of nagging thought and depression however is not isolated. It is connected with something that will soon follow.

Later that evening after our routine of circling the Mahabodhi Temple and praying we purchase a large quantity of fruit in the market and back at the lodge, concoct an enormous fruit salad in a borrowed stainless steel bowl.  Then, guitar in hand and kids in tow we wend our way under a waning moon to the Kagyu Temple for the pot luck.

To my surprise, when we arrive there is a already a large group of mostly unfamiliar people gathered out on the moonlit, candle-lit balcony, seated on mats around a central banquet of fruit and sandwiches.  They all seem genuinely glad to see us and we settle quickly into a pleasant and surprisingly easy, "judgementless" conversation.

After eating, I am asked to play and am accompanied by Marianne's husband David , who is ringing a Tibetan bell. This provides an interesting mix, the bell, although off-key from the guitar, falls together with it harmonically and rhythmically in places. The effect is hypnotic and meditative and I don't have to worry about the "entertainment" aspect of it at all, as it seems quite prayerful and genuine.

After a while, Marianne picks up my guitar and plays a lovely little song called "Waltzing on the Stars", singing in a beautiful, full voice and she follows this with "The Rose".  David then recites some poetry written by his Nyingmapa guru.  This was interesting especially since he'd just been showing me some ritual instruments, the bell, the vajra , the dagger that transmutes lust, ignorance and greed into their opposites by stabbing it into the sky and a little double-headed drum made of the tops of human skulls that is played right-handed while the bell is rung in the left.

Under the light of a three-quarter moon, the effect of the poem accompanied with these instruments is pleasing and I  recall hearing that Tantric practitioners meditate in graveyards at night as part of their personal confrontation with fear and that they actually conjure up spirits as part of their practice of maturing wisdom.

This gives depth to the poem being recited which read in part: "With the vajra thunderbolt in hand/I practice this black magic/If the spell succeeds that's okay/If it fails that's okay/Meanwhile I continue to practice the highest wisdom".  However, I still entertain the feeling that his guru is treading a very "fine line", for in my own mind, black magic is a poor substitute for the highest wisdom.

David asks me if I am working with any spiritual group and my self-questioning of earlier today floods back to me.  I admit that I am formally unaffiliated with any group.

Now, the evening gathering is drawing to a close and one of the girls present lends our family her waiting rickshaw.  We carry our now-sleeping children downstairs to the rickshaw and walk slowly home beside it.  My hand is in my pocket on my rosary and I am doing a silent japa.  My emotional and mental state is unstable tonight and I too appear to be treading a "fine line".  Small noises startle me, specters seem to be waiting around corners in the moonlight and I become the walking  image of Ichabod Crane, fearful to look behind lest some horrible apparition appear.

In the distance, the low roar of a motor scooter sounds to me like the barking of a ferocious dog and I redouble my efforts at keeping my thoughts on my japa.  Suddenly, behind us, I hear the bark and then the growling of a real dog. Fear floods through my body and with a great effort I bring it under control.  It seems to me at this moment that to the degree I succeed, the growling of the dog subsides.

The next morning Karen wakes with a high fever and heavy diarrhea. The doctor visits and sends the hotel attendant into the village for some medicine.  She remains in bed and I have my hands full, nursing her and caring for the children.

By mid morning, her skin has turned yellow, her bowel movements and urine are both jet black and she is semi-comatose, either sleeping or murmuring in a half-awake state.  The anti-diarrhea pills prescribed by the doctor went through her system undissolved and came out whole, in her stool.

I am dosing her with Electrosol powder which is supposed to replace the body fluids and salts and with a vitamin supplement. I have this crazy notion that what she is going through is a kind of physical/psychic catharsis sand that the medication won't really help, that she just has to let it run its course. I don't say this to anyone of course and continue to do what the doctor has advised.

I am worried.  The girls have been feverish too and affected by their mother's "absence" are frustrated and incapable of enjoying themselves.  They are fighting, whining, asking for something to eat which they throw away the moment they get it, lying down, jumping up, scratching at mosquito bites and generally miserable.  I am trying to be helpful and caring but I am becoming more and more short-tempered with them.  I am disappointed in myself.  By late afternoon I find myself shouting at them to be quiet.  I am even starting to get angry with Karen.

In the middle of this ordeal, a staff member arrives with a lovely floral bouquet for Karen's bedside and I am touched and softened by the gesture. Another staff member comes to change the bed sheets and is constantly asking if I need anything.  I am buoyed by the feeling that somehow we are getting through this.

Finally, Karen's temperature breaks and she takes a turn for the better. Her skin color is returning to normal and she is now sleeping peacefully.  I sigh and sit down to write in my journal when Nika calls me from the bathroom.  Now she, too, has diarrhea and moments later it is Chaya's turn.

The thought now comes to me that they haven't been boiling the water enough, as we had originally asked them to do, to safeguard our health.  This morning, I now recall, Nika had been given a glass of water that hadn't been boiled at all but I'd been so busy I hadn't paid attention.

Karen asks for some clear soup to be prepared for her and I suggest they make enough for the children too.  Perhaps that will provide the nourishment they need right now.  During my reading, comparing notes from different travel books, I discover that the anti-diarrhea medication contains an ingredient that is purported to cause nerve damage and so, doctor or not, I decide to stop administering it to her or the children.

Late evening, and the kids are finally asleep.  Karen is awake enough now to read a book under the mosquito netting and I sit down to write:

"About 4:30 I dragged the kids off to the Mahabodhi Temple by way of a diversion. I promised them a nice soft drink when we returned to spur them on.  Nika of course floundered, whined and generally protested that she didn't want to go, while fussing to be carried and generally dragging ass. Magically, the back gate through the park to the temple, which is always locked,  was open, so we were able to go quickly there, avoiding the bustle of the streets and the market on the way."

"We made two or three difficult rounds, with the monks as usual joking with the kids, making passing remarks or just giving a good-natured smile.  At the main entrance to the temple a group of sadhus which looked like a guru and his disciples, although all of them were quite venerable-looking, were just emerging from inside. The one I noticed first seemed absolutely blissed out, looking a lot like Baba Ram Dass in his late sixties incarnation.  They took notice of us and stopped to ask where we were from.  There was a short exchange of pleasantries and then a really thrilling parting benediction. We saluted each other with joined palms, in the local fashion and I felt a slight chill pass through me or rather a warm tingling sensation accompanied by a feeling of goodness, as though they really did wish us well and really were happy to see us there. I can't help wondering whether this encounter will lead us to even deeper similar encounters, for I feel I have much to learn."