true life planet

I have just returned from Paris, where I spent a dizzying two weeks trying to find as many free or cheap things to do as possible. I can safely say that I have seen more of Paris than most and am confident that I left no stone unturned in my quest for seeing all of the City of Lights.

However, before going into greater detail about my time in Paris, I’d like to inform all of my readers about some terrible news concerning the Ngobe people of Panama.

Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I volunteered with the organization Medo while in Panama back in March.  Medo works with, and is run by Ngobe people in the Comarca of Western Panama. The Ngobe are an extremely poor indigenous group living in very difficult, rough conditions. Medo has been helping them by bringing in education, sanitation, and other basic necessities of life.

I was so busy in Paris that I rarely checked my email, and when I finally did, I discovered countless emails from the Ngobe people I knew in Panama and the volunteers sent to work with them.

They all concerned some terrible news: That there had been a terrible flood, and and that numerous communities along the Comarca had been severely damaged. Some had even been entirely swept away, leaving nothing standing.

Of the communities that were severely damaged, Soloy, the largest village and the location of most of the public services, was greatly impacted.

Even worse, there were people missing and quite a few dead, in spite of great evacuation efforts that had been made. People had been stranded on islands which were created by the tremendous floods. Suspension bridges were  so badly damaged as to be unusable; indeed, many were completely destroyed by the flooding.

Ngobe houses and public buildings are too badly damaged to be salvageable: the traditional style of building a shelter or hut with sticks was easily swept away, while the sturdier structures made of cinder blocks and mortar were also destroyed if not on higher ground.

The latrines which were being built thruout the community have contaminated the water supply.

Dead animals and detritus cover the landscape and also contaminate the water supply.

There is a great concern over the coming days and weeks, when the threat of cholera and other diseases may become epidemic.

Meanwhile, the Ngobe have lost everything: their homes, their few clothes, their cooking pots, their livestock, and their crops. Some entire communities have been swept away and have to relocate.

The people in the mountainous areas may fare far worse. What few roads there are have been washed away or are still flooded over, as the heavy rains continue. All the bridges have been destroyed, leaving them basically stranded in their communities with no hope of receiving any services.

There is little known at this time about the conditions in these mountain communities, as they are very isolated. It is safe to say, however, that they are stranded, with no way to obtain food outside of whatever crops or stores they have that have not been destroyed. They also have no access to clean drinking water and no way for any to be brought in.

This is..such a tragedy. For the Ngobe, who already have been dealt such a terrible hand by the Panamanian government, who have been living in such substandard conditions , to have this happen is such a blow.

There has been very little about their situation in the news. Panama newspapers have instead chosen to cover the damage due to the floods in areas closer to Panama City and to indigenous groups that have more power and prestige.

There is, however, a website that has been created and has updates about the situation, as well as photographs of some of the damage. You can also make a tax deductible donation by going to the donation link on the main page.

Please help. The beautiful Ngobe who have struggled so much already, need your help and prayers in this emergency situation.

Go to: http://ngobesafewater.synthasite.com for more information.

Sincerely,

Gigi

Tomorrow night, I take the train to Paris.

Even as I write those words I can hardly believe it.

Originally, Paris was going to be a one day layover-a whirlwind stopover on my way somewhere else.

But two things happened: I left England early, giving me a lot of time in France; and, I have to go to Paris to get my visa for India.

Getting the Visa for India has turned out to be somewhat complicated.

I should have expected this, but for some reason, it still surprised me.

Basically, I have to go to Paris, and visit the embassy a few times, just to get the whole process going. Then it could be a snap, or it could take a month!

So, I have a real reason to go to Paris for several weeks!

Luckily for me, I have a friend who happens to live in Paris that I can stay with.

Luckier still, I am on a limited budget.

Why is that lucky?

Well, I guess I consider it a challenge, to spend two weeks doing inexpensive (read: often free) things in the City of Lights.

I’m hoping if I find enough inexpensive things to do, I will have the money to spend several days in the Louvre…as well as go for a steamy massage retreat at the Hamman(Turkish Baths) near the Arabic Mosque.

Finding free, or truly cheap things to do in Paris online has proven to be exasperating. Articles called, ” Paris for Two Hundred Dollars A Day”, “What To Wear While You’re In Paris”, and ” Best Meals In Paris Under Fifty Dollars” come to mind.

The last time anyone went to Paris on a real budget and wrote about it was some time ago-I think it was called “Europe On Five Dollars A Day” or something like that. 

There were actually a few good sites with suggestions for surviving on a budget in Paris, but they were mostly all listing off the same things. I’ve decided to get much more inventive with my time there, and I’ve come up with some surprising things to do that don’t cost anything at all-or at least, not much. 

I have actually managed to come up with a list of over 100 free things to do in Paris!

What I plan on doing is actually doing all of them, and then writing about them when I’m all done.

I hope living on baguettes doesn’t get too tiresome!

I’ll talk to you all when I return to Rhemoz, France in a few weeks.

gigi  

 1. It is possible to eat an enormous block of creamy French cheese in one sitting.

2. There is a distinct difference between French bread and any other bread in the world. It is just better, period.

3. French people and the ex-pats that live here eat alot of meat-in any shape or form-and it’s not good to be a vegetarian or point out your uncomfortability with the vast quantity of meat in all of its forms being consumed.  It is, in fact , wise to ignore the meat eating side of things entirely . It reminds me of Spain in this regard. I need to practice leaving my values at home. I remind myself constantly that I should think of it as living with a strange tribe, who is very industrious and wastes no part of any animal, which is a very positive way of looking at it. I imagine Germany will be worse. I will become a  vegetarian  again after Germany.

4. It is possible to be in France for weeks and speak not a word of French, particularly if you don’t go anywhere.

5. I can look a the same view all day long, and it’s never boring. Because it’s France, for goodness sakes!

6. French people, the few I have met, are not fitting into that crabby French stereotype. They are very friendly, actually. or at least, I think they are. Actually, since I’ve no idea what they are saying, who knows? But they seem friendly.

7. French men are exceedingly friendly and are not married. Ever.

8. People in France have little dogs who never bark and are extremely well behaved.

9. French women, at least so far, do not strike me as particularly well dressed. I was expecting them to be simply incredible, what with all the hype they receive for style. They all look so sensible, with their short practical haircuts and their nice low heeled shoes-especially after Spain, land of orange and pink high heels, brightly patterned little jackets, and costume jewelry. Spanish women were very bright and stylish-in a sort of crazy, done up way,  while French women are all in neutrals and their hair looks perfectly tidy. As I am not known for looking tidy, I think-so far-I prefer Spain, with its plastic hoop earrings and sexy messy hair. I should mention that I am in no state to judge, as I am wearing the same thing everyday and my wardrobe in practical enough to put anyone to sleep!

10. It is possible to enjoy a country very much without seeing any of  it to speak of. In spite of the fact that I have been here for some time and seen little, I have the distinct impression of being in France, and that’s enjoyable all on it’s own .(But, I’m looking forward to Paris next week!)

gigi

What I’ve been doing alot of the last few days is thinking.

I’ve been thinking  about the original intention of this journey, and how much my perspective has changed-not only from day to day, but on a fundamental level. I’m looking at everything differently.

The original plan of this journey was to visit lots and lots of countries, experience lots and lots of different ways of doing things, and do a variety of volunteer work.

I’ve discovered quite a few things in the process.

One thing I’ve discovered is that it’s much better to stay in one place for a long time than to go from place to place. Frankly, the few times I’ve volunteered for a few days or even weeks in one place, I don’t think I’ve contributed much of long term value to the people or organizations I’ve been trying to help.

Countless volunteer organizations advertise volunteer vacations, at great cost, lasting only one week..and claim you can make a difference! I have decided this is simply impossible. One may be able to help with some manual labor and take some of the heavy work load off of the core volunteers of an organization..but truly making  a difference means getting to know the culture, the people, the landscape. It means getting attached, not just to the people you are trying to help, but to their customs, their children, their food, their way of being in the world.

Attached? You ask.

Yes, attached. Attachment is a very foreign concept to people in the first world, I’ve noticed (myself included). Oh, we’re very comfortable with the concept of being attached to our cars, our houses, our stuff..even our education, our degrees, our professional experiences. We recognize and believe that being attached to these things is a good thing-and our culture strongly encourages us in this direction.

But we are usually very uncomfortable attached to things, people, and situations that won’t generate more stuff or prestige. Oh, we’ll sponsor a child in Peru so they can eat, or we’ll donate money to the Red Cross. But we do it in an unattached way, in a distant way. We believe we have to hold such suffering at an arms length to maintain our own happiness, our own stability, our own comfort. I still find myself getting attached to things that absolutely hold no long term interest or benefit to myself or others. I still find myself idealizing my own material comfort above all else.

I was especially like this at the start of this trip. I was holding everything I saw at an arms length-literally compartmentalizing the suffering I saw into categories, so that when I went home I could put it aside and go back to my job, my friends, my house, my life.

But, something strange began to happen when I went and lived with the Ngobe. I found I was so moved by their suffering that I couldn’t compartmentalize it, I couldn’t separate it from my life. I still can’t.

There’s something about being in one place for months on end and living with people that don’t have enough to eat, don’t have any changes of clothes, whose stomachs are bloated from parasites, whose women are dying from minor complications from childbirth, who can’t get to school because they can’t cross the river, whose animals are emaciated skin and bones, and whose lives are affected daily by a  distinct lack of human rights and a lack of voice in their own destiny….

…that does something to your heart.

It changes the entire direction of your life-it takes your heart and without any explanation takes all the love you’ve got to give and expands it a hundred times and more.

I’m become attached to the Ngobe. I can’t help it, and I wouldn’t give up caring about them and what happens to them for all of the world.

The Ngobe taught me more about myself than I have ever learnt reading books, studying in schools, or  working 9 to 5 jobs.

They taught me about family, reciprocal relationships, survival. They taught me about poverty, pain, and desperation.

But they also live in an area of Panama that is very tropical, full of plants and trees and rivers. The night sky is spectacular, the sunrises pristine, the views from the mountains astounding-no photograph can do them justice. There’s nothing quite like hanging out with a group of Ngobe late at night, telling stories and gazing at the stars. It’s beautiful.

I’m not being overly idealistic here-let’s face it, when I was actually living with the Ngobe, I was often just surviving. I was just trying to maintain my own state of mind, and not get overwhelmed by the state of things there-the squalor, the difficult conditions, the muddy roads, the grating poverty. I was out of my mind trying to figure out how to get rid of lice, cockroaches,and scorpions. I tired of eating yucca and bananas. I got frustrated swimming fully clothed with a groups of Ngobe watching my every move.

But I also got a glimpse of something rare-a few idealistic Ngobe who are trying to bring change into their communities and who were an inspiration to me, even long after I left.

The Ngobe are trying to change things for themselves, for their future. They want to figure out ways to have their basic needs met, to provide some schooling for their children, to find ways to market their crafts, to take their place in the world.

And I’ve decided to commit to helping them do that. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

Right now, I’m sitting in a living room of a friend , writing on a laptop and looking out at what has to be one of the most beautiful views in all of France. My friend’s hospitality is astonishing and seemingly without bounds-she has been kind enough to provide me with a restful place to lay my weary head in the middle of this long journey I am on.

Being here has been lovely. I’ve taken perhaps to much of a liking to fattening French cheese and crusty loaves of bread. I’ve read loads of books from her big library. I’ve enjoyed doing little but petting cats and looking out at the view.

But in the middle of all of this tranquility, I have found myself thinking of the Ngobe. It is since I’ve been here, resting, that I’ve had the time to slow down and realize where I’m really headed-to go back to where I feel I am called to be. I think I am in need of this respite to get some clarity on who I am becoming and where I am going. The whole purpose of the trip-to be of service in the world-has already come into fruition full force. But going back to live with the Ngobe, and committing to working with them long term-that’s a commitment to service for life.

That’s a real change in direction for me.

If you’ve been reading the blog the past few months, you know that I have been thinking about starting a charity fro the Ngobe, to primarily benefit women and children in the mountains. There are numerous projects I have been working on for them, from bridge building to women’s cooperatives. This charity would be US based, but would also have non profit staus in Panama.

What I’ve decided is to cut the round the world trip short, and return there.

Once there, I’ll be working on getting the women’s health cooperative building built.The women’s heathcare cooperative will be deep in the mountains where there are no healthcare options, and will primarily serve as a birthing center and prenatal care center. It will be run by a group of midwives from four different communities, who will be taking turns being on hand to help in deliveries. I also will be helping the midwives organize effectively as well as setting up some educational resources for women who are expecting babies. This is a very exciting thing to be doing, as it has widespread support among the Ngobe and is actually their own idea! (there will be a link on this blog on the right hand side to donate to this project on the University of California Berkley Good Ideas site. Just scroll down to “Help the Ngobe of Panama” and it will take you right to the site that explains the project in depth and tells you some ways you can help. And it’s tax deductible, too!)

I will also be setting up the infrastructure by Panama and Ngobe law to achieve non profit status in Panama for the organization, building a small house/office/meeting room for the volunteers of the organization, and meeting with community leaders/groups of the mountainous areas of the Ngobe Bugle Comarca to determine what needs to address and how. I’ll be working on getting engineers and staff support together to built a large suspension bridge in the coming year, too!

I’ll also be helping out the organization , Medo, that I was volunteering with previously.

Oh, yes..and learn the language of the Ngobe!

The goals of the charity I am working on now, since I have plenty of free time at the moment. Other than the obvious benefit to the Ngobe, I would also like to provide a real, viable, and inexpensive volunteer abroad solution for people that want to volunteer off the beaten path but haven’t found an organization that can help them do it on a budget and effectively use their skills. So many places I have volunteered have been poorly managed, overpriced, and not effective.

I will still be heading on to India, to work with the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Theresa’s organization, in Calcutta, in October. The chance to do the type of work they are doing there was the original seed for this entire trip, and I plan on remaining faithful to that original vision. I hope to be in Calcutta for 5 months, although I may take some side trips to other nearby cities, states, or even other countries.

But in my current state of mind, it would not surprise me if I simply stayed in Calcutta for 5 months straight and absorbed its strange mix of poverty and culture. I’d also like to take a course in Bengali and possibly learn some Indian cooking while there. (That could come in handy, knowing how to cook Indian food while living with the Ngobe later on! Might break up the yucca diet!)

I am flying out of Calcutta to Thailand in mid February, and from Thailand I have no idea where I will go. The current plan is to try for Burma, but if not there, then Laos or Cambodia. At this point, I want to spend whatever few months I have left in one country, to get  a feel for the place. I’ve had very nice volunteering offers from all three of those countries, so that’s why I’m hoping to choose one of those three.

In May I will head home to California for a month. There, I’ll try to relax and get enough supplies and so on ready for the following 7 or 8 months, which I will be spending with the Ngobe . Hopefully, I will be able to set things up enough that on returning home later on, I can have the infrastructure in place to really make this a full time job for myself.

My goal at the moment is to spend about 1/4 of the year with the Ngobe, and the rest in the States, working from home on projects, awareness, fundraising, and so on. The book project I have been working on about this trip has now been set aside, and I have decided to instead write a book about the Ngobe in the hopes of telling the world about them they will gain a voice in their own country and in the world at large. The proceeds of the book will all go to the Ngobe, of course.

I’ll manage to make it home by December 2009, set up housekeeping of sorts, stop living out of a backpack…and try to keep in mind the lessons I’ve been learning on what has been, and what will no doubt continue to be, the most simultaneously wonderful and difficult period of my life. It’s a journey that has been  both exhausting and exhilirating, but I have the sense that the best is yet to come.

gigi

This is a very long entry….

Anyone who’s been reading this blog for awhile knows that the point of this almost 3 year journey around the world was to be of service, within the limits of what I have to offer, to people of other cultures.

Although this sounds very exciting, very giving, and very selfless way to travel..I, in fact, am the one who has usually ended up being on the receiving end of my volunteering efforts. I have learned more from the people that I went to help than they possibly could ever know.

I have learned much more than I ever could have expected from volunteering to work on a garden in England.

I answered an advertisement that was posted on Idealist.com, asking for volunteers to “come enjoy a working visit at our Buddhist monastery in Northern England”. I emailed them, and after several emails back and forth it was decided that I would come on a working holiday for about two months. While there, I would be doing miscellaneous tasks, such as gardening, housepainting, and cooking. I’d also get the chance to attend any classes they taught for free, including the nightly meditation classes.

Best of all, I wouldn’t have to pay a cent!

Sound to good to be true? I thought so as well, so I researched a few volunteerism sites where volunteers rate their experiences. I found seven reviews that were recent, all from the center I was going to, and all said they had had a good experience. Most people had only stayed 5 to 7 days, the average working visit stay. Although my stay was going to be longer, I figured it would just be 7 more weeks of a great experience.

Sound to good to be true? It was. Read on.

I arrived at the “Buddhist” center and was immediately taken in by the grounds and buildings. The grounds and gardens, although in obvious disrepair, were beautiful to behold, something like one sees out of a magazine on English gardening.

At one time a huge estate, it had gone through various changes in its 200 year lifetime, including a school, a home for “wayward” boys, and a hospital during the war for soldiers. It had been bought by this particular group of “Buddhists” only about 15 years ago.

My first interaction upon arrival was somewhat strained. The woman in charge of the place seemed to have a distinct lack of social skills and was very impolite. Perhaps I should leave, I thought. She gave me the creeps.  But, maybe I was just tired, and decided things would look better in the morning.

They did.

The following week, I happily cleaned bathrooms, gardened, painted, and did whatever was asked of me. I was tired from being on the road, and didn’t give much else much thought.

I did notice, though, that all of the monks and nuns were Western. There were no people walking around in yellow and red robes from any other places in the world..such as Tibet or Thailand. All of the monks and nuns were from England, Australia, and the United States. This seemed odd, in that it didn’t fit with my expectations of visiting a “Tibetan Buddhist monastery” in England-as it had been advertised-but then, what had matched my expectations so far on this crazy trip?

The first weekend I was there, they had an “Introduction to Buddhism” weekend, which I was “strongly urged” to attend.

I did not take well to being strongly urged to do anything-I never have, having been born as stubborn as an ox-but, I figured, why not go and check it out? That’s one of the reasons I was here, to discover more about Buddhism, right?

There were several other working visitors there, on one week visits, and we all decided to go to the workshops and lectures together.

The whole weekend was interesting to me, as I had no prior interest or experience in Buddhism. There were some things that seemed a bit strange, such an emphasis on praying to this particular group’s guru-but as I said, I had no prior experience with Buddhism, and figured that it was all normal.

One of the other guests,an American woman, attended the first class only, and then never returned.

I ran into her in the hallway, and she explained that she wouldn’t be going to the rest of the classes, as “this was not Buddhism, it was something else.” She was planning on leaving in a week, but when they found out she wasn’t finishing the course, they strongly urged her to leave a bit sooner. She disappeared the following Monday, and I got an email from her that she thought they were very strange.

I was beginning to see some strange things as well.

For example, one day I walked by another working visitor changing a light bulb. He needed someone to hold the ladder for him, and as I was nearby, I offered to do it. A nun walked by and severely reprimanded both of us. We felt small and diminished, and we were sent to the office like two very bad schoolchildren, where we were told that we had no right to make any decisions regarding our work for the day. We were told we had to ask for permission to do anything other than what we were assigned, even if it meant waiting for the person in charge of the center for an hour or more. We were made to feel very small and useless, and the man I was working with that day was very upset.All this just to change a single lightbulb!

Two hours later, we got permission for me to hold the ladder,”but nothing more.”

This struck me as very odd, and irritated me beyond belief. But, I thought perhaps it was just the person in charge making these arbitrary rules.Perhaps she was one of these strange women that perpetually have their panties in a bunch, if you know what I mean.

When I mentioned this incident in passing to another of the communities members, a monk, he told me that it was a Buddhist belief that it was good to give up all control of any decisions, and that it was good to have someone direct you even when you didn’t agree, so that you could practice the Eight Noble Truths-which are kind of like the Ten Commandments of Buddhism. Kind of like “suck up so you won’t be reborn as a worm”, or something like that. Then he told me the entire situation didn’t happen, that it was a delusion I had created.

I could see his point, or at least I was trying to. I had been reading two of the Guru’s books on Buddhism, and I was trying to apply what I had learned so far to the situation.

I tried to be open to the fact that I was delusional. In Buddhism, it is true that many things we experience day to day, are considered delusions..such as anger, and so on. Okay, I thought. I’ll be open to considering all of this one big delusion.

Was this Buddhism? No, but I had no idea at the time.

Still, I was depressed further, when later in the day a female working visitor was reduced to tears by a similar situation .

She left the next day, feeling depressed. She just made up some excuse and left.

I envied her, but thought, I can do this! (I don’t know if this response stemmed from total disregard to what I was really thinking, or if the mind control stuff was already taking over my tiny brain, or if I just wanted to try and find the good in the situation. It probably was some combination of all three.)

That day, I was given instructions to complete tasks which made no sense to me whatsoever. I was working with several other people, and they all agreed that the manner in which we were asked to do our particular job made no sense. We went to the center manager, but she cut us to the quick. We went back out to do our ridiculous task in the ridiculous manner, and when we were finished they made us do it again, twice, in two other different ways. I was so confused by the end of the day that my mind was blank.

I was invited to attend a meditation and teaching the following evening, and I thought it might cheer my spirits up and calm my mounting anxiety. I was exhausted from all the physical work, and tired off the stress from not being able to make any decisions for myself.

The meditation was strange. It was in a meditation room, with a Buddha shrine at center, am equally large shrine to their guru on the left, and a shrine to another god they worshiped, who was very fierce looking.

First, there was a meditation, sort of the normal sort, requiring breathing, relaxation techniques, and visualization.

But after this part, we were told to chant and sing. We did chants for the long life of their guru,   and then some chants for the fierce looking god. There were no chants for Buddha.

As a matter of fact, we were told that the guru was Buddha, and that we could be Buddha in this lifetime if we only chose to be enlightened. We were told that in order to do this, we must believe the guru to be Buddha and do whatever he asked. Complete obedience.

When the meditation was over, I went up to my room. I resident knocked on the door, and he asked to come in. In a low voice, he began telling me about his life, his experiences at this place, and how he wanted to leave, but he couldn’t. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not-I had no frame of reference, no experience with which to apply any decision making. I figured he was just having a bad day, or perhaps had a personal problem with the director of the place.

Over the next week, my work assignments became more and more impractical, leaving me exhausted. I kept going to the meditations, thinking that I was being judgemental of this faith and tradition, and trying to have an open mind. I kept thinking perhaps it was just the people in charge here that had created this strange environment, and that this was not the intention of the founder.

The meditations got stranger and stranger, and yet..at the same time..I noticed I did not have to even look in the prayer book to read along with the chants-I had somehow memorized them all already, in about five visits to the meditation class.

Actually, I found that I was humming them all the time. When I woke up, they were the first thing in my head, and I fell asleep to their lull, as my room was next to two other meditation rooms where people went and chanted often thruout the day. I found it hard to read anything, and I began to find concentration impossible. It began to be impossible to write my blog.

During this time, I began to be more familiar at the center, and befriended many of the residents. Some of the residents were quite forthcoming when I asked questions, but these were generally answered in hushed tones in the middle of the night.

I discovered that almost all of the residents (there were three types. Buddhists, who had taken orders and were monks and nuns. Lay Buddhists, who were living there and working as teachers, considering orders, or working outside but supporting the community. Non-Buddhists, who were living there and occasionally attending a class or two .)..had very low self esteem, were vulnerable, felt isolated, and were broke.

They were afraid to talk about any doubts they had about the center, and when they had raised concerns, they were told that the problems they were facing were due to their karma. In other words, they were feeling low because they were low-and they deserved this lowly status because of the terrible things they had done in their past lives.

Was this Buddhism? How was I to know. I had absolutely no experience with Buddhism at all, except for a few friends I  had in the USA , and they didn’t seem like these people.

Several residents were extremely open with me, and shared with me many of the “House Rules”, which included,

– No books or materials about Buddhism other than ones by their guru.

– No discussion or complaints about the center or its organization. No saying anything to cause disfavor to the organization or its leaders, either on the local level or worldwide. Punishment by banishment.

– A financial agreement upon moving in, to support the community financially with a sizeable chunk of money, and continued support thru the larger portion of ones earnings being given over to the group. This included giving of all of ones material goods except what was most practical as a way to practice unattachment to samsara.

– Mandatory work at the center and for the centers causes for no pay, up to 30 hours a week(this plus a full time job).

– Mandatory attendance at classes at the center, which were more and more expensive, with the expensive ones being the ones that would put one on the track to enlightenment.

– A request for no television, radio, games, music, or other influences on center grounds.

– A resident had to attend as many “Festivals” where the guru would be teaching at great cost to the goer-and be willing to bring in new people to attend. This meant that their jobs had to be of the lowest quality for their skills, so that they could quit at a moments notice to attend these festivals in far flung places. For example, an ex-bank president would be an aide for a nursing home. A mother of two worked at as an occasional maid, although she had been a professor.

What a strange place, I thought. Yet, in the middle of the zaniness, there were some very nice people, I told myself.

I didn’t want to believe it was a cult, although it so obviously was. I think..some of the practices there were already affecting my brain and how I thought of myself. I began to doubt my reactions to things more and more. I began to doubt questioning things more and more. This was heavily encouraged.

They knew I loved gardening, and so put me in charge of a large, beautiful English garden that was the stuff of gardeners dreams the world over. Although they seemed to have ridiculous expectations about what I could accomplish there in such a short time, I tried to meet their ridiculous expectations. I became more and more exhausted physically-to tired to even read.

I had been invited..or should I say, strongly urged, to attend the upcoming “Festival” where the guru was to be speaking. This was held in the Lakes district, near a bird sanctuary and a beach, and we could camp in a forest, too.

I thought it over and was on the fence. Still, being strongly urged does wonders to one’s common sense, and I found myself heading to the “festival” the following weekend with two other working visitors. I knew one of them quite well, and seemed to be a good guy, very down to earth. We talked it over and decided we’d go hear the guru and then make up our minds what in the world was going on here.

Besides, camping sounded fun, right? Amazingly, a tent was quickly found for me. Another resident loaned my a sleeping bag. It was all so easy, and they seemed to want me to go hear their guru very much.

Camping turned out to be a crowded affair, surrounded by way too many tents in a drizzle. Luckily, there was no time to dwell on this sorry state of affairs because we were too busy going to all the “teachings” and meditations to get us ready to hear the guru the following day.

The speakers all lectured in this enormous tent, which was attached to a huge temple, filled with gold and precious gems and paintings and sculptures.It was a dazzling affair, a feast for the senses.

There were thousands of people there, from all over the First World, of every age and description. Entire families were there with there very young children. Old ladies were there with their little dogs. Young couples in love squeezed hands and sat in reverence. Everyone, positively everyone, had these weird plastered expressions on their faces. They reminded us of the Stepford Wives..like automatons.

While waiting for the lectures and so on to begin, conversations seemed to hover dangerously around the same topics-how many festivals one had been to, how many classes one had taken, who was getting ordained that one knew, how holy the guru was. The vocabulary of people was remarkably limited, and they all used the same kinds of catch phrases.

When people found out that I was on a working holiday with one of the centers, they were in ecstacy-I was going to be one of their own! When I told them that I was a practising Catholic, they all had the same response.

” Yes, but who is your Spiritual Guide?”

Gosh, I don’t know, I would say. Spiritual guide? Um..well..I guess..God?

” Oh, but God can’t be your Spiritual Guide.”

He can’t ? Oh, okay. How about Jesus? No? Okay, how about Mary? No? Okay. Who then?

“It’s obvious you need a stronger Spiritual Practice.”

I do? Gosh, you’re probably right. Don’t we all.

Just when the conversation was starting to get interesting, the assistants to the guru showed up, and everyone got quiet.

There were so many people that the only way I could see him was to watch him on one of the television screens, which had been set up all over the makeshift auditorium for this purpose.

And then everyone started to chant, or sing, or pray, or whatever it was.

And if you’ve never seen 2,000 people totally blissed out, chanting that there guru come out on to a stage, and that he’s a Buddha, and that he will live forever, I invite you to do so. After this they did other chants, which everyone seemed to have memorized, and these included chants to the angry looking warrior god up on the stage, and yet another wishing for death and destruction to come to all of their enemies(which included the Dalai Lama, by the way).

(Postscript: The prayer we prayed was to bring death and destruction to all of our enemies. Then , immediately after that, we prayed for the H.H. D. L. to end his delusions, which were causing the world to suffer. At this point, the man next to me whispered that the NKT believed the D.L. was their enemy. Additionally, we were all encouraged to go to Paris and protest the D.L. appearance, in the name of religious freedom. This is a complex belief of the NKT, and this sentence alone caused many comments.As I have said, I do not believe that adherents to the NKT doctrine really understand what they are agreeing to when they become NKT members. Please read response to comment at end of page for sources to backup this and other statements.)

It was one of the most unnerving experiences of my life.

My mouth open, but not a sound coming out, I looked around me at all the people staring at the televisions with glasy expressions, one enormous mind meld. Oh, they looked like normal people, like ones own family, neighbors, friends..but they weren’t. These people had had their brains completely messed with, of that I have no doubt. They were glazed over robots, praying for enlightenment and losing all common sense in the process.

That’s when it really hit me, that I was in the middle of some weird cult. I mean, it hit me so hard I thought I would lose control of my bodily functions.  I had been getting wrapped up into it myself, you see. They almost had me. But thank God, my parents instilled the importance a certain degree of self awareness coupled with a healthy dose of doubt of any organization, political or religious. I was ,at last, finally finding this early teaching in healthy cynicism useful. (Thanks Mom and Dad! Good job!)

The following day, the guru made his appearance. People went wild, like he was a god, which in their mind, he was.

“Can you feel it? “

No, I thought. I just feel sorry for all of these poor people who are giving all of their money and time and belief to this little man, for lack of anything better to do with themselves.

” Can you tell how enlightened he is?”

No, and quite frankly, how can you tell if someone is enlightened anyway? How could an enlightened person be sitting on such a wad of cash? If a person was enlightened, wouldn’t they have moved on, to the next level, rather than hanging out with us and asking us for our money, our mortgages, our children?

I ran into some odd people from California and was not surprised to see them. they had never made sense when I talked to them in the past..seemed spacey and out to lunch..and talked about their guru alot. I recalled suddenly, upon seeing them, that they had spent all of their money traveling to these “festivals” to hear their guru. Ah, I realized, talking to one perfectly nice woman from my past, as her eyes glasses over talking about enlightened beings, you’re one of them, too! That makes perfect sense, because I always thought you were out to lunch!

That night I snuck into the tent of my friend, a sweet guy who had told me he had some doubts about these people since he’d first arrived for his working visit a few weeks ago.

“These people are out to lunch. This is a cult. I have no doubt. And..I can’t get those chants out of my head. ..they make it impossible to think clearly.” , I said.

“Yes. You are right. I was watching them sing the songs..and it’s like some kind of mind control. It numbs their minds.”, He said.

I went back to my tent and spent a restless night trying to get the chants out of my head. Nothing was working until I started humming the entire Beatles’s “Yellow Submarine” soundtrack. How fitting.

I awoke exhausted. I decided not to go to the next mind meld, and instead go down to the beach. My friend offered to cover for me if anyone asked, saying he had seen me enter the tent.

I walked down to the beach, feeling curious stares from people coming up the path the other direction.

The beach turned out to be a quicksand beach. How appropriate.

I sat there trying to figure out what to do, and throwing rocks into the quicksand and watching them sink. I kind of felt like that, like those rocks. I came all this way, this whole way, to garden in England and I end up living with a bunch of sad, strange people. How depressing.

My morale low, I discovered one of the residents of the “Buddhist” center I was working at was heading back early. I headed back to the center with him and stared out the window while he chatted about his life, which had been very difficult.

When we got back, several of the residents who had stayed behind told me some very sad lifestories, and even sadder stories about their current state of mind. A few were suicidal.

I decided to stick it out a few more weeks-everyone was gone except me and a  few of these very depressed people, and perhaps I could cheer them up or convince them to leave.

I looked up a bunch of information on the group I was staying with, which was called ” New Kadampa Tradition Buddhism”, and found out that it was started in 1991 in England, and is considered a full fledged cult not only by people who specialize in that sort of thing, but in all of Buddhism. Other Buddhists do not consider it Buddhism, the consider it a sectarian cult.

You might be asking yourself , ” Well, why didn’t you look into this before you left?”

That’s a good question. Why didn’t I? Well, I suppose I thought Buddhism was pretty simple, pretty straightforward. If it had been some weird cult, wouldn’t I have heard about it on the news? Besides, if it was a cult, how could English people let them buy up so many beautiful old churches and estates and schools to live in?

This particular cult falls between the cracks. It does just enough to cause a bit of a gray area in people’s minds as to whether it’s a cult of not, and in spite of the fact that there are plenty of negative reports in the media-from National Public Radio to the BBC to newspapers to a New Kadampa Recovery Group on Yahoo Groups- this cult is slowly making its way into every city in England.

It’s goal, in fact, is to “.. bring it’s tradition of Buddhism to every town in the United Kingdom..”. And if that doesn’t freak you out, guess what? Not only are they accomplishing that goal in the UK-they are accomplishing it all over the Western world, from the United States to France to Australia. There’s going to be an NKT center near you soon, and people will go to their free, friendly meditations without even knowing the bigger organization they are getting involved with. Kind of like Scientology, but without all the hype.

I also discovered that many of the techniques used in cults, especially in the area of mind control, had been being used on me! I remember emailing people in my life about what I was going thru, and them suggesting..even telling..me to leave, and me telling them, no it was fine, it wasn’t affecting me, I was above it all.

I was wrong. There were some people there who were in such sad lonely states, I wanted to help them. But in doing this I didn’t realize how much the atmosphere and dogma of the place settled itself into my brain.

Mind control can be disguised in a variety of ways, some of which are

-Meditation, serving as a form of hypnosis.

-Chanting or Singing repetitively, with eliminates non cult ideas

-Encouraging blind acceptance of truth with out thinking. Thinking discouraged.

-Changing the distribution of power, by requiring child like obedience to do simple tasks.

-Implanting subliminal messages by stressing certain words and phrase over and over again.

-Creating disorientation and vulnerability by prolonged mental and physical activity

-Peer group pressure, isolation, and verbal abuse. (see a few entries ago to see some examples of this)

I realized I could help no one there, in spite of my good intentions. When I finally left, I was physically sick at the thought of doing so, and it took everything I had to just leave.

And, its important to remember, I had only been there for just over 3 weeks!

Logically, I knew I had to leave. But cults and cult psychology don’t play on the intellect, on one’s logic. They play on one’s emotions. Often times, the criticisms I heard of myself had some truth, as they were designed to. So emotionally, it was very hard to leave the place. I felt like a failure for doing so, which is exactly how they wanted me to feel so I would not leave.

Of course, I’m doing much better now..staying in France, relaxing, and taking a big time out before heading to Calcutta to work with the Sisters of Charity for about 4 months. I’m educating myself about what happened back in England,and trying to gain some perspective.

I think what attracted me initially about going there was that it looked so attractive, and it fit in so very nicely with my plan to volunteer around the world.

I had wanted to volunteer somewhere in Europe, and I was finding any positions hard to come by, and then this beautiful place showed up. The job they wanted me to do sounds delightful, and it fit in with another one of my goals, which to understand and be compassionate for all faiths. I thought this would be a great place to be of service and to understand a bit more about Buddhism before heading to India and Southeast Asia.

So, this entry shouldn’t discourage anyone from looking for volunteer opportunities..but if you show up, and your initial feeling isn’t the greatest..go with that. You’re probably right.

Or if it sounds to good to be true-well then, it probably is.

In the meantime, I’m still trying to understand Buddhism and Hinduism as well, having bought a few books on the subject I am busily trying to educate myself before heading to my next destination. Or, shall I say, re-educate myself, in the case of Buddhism!

I’m feeling somewhat-I guess the word would be-wounded, and my faith in people is slightly diminished somehow from the experience. But, given time, I’m sure that will bloom into something beautiful and amazing, as has every challenge on this trip.

gigi

I arrived in France a few days ago.

I had arranged to stay with a reader of this blog, who has a house near the  Swiss border.

So I flew into Geneva, and following my friend’s incredibly precise instructions, found myself on a train, heading towards her house an hour later.

When it came time for my stop, I gathered all my stuff, stood up, and waited near the door.

There were two signs near the door, both in several languages, including English. One sign said, “Open door by pushing button”, and the other said, ” Do not push button if train is not by a platform”. Seemed easy enough.

Unfortunately, when I pushed the button, the train didn’t stop. It kind of..paused..took a breath..and kept right on going.

I ended up at the next station, and got off kind of hesitantly, not knowing where I was at all. I must have looked lost and confused, because two missionaries of some kind with enormous wooden crosses around their necks came up to me and asked me in perfect English if I needed help. They directed me to a tiny office, where two men were smoking and drinking beer.

In stilted English, they quickly determined I was lost. One of them lost no time in telling me, in a strangely blunt way, that I had made a big mistake, that I was wrong, that I was completely lost.

Upon his telling me this, I burst into tears.

Apparently this is not the effect he intended, and they immediately were profusely apologizing, telling me to sit down, making me coffee, offering me beer, offering me wine…all at once.

I knew my friend was supposed to have picked me up at the previous stop, and I had her number in my bag, so I began fumbling around for it. I found it, and they began calling her, which they made extremely complicated, by constantly disagreeing about how this was to be done, what they would say when they actually spoke to her, what kind of message to leave. Kind of like a Laurel and Hardy skit, but without the punches and in French.

Meanwhile, I sat in the office, drinking a sip of coffee, a sip of beer, and then a sip of wine. Another man came in and began talking to me in rapid French, while offering me bits of chocolate.

A message was finally left with my friend, and I relaxed a bit, figuring she’d show up eventually. I was too tired to worry about it, as I hadn’t slept all night and was feeling even more exhausted from the combination of stimulants and relaxants I was rapidly imbibing.

Meanwhile, The most flirtatious of the group of men, who said his name was Frank, began telling me about his life, how he had visited California and hated it, how horrible the lifestyle was in the USA, it was all about money, money, money.

It was quite entertaining, actually as his English was quite terrible and he explained everything in a combination  of stilted English, hand gestures, and very slow French, as though if he spoke slowly I would understand him. Which I did not, at least, not much.

My friend Leyla arrived just in time..at about the time Frank told me he was looking for a new love in his life.

I gratefully got into her car, and we drove to the tiny village she lives in, where she is fixing up an old farmhouse.

They had not been expecting me, so we rapidly converted a small room that had been used for some kind of storage into a bedroom. It was a very teeny room, but I fit into it and it had a window and a door, so what did I care? I haven’t had a room to myself in months.

I have spent the last better part of a week here and gone absolutely nowhere. No wait, I did go into another village to buy some food one day…thats about it.

I feel I have no real reason to go anywhere at all. I came here to rest, after all. It’s turning out to be a very restful place, complete with a nice old sofa to lay on, loads of cats, plenty of instant coffee, and an absolutely breathtaking view of mountains and a beautiful lake, whose name I have temporarily forgotten.

I spend all day playing with the cats, reading travel books from Leylas collection, and staring off into space.

Strangely, although I have seen nothing of France, I’m completely in love with the idea of being here. It’s a very romantic notion, hanging out in France doing nothing.

At any rate, I aim to do nothing at all the rest of the time I am here. It’s lovely, doing nothing. This whole trip I have been so busy that sometimes I felt like I was spinning like a top. Whoever said travel is relaxing was an idiot. It’s not. There are so many daily decisions to be made, so many ways to get lost and confused, let alone get overwhelmed by the fact that you don’t know a soul and have no idea what you are doing. Most of the time I really enjoy this, never knowing what is next..but it’s nice to not have to think about it too much for awhile.

I turned forty this week. Normally, birthdays are a big deal to me. I like spoiling on my birthday. I figured I would especially have to make an effort to spoil myself on this particular birthday, as turning 40 is supposed to be such a big deal.

It wasn’t. Maybe that’s because I’m doing something alot of people only dream of doing, traveling around the world, seeing new things, meeting new people, eating new things, getting lost and drinking beer in train stations with strange Frenchmen..ok, so maybe not everyone dreams of doing it..but my point is, it’s not a boring life.

So for my birthday, all I did was eat alot of expensive French cheese and pastry and I drank some wine. Then I went to bed.

But, other than that, I did absolutely nothing at all. Which was lovely, because I spent my fortieth birthday doing nothing at all somewhere in the French countryside.

Next week, I head to Paris, and hopefully all this napping and lazing about wil have paid off, and I will have the energy and desire to enjoy that famous city.

So strangely, I’m in love with France..even though all I’m doing is enjoying the idea of being here, more than actually seeing any of it yet.

gigi

This entry picks up where I last left off..waiting at the airport in London for my flight to Geneva.

I often stay up all night in airports, waiting for flights the following day. I do this because it’s cheaper to travel this way, but also because one meets the most interesting people in airports.

I waited for over eight hours with a group of people I will most likely never meet again. yet, waiting around in airports makes people very open to chattering away about their lives..and it’s always a bit surreal the way they share their fears, ideas, and innermost thoughts..kind of like a strange blurry snapshot you look at later and can’t quite remember where it was taken.

Anyway, the main problem with staying up all night in airports is that it’s exhausting. You get on the flight you’ve been waiting for all night long and you’re exhausted..you sort of fumble for your bag, your passport…you try to read your ticket to figure out where you are seated, and you can’t quite make out the numbers..you get in the wrong lines, the wrong seat, you put your baggage in the wrong place…

And then, blissfully, gratefully, you slip into your proper seat, feeling somehow superior than everyone else that you managed to not pay for an overpriced hotel room at the airport. This is about the point that the real exhaustion, accompanied by a tiny bit of nausea sets in. You’ve only been slurping cups of horrid airport coffee and munching on stale trail mix for over ten hours, after all. It’s to be expected.

This is what was supposed to happen to me at the Gatwick Airport. This is what I was expecting. Some slight discomfort, some slight suffering, and then sinking into my airplane seat gratefully and taking a nap.

But what happened was totally different.

I had decided to fly Easy Jet, a notoriously cheap airline, that flies all over Europe for next to nothing. I was apparently not the only person in England who had that very same idea.

Easy Jet didn’t open until 6 am, so people began forming lines..to get into line..at about 5 am.

It is said that English people will line up for anything..and it’s true..I’ve seen it happen all over England. Sometimes they did not even seem to know what they were in line for.

This time, they were in line to be in line.

The line got so long that it winded this way and that, right out of the Easy Jet area, down the escalator, out into a hallway, out into the parking lot. The escalator had to be turned off. Guards were called in to monitor the crowd. People selling coffee came wandering by with little carts, and entire families with strollers and babies and toddlers sat on their luggage and ate breakfast.

I joined the line at about 6:30 am. It was raining quite hard and it was dreary. I was waiting outside in the rain, using the cheap yellow umbrella I had bought in Spain as a shelter, and it kept blowing inside out. I was tired, the babies were crying, the cell phones were ringing, and it was depressing.

I was glad at least to be leaving England.

My flight left at just after eight o’clock in the morning..it was about 7 am when people in the line began to become a bit anxious. Everyone seemed to realize at the same exact moment that we were all in lines for different Easy Jet flights, and that those of us scheduled to leave sooner than the rest had no real chance of catching our flights. The line was moving at a snail’s pace, and there didn’t seem much chance of it speeding up.

English people don’t seem to panic, even in situations like this. They sort of..just talk about things among themselves. It’s like they are taking it all in, in slow motion.They seemed slightly out of sorts  that they might miss their flights, but no one really was doing anything about it.

I was too tired to think about it, myself. I think being surrounded by hundreds of English people who are about to miss their flights and are  just mumbling among themselves that someone will come and “sort it out”, so that they can “get on with it”, as they give their children packages of crackers and tell their school age children to play nicely..somehow has an effect on that American psyche, that wants-no demands-all problems be solved at once.

I was almost to the point of falling asleep, standing up, when a Easy Jet employee walked up to me, wearing a shockingly bright orange polo shirt which made his pallid skin look green. He asked me where I was going, and I told him to Geneva.

“Go upstairs, make a left, then right, then downstairs, then left. Wait there for the first desk that opens. We don’t want you to miss that flight!”, he said, smiling greenly at me.

I understood nothing he said. He was from the Birmingham area of England, which is impossible to understand-it sort of sounds like someone mumbling into their underarm.

The man next to me in line was also going to Geneva, and he had understood his countryman perfectly. So I tagged along after him, trying to keep track of his bright red head of hair in the crowd.

We arrived at the Easy Jet desk at 7:40.

People were still insanely patient. I watched as a young couple and their two children missed their flight to Italy. They never lost it. They stayed calm. The Easy jet employees stayed calm. Everyone was calm, it seemed, except for me.

At five minutes to eight, I finally got up to the counter. Everything was taken care of, don’t worry they said. Now just go to the gate and wait.

Great. The red haired man and I walked towards where they pointed.

We got to our gate, number 110.

“This is not the gate for Geneva.”, the extremely annoying Easy Jet employee told us. I wanted to tell her that the bright orange color of er polo did nothing for her, but somehow I held back.

“Go back to the waiting area, and watch the screen. It will tell you which gate to go to.”, she continued.

The red haired man and I were practically ran to the waiting area to find out where we were supposed to go.

We got there. We looked up at the screen. Next to our flight number, it said, “Please wait.”

It was past eight am. We had two minutes to catch our flight, which left at 8 10 am.

People crowded around us.

They began to show an distinct absence of English reserve. I would say that they were becoming extremely agitated and vocal. Their dissent was heard by all, including numerous, heavily armed guards walking around. The guards made me nervous, like I was in a George Orwell novel. Kurt Vonnegut would have been able to write an entire novel based on the next few minutes.

Finally some words flashed next to our flight number.

“Gate 110. Closing. Gate is Closing.”

What?!

A mad rush was made back across the airport by all of us. The red haired man almost knocked over a toddler on the escalator. Entire families were running to catch the flight.

We all got to gate 110. What did we find, but…

another line!

“Where have you all been”, another Easy jet employee said.”This flight is being held up waiting for you.”

The English people had had it. They had reached their limit. They started with a low mumble among themselves and it reached a dull roar. They began actually complaining.

I had never seen English people complain about anything. True, I had been living in a cult with people that hadn’t had the permission to complain much-but, even on my various forays into other places ripe for complaint, such as banks and supermarkets..I had never really heard an English person complain.

One young girl was especially upset. She was about fourteen years old, wearing very high heels, and her shoes were not made for running thru airports, they were made for being seen in and being stylish. She had broken a heel from all the running around, and she was quite unhappy.

When she got up to the desk, she handed them her passport.

The green faced woman, wearing the bright orange polo shirt handed back her passport.

The teenager stood there for a moment, thinking.

“Anything else?” asked the Easy Jet employee.

“Yeah.”, said the teenager.”Just in case you didn’t know, that shirt makes you look terrible. You look green.”

My thoughts exactly.

Ah, England. In that few minutes I decided I will have to return again, someday.

gigi

The following entry picks up my journey where I had arrived In London and was staying with The Catholic Worker, a social justice organization.

I arrived in London in a strange state of mind. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, and probably in no state to even have a normal conversation. But I hadn’t realized this yet, and was still making great effort to be social, friendly, and open to whatever the next few weeks held for me while volunteering with the Catholic Worker.

I should say a little bit about the Catholic Worker, its goals, and what it really is, before I trail off on to other subjects.

The Catholic Worker is basically a social justice organization, which was started in the Untied States around the depression as a response to the capitalist system. It was started by two charismatic leaders, Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin. Dorothy Day was a Communist who left Communism for Catholism after meeting Peter Maurin.

The Catholic Worker focuses on the works of mercy as a way to combat poverty. They believe in feeding the poor, clothing the naked, etcetra. They take this vow of service a bit farther than most, by actually living with the poor and taking vows of poverty themselves, by creating houses of hospitality for poor people to find temporary accomodation and services, and by actively…as pacifists…. protesting the governments that create policies that create poverty.

Maybe this sounds like anarchism to you. Well, some Catholic workers call themselves anarchists. Other Catholic Workers call themselves radical Catholics. But, whats most interesting about the Catholic Worker movement is that you can’t really categorize its members..because its members run from athieists to born again Christians to priests to whatever you can think of.

The main thing tying these folks all together is that they take a somewhat radical approach to poverty, and that they come from all walks of life.

I have worked with the Catholic Worker several times in the past..one Catholic Worker house in Texas I worked with gave shelter to illegal immigrants coming across the border from Mexico, and was staffed by Catholic nuns. Another house in California was staffed by almost entirely gay men, who were completely devoting themselves to providing services for people with AIDS. Yet another house in California was teaching a Pacifist training course.

So, I arrived at the farmhouse with no expectations, really, of what it would be like, what they would be doing, or where I would fit into it.

It turned out the house was doing alot of different things, including providing asylum for women immigrants and their children, gardening, and being involved in protesting war and arms.

After the very colorful collection of characters who were running the place and volunteering there, I found out that the first thing on the agenda the following day was that we were all going to court. We were going to be doing two things.

First, we were going to be in support of Father Martin, a Catholic priest who had been arrested for defacing a sign at the local military base and was refusing to pay the fine.

Secondly, we were going to be holding a vigil outside the courthouse. The vigil consisted of wearing placards protesting the war, passing off leaflets to passerby, talking to people, and prayer.

So, the following morning we all got up, got dressed, and made our way to the courthouse to meet Father Martin. Father Martin turned out to be one of the sweetest people in the world, and I got to hear about his history being involved with both the Catholic Worker movement in England as well as the current action against him.

It was not the first time he had been arrested for protesting against the war or at the local military base. It was not the first time he had refused to pay the fine; in fact, he had been imprisoned before. He was expecting to have to go to prison again this time around, and everyone seemed to think they were going to take him there this very day.

Being in the courtroom was a surreal experience for me, in part because of my state of mind from the previous weeks, and in part because I was in a courtroom supporting a priest being a conscientious objector on my very first day in London!

The judge talked over everything with Father Martin, was courteous and listened to what he had to say. Father Martin seemed to be gentle, soft spoken man, and yet was able to state his case with remarkable clarity, in spite of the fact that he was visibly shaking.

In the end, the judge told him that he would give him more time to reconsider payment of the fines, as he didn’t want to send him to prison. He ended up giving him several more weeks to reconsider as well as such a low payment plan that it would be feasible for Father Martin to actually pay it; Father Martin lived in the Hospitality House and had so little money that he was literally as poor as a church mouse.

On leaving the courthouse, father Martin seemed to be visibly shaken, but told us that he would not pay the fine, no matter how small, as he had decided that he would rather go to prison.

After this interesting morning and afternoon, we headed back to the farmhouse where we worked on the garden, and I got to know the other two volunteers. Whitney was a Southern Baptist from Texas, who was attending a nearby bible college, and Welsh Tarin was a Catholic who was planning on living in the nearby Hospitality House in Oxford in a few months while she studied there.

The family who ran the farmhouse was quite colorful and very zealous about their goals and plans for the farmhouse. They were very hospitable to take me in so suddenly, and shared everything they had..from food to their computer. The children all seemed very artistic, and were amazingly  open at having a stranger suddenly sharing their bathroom!

The following days were spent in the garden, moving around compost, listening to their ideas for the future, and getting to know everyone. Tarin ended up being my roomate, and we had wonderful conversations every night, about everything under the sun.

Still, in spite of new friends and certainly interesting work, I didn’t feel like myself. One afternoon I found myself in Whitneys room, completely in tears and overwhelmed. I had begun to process my most recent experience at the “Buddhist” center, and I was realizing that I was more affected by it thatn I realized. I literally sobbed until my eyes hurt, and I began telling them what had happened there. I was in a state of shock, both at my current state of mind and with what had happened at that place.

Everyone was very kind to me, and Scott, the husband in the family who I had been working with, told me it was fine if I just wanted to stay on and not volunteer, but rest. This is just what I wanted to hear, just what I needed, and I grabbed a few books off their bookcase in the hall and locked myself in Tarins and my bedroom. Tarin brought in my meals, and in this way, I was able to keep to myself.

I decided to email my friend Leyla, a woman who I met thru this blog and who lived somewhat nearby in France. I was supposed to have arrived at her house almost a month later, but I figured that she might be open to me coming earlier. I knew she had a farmhouse and cats, and that I’d find some peace and quiet there and be able to rest for awhile. The farmhouse was too chaotic for me, and I felt that I needed time alone.

Leyla responded to my email with astonishing quickness, and in this way, I was able to decided where I was going and what I was doing within a few hours. This gave me much peace of mind, and I was relieved to be going to visit someone whom I felt I sort of knew. I didn’t know her well, as I had only met her once when she came to visit me in Panama for one day, but we had emailed pretty often and my sense was that she was a refreshingly down to earth woman.

My last day in London was also Whitneys last day at the farmhouse, and they threw her a little party. Whitney was remarkable in that she was such a friendly, outgoing, and loving person, that one felt good just being around her. It was obvious that they would miss her at the farmhouse.

After the party, Tarin and I headed to London to spend the evening before I had to go to the airport. I was really happy about this, as I really got along with Tarin, and found her to be such an easy person to get along with and talk to. She was very genuine and caring, and she was very sensitive to other people as well. In fact, I like her so much that I invited her to come live with me in California and do volunteer work with Hispanic immigrants in my community when I’m done with this trip. But thats another blog entry…

Anyway, we went to Westminster Cathedral, which was being..renovated. The whole thing was basically scaffolding, but here and there were the most remarkable, beautiful mosaics I have seen in some time. They were full of gold smalti, and they glistened, shone, and practically lept off the walls.

We ended up meeting Father Martin outside on the steps, as he was there with a huge group of people in remembrance of Hiroshima. Included in the entourage of people were Buddhist monks, wearing the robes of their orders. When I saw them, how I wished I had spent a month with them, rather than the strange people at the cult in the middle of nowhere!

We all decided to go out to dinner, and ended up at this hilarious Indian place called “Spicy World”. Spicy World proved to be not very spicy, but did prove to be a world of it’s own.

They gave us more food and waiters and pots of tea and little plates of chilies than we knew what to do with. The waiters would set the sugar bowls down and then whisk them away before we had a chance to use them. They kept bringing us more pots of tea, with less and less milk, seemingly astonished that so few people could drink so much tea. Father Martin seemed to always talk and eat with a teacup in his hand.

Conversation came easily to us and ran the gamut from the Catholic Worker movement to religion to the causes of war. It was a brilliant last evening in England, and somehow redeemed this strange country and the weird experiences I’d had there.

I found myself liking Tarin more and more, finding her sensibilities so much like mine in so many ways that I knew we would remain friends. Strange how you can meet someone and only be around them for a few days, but somehow, you just know that you won’t lose touch.

I had decided to go to the airport that evening, and spend the night there, instead of spending the night at the farmhouse or staying at a hotel. My flight didn’t leave until the following morning, so we stopped off at a bookshop and I bought a few books, one of which was all about Buddhism by the Dalai Lama. I figured now is the time to investigate this faith intellectually, so that I don’t confuse Buddhism with whatever was being taught to me this past month.

I took a train to the airport, and spent the evening talking to an Japanese man who had missed his flight and would miss his daughters wedding in Japan, a Jewish couple from Eastern Europe who now lived in Canada and had missed the flight to connect with their cruise, and an American expat Evangelical singer who talked about Jesus alot and celebrated her birthday with us.

Just another crazy travel day!

gigi

I’ve left.

It got to the point that..I didn’t know what was really going on around me, I was losing touch with myself, and reality.

When you are surrounded by people who believe something entirely different than you, and you’re…isolated..it begins to work on your mind in some very negative ways.

A man they had me working with began to call me names, telling me I was filthy and disgusting, that everything I did repulsed him. When I reported this behavior, they told me that I had to keep working with him. They told me that I was having this experience because of my behavior in my past lives, and that I had to accept it as true before it would be stop..that I had been running away from this my whole life, that this is what people really thought of me.

I went back out to the man, I tried to work it out with him and he got violent and realy said things to me which I can not repeat.

Somehow, something clicked in me, and I somehow left the place.

I was on automatic, I can’t even remember what happened..or how it all happened,,except that I told them I had to leave and they were saying, no you must deal with this..and I said, I can’t. I can’t-and maybe that makes me a weak person, but I have to go. There is something wrong with you people, with this place. This is a dangerous place.

I had called the London catholic Worker( social justice organization), a few days previously and looked into going and volunteering with them. They had an opening, so we had agreed I would arrive in a few weeks time.

But I ended up calling them and saying, “Can I come today?” and they said yes.

Somehow I got myself to london. I don’t even remember how. I remember feeling exhausted and somewhat dull. My mind was blank.

I have been here for a few days. I volunteered with their projects for two days before I realized that I wasn’t well, that I was actually on automatic and in a state of shock. I talked it out with them, and we agreed I could just stay here for a few days and not work, just rest, while I figured out what to do.

I’ve had some time for rest and reflection, and have decided to head to France, and stay with a reader of this blog for a little while and then just do some recreational traveling, visiting other friends and seeing things of interest-take some time for myself.

It took alot for me to leave that place-and I will go into it in further detail when I have the opportunity to really reflect on it.

There were alot of reasons I didn’t leave earlier: 

 I didn’t want to be judgemental. As a Catholic, there are many people who think Catholics are judgemental, and I wanted to be open minded. I’m trying to bridge some serious gaps in the way people view each other on this trip and striving to find commonality.

I met some very nice, but screwed up people there-and I felt like I couldn’t leave them hanging. I couldn’t just leave.

I thought that the stuff they were doing would not affect me: in the sense that my faith was strong, and I thought I was outside of it.

Whenever I would start to think “something is wrong here”, something to show the opposite would happen. …like a group of schoolchildren would be brought in on a tour or something. Which was very..confusing.

In the end, it took everything I had to leave.

Now, I’ve had a few days..to think, reflect, ponder..and I can see that what they were doing was really affecting my brain and how I was thinking of myself. I began invalidating myself, my decisions, my opinions.

What a scary experience.

For those of you who would say, “Well, didn’t you check it out before you went there? ” And the answer, yes, I did.

The whole experience just goes to show what the world has come to-what are willing to give up, how much people are feeling isolated or stranded or mentally unwell-that a place like this would appeal to so many people. That people are struggling for such a sense of belonging and community that they will agree to give up who they are. That says an awful lot about the mess we’re in as a culture.

So, this trip which was supposed to be about being of service-has now become about alot of other things. Which was to be expected..but not exactly like this. This wasn’t the experience I had in mind.

Anyway, I will be flying to France on Sunday morning.

I’ll write more about the whole experience when I’ve had some time to reflect on it.

gigi

Part of a three part journal entry…this is part two.

My dictionary defines courage as , ” The state of mind or spirit that enables one to face danger, fear, or vicissitudes with self possession, confidence, and resolution;bravery.”

Courage, it’s a strange word, and when I think of it my mind runs the gamut from Ghandi to knights on white horses, waving banners. I don’t really generally think about being couragous in my every day life-and yet, traveling certainly puts one to the test. When you travel, you have to learn to find your courage.

Finding your courage. What does that mean?

Well, for me, it’s meant alot of things, these last few days.

It’s meant staying somewhere that has some uncomfortable aspects to it, and agknowledging that it isn’t comfortable.

It’s meant facing the fears of the unknown.

It’s meant being honest with myself that I am a little freaked out by being here, by some of the things I see and that I don’t have the skills to really process some of those things. It’s just not in my experience.

But I think mostly it has meant really stepping out of my own experience into the experience of others. This takes tremendous courage because you have to give up something of yourself to really understand how things are for other people.

People in Western cultures in particular, suffer.

In fact, I’m starting to think that people in Western cultures suffer much more than people in poor underdeveloped countries. Poor people may lack physical comforts and not have the grace of a long, healthy life-but people in rich countries are very poor spiritually and they are lonely as well.

Being here, these last few days, without as many people around , has given me the opportunity to meet and talk on a deeper level with the few residents and volunteers that stayed behind and did not go to the Festival.

More than once, I’ve had to gather up some courage from I don’t know where..to listen to someone tell me all about their painful lifestory. I’ve had to gather up the courage to be strong enough to hear what have been some very difficult things to hear. I’ve had to gather up the courage to have some degree of self knowledge, of self possession, so that I was strong enough to hear their stories.

Why do you need courage to listen? Well, I think it’s because to be truly present for another human being takes a degree of self sacrifice we aren’t accustomed to-nor do we invite it. When you listen to someone else, it’s always thru the listening of who you are, instead of just from the act of generous listening without your identity. It sounds complicated , but it’s not. When we normally listen, we are always listening with our ideas, our thoughts on what we would do, on how we should advise. But the act of just listening-to listen, to give full attention to-that’s rare.

If you ever visited a prison (as I have) and talked with a rapist, or someone who did something violent, and needed to talk, needed you to listen, you would understand what I mean. That’s an extreme example, but it’s a good example of how far outside of our experiences other people’s realities actually are. And, how we risk our own realities by inviting new perspectives in.

It’s an act of courage to listen actively to another human being and give them complete love and attention for those few minutes or hours. It’s hard, because yourself, your judgements, they keep sneaking in, but you have to be brave and listen while knowing you are in unknown territory. You don’t get to fall back on what you think, what you would do, what your experiences are. You’re just there to listen, and while you are listening, your world view expands to include the persons experience, however temporarily, that you are taking the time to listen to.

Here, people haven’t done anything so violent-it’s more just discussions of painful pasts, without much experience of love of of being loved. It’s just stories of suffering, daily suffering, the kind we all have but that sometimes spirals into deep depression or a terrible sense of lonliness.

One man told me a particularly painful memory and then siad, ” Everytime I have told that to anyone, they have suddenly gotten up and walked away, and left me there. How could they leave me like that?”

I didn’t know what to say. I said, “Well, I won’t. Tell me more.”

So… I’ve come to some interesting conclusions at this point.

Life is really difficult for most people-and alot of people feel extremely disconnected and unvalidated in the world. People are tremendously desperate for love, for companionship, for understanding. But they are scared, and they lack the courage to move forward, to walk off the cliff, to go where they might be uncomfortable, to go into the unknown.

That’s what makes places like this somewhat popular. There aren’t alot of decisions to make about your life-they are made for you. And although you get to live in a somewhat utopian enviroment, you don’t get to think like a utopian..you have to think a certain way, use certain language, follow certain protocol.

If you think about it, we’re all just barely managing in our lives-we all have days, weeks perhaps, that we’d love all the decsions to be made for us, just so we could stop thinking, feeling, suffering.

The past week has given many opportunities to really listen to people, in a way I never imagined that I could. The people here are all different, but being in such close quarters with people you hardly know causes strange things to happen.

People warm up to you unexpectedly, and suddenly you’re sharing cup after cup of tea, and it’s past midnight…

Or you’re out for a drive to go to the market and you get lost, and end up going on a country walk and listening to their lifestory…

Whatever it is, people will open up to you if you let them. But, you have to be in a certain state of mind.

You can’t listen to them if you are blocked by your own fears..you have to put all of that aside and find the courage to lose yourself temporarily so that you can really give them the gift of another human beings’ caring, no matter how brief. Its a little scary, but once you’ve stepped off the cliff, you have no idea how liberating it can be.

When I’m trying to be courageous, I’m generally being a lot more selfless.

And I like that, that’s a quality I need. Selflessness.

Because there are so many lost, lonely, disappointed, sad, depressed people..who are living with the pain of a solitude enforced by culture. And I see that, I feel that, so clearly now. I can’t help them all, I can’t listen to them all, I can’t do anything for most of them.

But there are a few that I can listen to, help out, and just be there for them, just for a few minutes, maybe a few hours. To do this this I have to be courageous, to put myself aside, to find compassion without the distractions of my own fears and my own sufferings.

I’ve been also speaking with some of the people here about this place-whats going on here, with this place itself and with the organization as well. This takes some courage because I am nervous to cross a line and discuss anything taboo.

In spite of the fact that there is much media coverage onon this organization and negative practices, it is surprising how little residents are aware of how they and their organization is percieved in the world at large. However, there is a general consensus that things are not as they should be for most people involved, and that some things are out of hand.

Most residents and volunteers consider themselves to be Buddhist practitioners, and don’t seem to be particularly well informed about other Buddhist teachings outside of the teachings of this group. This is because the Guru doesn’t allow any other books, magazines, or materials of any kind about Buddhism in the Centers (except the ones written by him).

All information given to the practitioners here conforms to the Gurus worldview, so when I ask questions, I get the same answers from most people. There isn’t alot of individual thinking going on as you would expect in a Buddhist tradition (Buddha was the one who said “Question everything.”).

It takes some serious gutsiness to talk about these topics, both taboo and otherwise. Things are a little freer right now because the bosses are gone at the moment, so its more relaxed and open-but not really open, just a little bit open.

Still, leaving caution to the wind, I’ve jumped right into the open doorway and it’s been a good thing. It’s started alot of deeper conversations about people’s lives and problems, and it’s teaching me alot about compassion.

Ah, compassion. I’ll save that topic for the next entry..

gg