One month ago, I was in Portugal, in love, and doing my best to build a relationship with her. Then, with Starbucks coffee in our hands, my luggage behind me, and her dog waiting in the car, we kissed each other farewell and said goodbye. The sliding glass doors opened as she walked off into her day while I turned around to enter another adventure.
After four flights and just as many extended layovers, I arrived in India. Back in Jodphur, a Rhajastini fort-city where the majority of the buildings are painted sky-blue, I'm hit with the sense of distance and passing time. Life is sand blowing in the wind. It'll sweep you off your feet and then erode everything that is exposed; bodies, relationships, perspectives, and even civilizations. Rajasthan is a state of Western India definitive for three things; its deserts, its Rajput warrior heritage, and the folk music that originated somewhere next to campfires in the long-lost dunes. I'm happy to be under the influence of all three. The deserts take me away from the grief of a wounded ego. The warrior-hood reminds me life is often a battle. And the music? Does it need to be said? Life is the melody of a cosmic, beating heart and our songs are the echoes of that universe's story.
A walled castle looms and the kites above spread their speckled brown wings, their feathers opened like fingers reaching to touch the sky. They swivel their tails and circle in the hot baking air. Their heads zip left and right, rotating on an axis unnatural to my neck, endlessly hunting. They hunt, I hunt, and all of us are trapped in this game of seeking sustenance. Medieval, impenetrable, and impressive, the Mehrangarh fort towers over the pool of crooked blue alleys and tilting buildings. Built straight out of a rock plateau, the former palace reminds everyone in Jodhpur of what was but no longer is. Everything changes. Sand in the wind. None can escape.
Even the Rajas (kings) and their palaces are ground down and blown away by the gears of change. Most did their best to ensure something of their bloodline and kingdom endured and it has, to a degree. The inevitability of change comes with loss. It's often sad but some part of me smirks at the fact that we are all equal as we're being chewed up by time. Strange how in our heroic passion, king and laymen alike, think they are special. We think this time, this thing, this love, this clarity, this peace, this sorrow, this shitty situation, this version of myself - this time, it will last. For better or worse, it never does because it can't. Life is also confined by limitations. As a bird must fly and a flower must bloom, life must change. As eyes will see and water will run downhill, life will change.
The tourists, Indian and foreigner alike, gawk from all over the city. Some half-marvel at the Mehrangarh from the rooftop restaurants of the surrounding hotels, in between sips of local wine or spiced chai masala tea. Others take the time to ride up the hill in go-kart-like, green and yellow tuk-tuks. Standing within that once-living royal artifact, peering through their phones and cameras as they record their tours, they marvel at the skeleton and I just see the inevitable fate of us all. Erosion.
She told me, after I had shared that I hoped to build a life together, "Impermanence, Eben." I scoffed. Her big eyes, framed by thick black eyebrows and dirty blonde hair, didn't react or maybe I didn't notice. I was too busy managing my disappointment and tending to my equanimity. "Impermanence, Eben." One, I hate it when people throw the philosophies I teach in my face. I guess I hate being on the receiving end of unwelcomed wisdom. Two, I hate it when I don't get what I want. It all made sense. We're happy together. We admittedly love each other. I had a plan. I was willing to change my life to realize it. It would've been beautiful. We could've protected this dream behind the walls of a simple choice to say "yes" and our commitment. Still, the answer was, "No." Good to remember, the mind is hypnotic. It sees what it wants. Hears what it wants. It doesn't matter if that's not what's happening.
Now, in the shadow of this tourist attraction, I behold it. Impermanence. In some discreet way, the Mehrangarh reminds me of how precious all moments are because all moments, kingdoms, and feelings are fleeting. I always think I know this, but then a situation comes where I'm reminded I've forgotten. The wisdom goes deeper than simply acknowledging life changes. Moments and all the aspects within them; the people that define them, the circumstances that come through them, the sounds heard, the words said, the feelings felt, are so ephemeral the spiritual masters say they don't even exist. They happen, yes, but their essence is emptiness. The essence of life and being is, in fact, hollow, in the same way that the essence of matter is hollow-99.99% of atoms are space. The second it is said, it is gone. The second it is felt, it has passed. Do not live in the lag of a mind that sticks to the past, I tell myself. She does not exist right now. Be here, now. I open my eyes to the street vendors. There's a group of men sitting cross-legged on a table piled high with flower garlands. Huge piles of white and orange poofy flowers are threaded into necklaces that will be placed in and around the countless temples of the city. The men sit, smoke, and make the garlands as I watch the moment reveal itself as them. The only place my sadness exists is in the past or in the future. Here, I'm with a new moment of life as a new version of myself.
A zen proverb explores the notion of presence, which involves a keen sense of whatever emptiness might be; a monk nudged his teacher who was sipping tea. "Master, look at the swans migrating north!" The master finishes his sip and looks up, but the birds are gone. "Where are these swans?"
"They have already left, master."
The master, agitated at his pupil's mistake yells, "How could they have ever left?"
The same lesson in "small moments, many times." Life is truly fleeting. Every moment is a new moment. Every moment we are something other than what we were. Yes, most of the change is infinitesimal but the sense of our endless flux empowers us to embrace the truth of impermanence in a way that proves helpful when the big waves of transformation come to us, so often, as a feeling of loss.
The birds were never really there because they are not here now. They were only passing. They touched "that" moment in the sky in the past. The master is not in the past. How could they have ever left, when the now is all that exists and they are nowhere to be found?
How could I have lost a love that isn't? How can any of us lose a future that isn't? And yet, the trickery of our untethered minds, bouncing through fantasy and memory like a fish on land, bamboozle us into the panic of winning and losing the past and future treasures of our lives as if they were real. The only way I can miss her is if I permit my mind to drift into the unreality of my memories or fantasies. If that's happening, I'm no yogi and that's exactly what's happening.
It's been four years, maybe more, since I've been in India. However long it's been, now that I'm back I remember exactly what this country is and I tremble; a land of sacrifice, meaning, love, and gods. I don't feel ready to let this go and, I know enough about this work to know, it'll pry my attachment from me. By the end of this, my heart will be tranquil and this burning passion will settle. It seems cold from where I am, now. There's a sadness to the stoic peace of the Buddhas. They lack the fragility of a human heart and in that, as demi-gods, are inhuman. Still, I know that's where I'm headed.
As if I walk into a swarm of bees, my nerves tremble like countless buzzing wings. The honking three-wheeled tuk-tuks drive back and forth. The drivers that aren't working lounge in the parked vehicles, chatting amongst themselves, nodding their heads to pedestrians, trying to passively get some work. The dogs are barking or sleeping. The cows are walking and chewing. The sky is sandy. The Sun is bright white. The air is filled with smog, body odor, and the aroma of incense and desert wind. Everyone is smiling at me. All their eyes, black, deep, and curious, are looking at me. So far away, a spiritual outpost for the blessed and the damned, I feel tension as I define with the later. Reins are pulling tighter on a harness in my chest. "This was ill-designed," I think to myself. "If only I knew when I planned this retreat the situation I'd be in I would have never come. Damn." Practice is second to the logistics and ambitions of life when your mind is attached to earthly things. Oh, the pain of a doubtful yogi poisoned by desire!
But, this was designed! I am here at the beginning of a two-month yatra (yogic pilgrimage) that will end at the head of the sacred Ganges river, a glacier called Gangotri Dam. This momentous pilgrimage site honors my Hindu god of choice, Shiva. As all gods enjoy the sacrifices of their worshippers, I have the privilege of actually surrendering something of value. I have the honor of having a wound to heal, blood to give, a dream to surrender, and a vision of love to let go. Shiva will be pleased and reward me with the enchantment of dispassion. India, land of living gods.
I reflect on my previous visits to India and how committed I was to yoga. Happy to leave it all behind and let the rip current of this country and yoga drag me away, I'd stay in guesthouses for months at a time practicing all day, alone, without a thought of my relationships. I knew her then and was not attached and at peace because of it. But, those times were scrimmages. I was already so detached, too young or immature to have made bonds in the "real world", already empty enough. But, a cup that was too young and scared to be full is a very different thing than a cup that was brave enough to fill up and, then, goes through the process of tipping over to empty. It's easy to find peace when things are peaceful. It's miraculous to find peace when the world is heavy with sadness, bright with anger, or poisoned with jealousy. Despite the years I've spent developing the career of being a yoga teacher, I've changed. I figured my cup would stay empty but I am endlessly overflowing. I'm more concerned with what yogis refer to as maya - the illusory, material world of possessions and personas. I want to be a partner. I want to be a father. I want a home filled with well-placed pretty and useful things. I want friends to come over for dinner. I want a fridge full of good food. I want a comfortable bed with my dog sleeping on it. I want. I want. I want.
Possessions and, even more so, the personas that want them and are validated by them, possess the spirit. Spirit is expansive. Personas are definitive. Our personalities capture the soul like the lamp of a genie. Our personas cut up the sky like metropolitan city-scapes. The more we define ourselves, the less free we are to be in the expansive peace of the mindful, present soul. The more we define ouselves the more we want what those definitions think they need. Kites rotating their feathered heads like hungry cameras in the sky; our personas must be fed with objects and experiences that maintain them. To define yourself is to hunt specificity, and to hunt will create stress. That is the deal.
We hadn't seen each other in over a year and the last time we were with each other neither of us dared to say we loved each other, despite the love we felt. I remember thinking it in bed beside her one morning while the sunlight shined on her face. Nestled in white sheets, loving where I was, it almost came out but something kept it quiet. Instead, we got up, rolled a spliff, drank our coffee, and went along in our morning happiness keeping what we felt in our hearts. This time, I came to say what I couldn't before! There's power in words and even more power in confessions. Holding hands and walking down the cobblestone streets, laughing as we ate and drank, soaking up the sun and cold beach wind next to each other, I said it openly. A persona was being made and it was hunting. I was hers, hunting our future. I owned that persona and it owned me and together, my persona and I, went on the ride of pleasure and dissatisfaction, victory and defeat.
Temples big and small line the streets. Trees are wrapped in old, sun-bleached fabric. At their roots framed images of Gods are placed on top of the inevitable salad of garbage. Beads are hung from branches. Old small rust-colored ceramic bowls made for ghee candles are everywhere. The muslim prayer calls rattle from half-broken speakers, while Hindu arti (fire ceremony) songs bellow from the bellies of small shrines. I touch my forhead with my index and middle finger, or bring my hands in a prayer, as often as a god, temple, or flag of the OM asks me to. Little caged statues remind me of bird cages. A small opening at the base of the cage holds a bowl of orange paste. I stand and pray. In the three minutes, mulitple locals come, stop, touch their heart or their forehead, leave a modest amount of rupees, and smudge the paste between their eyebrows. Land of gods. Land of spirit. Land of presence. Land of letting go.
The memories of my previous efforts to reach the goal of yoga seem silly to me now that I am possessed.“Keep me in it. I like it here!” screams the personality that still holds on to swans that are no longer there. Like a general that can't escape the battlefield; we would rather be that desperate thing, fighting for what could be, than suffer the loss of not being what we think we are. The remedy, of course, is presence and acceptance of what is but I shrug my shoulders in disapproval because I still have hope that the fantasy of her and I is real. A less popular detail; until the hope for what could be dies, until it's smashed into pieces against the concrete of reality, we will choose to hold our suffering. Shiva, lord of destruction stomps on the dwarf demon as a symbol of just this. Shiva will crush that false hope, that blinding arrogance, and those that can revere it, thank him for it.
I think of the Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius, "Focus on whether what you do is right or wrong, instead of the pain it brings you." As a yogi, relinquishing attachment, allowing yourself to shatter, is the highest good because of what it provides-a penetrating clarity into the spectacle of a spontaneously regenerating, incomprehensibly complex, and beyond beautiful world. If a mind is ever to see life's brilliance clearly, the mind must be stretched into something as vast as open skies, as empty as open hands. The smudges of identity must be removed from the glass reflection of our psyche so life can be reflected well. I know this path. I know this mirror. I've played this game before. "Wax on. Wax off." Despite the burden of a heart in unrequited love, I am, again, at the starting line of yoga, ready to tip this cup over and let my wants pour away. By the end of this, I will sit, again, in polished contentment with what is. Time will no longer chew me up. Loss will no longer feel as if it was a curse. My eyes will smile into the absences and aloneness will, again, be my open sanctuary. I will love her in that way that I love the wind, the dawn, and the moon; without wanting her, only appreciating her. I know this because I've done it many times. Yoga is a prescription for the suffering of ownership and loss. It's not an easy pill to swallow but it works. Its efficacy is its brilliance!
I get to my hotel room. It's beautiful. The walls are cream white. The bed, coffee table, and couch are ornately carved out of huge pieces of ebony wood. The windows open to an ancient step-well hundreds of feet deep. The locals sit along the countless steps while young boys stay at the street level and jump off into the green pool 50 feet below. I light a joint, lean back on the cushions of a window-sitting area, a classic element of Rhajastini interiors, and take it in. All of it. The smoke. The sense of time passing by. The thrill of the scene. The duty of my practice. The grip of this persona. The pain of heartbreak. And, of course, a slithering sense that something in me will soon die because it must. I exhale into the sunlight and think of galaxies swirling in the mouth of impermanence. I pick up my ukelele and tingle as I strum the strings. All to do now is play a song and wait for these retreats to begin.