The Road Not Taken

My dad and I went on a walk today. I saw the leaves change color as though they were on fire: all shades of red, orange, yellow, purple, brown. I'm often taken back by how much beauty surrounds me. As we gingerly selected our path amidst twists and turns, muddy trails, fallen branches, forks in roads, I announced that I am not going to law school. Rather, I want to work as an environmental activist. I thought of the Robert Frost poem, which is never far from my mind.

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5 Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, 10 And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. 15 I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. 20

Pleasure and Sorrow

My friend told me about a tradition among the Greeks who would follow an idea through their lifetime: wrestling with and writing down their thoughts on the matter at different times. Reading Liz Gilbert's accounts into uncovering pleasure in Sicily, whose only successful business is the Mafia running the business of protecting citizens from itself, I am inspired to reexamine an older post into my heartbreak in Indo-China.

Throughout my time in the region, I lamented their state of poverty and hopelessness. But now I think of Liz's Italian ventures and Krsa's mustard seed. And I ask that if Sicilians can take pride and pleasure in living amidst corruption, deaths, the Mafia, could I also find small havens of joy in Saigon? If the idea that the appreciation of pleasure can be an anchor of one's humanity, can I connect to Cambodians in their delight as well as their sorrow? In place of pitying the woman who had no choice but to become a fruit vendor after the war ripped her life apart, could I instead see that selling the spiniest, smelliest, stickiest durian in town can be a source of pride in an environment where human dignity is in short supply. In place of cringing at the pending public health epidemic where dead meat, live fish, raw salad, fresh garbage, and open sewage are side by side, could I instead see the tantalizing array of aromatic foods, whose sales compose of banters and exchanges between regulars, reinforcing their connectedness. In lieu of bemoaning the under-employed young men lounging in the streets on a sweaty Monday afternoon, could I instead appreciate the circle of friends that surround them, each sipping a chilled coffee sweetened with delicate laces of condensed milk (even if the ice is made from undrinkable tap water).

In Sicily, Saigon, Phenom Penn: worlds of chaos, incompetence, broken promises, perhaps beheading a fish with perfection, making the thinnest rice noodles, drinking an iced coffee that cools your entire being are the only things to ground you in your humanity.

The activist in me is already throwing a fit at this apparent acceptance of grossly inhumane living conditions. However, I'd argue that dropping into a foreign culture and running around trying to improve material conditions at all costs can be disastrous. One looks at natives not as fellow beings but as children to be taught or objects to be bettered, mindsets similar to those of European missionaries in the 1600s. Of course, I do not believe in such a simple characterization of international development work. I still believe in its value, but only if it begins with an acknowledgment of our shared humanity: a recognition that we should grieve over common sorrows, but also to find pleasures where others find them.

Grinding

Here is some context for my previous post on the mustard seed.

I found out that I grind my teeth in my sleep (don't ask how). It's a sign of stress. Great, I am so anxious that even in sleep I engage in behaviors that wear away my enamel. Finally I find the cause of why for the past year my tooth cries in pain when in contact with cold drinks. Now instead of just worrying about my conscious worryings, I also worry about my subconscious worryings, wrecking havoc not only on my mental but also my physical health.

So anxieties seem all-consuming, swallowing up my entire being, throwing me into a vortex swirling towards earth's center, then my honed zen instincts kick in. They tell me to take a deep breath and become conscious of the mind full of illusions. They remind me that life is a series of ups and downs, each an opportunity to connect to others: the ultimate goal in anyone's life. So I take a deep breath and think of the mustard seed. I think of how I can reach out to another in pain (we all are in one form of pain or another). I will myself to think all shall pass and all shall be well. I try to tease apart reality from illusion, real from created fears, true from false thoughts, and conclude that all are false worries. Each can be viewed through a positive and hopeful lens instead of an anxious, fearful one. Now I just have to get my body to internalize my head's rationality.

Mustard Seed

May we realize that we are not alone in our suffering so that we may reach out to others in theirs. Just as the light in me honors the light in you, the pain in me honors the pain in you. Injury is a great teacher, so is sorrow. Let us view it as an opportunity to connect to fellow beings, healing ourselves in the process.

Our goal is not attaining the mustard seed but sharing and grieving with others in the never-ending search.

Krsa Gautami and the Mustard Seed

On day, when the rainy season had ended, Krsa Gautami, the wife of a rich man, was plunged deep into grief by the loss of her only son, a baby boy who had died just when he was old enough to run about.

In her grief Krsa carried the dead child to all her neighbors in Kapilavastu, asking them for medicine. Seeing her, the people shook their heads sadly out of pity.

"Poor woman! She has lost her senses from grief. The boy is beyond the help of medicine." Unable to accept the fact of her son's death, Krsa then wandered through the streets of the city beseeching for help everyone she met. "Please, sir," she said to a certain man, "give me medicine that will cure my boy!" The stranger looked at the child's eyes and saw that the boy was dead. "Alas, I have no medicine for your child," he said, "but I know of a physician who can give what you require. "Pray tell me, sir, where I can find this physician."

"Go, dear woman, to Sakyamuni, the Buddha, just now residing in Banyan Park." Krsa went in haste to the Nigrodharama; and she was brought by the monks to Buddha."Reverend Lord," she cried, "give me the medicine that will cure my boy!" Lord Buddha, Ocean of Infinite Compassion, looked upon the grief-stricken mother with pity."You have done well to come here for medicine, Krsa Gautami. Go into the city and get a handful of mustard seed." And then the Perfect One added: "The mustard seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend."

"Yes, Lord!" exclaimed Krsa, greatly cheered. "I shall procure the mustard seed at once! "Poor Krsa then went from house to house with her request; and the people pitied her, saying: "Here is the mustard seed: please take all you want of it.

"Then Krsa would ask: "Did a son or daughter, father or mother, die in your family?"Alas! The living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief!"And there was no house but that some relative, some dear one, had died in it.

Weary and with hope gone, Krsa sat down by the wayside, sorrowfully watching the lights of the city as they flickered up and were extinguished again, And at last the deep shadows of night plunged the world into darkness. Considering the fate of human beings, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished again, the bereft mother suddenly realized that Buddha, in his compassion, had sent her forth to learn the truth.

"How selfish am I in my grief!" she thought. "Death is universal: yet even in this valley of death there is a Path that leads to Deathlessness [for] him who has surrendered all thought of self!" Putting away the selfishness of her affection for her child, Krsa Gautami went to the edge of a forest and tenderly laid the dead body in a drift of wildflowers.

"Little son," she said, taking the child by the hand, "I thought that death had happened to you alone; but it is not to you alone, it is common to all people."There she left him; and when dawn brightened the eastern sky, she returned to the Perfect One.

"Krsa Gautami," said the Tathagata, "did you get a handful of mustard seed from a house in which no one has ever lost kith or kin?"That, Lord, is now past and gone," she said. "Grant me support."

"Dear girl, the life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and inseparable from suffering," declared Buddha, "for there is not any means, nor will there ever be, by which those that have been born can avoid dying. All living beings are of such a nature that they must die whether they reach old age or not. "As early-ripening fruits are in danger of falling, so mortals when born are always in danger of dying. Just as the earthen vessels made by the potter end in shards, so is the life of mortals. Both young and old, both those who are foolish and those who are wise - all fall into the power of death, all are subject to death.

Of those who depart from this life, overcome by death, a father cannot save his son, nor relatives their kinsfolk. While relatives are looking on and lamenting, one by one the mortals are carried off like oxen to the slaughter. People die, and their fate after death will be according to their deeds. Such are the terms of the world. "Not from weeping nor from grieving will anyone obtain peace of mind. On the contrary, his pain will be all the greater, and he will ruin his health. He will make himself sick and pale; but dead bodies cannot be restored by his lamentation.

"Now that you have heard the Tathagata, Krsa, reject grief, do not allow it to enter your mind. Seeing one dead, know for sure: 'I shall never see him again in this existence.' And just as the fire of a burning house is quenched, so does the contemplative wise person scatter grief's power, expertly, swiftly, even as the wind scatters cotton seed.

"He who seeks peace should pull out the arrow lamentations, useless longings, and the self-made pangs of grief. He who has removed this unwholesome arrow and has calmed himself will obtain peace of mind. Verily, he who has conquered grief will always be free from grief - sane and immune - confident, happy, and close to Nirvana, I say."