$30 Enlightenment

Going to one of the holiest places in Burma after 40 hours of travel turned out to be pretty discombobulating. Shwedagon Pagoda is a feast for the senses, a buzzing spiritual carnival of sorts. Looming gold cones, finely detailed archways, and ancient, gnarled trees lend an air of enchantment. Innumerable Buddha statues flash with Las Vegas-style light-up halos. Spaces seem so open, the outdoor air mingling unabashedly with indoor air, walls serving to hold the roof more than to create a boundary. The tiled ground beneath my feet is cool, then warm. Children run past me, exuberant on a sacred full moon night. People chant, meditate, and splash water over themselves and the Buddha statues.

I find myself suddenly alone in the center of this dizzying scene, equally aware of my fatigue and my desire to really take in the experience. I already feel shaken because earlier I'd been asked to make a $20 "donation." "Five, right?" I'd asked, thinking it was the entrance fee. I later had to pay the actual $5 entrance fee. The twenty really was just a donation, going right into the pocket of the military dictatorship. The government spends millions of dollars re-covering the surfaces of the Pagoda with delicate gold leaf every few years, only to have the precious metal sheets wear away again and again. [The Military dictatirship's crimes are much much more malevolent than simple extravagance. As i've learned in the years since traveling to Burma, the military is involved in genocyde of the Rohingya people of Burma. They are committing heinous war crimes and have imprisoned the elected leader Aung San Su Kyi. i wasn't nearly conscious enough of this reality during my travels in Burma.] A streak of resentment shoots through me. "I need to be more careful," I think. "I need to watch out for people who are trying to take advantage of me." Watching this armored reaction of my mind, this cultured mistrust- or is it appropriate cautiousness?- I wander slowly through the grounds.

A monk approaches me and asks where I'm from. Small talk progresses and "Guru" walks me through the site, providing semi-comprehensible information about this tradition and that statue. I feel special: He chose to show me around! I feel wary: I do not like being in dark places with strange men. Feeling the need for a good, grounding sit, I suggest we stop to meditate. Guru shows me to a meditation "cave"- a tiny, linoleum-tiled room with a flashing Buddha at the back. I sit a bit awkwardly on the hard floor. I close my eyes, take a breath and feel the rush of my monkey-mind: "Do I get enlightenment points for meditating with a monk?- Wow those lights flashing behind my eyelids are tripping me out- How long has it been?- This is torture, I need to sleep." Deep breath, deep breath. My legs fall asleep. I meditate on suffering. On exhaustion. Something runs across my leg. "Don't open your eyes. Observing reaction, observing curiosity, breathing, breathing." I open my eyes. It's a cockroach, presumably also in a state of suffering. I close my eyes for an unbearably long stretch of time. I know it's been more than twenty minutes. I make some noise. Guru opens his eyes as I try to stand without falling over. "Donation?" he says. I hand over a five, too jet-lagged to really protest.

I'm so far from home, sleep deprived, out 30 bucks. I want to cry. Peter, a friend from the group, reminds me to "stay with it" and then let it go. You can only manage your own karma, not other people's, he reminds me. Ok, so what if I've been taken advantage of, I think. That's their problem to deal with more than mine.

Back in the hotel, I reflect on my first night in Burma. I have a lot to learn about generosity, about stinginess and what I feel is "mine." And about being a savvy traveler. This is an opportunity.

Little Peter

I opened my eyes to the panoramic view of Mandalay- flatlands leading to hills rising up in the distance. It was nice to meditate in the midst of the late afternoon bustle of sunset seekers. A young girl approached me, selling a plastic sleeve of postcards. She wore a dress with cartoon bears and the words "Cookie Bear" splashed all over it. I was getting used to the experience of interacting with young Burmese vendors. I looked up and smiled at her, unperturbed. She sat down next to me and let the postcards drop into her lap. The usual friendly banter I used to disarm child-vendors was unnecessary. "Where are you from?" she asked. "The US," I told her.

Kittie Zan, as my group came to know her, told me about her five siblings and about losing her father last year. Kittie Zan's rich brown eyes shone and her smile spread easily across her face. She seemed to take great joy in speaking English and emitted a confidence and ease I rarely encounter in people. I bought some postcards.

Twenty four hours later, Kittie Zan is still with us. We've all fallen in love with her. After leaving Mandalay hill last night, she accompanied us to dinner. When she found out there were two Peters in the group, she began calling us all Peter. White Peter, in his white shirt, Black Peter in his black shirt, Smoking Peter, who quit smoking last week. Today, I'm still Yellow Peter, though I'm wearing all blue. She's our Little Peter, our translator and Bodhisattva. Her laughter lifts our hearts and her tiny hand- could she really be thirteen?- slips easily and tenderly into ours as we explore Mandalay. We've been teaching English at Phaung Daw Oo (Pan, like Spanish word for bread, DA, OO), the school Kittie Zan attends one day a week. We converse with students and teachers and provide tips on pronunciation. Yet, after meeting this young, brilliant, barely educated child, I can't help but wonder what it really means to be a great teacher.

Golden Rock Pilgrimage

The driver gestured for the women, already jammed in like cattle, to make room for me in the back of the truck. My group had been holding things up, debating whether we should head up the mountain so late in the day. We would have to hike down at night. Our group leader's words rang in my mind: You're only dumb once. Seven of us decided If this is true, you oughta have the experience to find out for yourself. So there we were. I stepped into the truck bed and sat on the tiny, low bench amongst a group of women. They all turned to grin at me. "Mingalaba!" I said, to giggling and more grins. I've been told the greeting means "Auspiciousness to you." I came to love this word while in Burma. It never failed to elicit deep, connected smiles. Some of the women burst into conversation. I shook my head, not understanding. Even a simple phrase like "Where are you from?" in Burmese is incomprehensible to me.

The truck choked to life, finally ready to set out up the steep, winding mountain road. My companions, Spencer, Dyllan, Daniel, Eliot, Peter, Aaron, and I were heading for Golden Rock, one of the most sacred Buddhist sites in Burma, perhaps in the world. I realized that the Burmese people crammed in the back of this truck may be making this trip for the first time in their lives. I felt deeply honored to be part of their pilgrimage. My companions in the back of the truck continued to gaze at me, smiling and reaching out to shake my hand. The woman sitting in front of me held her daughter in her lap- a beautiful little girl, probably about five years old. "I want to give them my amber ring," I thought.

Just then, the truck stopped abruptly, pulling into a covered terminal. A government official stepped onto a platform and began giving instructions in Burmese. People handed him money, somewhat reluctantly. I reached for my money pouch but my new friends turned to me, discreetly shaking their heads No! Apparently this was a government donation point. As a foreigner, I could get by without paying, but they would surely feel obligated. We pulled back onto the road for the last part of the drive, the late afternoon sun mixing with brilliant leaf greens and sky blues.

As we neared the top of the mountain, the woman with the young daughter reached back and took my hand. She was admiring my ring. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled off the ring and handed it to her. She put it on her finger, smiling with gratitude, and I at her.

***

The bus stopped in a village near the top of the mountain. It would still be an hour's walk to the Golden Rock at the top. Along the way, vendors sold noodles and rice to snack on, betel nut- a stimulant commonly chewed in Burma- and millipedes and other insects for their oils. Women carrying baskets on their heads strolled easily up the hill. Men offered to carry passers-by to the top on sedan chairs. The seven of us walked on. As we approached the site of the rock, we could hear the sounds- loud chanting emitting from a loudspeaker, bells chiming. The sounds floated over hundreds of people, maybe thousands-I couldn't be sure. There were monks and nuns, families with small children running gleefully through the crowd, a few Westerners, and Buddhist pilgrims from all four directions.

The rock sat, precariously balanced on the edge of the cliff, a giant golden boulder glinting in the light of the setting sun. A single Buddha's hair, the story goes, is enshrined on the tall spindly stupa atop the Rock, lending supernatural powers. In any case, the air around the Rock is magical- filled with incense, chanting, and centuries of devotion. We took our time, wandering, taking it all in.

***

As darkess fell, the atmosphere around Golden Rock came even more to life. Fires burned, and the Rock shined brilliantly against the dark starry sky. The needle atop the rock seemed to channel cosmic life energy, like a giant antenna pointed at God. Only men were allowed to press tiny gold-leaf squares onto the rock and sit on the closest platform, but there were many women lighting candles and incense, running prayer beads through their fingers in deep concentration.

We circled up in preparation for the five hour walk ahead of us. The final bus down the mountain had already departed at 7. Most of the people visiting Golden Rock would stay in one of the villages nearby, or remain at the site to meditate and chant through the night. We selected Cassiopeia, the mountain-shaped constellation, and renamed one star Golden Rock, to guide us on our walk. I felt the profoundness of the moment, of the whole evening. We began the journey, chanting om namah gaia- a chant to mother earth. I glanced at the sky and saw a shooting star, and wished for a safe journey.

Going forward,

We were sheathed in something mystical.

***

***

Songs carry our group as we call upon ancestors to walk with us. Coming to a bridge, we reflect on what we could leave behind upon crossing. As I walk slowly across, I hear the voices behind me singing:

The river she is flowing, flowing and growing,

The river she is flowing, down to the sea.

The voices grow quieter until I can hear only my own voice. Walking on, I begin to hear my companions waiting on the other side of the bridge singing, as if the single droplet of my voice were joining again with the river.

Portuguese song: I am the shine of the sun/ I am the shine of the moon/ I give my light to the stars/ Because they all follow me/ I am the shine of the sea/ I live in the wind/ I shine in the forest/ Because it belongs to me.

Standing on the dark mountain path,

Night forest-sounds envelop us and

The moon rises over the mountains.

Singing: We are one with the infinite sun, forever and ever and ever. We are in tune with the cycles of the moon, for ever and ever and ever.

This is so out there, I think! I can't believe I'm walking through the forest, under the moonlight, in Burma, with people who will sing songs, ha! So absolutely fantastic, I think.

We walk for a while in silence, mindfully, with intention, I savor the contact with the nature of night-time, such a different entity from day. I feel safe, at peace, purposeful, walking.

***

The night wore on; many miles tread, many conversations had, many songs sung. We faced new challenges. I sensed fatigue in my companions. Shadows suddenly look like who-knows-what-kind of Burmese animal, and What the fuck was that sound? I felt my inner strength, my position in this group, a mother, a warrior, a protector. I pulled out my stash of granola bars.

***

Just before we hit "civilization"- a few bamboo huts, some fires, - Spencer leads us in a chi-gong exercise, and I offer up vibrating, positive, loving energy to the universe. We pass a group heading the other direction, just beginning their journey up the mountain. They'll be at the top by sunrise. We greet them warmly. Walking, we sing a final song, "Around the edge I am traveling, in a circle we are traveling."

Around the edge I am traveling, in a circle we are traveling. I am traveling through this universe with no guide but my heart, sometimes with no idea where I'm going, and no map but an insight here and there. Yet i have companions, some who will even sing songs. I exist within this incredible mystery unfolding every day. This circle I travel is an eternal circle and I walk the infinite line, balancing as best I can.

There are some people playing the guitar, singing by the side of the road. "Mingalaba!" we call, and they call back, "Hello!"

Back in the hotel I climb into the bathtub to soak my tired, sore body, my spirit soaring high.