The Event Horizon Effect

It could have been the lack of oxygen at nearly 9500 ft (2900 m)...or it could have been the meditation I'd been doing every morning since my week training with Gurmukh...or it could have been all the writing and thinking I'd been doing for the past 3 months, but some sort of cumulative explosion happened in my brain when I reached Triund, and the world stood still.

Actually, the world has stood still in each and every moment of my experience in India. It would be easy to say time works differently here, but that's not it at all. Time no longer works in my life the way it once did--I simply experience it differently.

A friend wrote me recently about how these past 3 months have flown by. Well, yes, three months have gone by, but they have been so rich and full they feel like they were hardly moving at all as I was experiencing them. Each day would last a lifetime. Each moment would linger in an everlasting event horizon of sorts.

Whether I was practicing yoga as the sun came up over the backwaters of Kerala or listening to live music on a warm tropical night at a beach side shack in Arambol or white water rafting on the Ganges River in Rishikesh or scrambling up the side of a mountain in Dharamsala, I was fully present for each moment--not once living in the past or the future. And because I was so fully present, each experience never really ended.

After hiking for 5 hours of what felt like never ending vertical rocks to Triund, I found myself on a plateau that not only overlooked every village that makes up Dharamsala on one side, but I could turn around and clearly see snow capped Himalayan peaks right in front of me--so close I could almost touch them. And I do know from my past experience of hiking high elevations on a regular basis back when I lived in Yellowstone National Park that breathing thin, clean air can be one of the most magical and exhilarating experiences.

It was then, catching my breath, that I took note of the event horizon effect--standing on the edge of a precipice, witnessing not only that moment, but all my India moments--forever experiencing them as they move further and further away.

Three months, four different states, four different towns--each so incredibly distinct from each other, each surprising me in radically different ways that I could never have dreamed.

How do you experience time? Do you tend to mostly live in the past and future? Or do you take the time to fully experience the present moment? Experiment with time! How does your awareness of how you live in time change how you experience it? I'm so curious about this! Let me know what happens, what you experience!

From mountain climbing to theoretical physics in a single post...didn't something like this happen several posts back? Perhaps a side effect of what happens when time slows down.

In a few days, I will be not only in a whole new town (and by town, I mean big city!), but an entirely new country!

"Kathmandu, I'll soon be seein' you
And your strange bewinderin' time
Will hold me down"
~ (ahem) Cat Stevens

Catching Fireflies and the Wonders of Mountain Life

Following a trail out of Bhagsu Village in the far northern end of Dharamsala, I deviated from the rather crowded path and ended up fording a river and scrambling up the side of a hill along a thinly veiled rocky trail because I thought I saw some mountain goats and a tower peaking up over a ridge. I did see some mountain goats and a tower. The tower turned out to be part of a small meditation cave on the property of a guesthouse with a breathtaking view overlooking the entire Kangra Valley--complete with little tree stump tables and chairs and hammocks strung across the cliff side. How do people get up here who are staying? I asked the owner when he popped out of the house. I think you found the way, he said and smiled. 

This is my life in Dharamsala.

Nestled high in the Dhauladhar Range of the Himalayan Mountains, Dharamsala is not your typical Indian town (though I'm not sure there is such thing as a typical Indian town). Not only does the Dalai Lama, the entire Tibetan government-in-exile as well as thousands of Tibetan refugees live here, it is also a hub for Himalayan trekkers.

Far more crowded and noisy and colder than any place in India I've been so far, there is a coziness about it that you can't escape--because there is nothing cozier than hiding away in a cafe or coffee house reading and writing for hours when there is an early spring chill in the air and the sky is overcast with hanging clouds threatening rain. And like all the places I've called my home here in India, it is full of wonder and surprises.

I spend my afternoons as a volunteer in English conversation classes with Tibetan monks and refugees. The lead teacher gives us a topic and we talk. The subjects are vast and heavy--topics like: challenges you face and what are your greatest fears. Nothing can really prepare you for situations like this. Nothing can really prepare you for listening to a refugee talk about his flee over the Tibetan border into Nepal. Or listening to a monk tell me about how much he fears wild animals because of that time when he was 11 when his father got upset with him and locked him out of their house to spend the night in the woods with all the wild animals. Another monk tells me how he is learning English in this lifetime so maybe in his next life he'll be born a native English speaker. 

My job is to listen--listen and correct their pronunciation and sentence structure if needed. It is fascinating and educational and at times uncomfortable, but I can't imagine not showing up and looking these guys in the eyes and listening to their stories. Because I was never not meant to be here.

In the evenings I wander the busy streets of upper Dharamsala in the village of McLeod Ganj and watch people from rooftop restaurants and think about the 3 months I've spent here in India--all the people I've met and experiences I've had and the incredible things I've seen.

I sit here in this quaint little cafe looking out the window at the peak of Hanuman Ka Tibba towering at just under 19,000 feet (5800 m) over this bustling little mountain town etched into its mountainous foothills--knowing that each place I've been, each person I've met, each experience I've had was never not meant to be. And also knowing that everything that came before India is why I'm here.

On the bus traveling from Rishikesh to Dharamsala, I sat next to a girl who told me how each day she thanks all those people who pushed her out of her old life in New York into this one. You know, she told me, if it weren't for all those people who did so many terrible things to me, I wouldn't be sitting here next to you, traveling through the Himalayas. I told her all about Kundalini Yoga, and she told me all about Mooji--the reasons that drew us to Rishikesh. And then we shared the mysterious reasons as to why we are so drawn to this far flung little mountain town we are headed toward.

I savor each of these places and conversations and chance meetings and experiences, and like fireflies, I hold tight to each of them and watch them glow in wonder and then let them go because there are so many more out there waiting on me.

Do you see your life as a string of people and circumstances that were never not meant to be? Or do you think you'd be where you're at regardless of what came before? Tell me your stories, tell me about your fireflies.