Here

Our rice, comes from the terraced slopes behind the kitchen,

our milk, from the cow down the road.

In the mornings, a little girl in a dirty flowered skirt brings her bag of glass jars.

Unscrewed, poured into the metal pan Acha Puri’s set out for her.

Bright white,

thick cream clings.

Here, the military men stop our bus on the way to Kathmandu—

look inside our vats of egg curry—

above the seats for bombs.

Like the City Was Sick With a Cold or the Flu

Kathmandu smells of oranges and sewage. Cow manure. Smoke and diesel.

Men wear flowers in their hair.

There are dogs barking, people gawking, monkeys squealing,

photos taken—

as we chant at Swayambhu—

cups of Maya’s hot buffalo milk on the bus.

I Eat Them Hot

the banter of the hotel keeper. the key for the storeroom boy. rotten intestines. lumps of turquoise and coral. the inexplicable sweet taste in my mouth from burning garbage?

acha puri carrying black-soil-covered squash from the garden. children’s voices echoing across the valley. a thin string trails from a rooster’s leg. the furry chicks in the garbage, in the gutter. the leper by asura cave eating potato curry.

two girls jump rope with a chain. the robbers dig up the sandalwood trees at night. the doughnut man sits there all day making doughnuts in the dark—piling them on the ground. oozing bandages on the bridge.

I Cringed Away (in Nepal)

In the dark of night—

the front was red-lighted,

a fringe of tassled plastic flowers,

Bollywood star stickers.

They wore dirty brown shawls.

Covering their heads—

wrapped ‘round their shoulders.

One was little,

one was littler.

Short brown locks curling ‘round ears.

The tiny one breathed banana gum in my face—

poked me in the side again and again,

raising her hand to her mouth over and over.

Through Their Lives

tiny kids wear only shirts

green snot drips from noses

the stench of the pig in his pen, squealing,

pressing his snout through the window grate,

long teeth bared.

In the mornings, a dirty curtain covers his barred window.

The smell of piss.

Gardens of greens.

Women naked but for shawls wrapped round their bodies,

washing  hair by the gutter, at the spigot.

The chickens in the garbage. Cow patties.

A rooster mounts a chicken.

I

I was asked why I’m always sad.

cupping rain in my hands.

the sky.

a dog’s bark.

a shawl covering my head.

the drums in the night.

and the rustling of leaves.

the wind.

the sun.

and a leaking nose.

in the dawn

we circumambulate the stupa

the fever, the shaking cold

a square of holiness’ robe. his medicine (kudung ribu—made from his body’s amrita)

small paper cups of water. milky tea.

the shorn-headed little girl beggar. the sickly baby on her hip, head too big, arms too skinny.

this morning so quiet and still

the pop of insects against ceilings, floors. the mala on the wrist. keith’s dreams.

sounds of summer in the field.

the onslaught of bugs

the thwack of insect wings

the rain in the night--sheeting off the roof.

how the three sisters followed me again today--to the stupa and down--the red stone glittering in the nose of the oldest.

again, the nausea in the night, in the morning

bamboo in a jar. the glass dripping water.

the humwhir of a generator that sits in a truck

a pile of matchsticks on the floor. the pillow on the bed.

languid in the heat.

suddenly not noticing the trash

the small furry brown goat wore a khatak round his neck

a shadow runs behind frosted glass

to crawl into sleep

How is Your Heart Today?

I've grown used to my mind scratchy unsettled.

the nightgardener throwing cupfuls of water on the plants. Sonam Drakpa sweeping the bougainvillea blossoms, as they shower upon his head. two black dogs in the fallow field. and the silent nun under the window. what do i see in my mind? rotten intestines. lumps of turquoise and coral. the banter of the hotel keeper. the key for the storeroom boy.

an itch that can’t be reached.

the light in the prayer wheel house. plastic bags in the field. smoke on the breeze. little black dog curled up in the field like a snake. Acha Puri carrying black-soil-covered squash from the garden. children’s voices echoing across the valley. a thin string trailing from a rooster’s leg. the furry chicks in the garbage, in the gutter. the leper by asura cave eating potato curry.

oh the fleeting moments.

crackle in my neck. the endless fluttering. the fly trying to escape. the bottle full of pee. he said it was inappropriate. two girls jump rope with a chain. the robbers dig up the sandalwood trees at night. the doughnut man sits there all day making doughnuts in the dark—piling them on newspapers on the dirt floor. oozing bandages on the bridge.

the single bulb flashing

wanting      and wanting       and wanting.

it's fall, and the light is shifting

The light is shifting and I can no longer tell what time it is from a slab of sun bursting under my bedroom door. The morning light and I need to get reacquainted.

I wake and go out to check the garden. 20 tomatoes. 5 cucumbers.

So much wonderfulness from the library: cooking magazines and movies  (Syndromes and a Century which I've been wanting to see for years, and the Saltmen of Tibet).

In the grocery store they play the The. 

Big Cottonwood Canyon to Silver Lake, hiking up through aspen groves--oceans of yellow. It smelled like sage and pine and fall! The moose on the way home.

Feeding Lopon yesterday and checking the english on translations of prayers by Khenpo Naga, mind ter from Dudjom Rinpoche and Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.

K and I in the tree. It was dark. We listened to Juana Molina.

yesterday

Yesterday Keith and I drove up MillCreek, hiked Alexander's Basin to Gobbler's Gnob. The earth moist from the rain, cold air in my lungs. K saw a little gray pheasant, or was it a quail? There were men dressed in camouflage on horseback with bows and arrows in their backpacks, bright berries, the air spicy. I brought home moss for the bottom of my terrarium.

At the Farmer's Market we bought cheese rubbed in salt and honey, black walnuts, buttercup squash. Ate hot fries with andalouse sauce at Bruges. 

One of the mountaintops is white! And I got a snowboard! Woohoo!!

he said not to be like a snail

How if you touch its horn,
it shrinks.

But it’s like the way I don’t notice until a
droplet of sweat has already
popped through skin.

Like the midday sun beating our heads—and we stalk slabs of shade—
the light throbbing through.

He said a two pointed needle gets no sewing done,
that it’s a problem with my mind.

And in the night, the army of insects advance.

unfurl

stir onions until they snap and yellow; caramelize.
there in a kitchen. bodies of rice grains swelling.
look for a way into a life without longing.
until petals of plastic bags no longer fall from the sky.

then leave home in the dark,
drive into the mountains silhouetted black against blue.
past east canyon, lamb’s canyon.
alpenglow in the rearview.
reach parley’s summit, the white sky.

along 224, a field of clouds–a milk lake.
between a baby, a dog,  asleep in the sun. small dolphin noises.
aspens shadow across a face, wind in the chimney.

the gray bustle of the heart replaced by wide blue skies. not like the way the baby’s eyes
fall shut half heartedly–but wholly.

magic

In case you're not sure what you're looking at here, this is Rt 20 covered ENTIRELY in ice! We traveled on this road for many a gorgeous hour 
through Gallatin National Forest, 
Targhee National Forest,
Yellowstone.  
Past Big Sky.

 White waves.

                                                               -12degreees.

                                            By the Boiling River, Cinnamon Creek,

                                                               up the caldera.

despite

the earth's convulsions, the ocean's rising, men slicing their own throats.

there are 
yellow crocuses poking through brown soil

there is
fresh green grass by the garage

zion

there were billions of caterpillars falling from cottonwood trees--onto our necks, our heads.
each night we'd pick dozens from the firepit, roast potatoes, chocolate oozing into marshmallow. there were red mountains, day long hikes up and up and up.

here, we wake before dawn. hours before dawn.
before the sun has set, we fall into bed.

today, the birds are merry.
the sun shines, warming the front porch.
plans for our first dinner outside this evening!

and in less than three months we will be in a little tent in a forest in new york. basking in the glow of the three heart sons, khenpo...hooray!

to circumambulate

The nausea. The humidity, the heat. The son of the begging blind couple standing near the stupa-how he hugs his mother while she runs her hands over his face. All the old and maimed people determinedly limping around the stupa. The nausea! The man all crumpled over on the ground-knees up by his ears-permanently bent in half. Mani mantras playing in the giant bhatbatini. All the old ladies circumambulating early in the morning before the heat comes on. The three men permanently in squatting position going round-one always holding the hand of a little girl in red shorts. Girls with long sheets of black hair down backs...Everyone navigating their way between masses of pigeons, dogs.

the last month and a half

trying to become accustomed once again
to the most holy of places
mixed with garbageeverywhereincessanthonkingnoisebeggarspovertyfilth

khenpo telling me i need to be able, "to live at any level," to be able to seamlessly shift between comfort and poverty, west and east

the worry that the indian police would come throw us in jail for not having our PAP's...

and then k's illness. for really the first time in my life being confronted with sickness, and needles, and hospitals. i don't know how k does it...being a doctor

so while Asia was anything but easy this time around, easing back into our american lives has also been a shock to the system...

k back to his gruelling residency and me back to trying to keep us both afloat

and it is fall

coming home, i wasn't prepared for pumpkins and leaves all a'change. the snowflakes that fell this morning as lentil soup simmered, my hands kneaded dough.

 i'm not yet ready for the dark...

Back From Bumthang

and so we've returned 

after clouds, magnolias dripping 

a conch that flew through the sky

a car whipping through pine, bamboo, rhodedendron 
creeping through snow and mud

a chorten that subdued a demoness,
a statue made by a thousand dakinis,
a walking stick that grew into a tree,

a lake which hid a treasure

The Ocean of Thought Foam

In a village by the sea,

blackberries burst, the ocean ringed by sweetpeas.

At the edge of the land, where clouds fall to the ground,

thoughts, images, words unfold from mind...

Sea lions bark in the night,
the gray whales dive down, tail flick in air, backs black in the sun, spouts shoot into sky,
and deer who listen to mantras, their hoof prints in the dirt.

And my mind turns to desire, again.

He said our minds never stop wanting things because they are empty, can never be filled...

"You have lost your minds, so long ago," said Khenpo...

Mind, searching for mind.

And so the Guru unhooks me, unspools me.

Stuck in me like a hook in a fish. Lodged inside like a swallowed marble, like a thread in the throat?

Rainbows around the moon...around the sun...

I no longer have any closets in which to hide old boxes and newspapers, brooms and mops--everything on display--like my mind to the Guru--like a magnifying glass there--in the sun--and I'm beginning to burn...Or my mind the tinder, he the spark...

The rain trickles down the panes. The spots of yellow daffodils. The Guru's voice through the computer. And the endless discontent. 

Spots of pink flowers in the fog, in the rain. Brief moments of sun-like mind.

The Guru says he hopes I'm being beautiful, peaceful. The Guru says to update my mind. The Guru sends winky faces, smiley faces, a rose in his email. Says, see you soon.