The Monk.

Stuff happened today at the wat, no cobras there or anything, blah blah blah, I went shopping in town 'cause I'm totally turning into a townie (I've got Lotus down pat, everything from razors to batteries to the wai the checkout lady gives me on the way out. I even know how to get donuts from Dunkin' Donuts, which sounds easy enough but it secretly harder than minding your manners at a wat) AND THEN a very high ranking monk came to visit us at CCS. He brought a young monk and a pseudo-nun (hard to explain--not enough time), and we asked him questions for an hour. For some reason, I find it very hard not to cry when I'm around monks, especially when they're being monky--giving advice, helping others, etc. I know that some of this is because they embody so many characteristics I utterly lack--I am obsessive, I think about things constantly, I attach very strongly to ideas and things and people in a way that has never been helpful to me or admirable to anyone else, I like Target and Lotus and THINGS, in sum I am what would be the worst Buddhist ever--and I think the reminder that life doesn't have to be the way I live it is to be a bit much for me.

In any case, I asked the first three questions, so much so that the monk laughed when I put my hand up a third time. I asked, "What is the first step toward becoming a Buddhist?" and he said, "Know your breathing." I asked "How do monks become monks?" and he said, "They decide that they want to practice knowing themselves," and the last question I asked was, "How does one learn to not be attached, to physical things, emotional things, spiritual things?" and he said, "Even your body is borrowed. Nothing is permanent, and when you come to everything understanding that it will end, you can be with it." Please keep in mind that he has a voice that could peacefully waken the dead, so he could've read a computer manual and I might have started crying. Someone else asked, "How do you forgive yourself for something?" and he said, "Thoughtfulness and time." Ugh. It killed me. It's so hard to be patient with yourself. It's easier to be patient with others.

Which brings me to my next "Ginny Being Thoughtful" Moment. Yesterday on the way home, there was a man wading chest-deep in the Trang river. The floods are receding, but things are still wet--homes are still trapped in water, no rice shows in the fields, the cows are irritated with nothing to chew. I like to stick my head out of the truck and watch the water go by on the road--it's bright orange from the red clay. Anyway, this man in the water was holding a stick with empty milk cartons on each end. They must have been capped because they floated on each side of the man's head. I realized that he was using them for floatation, should the water get so deep he wasn't comfortable, and I was filled with the desire to buy him bright orange floaties. I pitied him for not having floaties in his life, and then I wondered if I could buy floaties at Lotus and then randomly and without warning or planning throw them out of truck the next day as we passed his house. I realized that I was being ridiculously condescending to think that he in any way needed or wanted floaties, was sad because he didn't have them, or would be happy if I was the one to provide him with the two plastic balloons that he'd likely mistake for strange trash. I spent the next five minutes deciding how much better my own life has been for having floaties in my early childhood--a determination made more difficult given that I don't actually remember learning to float in water; it seems to my memory that I have always known how--and I decided that it was as close to not at all as I could conceive, and that maybe if I asked myself this question about any thing in my life I'd say the same thing. It's a confusing realization to have, because I really feel like I need things--my toothbrush (or maybe just my teeth?), my iPod, my red sofa in San Diego. But I also realize that I am unfairly (to myself) sentimental--I attach meaning to every thing, I never want to forget, and when I do, it is only a guarantee that I absolutely will not and besides, I still won't throw away those articles that may truly help me in forgetting. I don't want to forget; I just don't want to be pained.

Which is why the monk was so helpful.

"Thoughtfulness and time."