Posture

Greetings,

Ramblings: The Chinese owner has great serene and erect posture. His family runs a busy breakfast place along the river. Great steamed buns, iced java. He walks with his shoulders firmly back. A solid reminder for slouching humans. Stand up straight. Breathe deep. Alignment. Calm way.

A second hand blue bike ran 38 bones. Bell, basket and chain guard for those hard to reach places on Earth. It's a delightful feeling moving slow. A gentle rhythm.

The previous bike was gifted to a young SIGNING girl in Kampot at Epic Arts. She needed it to get from home to work.

I sit writing at the new space. It faces a wild green garden with birds and butterflies. The family is kind and generous; Khmer meals, peace and quiet. Pagodas across the river echo with ceremonies as monks chant, and pray offering their devotions in the community. Voices and music float with gratitude.

Metta.

Cremation

Greetings,

The procession of 200 people led by six monks in orange robes followed the rolling wagon carrying the wooden casket inside afternoon's blazing heat along Airport Road. After two kilometers we entered the monastery. A bus of school kids and nuns arrived. 

The casket was carried up the stairs and placed on a metal platform. Her husband led a procession of monks and family members around the tall tapered white and blue building carrying her picture and yellow flowers. They stepped back to allow the team of workers access. They opened the casket so family members could leave something personal inside. 

On a nearby pavilion monks and friends prayed. A man read a final tribute about the woman's life. The family finished expressing their love and men put small logs into the casket. They closed it, rolled it inside and piled more wood around it. They lit the fire and closed the metal door.

People looked up at the top of the tower to four Buddha faces and exhaust pipes. A wisp of black smoke escaped into the clear blue sky, followed by heavier gray and white, now billowing.

People sat in groups talking, drinking water. Everything burned for 2-3 hours. The bones were collected and placed in a family urn and returned to her room. They will be used to create a human figure on banana leaves. In 100 days they will be removed and returned to a family stupa at the monastery.

Metta.

Birth and death

Greetings,

One birth. One death. This is the reality here where it all happens up close and personal. Community.

Jasmine gave birth to a baby boy around 12:30 a.m. 3.9 kilos. It's her and Kunn's third child. I am on the balcony around 6 a.m. and hear him crying. Tears and lungs, breath, release. He's amazing and small. Sleeping after his nine-month water world journey. Every day is a new birth day. 

I walk down the dusty path, across the so-called "Highway of Death" to Jasmine Lodge.

People are gathering to celebrate the passing of Jasmine's grandmother. She was healthy and happy. Sheslipped away during the night after 84 years.

Friends and relatives gather under a pavilion to pay their respects. Some visit the Buddhist monk making a monetary gift, hands in prayer. He ties a small red piece of yarn around their wrist.

The ceremony will last three days. Women teams prepare food, chop vegetables and fruit - cook and simmer huge vats of rice, soup, fish, and meats using logs. Smoke curls through bamboo meeting music and the melodic chants of monks in song.

Tomorrow will be a procession to the monastery for cremation.

Metta.

Bedlam and Healing

Greetings,

The NYT is featuring a blog called Home Fires. It concerns American veterans and their post-war life. I posted a small contribution concerning my adjustment after Vietnam referencing my novel.

Brian Turner,  an Iraq veteran and poet of a book entitled, "Here Bullet," wrote a piece for the Home Fires section and included a prose poem. You may find it worth your time. Since then over 163 posts were made as readers contributed their ideas and perspectives on war, returning veterans, politics and the current situation.

Jeffery M. Hopkins, a veteran and author contacted me and sent along his website to review his book, "Broken Under Interrogation." You can download a free e-book or order a hard copy through Amazon. I was grateful to hear from him.

Here is a short part of Brian's poem. It is about healing.

"Medicine birds break open in orange and red. Medicine birds have eucalyptus leaves for feathers and bandage the air when they fly. Medicine birds fly through the windows in the head, impervious to glass. They are impervious to WAR and hiss and steam and vapor and combat and the circling lost.

"Medicine birds fly through the windows to land in our beds when we’re dreaming our circling dream of Divisadero and Fresno with its lost and circling WAR. Medicine birds have eucalyptus wings and when they fly in our beds they transform themselves into leaves and rain and lovers.

"The lovers in our beds are eucalyptus birds flying medicine through the windows in our heads. The lovers in our medicine beds fly eucalyptus through the circling loss. The lovers in our beds bring medicine to our lips and call it eucalyptus, call it love, call it leaves and rain for our exhausted souls."

Metta.

Pictures of deceased Vietnamese in Ba Da temple, Ha Noi.

A man prays.

Monkey Forest

“I know where Monkey Forest is,” she said.

“The bull is placed under a cremation platform (bale pabasmian) constructed of bamboo with a white "sky" cloth and gold tinsel roof. Reeds secure the bull on four corner poles and music stops.

“It’s like a party,” I said. “Women work the crowd selling water and soft drinks in searing heat. Tourists replace film and run videos.”

“Men cut the bull's back open with a large knife under sky pavilion and remove a section. Music starts and the body is lowered from the tower accompanied by cymbals, drums and clanging instruments. Women carry offerings and lead an honor procession three times around the bull.

“All the men are hot, tired, sweaty, and laughing. They lift the body up and pass it to a group along the bull. They place it inside. The widow places family heirlooms on the corpse as forest monkeys swing and chatter through overhead jungles. A black and white butterfly dances.

“A Brahmin priest in black stands on scaffolding with the family singing and chanting prayers over the body. They cut a string binding white cloth, pour holy water from clay pots on the body and pass pots to a family member who smashes them on the ground.

“Then the priest takes a flowering plant and sprinkles soil on the body. Another man adds yellow silk. People hand them family items wrapped in white cloth to be placed inside. Clay pots are emptied and smashed.

“A family member takes a photograph of the body. An effigy of reeds and tinsel is dismantled and placed on the body before the lid is replaced on the bull and secured with a long piece of bamboo lashed diagonally across the corners. Someone lights the fire.

“The bull and flowers burn quickly as wood, bamboo and rattan sends smoke and ash circling into sky. Cloth shells flame away as heat jumps to the tinsel and golden roof.

“Italian and French film crews work close to the fire.

“The crowd evaporates. The ground is littered with plastic water bottles and ashes. The widow sits by a path in the shade eating, drinking and talking quietly with her family and friends aboutsekala, what is seen, andnisekala, what is unseen.”

“Wow!” Michiyo said when Smith finished. “Amazing!”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s about impermanence and perception. When people change their attitudes they change their perceptions.”

“Is that all that happens?” She wanted to know.

“Well, it’s about connections on many levels, you see. When people change their attitudes it affects their values and changes their belief window.”

“What’s a belief window?”

“How you see things. Some cultures think with their heart instead of their head.”

“I see.” Our laughter shattered the calm silence. Wild cranes lifted from the rice paddies into blue sky slashing their shadows through light. The sky is the same color no matter where you are.

Metta.