Coincidence Plus

Greetings,

Coincidence: an event that might have been arranged although it was really accidental.

Two days ago I was waiting for Christina, a 50-year Belgium born French teacher currently teaching at John Hopkins in Baltimore for a day trip to a floating village and forest near Tonle Sap Lake. She'd suggested the idea the previous evening before returning to ice and snow with limited visibility after visiting her daughter in Laos and seeing Angkor Wat.

Kunn, the owner of Jasmine Lodge, walked up to the table with a man.
"He is going with you." "Great," I said, and we introduced ourselves, "Hi, I'm Brian." "Nice to meet you."

A soft spoken man with piercing eyes and gentle manner, laughing, Brian explained his family history. "This is the short version of a long story."

"My grandfather's father came from Switzerland. He was a preacher. He was persecuted and escaped to Italy. He returned and was beheaded. His son took up the cause and was also persecuted. He escaped to Holland. His family eventually moved to England, then Scotland, then Ireland. During the potato famine they managed to get to New York and settled in Arkansas. It was the Civil War and life was hard. They moved west and eventually settled in Fresno, California where I was raised."

We rolled through the flat countryside and reached the end of a long bumpy dusty road where we jumped on motorcycles to reach boats moored in shallow water. We left land, gliding through marshes toward the Kampong Pluck Village. Christina asked Brian about his life.

"I am a poet," he said, " and I am traveling the world for a year on the Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship award."

Hearing this I turned in surprise. "What is your last name?"

"Turner," he said.

Mr. Brian Turner. I laughed. "Sure! I know you. Last October when I lived in Ha Noi I read your Home Fires blog post on The New York Times after you visited the Bedlam hospital in London. I wrote a piece about my becoming a ghost after returning from Vietnam. Your essay generated many comments from a diverse range of voices; veterans from all the wars, health care professionals, and the public. It was great."

"It's important to give these people voices," he said.
"I wrote seven poetry books before submitting Here Bullet."

Over lunch he talked about his book, Here Bullet," published by Alice James Books. Brian served a year tour in Iraq and returned to the states in 2004. "I wrote the poems in Iraq. I worked from my notebooks to create the manuscript from November through March, 2005. I submitted it. It won the Beatrice Hawley Award among others. 

"Later, an anonymous person nominated me for the Amy Lowell award. There were 360 poetry books in the competition. One day I received a phone call from the law offices representing the estate. They said my book was selected for the Amy Lowell Scholarship. I was amazed."

Brian received his MFA in writing from the University of Oregon. I also graduated from the UO. Another small coincidence. 

"You're a famous poet!" I said. "Congratulations! And here we are, two writers, two veterans, both graduates of the University of Oregon, meeting on a small boat near a floating village in Cambodia. Long live the creative geniuses!"

Brian reached Cambodia via England, Switzerland, Italy, Turkey and Thailand. His second book of poetry, entitled Phantom Noise, will be published this April.

The three us enjoyed a fine day sharing stories, exploring the village, local primary school, delicious seafood along the river, and gently traversing the amazing water world forest. 

So it goes in the world of joyful coincidence.

Metta.

Brian Turner, right. Two traveling writers and explorers in Kampong Pluck village, Cambodia.

  Explore a natural Impressionist painting.

Jumping Thunder

"Find whatever freedom it is that you need or whatever freedom from need that you seek" - a post on Hanoian from a writer in the Botanical Garden. Everyone lives in their personal garden, visible, secret, serene and portable.

Now then. From the notebook extolling recent Hue travel. On our first afternoon in Hue, Joe, Andi, Isabella and I walked to the Citadel. It sits along the Perfume River, long walled enclosures. It's huge with many exhibits, temples and rooms filled with photographs, art objects and paintings. Old images show an arena where they staged fights between elephants and tigers. 

It rains heavy and the girls disappear. Joe and I take shelter under a pagoda roof with a young couple.

She teaches poetry. Joe asks her to tell us a poem. Thunder. Lightning. She jumps. Rain pours on fields, old marbled stone stones, inside green. Initially she is shy, then she recites a poem. It is musical and mysterious. It is about love, about two people missing each other. Her voice is strong. She feels this poem through her, it is her life, history, all the stories and songs and poetry she learned growing up surrounded by friends and family.

She gets into it. Her voice is an angel. Her melody, rhythm and voice flow as the thundering rain and lightning flashes and dances.

We applaud her performance. She is retiring, relieved. Joe and I perform "Singing In The Rain," for them, circling around stone pillars, twirling with the words, feeling the music. Rain dance. They laugh.

The intensity of the rain slows down and we all walk through the drizzle. Say farewell.

The sun comes out, reflecting diamond light on stones inside shallow water pools. Deep dark blue skies fill the air above mountains. The sun drenched fields are an amazing brilliant shade of green.

We walk over the bridge, over the river.

Metta.

Intersections

I am listening to "Eighteen Musicians" by Steve Reich.  

Outside a clear pane of glass, past  a tall green spiky cactus stretching it's arms into blue bird songs

People saunter in early light. A young Indonesian nanny carries an infant, spoon feeding the echo

of white cat paws trailing flip flops,

A young father pedals his son, Fabian, sitting in a small seat, exploring the world with new eyes,

A young bike boy negotiates boredom, an old man wearing tight laces studies the future pavement in front of his old eyes, another old man

struggles with his activated cell phone inside worn baggy green shorts, spinning inside life's little intersection, waiting for a call to save him from poverty, loneliness and abstract metaphors. Life is a metaphor.

Sitting in the sun, a woman across the street spoon feeds her wheelchair mother love. Her mother swallows and smiles, remembering clearly when she did all the feeding,

Children in pink pajamas collect brown leaves, smelling white glowing hibiscus. 

Metta.