Song: “Talk To You” – Gabe Lee
A lot of things have mattered to me at various points in my life. In the end, however, only one thing has remained: the pursuit of truth. You can think of this in a myriad of different ways. The inner reaches of existence. Black or white. Self or God. Nature or a digital matrix. It doesn’t matter how you define it. It is the connection to it that lends purpose and meaning to your existence.
It is everything.
I had lost it. My dog had been the last tether to my old life, one that was defined by my relationships to objects. I had known for a long time that I would have to give him up to find myself again. It was my ultimate recompense; my version of Abraham’s trial. It was only through complete surrender that I could reforge my connection. Still, a battle fiercely rages. One side urges me to go back, buy a truck, wrap my hands around his belly, and tear off into the Heartland. The other beckons into the unknown.
We all battle with impossible questions; paradoxes that have no solutions. Life itself is an ironic riddle, destined to spend the rest of eternity trying to solve itself. As we journey through, we inevitably come to crossroads and moments of indecision. We make our decisions and live with what happens next.
The only thing I have ever learned that helps with this is to slow down, breathe, and do my best to remove my ego from the decision-making process. Some call this maturity. I call it ‘meditation,’ And the primary goal of which is to learn to concentrate one’s focus into a laser beam of consciousness, bypassing the layers that we can understand, and bringing the self into a place of… selflessness. It also happens to have the side effect of answering some of those impossible questions.
The past few weeks had been spent in the lotus position, desperately trying to focus on the breath in my nostrils. Something had been gnawing its way slowly upward, chewing through the bone and viscera, clawing up into the lowest gray folds. It was grief, longing, and the instinctual drive to get over the horizon. it was primal, ancient, a voice that spoke a language long forgotten; of trees, heartbeats, falling leaves, and rumbling storms. It whistled on turgid waters and gushed on warm breezes; forever speaking but never saying a damn thing.
I’d started in Bangkok. Who wouldn’t? It was exactly like the movies depicted: a stirred-up hornet nest of scooters and rickshaws; an eternal parade of activity and action. Everything was for sale. The value of human life was just as cheap as the beer. It was a scandalous existence that I tread through with a decided lack of grace and humility.
It was completely unsustainable. A week was enough to get it out of my system. One morning, across a smoke-choked table, I caught a wisp of conversation. Chiang Mai. A spiritual mecca, chock-full of temples and monks… I left the next day.
As the bus wove through the checkered plains of rice paddies and burning fields, I stared at a picture I had saved. It showed a paper lantern being lit and set aloft. Here was a poignant ritual, one in which one’s soul could be purified. I stared at that picture for hours, the dim light of my screen a beacon in the darkened cabin, rocking and weaving through the sparse countryside.
Chiang Mai was exactly as advertised. The city is loaded with an embarrassment of metaphysical riches and reserved holy places, all hidden behind high white walls draped with innumerable scraps of brightly colored paper. Each has its own flair and flavor, yet hey all shared one characteristic: tranquility.
I had a few hours until check-in, so there I was, bleary-eyed and exhausted, sitting in the middle of one such temple. My legs were crossed, shoes off, back as straight as I could manage. I was alternatively meditating and staring up at the statue above me. My mind jumped and scattered with the faintest whiff of an idea. Emotions crashed and rolled, taking me with them. I was aloft on gusts of wind, tossing and darting, inverted just long enough to forget which way was down. I stared at the benevolent deity in front of me, silently begging for guidance. For assistance. For anything, really. It wanly stared back, offering nothing but the raised hand of compassion.
Bastard.
The heat was intense, a furious torridity, clamping down against my sides, indiscriminately pushing trash and humans into the gutters. Even the flies had given up their efforts, finding quiet corners to hide in.
Silence reigned. The seemingly ever-present blaring of horns and the putt-putt of scooters was absent. I sat, half-shrouded in darkness, cool red stones beneath. I took one breath. Then another.
I had learned how to breathe, and I mean really breathe, years before when I had gone to see The Shamans. They had taught me how to meditate. Body-scans, breath work, and diving deep into the unconscious had become the norm. I had worked hard to develop the ability to focus my concentration in the bleakest and most chaotic environments.
Then everything fell apart.
So, I was back to the drawing board; Square One. My gaze tracked upward. The old rascal stared down, wan and understanding. He carried the weight of tolerance and acceptance effortlessly. Gradually, the fatigue drained down from my body into the rigid tiles below.
I took another breath, letting go of the stream of consciousness. Thoughts appeared and left just as quickly. Images materialized; wisps of giants. Teeth, thorns, stags, rose bushes, and wolves. All of them cast themselves across the grand movie screen then faded to black. From time to time my eyes would open. Always the golden man stared down. Wise. Understanding. Patient.
The silence eagerly beckoned. Outside the window, large bushes waved their pink flowers, occasionally pushing one through the narrow openings. Hummingbirds flitted silently between them. I could hear the beats of my own heart, the gentle pulse oscillating between breaths. Emotion and reason both fled. I looked up, as if asking “am I doing it right?”
Patience. Understanding. Kindness.
When my stomach rumbled, I knew it was time to go. I hadn’t eaten for a long time. The sounds of traffic and bustle began to seep through the door as I approached. Something tickled on the periphery. I looked back through the open windows. A hummingbird hovered, perfectly framed, looking into the temple. I glanced back toward the massive golden deity. He smiled.
I like this guy.
My days quickly fell into a regular pattern. The rhythm was simple. Wake with the sun. Find a temple. Breathe in, breathe out. Eat. Soak. One more and the tab. Rinse, repeat. I was being filled, the gentlest tidings being sent up through the tiles beneath and down from the golden edifice above. Each day, Buddha imparted wisdom with a deliberate temperance. I was the vessel, eager to be filled. Slowly, understanding came, one drop at a time.
One morning I sat, cross-legged on a brown stone floor. Steam from my exposed coffee cup crept up toward the outstretched hand above me. It was an offering of sorts. A fleck of plaster fell on the top of my head as I rested against one of the pillars. Incense smoke wafted from two of the corners. Clouds dotted the skies outside. The cement of the city plaintively begged for rain to wash away the smell of rats and filth. I searched his face, again, for guidance. All I got was the same old smile.
There was a safety in those broad halls. Monks came and went. Most of them ignored me. The others raised their hands in greeting, then disappeared. It was enough.
Slowly, my lizard brain relaxed, unfurling its tail deep into my synapses. Memories came, rapid-fire. I was the firing squad and the condemned. My body stayed rigidly immobile as my breath came in, then out. The receptacle finally had the space to hold…
When it became too much, I looked up.
A picture flashed into my mind, the same one I had saved on my phone. The lanterns. They were supposed to carry your hopes, dreams, and aspirations. They were also supposed to take away your fears and doubts. All you had to do was light a wick and release it into the atmosphere. Then they were gone. I was captivated.
“I miss him.” I whispered aloud. It seemed seemed to carry, echoing throughout the empty chamber. “I left him…”
Knowing. Understanding. Compassion.
I had been staying in hostels again. The reason you put up them is because, if the right people and conditions align, you can make good friends very quickly. Here the stars had aligned to put four wildly different men, all lost, into a town preparing for a giant celebration of rebirth and renewal. Nobody was sleeping much. All of us were laughing more than they we were used to.
Soon enough, the day arrived. New Year’s Eve. It started like all of the rest. When my body hurt too much to ignore, I made my way back to the bunk room. The Boys were already getting set to head out on the town. We started at the Blues Bar, cracking jokes, a bottle of whiskey jiggling on the table to our wildly tapping feet. We were the Rat Pack. Toasts abounded.
Soon enough we were walking, heading to the town center. This was Loh Koi road, a street famous for debauchery. We stopped for beers in the small market and were bombarded with calls from the girly bars. Desperate, scantily clad women waved napkins and leaned forward… I turned my head. That wasn’t the way. It was another man’s dream; a wild adventure cast across the plains of morality and experience. I couldn’t judge. But I also couldn’t abide.
I turned and led the way down the street. Tuk-tuks and drunken tourists flooded amongst one another. Low, filthy buildings lined the avenue. All of them needed a hose and some paint. I cracked my beer and took a long, deep swig. Above the press, faint lights began to appear, gradually drifting…
Lanterns!
My heart caught, then began to soar. I had to find one of my own. The tenacious thoughts began to stir, the warm dough of my brain spinning around and around the mixing bowl. The noise of the city increased along with the speed of my footfalls. I could feel the insistence; the primal yearning. I could feel burning…
We rounded the corner and walked right into a dense crowd. And there they were. Lanterns, alit, taking to the sky. As we watched, one of them narrowly missed hitting two power lines at the same time… Another took off but the flame caught on the side, sending the entire thing into a fiery tailspin. It dropped into the crowd. My eyes scanned, looking for the merchant. Everything was for sale. I just had to find the right person-
The police arrived before I could finish the thought. Loud speakers loudly decried the practice. Uniformed officers confiscated every lantern in sight. The back of a pickup truck quickly filled quickly with white rounds encased in plastic. It was over before it began. I tried to hide my disappointment. I had, at least, gotten to watch some of them be released.
The drinks had gotten to me a little earlier. I was woozy, emotionally, mentally, and physically. The street had the warm, inviting feeling that comes when the senses are dulled to numbness. Our conversation had long ago strayed into the deeply personal. All of us were bare, our hearts resting comfortably on the outside of our shirts. The night hung heavy with residual heat, scattered fireworks, and roaring motorcycles.
A bittersweetness soured under my tongue. It was the type of New Years I had dreamed of for years. And now, here I was. Rambo-less. Alone. I held back tears with a force of will that surprised me. An overwhelming grief thrust daggers into my guts and exposed heart, threating to rupture the fabric of it all. I wanted to run to the airport, steal a plane…
Whistles tore through the air, followed quickly by massive thumping. Eruptions tore across the sky, detonations that ping-ponged back and forth between the broad streets. I stared up at the explosions above me. There are no coincidences. He was happier now. And I was too. That was the hardest part of it all.
I watched the beautiful colors, violent and transient. Every burst captivated the senses. Here I was. After everything. I had had so many horrible experiences on this day… Years of carrying those stones… I watched the memories shoot up into the sky. With each successive blast, another was gone.
One of my friends appeared from nowhere, hopping up and down and hollering. He lofted his prize high above his head. It looked to be a pile of circular pieces of white paper, wrapped in cellophane…
Lanterns!
The fierce insistence returned. A ritual had to be completed. And it started with those cylinders of paper. I had to burn the damn things before I burned alive. One should never read postcards from Hell. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t send them.
As the fire lit, I thought of the past year. The places I had been. Different states, jobs, the constant pressure of the road… Running, running, always running. The sparsest wilderness, completely devoid of humanity. The most crowded cityscapes. I had written books, doggedly pursuing an age-old dream. And I had relentlessly pounded the pavement, fervently believing that even in the darkest of nights, one step after another would draw me to the promised land. Somewhere along the line I had started to believe in life, the universe and… myself.
I put that energy into the lantern in my hand. I felt the heat rising within, straining upward… it began to pull from of my grip. I didn’t want to let it go. I thought of the steering wheel of the car I had sold a week before. I thought of the homes I had tried to make… The people… My hands gripped…
Then released.
It soared up into the night, quickly ascending into the warm, smoke-smeared night above. I watched it rise for a long time and wished the past year a fond farewell. The flame flickered and danced on the outside of the paper, rising… rising…
It wasn’t enough. I needed another one. I reached down and grabbed another from the pile. My friends were busy with their own. Words tore from my lips. I was only half-present. The other half of me had stubbornly returned to the past. I felt my heart grow exponentially, fracturing and crumbling. Waves of grief streamed outwards, down my arms, past my fingers, and into the burgeoning flame. The lantern began to sway in the breeze, then fill, fill…
Soon it was rising upwards. This one was shaky. I felt his fur underneath my hands, his slow breath and rapid heartbeat, the nervously shaking head… I felt the warm body curled underneath my arm on the air mattress, a cold chill seeping underneath the rain fly… I let it go.
I am sorry, my friend.
The lantern rose quickly. But instead of heading for the broad expanse of sky, this lantern beelined for the nearest telephone pole. It hit once, twice, then shook loose… For a moment it appeared that it was going to make it. But then the paper frame wobbled, caterwauling and folding, the torch licking the edges of the fabric. And in one swift cascade, the sides erupted in flame. For the briefest moment, it hung in the air, fully aflame… then came swiftly down, falling on top of a rickshaw in the middle of the busy avenue.
I stood, transfixed, watching my last message drop precipitously. My heart dropped along with it, all the way to my shoes. Sirens were already blaring close by. Shouts echoed across the square. Suddenly, it became a very good idea to run away. It was hard to see what it had hit, or if anything had caught fire. The chances of both were very high.
“Time to leave!” Said one friend, his thick German accent barely containing his mirth.
We took flight. Knees high, bellowing laughter, we sprinted through the crowds. The swift smacking and clapping of sandals reverberated down the narrow alleyways. Sirens wailed.
It didn’t take long for us to find another convenience store. We tottered back to the hostel, beers held high. As we passed the main square, a gold-rimmed temple appeared, brightly lit by several spotlights. The door was open, showing another massive Buddha, legs folded in the lotus position.
“I’m sorry.” I muttered. I could feel the eyes on the sides of my head. An arm appeared across my shoulder. I repeated myself.
Two serene eyes looked out into the street, boring into my skull. The face was the same as any other shrine. But the eyes… There was an intensity there that I had missed before. I searched them, pleading. The hand reached out. Compassion. Understanding.
And then explosions went off a hundred feet away. Percussive bangs and thunderous blasts rocked us. Bright flowers detonated above, covering the sky, spreading across the smoky haze. It was the crescendo; the finale. Every round left in the clip discharged into the waiting sky.
I looked back at the Buddha, framed by gilded ensconces, fetishes, and frivolities. The eyes still followed me, the hand still raised. This time I saw something entirely new. It was grace, alright. And some forgiveness too. A gold-plated smiled cracked across the weathered crags of my face. This was the path. And for better or worse, I was walking the right way.