Travel is such a mercurial and electric state. The possibility for new information and connections, the time to feel intuitions and embrace the mystery of being.
The road, life, is full of poetry....
if you chose to see it that way.
And if you chose to see it that way, it is.
I just got back from trekking in the mountains for six days. For three days the sun was haloed with a complete rainbow, and one night, the moon was haloed in celestial silver...
We walked through high mountain passes topped with stupas wrapped with windhorse prayer flags, praying with the unceasing mountain air, high green pastures, endless scree slopes of green, red, grey, blue mineral gradients, valleys with ancient trees and sweet water to drink. Springs with old buddhist blessings carved in the issuing rock. Evening falls, stars reveal with crystal cold clarity, and refuge is found in ancient earth built family homes, drinking salty butter tea with our hosts.
The landscape is so varied, every geological form I have seen in my world travels is here in the himalayas, as if this place is the true capital of the earth, an umbilical cord to whatever creates us.
heres a poem I found,
Ladakh....
Some trudge across the wilderness bent and broken.
Bent by their load of pain and fears.
Broken by a life lost in a lonely struggle.
Some journey across the desserts and over the mountains simply seeking.
They come knowing only what they desire.
Sadly, They return empty and bitter.
They could not accept what was gifted.
Nor embrace what was shown.
Some float and glide across the vast expanse of silent emptiness.
Their hearts coiled with doubts.
The sighing winds merely cool.
The searing sun-rays always burn.
The lands absorbs their madness but they are unmoored by her shimmering nakedness.
Untouched by her mystical language.
Their eyes dulled with a coldness that seeps from their dying hearts.
They move on wondering why they ever came.
And I know of some who walk through this shattered landscape kneeling ever so gently to stroke the ground that holds them to the skies.
They come with their pains.
And broken promises.
They come with all their questions and elusive dreams.
They come with what they are.
And what they can never be.
They come with loving in their hearts.
And they know they have come home.
And to these journeymen,
Ladakh gives all that is hers.....
p.e. purkayastha
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1 comment:
Thank you for you're tales of travel. It's been wonderful to journey with you as you go. I was worried at first, when you told of the intention to discover if indeed the world round was coming to the brink of things, to a closer dance with our spirit core. I thought perhaps you would not find it, perhaps an assult of metro Bangkok or Delhi would send you reeling at the chaos. But I'm curious to see how you've experienced where we (Ragamuffin collective) are at- deluded and overprivilleged, living in a fantasy land with little true concept of whats going on? Or in rhythm and connected to the undercurrent of all things moving in the tide of Gaia.
Perhaps you are finding a bit of both.
May grace travel with you, Big Hugs! (it's been cold and raining here, we're still waiting for summer to begin)
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