The Only Way It Can Go Right

The river was picking up speed. John was in the back of the canoe and I was in the front. He was the steering. I was the “muscle”. Our group stopped ahead of the rapids, boats gathering close, to talk it through. “Up ahead,” the guides said, “you’re going to have a few options. The rapids on the right are about a two. They’re easy, smooth. You can get through them no problem. The rapids on the left are about a three. They’re good fun, you’ll get bounced around and definitely some splashes. Both of these are good choices. Now the river swings to the right at the top of the rapids, so the water is going to push you out to the left. So, if you want the smoothest path you’ll have to start right and hold your line. It’ll take some paddling. If you want to get bounced around and a bit wet, then just let the current take you out left and keep your nose downstream.”

“But there’s a third option. In the middle, there are some big rocks. You can’t miss them. The rocks are how you know right from left. The third way goes between those big rocks. It’s a tight squeeze, but there’s space for a canoe. You gotta hit it just right – smack dab in the middle. You drift too far left then you give up and take the left way. You can’t turn back and catch it. You’ll go swimming. And those rocks right there, that’s a 4. So, they’ll hurt you if you go wrong. The way to approach is to stay right and let yourself drift slowly left with the current as you approach. Now you gotta keep your nose pointing slightly to the right of the rocks until the last second, then you turn your nose in and the current sweeps you through. But on your approach, you have to be paddling - partly against the current to keep your position and partly to keep your nose right. It’s doable, but it ain’t easy. And there’s lots of ways it can go wrong and pretty much only one way it can go right. Technically, you know what you need to be able to do it. We’ve been on the water for a couple days now, so you should have a good feel for things. Who wants to try?”

John and I look at each other and we are both already smiling. Our hands go up at the same time. Hands raise in a couple other boats. We are excited and nervous. We head out into the water and it is just a minute or two before we hear the rush of the rapids ahead. We position to the right side behind the other boats. We are last in the line of those aiming for the rocks. We paddle in sync, nice and easy. John is keeping us steady and even. I’m paddling on the left, John on the right. We slow a bit to let the other boats pull ahead. We don’t want to be swept on top of each other. If something goes wrong with one of the boats, they’ll need space to get clear and we’ll need time to maneuver away from any bobbing heads. I look down at my life vest and pull the straps tighter. John sees me and does the same. In no time, it's our turn to make a run at the rocks, and our paddles already hit the water with a bit of rhythm. We watched the last boat shoot right through. They made it look easy. I’m smiling as I lean forward to put more oomph in my stroke. Water is already swirling around us, and I’m getting spray from the paddle. John angles the nose and I’m paddling hard to keep us on track, fighting the pull of the current to swing us wide. It’s work alright, but we are managing. The water is moving faster and our approach is good. The angle of our nose is a bit more right than we want and our moment is coming up fast. Too fast. And suddenly the current grabs the back of the boat and pushes us left. John tries to correct, but the back has swung way out. We are seconds away from the rock, on a direct approach. There are no right or left options for us now. But we are horizontal. Instead of going through we are going to hit both rocks, with the boat acting like a thin tin dam between them. If that happened the water would flood our boat and we better not still be in it. But then we’d be in the drink at the most dangerous part of the rapids. We’re fucked. And we both know it.

Time slows. Right here at this moment of realization. Which is at the very same time, a moment of decision. Because, we’re in trouble, like I said. But what are we going to do about it? I mean. There are options here. I’m staring at the rocks that are absolutely huge in my vision right now. My paddle is not in the water. A line of drips trail from the paddle’s edge. John too is looking at the rocks. His paddle, also up. Nothing moves. What can we do? Life, you know. It gives us these moments all the time. Though the future might not be so clearly imposing, so immediate or urgent. Or maybe it is. Is this any different from other big moments? Moments of decision. What are you going to do right now? Who are you? Are you the type of person who bails? Try to ride the rapids with just your vest? It's been done. You’ve trained it. Or do you wait? Accept the inevitable and let the river mash you against the rocks? Lots of ways it can go wrong, but pretty much only one way it can go right. Sigh. They weren't lying. And damn, you know, we did everything right. We worked hard, in sync with each other. Feeling the river. Responding to conditions as they changed around us. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Just five minutes ago we smiled all toothy at each other, thinking, ah hell yeah we got this.

Shit. And then another voice chimes in. Why can’t I get a break? You know. Every. Damn. Time. I do what I’m supposed to do. I don’t take shortcuts. I work hard. I’m a team player. I’m a nice guy. But, I don’t get the job. I don’t get the girl. I don’t. I don’t. I feel like I’m right here, at the brink of disaster, all the damn time. And I did everything I could not to be. Just this same slow moment, replayed over and over. Life - it’s like this.

But in this moment, that’s all just whiney bullshit.

Because, I already know what I’m going to do. I always did. There was only ever one option. Only ever one choice. John and I both know it. We don’t need to talk about it. We are two seconds from smashtime. But, we got two whole seconds. Two full Mississippis. We got everything we need in those two seconds. Because it ain’t a disaster yet. Because, I’m alive and so are you. And we got our paddles gripped tight. And our boat is still whole and smooth bottomed.

Time slips back into pace. And in that instant John and I make our moves. Paddles reach up into the air, mine and his together, as if we danced this dance before. And they plunge down. Bodies leaning and arms reaching out, the paddles bite into the water and we pull, fast and hard. I screamed with my arms up high, and keep screaming as I ground my teeth while I pulled. I reached left. John right.

One monster stroke.

One second gone.

The boat shifts in the water…but not enough. Paddles rise again. The rocks are close enough to touch. My mouth opens for breath. Water splashes across my body. Another scream stifled as jaws close and paddles bite. I pull. John pulls. Backs strain.

Another monster stroke.

Our last second spent.

And the nose clears the right-hand boulder and begins to slide through. The rear follows in line. We shoot between and down and the river bounces us up almost immediately, and water splashes over both of us. Our voices raise in hoots and laughter as we paddle through the whitewater. In seconds we are out of it and we drift over to the other boats.

We look to the right shore and see our guides paddling over to meet us. They had pulled up on the beach and had rescue ropes ready just in case. This was not their first rodeo. “Wow,” they said, “we were sure you two were toast! You spun that boat like a top! Nice work. Had us worried.”

“But,” one said giving us a wink, “how the hell did you get your boat sideways like that?”

“Man, shut up,” I said laughing. Knowing good natured ribbing when I hear it. John and I wore bright smiles and tapped paddles, then we turned and carried on downriver to our next camp.

The Shikoku Pilgrimage

The office in my crowded Brooklyn apartment is lined with photos. My niece and nephew hang somewhat loudly next to black and white landscapes of far off places. I had twelve days vacation coming and I needed to get out of New York. Spring was around the corner. Walking. Mountains. Distance. Quiet. Something shifted and I found myself looking at Buddhist retreat centers in Japan. But those pictures of mountains had me thinking of long walks — a pilgrimage I had read about once, on one of the smaller Japanese islands. Shikoku. I booked a ticket that same day.

I first went to Japan in 1997. I remember the peace park in Hiroshima, the statue of the young girl who died of cancer, the origami cranes thick like English vines. Every month the park clears away more than a million paper cranes, most folded by children - each one a tiny prayer, a pledge of peace. I remember eating gyoza, and two elderly women offering me the remainder of their lunch. Perhaps I looked hungry and broke. Well. I was hungry again. I needed nourishment that would carry me.

I'll be Kobo Daishi and you be Bosatsu I'll carry water while you catch fish!

"Why have you come here?" A pilgrim asked on my first day. Devotion. Repentance. Guilt. Love. Hope. "Maybe I'll know when I leave." I avoided the question.

The Shikoku Pilgrimage is 1200 kilometers, 88 temples, 40 days on foot. Its founder, Kobo Daishi, was born on Shikoku in 774. He is said to have visited or founded every temple on the route, leaving behind statues he carved, teachings he imparted - mementos of passing. He died in 835 but is not considered wholly dead. Do gyo ni nin. Two travel together. When you walk the pilgrimage, Kobo Daishi walks with you. So I became a henro, shed one role and assumed another, probably not for the last time.

"Before beginning, rinse your mouth, wash your hands clean, and offer candles and incense to the Buddha…
Calm your mind, and place your hands together for prayer."

Recite the Heart Sutra at the main temple. At the secondary temple, pray in gratitude to Kobo Daishi. Or don't. The white robes, the staff, the bell, the hat, the beads, the sutras, the chanting — none are obligatory. Still, ritual gives structure, a beginning, a tone, a rhythm. Contemplation of the Heart Sutra became central to my pilgrimage. "Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form. Form is not different from emptiness, emptiness is not different from form." Standing in front of the main temple with hands clasped and head bowed, I drifted into myself. I could hear the chants from the other pilgrims, the bells ringing as people walked through the temple grounds. I could feel sun and wind, opened my eyes and watched as they danced through the cherry trees. Blossoms let go of their petals and they floated and spun, shimmered even, then gently, slowly, settled in the pools at the feet of the Buddhas.

The walking is where the work is done. But often the end of the day is spent soaking in a furo, a Japanese bath, wearing a kimono to dinner, sleeping on a tatami mat - futon and duvet, of course. Good food, good company, hot water, warm blankets. The road wears. The rest restores.

Thoughts drift as scenery changes. Everything changes. One day, the rice seedlings sprout in the greenhouse. The next, the cherry blossoms begin to fall. The fields need to be flooded. As I continued my walk, the flooded fields were planted and the cherry blossoms gone. One season ending, another beginning. Food for millions this coming fall, today these tiny plants adjust to new watery homes, wind, sunshine and stars. "No old age and death, no end to old age and death." Instead of change, perhaps I should consider cycles. In the day the seedlings were planted, in the night I ate rice. I envision connections like a spider-web, and yet it is the empty in-between that gives beauty and purpose. "No causal link…no end of causal link…"

Farmer
Pointing the way
With a radish.

Issa

Signs are everywhere. The henro no michi, the pilgrim road, is well signed. There are dozens of different signs: tiny chevrons, arrows, carved stone pointing hands, stickers of various designs, the ever helpful passerby. Every henro carries a map. It is not possible to get lost. And yet, I did, as did many others; as does everyone at one point or another. Often there were corners on which signs pointed in multiple directions. There was a message there. Any road is the right road. Choosing is the important part. Make a decision, the signs tell me. Whatever you choose will become your path. There are no wrong directions, only different ones. "No ignorance and no end to ignorance."

As the pilgrimage continued, life as I perceived it became simpler. Daily struggles shrank to pain in my shins and calves, blisters on my feet. Worries were: where to sleep, will there be a store to buy food today? Letting go. My home life in New York City melted away step by step. The stresses of my teaching job: the ungraded papers, the parents to call, the students facing summer school, standardized tests, and graduation, each seemed to become less real. All my yesterdays seemed less real. What are memories? The select bits of past happenings — specters, shades, echoes, the whispers of what was. They tease me with perceived joy, sorrow, happiness, success, love. They push imaginings of a future that is brighter. "No suffering, no cause of suffering, no end of suffering." Memories, the Heart Sutra suggests, are emptiness, are forms, are delusion. They distract and define. How can my past not be me? And yet, how can I trust the imperfect meanderings of my mind? In the walking, I began to distinguish who I am from who I was, who I think I am, and who I wish I could be.

On my eighth day, I decided not to ask a fellow henro to book me a hostel and searched for the whispered free lodgings for henro apparently near most temples. These can be corners in people's homes, rooms set aside specifically for henro, or even a small unattached studio maintained for henro to come and go as they please. I found one of the latter and set up a futon. A quiet man in his mid-fifties joined me soon afterward. We exchanged basic pleasantries and then I left to wander around the village, in part looking for a market, but mostly to admire the architecture, the school, the gardens; to look for those ever present tiny touches that adorn most Japanese homes, small flourishes of personality in a necessarily dense living environment. When I returned, the man had obviously been busy cleaning the grounds of the dorm. He had piles of uprooted weeds, a small pile of litter, and was working his way around a large rock, pulling weeds from the base of the stone with a gardening tool he had brought with him for this exact purpose. Immediately, I felt a tinge of guilt. I was so caught in my own mind, my own pilgrimage, that I did not remember that there is no "I," but a series of relationships. Balance is essential. This clean, warm, comfortable shelter exists through the charity and labor of others. There are many people to whom I owe the opportunities and luxuries of each day. I bowed deeply to the man for this lesson, who nodded in reply, somewhat confused. In the morning, I left a note and a donation in gratitude for the night's rest.

Pilgrims carry a book called Nokyo, with one spread per temple. At each stop they wait in line, Nokyo open to the temple's page, then hand the book up to a monk holding a black-tipped brush. Three stamps and an inscription in calligraphy, shodo, usually a name for the Buddha. The Heart Sutra begins with Avalokiteshvara contemplating prajnaparamita. Prajna is often translated as wisdom — the wisdom one achieves through realizing one's essential nature. I don't really know what that means. Each inscription seemed more indecipherable than the last. The Japanese pilgrims I met could not fully read them either. As my Nokyo began to fill, it became more and more precious. Each page seemed to contain a beautiful secret, not in the literal meaning, but in the flow of ink from thick, deep black heads to thin spiraling tails. What is the power of a word, a name? The Heart Sutra has two characters, Avalokiteshvara and Shariputra, a teacher, the embodiment of compassion, forsaking nirvana until all others precede her there, and a student, the vessel through which the teachings of Sakyamuni Buddha are transmitted and preserved. To know the names of these two, to utter the names of these two is to invoke enlightenment, to declare one's path, to open to dharma and begin.

Many yoga teachers begin their classes with a moment to set an intention: what I want to achieve, who and how I want to be. It can be a focal point, a purpose, some defining lines. What is achieved is rarely what is intended, but that does not mean one should forgo the effort. "Do not do anything useless." However, intentions can distract from the experience. Continuous focus on why I am here does not focus on the reality of being here.

I had thought my pilgrimage would be one of solitude and silence. I imagined myself walking through the Japanese countryside deep in my own ponderings, away from the spiraling energies of others and their entangled lives. What I encountered was quite different. Soon my pilgrimage became quite social. Apparently at random, individual walking henro began to gather one by one. I found myself in an ever growing and shrinking group. One would join while another would move on. I'd meet people, walk with them for a few days, then part. They would move on, go home, or fall behind.

The world of dew
is the world of dew
and yet and yet…

Issa

But for a while, we'd even buy each other small gifts, usually food, and we'd smile often, and laughed a lot, and we'd walk. People came out of their homes with gifts called osettai, which the henro is obligated to accept. I received food, tea, money, incense, even energy drinks. There was a young man at a small temple in the mountains who waited all day for henro to come and cooked each pilgrim a hot bowl of soup. The henro walks in the footsteps of Kobo Daishi and in a sense becomes Kobo Daishi. To help the henro is to help Kobo Daishi. This small belief creates a culture of giving, of welcome, of openness. Open doors and open palms. Realizing this was a small enlightenment in itself. I had thought enlightenment was a solitary achievement: the ascetic, the renunciate in the mountains, Bodhidarma in his cave. But would these paths have been open without the sacrifices and gifts of others? I began to see all of my traveling companions, and indeed all of the people in my life, as Kobo Daishi - Buddhas guiding my path, giving and taking away as needed. Who was Kobo Daishi on my journey? A retired bullet train conductor, businessmen from Kobe and Osaka, a housewife, a vending machine saleswoman, a real estate developer, two local bartenders, a teacher from New York…and dozens of others.

The other shore, enlightenment, is described throughout Buddhism as a mind free of delusion, senses that can pierce illusion, the space where intention and outcome are identical, a place where choice disappears and there is only right action. Days pass quietly on the pilgrimage. Time moves slowly. Slow enough to consider what I had brought with me and how necessary each item was. I dove into my baggage. Years of thoughts, judgments, emotions piled into and on top of each other, weighing on my heart and mind. What are they? Why have I kept them? This shore is mired with confusion and self doubt. This shore is distorted, clouded, and cluttered.

Gate gate pāragate pārasaṃgate.

The pilgrimage promised clarity. I had hoped it would show me not just where I was going but how to walk there. Perhaps it did. Rob was an American who had lived in Japan long enough to belong to neither place entirely. He and a young woman named Yuki had become my closest companions on the road. After a particularly long day the three of us sat down to dinner with a group and chatted long into the evening. Rob and I noticed that Yuki went to her room that night sad and thoughtful. We asked her if all was well. She began to cry and told us many things that had been on her mind and heart these past days. "I'm lost," she said.

The next day she did not come down to breakfast. We said sad but hasty goodbyes and good lucks. Would she continue? Would she find her way? Two months later, she was still walking. May the sun shine on your footsteps. May Kobo Daishi stay by your side.

Bodhi svāhā.

Notes and references

Bosatsu is the Japanese term for Bodhisattva. Bosatsu in this case references Kannon Bosatsu, or Avalokiteshvara, the speaker of the Heart Sutra.

The “…rinse your mouth” comes from www.shingon.org/ritual/daily.html

All quotes from the Heart Sutra are from: Red Pine. The Heart Sutra. New York: Counterpoint, 2005.

Avalokiteshvara is the only deity in the Buddhist pantheon depicted as both male and female.

Costa Rica: Life in the Cloud Forest Part 2

On our last evening, we hiked out to meet the others of our group back down in the valley. We stayed at a mud and concrete farmhouse, with a similar open aesthetic as Asreal's homestead, in that there weren’t any doors in the door frames or windows in the window boxes. As such the evening breeze danced freely through the house when we arrived. The mud and concrete kept it shaded and cool during the sweltering days. It was a solid practical design. Dirt floors allowed rain to splash in without giving it a thought. It was a merry evening. I learned a love song, popular with these mountain farmer folk at the time, “y este par de anillos, con nuestros nombres grabados…", (and this pair of rings, with our names engraved).

In the middle of the night, I woke needing to head to the outhouse. I memorized this bit: walk past the line of sleeping guests, down a step into the central room and across it to the cooking area, make a left, walk outside and up to the right and Bob’s your uncle. Except that when I was just about to step into the kitchen, odd sounds and movement made me stop. The kitchen was wall-less on two sides like a tunnel. The central room walkway entered in perpendicularly. I paused trying to shake awake the problem-solving part of my brain. After a few seconds, I came fully awake realizing that in front of me was a bat superhighway. I shined my flashlight into the darkness and saw what seemed to be many hundreds of bats tearing past. Months later, I would stand on a street corner in Ho Chi Minh City in southern Vietnam hoping to cross a street and remember this moment. There were no crosswalks or streetlights. Cars, trucks, bicycles, scooters, carts, maybe 2-dozen different types and sizes of vehicles all flowing past at the maximum rate traffic would allow. I stood in the dark room as I stood on that street corner, feeling an urgent need to break my paralysis with decision, then action. I chose to trust in the all powerful survival instinct of others (forsaking my own in Vietnam, holy shit!). Raise one foot. Place in front of the other. Repeat at a steady rate. Try not to scream. And with the expertise of thousands of missed and avoided collisions, traffic - both bat and human - flowed around me. Bats whizzed past my head, cars past my body, without slowing, and significantly without a cascade of injury and death. Ok then, I said to myself, I can do this. I took a breath and opened my eyes.  

Costa Rica: Life in the Cloud Forest Part 1

By Darin Wahl

We arrived to the valley late, sweaty, hungry and curious. Our hosts were grouped together chatting casually as neighbors will. We set down our packs somewhere out of the cow shit and went over for handshakes and introductions. Two of us peeled off with Asrael, a young farmer homesteading on the sloped edge of the cloud forest. Asrael led us up and across toward his land about five miles distant. We followed a dirt road, rutted and muddy. Asrael strolled along the mountain roads with familiar ease. He plucked tangerines from branches that hung over the road and tossed us each one. We leaned on the side of the road and tore into the sweet orange flesh, juice making sticky tracks on my already sweat streaked chin. As I hefted my 50lb pack, my boot slipped on a rock. I didn’t fall hard. I caught myself in push-up position. No harm done. Except that both hands plunged foot deep into muddy water. The splash washed my face, head and shirt as thoroughly as if I fell straight in. Asrael was in stomach-clenching hysterics. I laughed too, when I had spit the mud out of my mouth. He climbed into the forest and came back with plate-sized leaves I could wipe myself with. He was still giggling as he handed over nature's towels.

The house wasn’t much of a house. It was more a roofed deck that had four rooms. No doors, no windows, no insulation. We slept on pads on the floor. Over the next few days we helped out as we could, usually doing small tasks around the homestead. His cows mostly looked after themselves. I learned about coffee socks, which are exactly what they sound like: a sock stuffed with coffee and then boiling water is poured through. For a stronger brew let it soak a while. Asreal stirred in a ladle full of sugar and fresh milk from his milk cow. That was good coffee. I learned that tapirs, elusive short-trunked pig-like jungle animals, can be found seemingly easily by unlucky dogs, as one named “Pinky” discovered through a quick mauling. Spiders were ever present. Palm sized (“little fellas”) lived in our room with us. One night Asrael called us out: “You want to see something?”

“Yeah of course we do.”

He waved us over and then shone his flashlight on the biggest spider I had ever seen. It was reddish too, which made it seem a bit extra fierce. “What happens if one of these bites you?”

“Die.” Asrael was not a big storyteller; he got to the point.

“You see it?” he asked us, “You ok?” asking if I had had a good look.

I said, “Yeah. I see it.”

Then he swung his arm back, brought it around and smashed that spider with the hammer I had just realized he was holding. “OOoH” I yelled, jumping back. The spider exploded. The hammer went between two slats of wall and deposited spider detritus in the bedroom and all about us. The next morning a line of ants was making short work of the bits. Five inch legs were being carried off by dozens of workers. Not a bit went to waste.

One morning he asked us if we wanted to come with him to get lunch. We donned our rubber boots and followed him off the cow pasture into the surrounding trees. Vines that hung 60 feet from the tops of trees were swung upon. Tangerines were eaten. Ways were macheteed through the brush. Mud climbed up boots then legs. “Aha,” he said slapping a tree with the flat of his blade, “this one.” It was a large mature palm tree. One with thousands of two inch black spines that made it look like a humongous overly aggressive cactus. Asrael hacked it down with several expert swings of his machete. He walked up to the crown and sliced off the top 6 or 7 feet. After removing palm leaves, he split open the trunk. He peeled away layers until he exposed the white core, which he removed with a few more well-placed hacks. The final product was about three feet long and three inches thick. He slung this over his shoulder and walked off toward the house. After a moment, we turned to follow. The rest of the tree lay forsaken where it fell. That was lunch. Heart of palm.