In four days, I will be here.

It's surreal, no?

100 things

I have challenged myself to whittle down my worldly possessions to a grand total of 100 things.

The first thing that most people ask is why. My answer has multiple parts.

If you’re anything like me, you haven’t thrown anything out since you were 16. This includes clothes; when I wear a grand total of about 25 things on a regular basis, it seems silly to have a whole closet full of clothes. Clothes that don’t fit, clothes with holes, clothes that have too many embarrassing memories of awkward years tied to them for me to ever wear again. But you still have them, and cling to them with a strange nostalgia that doesn’t make sense when you think about how awful high school was in the first place.

Also, if you’re anything like me, you have 10 old cellphones that you kept in case you lost your current one (which I do frequently). You also have a whole shelf full of random knick knacks, and find that people give you little cute glitzy boxes as gifts because, well…you need a place to put all that stuff. You have 25 scarves, 10 pairs of shoes with holes in the bottom, and sweatpants from water polo that are three sizes too big but that you still keep in case you ever manage to somehow catastrophically lose your other four pairs of sweatpants that actually fit.

And finally, if you’re anything like me, you haven’t stayed in one place for a period of longer than two years since you were seven years old. Most of the time, the accessory stuff just vanished, or got left behind. But then you got to college, and you finally had a semi-permanent home, and maybe you felt a little more settled. The problem is, your new home is about 1/4th the size of your fairly large room you had in your house in Los Angeles and you, once again, haven’t thrown anything out in eight years.

Too much stuff.

I know you’re out there, you people-like-me. We are many, and we hoard in a socially acceptable way. We cling to our stuff because we can’t or don’t want to cling to other things, or we like to think of our hoarding as a sort of virtue—why should I throw it away when I might someday in the far future need it? We cling because we have nothing else to cling to, or because in this time of huge transition and upheaval in our lives, our stuff is our last clinging to home, or to something we are slowly gravitating away from.

But no, my friends. Clinging is not the answer. Because while you might wear those sweatpants once a year, there are people who don’t necessarily have warm pants to wear at all. In this time of recession, people are clinging to their stuff even more—when your savings account is no longer growing we seem to gravitate towards other things to latch onto and obsess over as measures of our wealth, or what we “have”. When I started to slowly chip away and donate things a few weeks ago, the profuse thanks that I got for what I had given, because “hardly anyone has been donating lately,” made me realize how ridiculous my mentality had been. Not only are we constantly forgetting what we have, and how lucky we are for that—we are also constantly forgetting what other people need, and that sometimes their dire situations trump our need to clutch onto those fraying jeans.

Not enough room.

This is much more than a one-week endeavor. I have been working on donating a large donation of my things for the past three weeks. I have already donated more than half of my clothes. I have begun to list my possessions. Everything. From my skis to my French press, from my knife block to my fish food.

But what do you count? For my first stage, I don’t think it makes sense to count every single thing. Do I count my fish, or my cats? I’d like to think of them as friends rather than material possessions. When I count my fish tank, do I count my filter and heater and gravel and decorations, or do I count them as one thing? You can get pretty specific with this stuff if you want. Rather than end up with clothes and a fish tank, I decided to count them as one thing. I think I am also, rather than eliminating most of my clothes, attempt for reasonable numbers in each category. I might even need to count my chargers along with the things they charge. If I counted the individual photographs and posters I own I would already be out of luck. And keeping track of the things that I’ve left at either parent’s house is difficult.

I will do my best to document my parting with these worldly possessions that I have chosen to give up, in the hope that it will be freeing and insightful. Stay tuned.

"Whore frost?"

The snow here is perfect.

Now don't take this casually. I've been around the block. I've experienced snow from a tiny village in the Czech Republic to the slopes in Colorado. I am always on a quest for the perfect snow, the perfect snowball. On my vacation this past winter my significant other made the mistake of getting into a snowball fight with me.

Big mistake. I usually like to be modest, but...I kind of kicked his ass.

Never get in a snowball fight with a Canadian.

But the snow here...it doesn't turn into ugly brown mush when it hits the ground. It has to be at least 5 degrees before it melts. It forms huge fluffy banks and dusts every surface. It's just the right consistency to be able to pick up a handful and let it cascade out of your mitted hand, but if you apply just the tiniest pressure, it packs perfectly into a perfect winter weapon. With the tiniest touch of wind, it sticks to all the trees, coating them in a hoarfrost that makes me want to walk up to it and touch it, because it looks so perfectly winter-wonderland-y that I feel like I'm in Santa's Village. It's like god's very own powder sugar that was sifted over the whole world.

I miss a lot of things about home, but the snow in particularly gives me pangs of happiness when I scoop up a clean patch in my mitts, scrunch it up and pop it onto my tongue, or when I make three-pronged footprints with my boots.

Yes, when I was little I did like to pretend I was a dinosaur.

Rawr.

(pictures are not mine. not any of them.)

don't you miss yourself?

Wait...it's March?

I'm not even going to try to catch up on everything that has happened in the past few months. From getting kittens to having a stable source of love in my life (I know, that's different...), from savoring Santa Fe to planning for Costa Rica, from being unbelievably busy and having my world crash around my ears to sleeping twelve hours a day, I have been there and back again over the past few months--and things haven't really slowed.




I thought for a while about making a new blog, or changing the name of this one. A long time, actually. I think that's partly something that was slowing me from actually writing anything. I feel like I've opened such a new chapter in my life and that I've changed so much--I mean, I haven't really posted regularly in almost a year! I felt like the renewal of my creative expulsion of whatever my thoughts might be warranted a new...something.




But then one day I really thought about it, and I smacked my head, because I had forgotten what this blog was really all about--and it would sort of defeat the purpose of everything I've ever said about this blog and written in here to turn away now.

So here we go.



I'm actually going to start by going back to something that I didn't really think I would come back to, though in retrospect that was silly.

Yup, the monastery.

It's kind of like Alex said at our last group gathering...it doesn't hit you right away. Sometimes it takes days, weeks, months for the magnitude of everything you've learned to sink in. And it never affects you the way you think it will.

For me, it hasn't been a profound change. I haven't been meditating daily like some of my counterparts. I haven't particularly been converted, and my life is just as hectic as it has always been. But somehow, I find myself insulated. Some of my previous frittered frazzled hair splitting has somehow disappeared. I don't know what it is, and I don't know why, but I find myself...at peace.





If I could explain it, if I could teach it, I would. I would probably be a millionaire. But it's this mysterious change that has somehow permeated my being, inveitably for the better. I often now find my thoughts wandering back to those sticky hot rainy days, my hole-y yellow poncho fraying, stretching to the sky on the beaten track in the dawn, tucking into doors for cool air conditioning, padding back and forth on the cool polished floors of the hall. It feels like something that looks over my shoulder, tapping me every once in a while, reminding me. I have not forgotten.




But despite having remembered many things, there are some things that I had forgotten. There are many things, like taking a trip to your childhood home, or taking off every photo and poster from your wall and carefully stowing them into a trunk, that sort of bring you face to face with exactly who you are, who you were, and who you thought you were going to be.





The blurred faces, the faint colors, the hints, the repeated images, the whispers and shadows. The memories.




I remember having a discussion about bleeding colors, and I am afraid that a little bit of that happened again. It's funny how quickly some things change, and how some others just don't. Before I knew it, that little bit of change became bigger than I thought it could get. I finally looked back around to realize it.

People always fear change as though it's some big monster that's going to pounce on you when you're not looking. But it's not. You have to be looking away for a long, long time for change to sneak up on you. Because it's not out of your hands.

Change is what happens when you make those little tiny choices that you think have no consequences every single day. When you take a shift over studying. When you hang out with a friend or decide to stay in. When you drive to the grocery store. When you submit an application. Each of those little, seemingly inconsequential things can change things forever--but not all at once. Change is a sneaky little bastard. Before you know it he's seeped under your door and your life is not the same. All those little things have compounded into you looking into the mirror and seeing someone a few wrinkles different. Add that up over time and well...that's life.

The good thing is that the wheel is entirely (well, maybe not entirely, but largely) in your hands. And if you catch the wheel before you go too far down a road, changing, or turning away from change is easy. But...

.

Just so you know...

I thought that I should tell you, since many of you have probably been looking like this at my vanishing...







I'm not dead.


Just uninspired. But that, as of late, is changing. Things are a-brewin.










...just in case you were wondering.









So don't worry. This is my metaphorical pat on the face...or whatever.

tpe

I am armed with a can of coffee (the vending machine variety—expecting it to be horrible, I am surprised to find that it’s rather good) and an apple at one of the café’s tables. I have sat in the back in the hopes that they will not notice my outside food and drink. I have a little over three hours. The check-in counter isn’t even open yet.

It’s funny how when you’re going through a life-changing experience, you don’t realize it. It takes a little while for the magnitude of our experiences to sink in—our classic human inability, or delay, in recognizing the good stuff.



My time in the meditation hall was much needed. It was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think words can really encapsulate what happened, and I’m still not sure how far-reaching the changes in my life are going to be. Maybe some time soon I’ll be able to actually put it in words, but for now it’s something that I’m still processing.

The cultural tour, too, is sort of beyond words—I think in this case I’ll leave it up to the photographs to speak for me.


As the van pulled away from the monastery, I realized that I’d left a little piece of me there. That place saw me through a lot. The Chan hall, in particular, knows me quite well. And I know that I will always feel some-kind-of-at-home if I ever go back.

But even when you leave pieces of heart everywhere you go, you have to realize that it’s not so simple as you losing bits of yourself. When I moved a lot as a kid, I used to think that way. But now I’ve come to realize that when you leave a piece of your heart behind, you also take something back from that place. We may feel that when we have to say goodbye, we are emptying our cups—which may be true. But we forget that, when we open our hearts to the places we go, we in turn we take something new with us, a little piece of that place, faint memories that float like ghosts behind us, a few drops of fresh tea.



It’s an odd little exchange, but when you realize it, things are actually pretty fair. And in return for that sudden ache, that being wrenched away from something, you gradually build a wall of safety around that place in your heart—it provides a sanctuary, it opens your eyes, it keeps you warm on a cold day.


When you think about it that way, goodbye isn’t really so bad.

And if you’re really, really lucky, it may just be a “see you soon.”

a problem

A large part of the problem (some day I may say blessing, for now I say problem) with meditation is that it is very confrontational.

You wouldn’t think so, what with all the silence and relaxation that goes into it and everything. But the simple act of sitting, focusing, and emptying your mind actually allows it to unearth a lot of thoughts, memories, and truths that you may not want to see.

Because when you relax your mind, clear it, all of the things you may have been suppressing, been too busy to process, been too busy to think about, been trying to forget, been trying to control—they come flooding to the surface.

You can’t run. You can’t hide. It’s just you and your mind. Your darkest thoughts and secrets are illuminated in almost a harsh light.

For people who, like me, sometimes insist on being in control—perhaps at the expense of the health of their general state of being—and who are currently quite troubled, meditation is at first difficult. The past few days have been something of an emotional rollercoaster. The more we practice meditation, the more I am confronted with the big issues in my life, my darkest corners, my flaws.

Not that it is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it’s very good for me, and until now I don’t think I fully realized how badly I needed this. But these first few days have made me realize that seven days without talking, with nothing but eating, sleeping, and my thoughts—it’s going to change and challenge me more than I can imagine. Even now, I am reeling with hurt and emotion that I had suppressed and hidden for so long that I had forgotten it was even there. All the things that I have buried are going to surface.



I’m scared. Never before in my life have I felt this vulnerable.

But perhaps in weakness, we are strong. And the night is darkest before the dawn. Things have to get bad before they can get better. I have to hope that after these seven days, I will have been to hell and back, will have questioned who I am, will have shattered all of my misconceptions and illusions and will have found some answers. Or, if not, at least begin to patch up some of the cracks. Hopefully I won’t lose my mind.

My tea has steeped too long. It’s bitter and cold.

I am emptying my cup.