Monkey Mind at Sunrise

Yesterday, my dad was pestering me about not sharing enough sensory information about Mysore - the sights are clear, but what about sound, smell?? I thought about why that was, and - sound aside for the time being - I realized that I am often confronted with an unfamiliar or decontextualized smell - at the hostel, in the streets, a temple, a concert etc. At first it feels like something I could know, that I've smelled before, so I lean into it a little bit, taking a deeper breath in. There's some word I could maybe cling to - sweet, sour, smokey, citrus - but often even that morphs in on itself and I'm left with a strong urge to qualify. Is this good or bad? And then someone cries "I love that smell!" or fondly "Ah, India" or aghast "What IS that?" or again fondly "Ahh, cleanser" and my mind clings to it. If no one is around to force my hand in this choice, it tends to be done according to my mood or energy levels. The more tired I am, the more repulsive the scent's origin story. Imbued with a second wind, it's something enticing, luring me in to take fuller breaths, relishing in the wafted aroma until we pass each other again.

Priest at Chamundi Hills

This morning I sat on the roof watching the sky, certain that the sun was rising in sherbet colors over the neighboring town's nearly blackened silhouette. As I started romantically over yonder, awaiting its ascension, I noticed the sky brightening beneath the crescent moon and behind the trees. A race to the finish, I realize my idyllic sunrise might not be where I initially expected. Eagerly, but necessarily patiently (the sun seems to have own time frame), splitting my gaze, I waited for the true reveal. The clouds beneath the sun grew a bit more baby blue, soon spreading upward or replacing themselves with a white light. In the other corner, as the red hue above the town faded more into indigo and then a bruised blued, it resigned itself to false advertiser of the new day.

                                     

Many things have felt as such; sitting, almost completely surrounded by darkness, a searching mind looks for light. There are hints of it in the stars or in fluorescent bulbs, street vendors with "homemade chocolate" or gurus with years of experience. The internal affirm-er clings to that hint, crafting story lines, expectations, teeth barred and daring to be proven wrong. Then time passes and the truth scrambles these expectations like tornado winds and it's onto the next. If we can breathe and reflect, transcend the present and observe with a lovingly neutral mind, then these movements need not shake us so violently.

Yet, as the question may arise with 10 artists in an almost ashram, where does art come in? If mindfulness eases the bumps of the ride, is the goal to lose the bumps altogether? As I try to bring my mind back to the sounds during a meditation, back to my breath during a stressful moment, back to my fingers as they find words on the page, I wonder how important this question is right now. If the stable mind is wholly attainable, perhaps I couldn't imagine what it would need, for clearly we've not yet found each other. Maybe the unwavering mind need not create, for it sees clearly the art that is all around it - absorbed in bird calls or footsteps, the veins of leaves or drying paint, the smell of fresh rain. So, like the audience absorbed in a play, they have nothing to add for they see the masterpiece, complete and unending.


                                                   


The history of the India we've seen thus far seeks out truth - Gandhi said "Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth." Vivekananda, the namesake of our program, began his learning asking respected leaders if they had seen God, and then, after following Ramakrishna, the one whose answer had sufficed, he wandered all around India to better understand the state of the country. On Sunday we watched "Gandhi" and began parsing out some recent Indian history and mourned for innocent lives lost. Tomorrow night we begin unpacking the Ramayana, a seminal Hindu tale about courage, fulfilling one's destiny and placing faithfulness - to truth - above even life itself. On Saturday we went to Chamundi Hill to visit temples and had conversations about religion and self-help books, toured the exorbitantly lavish Mysore Palace and imagined living as royalty and quickly visited St. Philomena's Cathedral, which was built as a gesture by the Maharaja to the town's Christians and contemplated the power of gifts and of white-washing. We fumbled our way through some beautifully smiling eyes at the Nina Bazaar, the outdoor, Muslim marketplace just down the street, and buttoned our shirts up to take care of passport business at the century old police station. Many different sides of this city we are taking in, with different energy levels and varying states of enthusiasm. The daily practice of yoga, constant reminders - through show and tell - to meditate and journal daily, and group meals to support and digest, make it a little easier to stay centered and seek truth.