A Chinese Odyssey

Recently, I have been noticing that I seem to be all about texture, both the way things look and the way they feel.  Texture creates contrast, even tension.  For some, the texture of, say, jello, is simply delicious, slippery, wet and wonderful.  For me, well, the texture of jello is more like the mud I fell into while attempting to get into the water at the edge of South Carolina; slippery, wet, woolly and well, scary, sucking my feet in up to my knees and feeling like it would simply suck me down for dinner.  In contrast, wet sand/mud at the beach had me captivated for hours with unbelievably beautiful patterns, whole worlds of beauty created simply by the relationship between the water and the sand and the earth.

I don’t know if it is fair to say when you look at something that you can know how it feels, but that is how it feels.  Sometimes you know just by looking.  Sometimes you have to touch to know.  Sometimes you want to keep touching to know more.  Sometimes you keep looking as though you are being touched just by the sight.

This feeling is elusive and seductive.  The feeling is a kind of knowing and yet there is the sensation that it will slide away as soon as you try to articulate it.  This is the same as the feeling of taking pulses in Chinese medicine for me.  A deep listening that brings a deep satisfaction.  A feeling with a kind of depth and knowing that is both still and moving, both noisy and silent, both rich and simple.

This Fall for the first time I ate rock oysters.  These kind of oysters live in clusters deep in the mud, the same mud, as it happens, that I fell into just later in that same day.  Their shells are rough, full of barnacles, as they climb and cling to one another in a kind of tree-like shape.  When I eat sea creatures,  I feel great gratitude.  They nourish me and offer me the essence of the ocean.  This time, I sat for a few minutes mystified by the giant mound of oysters, wondering how to actually eat them.  Turns out you have to pry most of them open even after cooking and that you might want to wear gloves because their shells are so rough.

Turns out that I love to eat food like this.  A texture fiesta.  Feeling the shells just the way they live in the mud, feeling the strength and intention required to get their shells open.  It became a celebration of both life and death.  Celebrating my life, sitting contentedly focused on eating a huge bucket of oysters.  Celebrating the death of these creatures on my behalf, exhorting myself to use these resources wisely.  I am so glad to be reminded of my true purpose through the act of acknowledging what nourishes me.  All life gives and receives in both life and death.  So I chant this prayer for myself and for these beings each time I eat:

This food has come to me through the efforts of countless sentient beings.

May it nourish and sustain my practice,

So that I open to the compassion and wisdom of original mind

And I, in turn, become a source of nourishment for all beings.

(translated from the Tibetan by Ken McLeod)

This, then, is the texture I am truly seeking, the rough edge between all forms of life and death, the place where anything can happen.

Horseshoe crab on the beach

It is starting wear off, but ever since last week Thursday around noon, I have been walking on air.  Last week Thursday 9 a.m. was my first surf lesson and by noon I had stood up on a surfboard something like 15 or 20 times.  A dream come true, as I have been yearning to learn to surf for quite some time.

It was 11 years ago now, that I well and truly fell in love with the ocean.  At that time, I was in Maine, where the beaches are rocky and the water is cold.  I fell in love with being at the edge of the continent in constant motion, immersed mentally and emotionally in the movement of a body of water inconceivably large.  Laying on the rocks felt like the place I had always belonged.  I didn’t really think about what it might feel like to actually get into the water.  I had walked in the ocean before but only briefly.  At that time, I was 20 and deathly afraid of bathing suits and large numbers of people who could bear witness to my own.  Being in Maine, where it makes no sense to wear a bathing suit because the water is too cold to survive in most of the time, was a great blessing.

I continued to pilgrimage to the ocean each summer.  The water, the body of the ocean herself continued to call me.  I continued to challenge my fears of large numbers of scantily dressed people.  The desire to get into the ocean began to overwhelm me.  I do mean all the way in, since I had, of course, been cruising the shore for hours with a camera and bare feet, getting wet from the knees down.  So, in 2009, before I left for Taiwan, I decided it was time to get into the Pacific.  Strange to write it now, that I was 49 before I actually got into the ocean.  The joy and exhilaration were immediate, surpassing the joy of walking on the shore by leaps and bounds.  The ocean was the perfect embrace, the perfect tough love, salty and sweet, rocky and sandy.

In Taiwan for the half century celebration of my life on this planet, I took myself again to the Pacific and for 5 days I tried to get a surfing lesson from the handsome proprietor of Winson House, an experienced surfer and a very cool guy.  He kept telling me it was too rough or too flat and the one day we finally organized it, it was raining.  I spent many hours lying on the boogie board and riding whatever waves I could, although WenSheng kept telling me there were lots of  jelly fish and I should stay out of the water.   Maybe he just thought he was preventing me from disappointment should I ever get a real surfing lesson.  In any case, no surfing.

WenSheng and son

Now, there has been surfing.   Surfing in the balmy water of the Atlantic.  Standing on water, swallowed by salt water, bobbing back up and paddling back out–why would anyone do this except for fun, for joy?  This is the thing, surfing, you can only do for fun.  There is no other purpose for it, really.  Boating, biking, walking, skiing, these will take you somewhere.  Surfing takes you nowhere except back to the shore and out into the waves again.  For me, it feels as natural as breathing, this movement to the shore and back out, on the water, in the water, breathing with strength, consciousness and  joy added.  Going nowhere and loving it.

after surfing

It is the peak of fire season and the heat is on.  This week I am reading, writing, swimming and resting by the ocean on Emerald Isle off the coast of North Carolina.  Yesterday I got sunburned.  As usual on the first trip out to the beach in the season, I just ignore the reality of more than an hour in the sun.  Then, on the way back from the beach the bottoms of my feet got burned just walking on the sand, blistery burned, since I flatly refused to wear shoes for the 3 minute walk from the condo to the beach.  The night before yesterday hot oil splattered me and burned a design on my wrist with spots all the way to my chest.  Clearly, the element of fire is trying to get my attention.  Well, it is gotten…

Meanwhile, here I am communing with the biggest body of water on the planet.  Getting in the ocean, I am constantly reminded of both the brutality and buoyancy that water brings to life.  Laughing and spitting out salt water, I land and skid on the half rocks half sand shore, dropped mercilessly by waves.  Yet I laugh with the thrill, feeling the softness of the foam combined with the singular force of a wall of water.  I feel so drawn to both the embrace and threat that this water offers.  Sitting on the beach, the heat radiating from the sand, my mind rests with the relentless sound and motion of the waves.  With a mix of awe and admiration for the very special nature of the fire and water relationship, I plan to wait them both out, getting in the water when it gets too hot, getting out of the water when it gets too tiring.  Out here at the edge of the continent neither one can ever really gain the upper hand.

Fire is the ultimate instigator of transformation. Nothing touched by fire is ever the same again, not chemically, not physically, not emotionally.  Water, the perfect complement, the perfect partner, the perfect opponent, the medium, the reflection, must be present for any transformation to actually take place..  It is working on me, this marriage of water and fire.  Body- the water, Mind- the fire, dancing together.  Which one has the upper hand?

evening at the edge

I was teaching over this last weekend and out of my mouth popped the line, “unconditional love is the medicine we all need.”  So, in our heart of hearts we all know this.  But, do we offer this?  How do we offer this?  What is love without conditions?  I really have only questions when I try to think about it, and clearly I wasn’t thinking when it came out of my mouth.  I wasn’t thinking but I was being, being in a room full of people who have given the better part of each of their days to being with people in pain and sickness, to offering their time, intelligence and love in the service of other human beings.  When I think about this I am humbled and amazed.  Amazed to see the world in all its suffering and chaos, when I know that every person strives to prevent suffering in those they love.  So, who do you love? And why does this strategy seem to have gone so awry sometimes?

One of my daily practices is to ask what do I really need?  Strangely, the answer is mostly that I need to give and receive love.  Or maybe that isn’t strange, but it feels like the one thing that from day to day, I don’t know if I have done enough.  “Love is the oxygen of our lives” says one of my teachers, Jeffrey Yuen  (http://www.daoisttraditions.com/jeffrey%20yuen.html) and he is a celibate Daoist priest.  Because I live in metaphor most of the time, this statement makes the whole situation completely obvious to me in some ways.  Just love everyone and all will be well.  But we all know that this is a task akin to the likes of learning to fly without the aid of machinery.  And when I am not living in metaphor, I am looking for ways to make the literal definitions match the energy of the metaphor.

So, love is oxygen, not oxycodone.  Love will not anesthetize us to the reality of our world.  Love will not prevent pain.  Again, I think we all know this, but what I find to be such a compelling inquiry here is the fact that though we know this, we attempt over and over again to use our idea of love to cure all ills.  And there I think lies the nugget of trouble, our idea of love.  Any idea we have of love prevents us from being unconditional in dispensing it.   Meanwhile, we can’t live without love, we can’t wait for the time to come when we have no ideas about it, before we begin accepting the medicine we need.

View from the porch

So I am sitting on the porch.  I love the rain and the slow dark of 7:30 p.m. in June.  I love the fireflies and the wet grass.  I love the smell of damp and the smoke of mugwort as it floats up from my toes.  Basically, I could go on and on about all that I love as I sit here and look around.  I am filled with oxygen.

Tasha posing in front of our joint sidewalk creation

Agape:  wide open, speechless, a state of wonder

Eros:  the love of love, the desire of desire, yearning

I have been contemplating these notions of erotic love and devotional love for a long time.  It is Springtime and both are in the air.  Both the air and my emotions are highly volatile.   So easy to mistake one’s wonder and love for the world for the impulse to surrender to another, to align all the natural beauty and energy of our world with one human being.  But is this fair?  Is it fair to your lover?  Is it fair to your teacher?  Suddenly, one person is everything, whether they are your lover or your teacher.  The question is does this person in either capacity expand your world? Or do they narrow your world?

The very notion of agape, the speechless open state of love, the surrender to the sacred, whether it be in the natural world or in a chapel or in a living room suggests the world become more vast, more spacious.  Eros, on the other hand, seems only to work that way temporarily.  We feel more vast when we fall in love, but when the “lover” wants to know when we will be home for dinner, the vastness disappears, our world narrows.  And it narrows to the things that we often find troublesome, the ordinary daily digest of bills, meals, clothes and washing.  How do we nurture love that is both vast and precise, energetic yet relaxed, spacious yet willing to see and know the details?

We are hard-wired to love at first sense, any of the senses in my experience.  Evidenced,  it would seem in the fact that our newborns love us.  All our misery, all our creativity and all our promise seems to arise from this same source, our capacity for love.  What drives love?  How is it different from desire?  For me, I always say that if I had not fallen in love with Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, who I never actually met, I would surely have gone insane, killed myself or otherwise short-circuited my possibilities in life.  Yet, some would say that love for one who can never return that love is its own insanity.  Even after 26 years, I love my guru in a way that powers my life, loosens depression’s grip and nurtures my capacity for compassion in a way that nothing else does.  Am I insane or healthy?

Healthy Spring brings longing, the ache of reaching and growing.  Just the sight of some bare arm or back can arouse deep longing.  Longing for what?  For connection?  For liberation?  In the spring, the world seems endlessly beautiful and tender.  Like new leaves on the trees in that electric green.  Everyone looks equally beautiful, no matter their age or features.  We soften and move with impulses that have lain dormant in the cold.

And often, I simply stand in love and wonder at the glory of green.

Even in green, one can feel pretty foolish with their mouth wide open…

Every year when December arrives, I fantasize about hibernating for the winter, getting in bed and not getting out for at least a month.  I am not depressed.  I just need a rest.  Like all the other large animals on the planet, I need a good long rest when the days get short and the nights get long.  Most years I have managed to set aside at least 3 days and sometimes up to 3 weeks to do a retreat.  Most often I use my retreat to practice meditation sitting up or singing and chanting, only part way meeting my need to really rest.  This year I decided to lie down.

I lit the candles. I laid out my sleeping bag on the floor of my upstairs room, which is a lovely gabled attic space, and I laid down.  For the first day, I fell asleep about every hour for at least 15 minutes and maybe even half an hour, I’m not sure.  I began at sunrise (7:34 a.m. on December 19) and I planned to lay down until sundown (5:19 p.m.).  Then I didn’t know what I would do.  Specifically, I planned to do nothing.  I brought my hot water in a thermos and some seeds and tangerines upstairs with me.

I got sore, so I had to lay on my side as well as my back.  It was strange to have my gaze at floor level when I wasn’t sleeping, so usually I closed my eyes which is probably why I fell asleep so often, but after the first day, I fell asleep a lot less.  Doing nothing felt great to my body, and not so great to my mind, my mind which has been going at warp speed trying to adjust to working for somebody besides myself for the first time in my adult life.  So the ensuing struggle proved to be very interesting and informative.

Doing nothing is always a lot harder than it sounds.  I have tried it before, but then it was with a lot of support; somebody else made the food, somebody else made the schedule and somebody else gave talks on how to do nothing.  It was, even then, a difficult but very rewarding experience.  What is the reward, you might ask?  The reward, the “I never asked for this” reward is finding out that you are not who you think you are.  You are not your work.  You are not your family.  You are not your friends.  You are not who your family and friends think you are.

But sometimes, you are “the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun…the white apron of the baker and the marsh birds suddenly in flight” to quote one of my favorite poems, Litany by Billy Collins.  And then again, you are not because you cannot be reduced to something that can be identified by anything or anyone in words or gestures.  Until now, this had proved to be a great relief.  A relief to discover that I could be whatever it is I happen to be at any given moment, because for all intents and purposes, I have never been until that moment and may never be again after it.  This was greatly disconcerting to the parts of me that wanted to be known or seen, and greatly comforting to the parts that did not.  Until now.

Now, I am not comforted at all, not relieved, but rather agitated and even angry to find that I cannot simply lie down and drink in this darkness, this cool stillness that I crave because instead my mind is careening wildly from working to dreaming to sleeping without stopping for even a break.   Now, I realize I must stay awake if only to catch the moment when there is actually nothing happening, that precious millisecond when there is only light and space, noise and silence, weight and floating air.  So strange, staying awake to see if I am awake, waiting for the gap or in the gap, confused by the chatter that says there is boredom or breakfast or bedbugs waiting for me.

Darkness comes.  I don’t want to leave the floor.  I want to keep staying awake here in the darkness with nothing to do.

I’ve been itching to write a blog entry for the last 2 months, mostly the last month, really, except for the 2 and 1/2 weeks while I was in China.  Finally, here I am, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, beginning to settle in here in North Carolina.  I have had a lot of resistance to coming back to the U.S., a resistance only overcome by the strong desire to start my job here.  I did not really want to come back to a life with a car, a house and a lot of bills to pay.   I have been considering the notion of contentment rather regularly in this process.  Where it used to seem I needed some things to feel content, now it seems the very thought of having them is creating agitation.  In any case, I love the sun here in my new home, an old house with 4 over 1 windows, strange little spaces and a great falling-down front porch.  It is quirky and bright but for unknown reasons, no one seems to have ever had a phone line or cable that worked for internet here in the main house.  Fortunately, the young men in the apartment built from the carriage house in the back have got cable and we are now sharing it, so I can start writing here from the comfort of my new home.

I am still a little confused about why I rented this house.  It seemed a very sketchy situation, but something about the house spoke to me (not the ghosts, I checked!).  As I set up each room, that room becomes my favorite.  I am managing about a room every two weeks.  First it was the bedroom, a spacious but cold room with 7 giant windows on the north side of the house.  I actually have a mattress for the first time in my life, believe it or not.  And for the first half of September I just loved going to sleep since it meant getting into bed.

After I got back from China in early October, my stuff arrived from Vermont.  I went to work on the kitchen, getting out the things that meant I could cook in the oven, and putting up a rack for extra provisions.  Painted a nice warm orangey color with black appliances, a fake granite countertop, and a window onto the woods behind the house, the kitchen has a very cozy appealing feeling like cooking is a good thing (which, of course, it is, but I don’t always feel that way).  I started spending a lot of time cooking, putting my computer on the half wall behind the sink so I could listen to music while I was cooking.

Next, I went to Target.  Now after 12 years in Vermont, 6 months without a car in California and a year in Taiwan, it has been probably 15 years since I have been in a Target.  Wow!  I bought a great black futon couch that works like crazy in my new living room and needless to say it was within my budget.  So, then, I started spending a lot of time on the couch.  I just laid there feeling smug and happy to have a cheap but stylish couch and feeling oh so comfortable.

Then, one day, I started moving boxes in the study.  Suddenly I had a place for the lovely Persian rug that had to live in the shack in the back in Vermont.  I had a chair, two bookcases and a writing desk, all with the morning sun streaming in.  I sat like a cat, sitting and sipping in my little white rocker, admiring my sleek black writing desk and ignoring the 15 boxes of books that somehow still had nowhere to go.  No matter, I had my study and my sun and my rocks and my books and I was happy.

Then, today, I started organizing the attic.  There is a space under the eaves for storing things that needed a lot of attention to be functional, but there is also a big, low-ceilinged, wood-floored space with nice windows and a nook for well, something that involves sitting or lying down.  I set up the majority of this space as my meditation/yoga/study dharma space.  I set up the nook as a sitting area/guest room and now, all I want to do is sit here. basking.  It is glowing in the late afternoon warmth, quiet and roomy, rich colors roaming on the white walls, reminding me that anywhere is home when you actually get there.  And finally, I am here, still in process but quite content.

It is my last week in Taiwan.  It has been almost a year since I arrived here.  I am ready to go, but not because I want to leave Taiwan.   I am ready to go because I am going to a wonderful new job, full of interest and challenge for me.  As I get ready to leave I cannot help but contemplate the many contradictions of my experience here.   Taiwan is a place where you can live like a queen for pennies a day, or develop road rage even as a pedestrian, a place where you can loll about in the ocean, or climb high into the mists of the mountain or the steam of the hot springs, a place where many buildings are crumbling and covered with mold, but garbage is nowhere to be seen, a place where exotic fresh fruits are commonplace, but finding a drink without sugar in it is a big project.  All of these contradictions have provided me with a year of tremendous learning.

I have come to love the sight of darkened, shadowed and even crumbling concrete, embraced by strands of the ever-growing green things that fill every free crack.  I can’t say I love the relentless tune of the garbage truck, but I do love the fact that you can easily dispense with your garbage pretty much anytime day or night.  I have come to feel comfortable in the damp air, though the heat in the center of the day nearly suffocates me.  I have grown very accustomed to the sound of Chinese, even testing it out when I am talking to myself (well, I’d rather practice on my own ears than the sensitive ears of the neighbors).  I have learned so much about communication and language, about people caught in a cultural context not always of their own making, or suitable to their own sensibilities.

I have always felt this kind of cultural contradiction myself, in my own culture, the sense that the culture grew up around me without my express contribution.  This always led me to feel as though I must have come from a different planet.  Since living here in Taiwan, I no longer feel a stranger.  Mapping consciously the difference between humanness and cultural custom, has opened my eyes to a whole new kind of personal engagement.  In my own culture, I couldn’t make this distinction, at least not easily.  I couldn’t tell what was me as a human being and what was the cultural custom thrust upon me both intentionally and unintentionally.  After a year of navigating a language that is so much about context, so immersed in the cultural history as it emerges in any given moment, I feel I have finally begun to feel more at home on this planet.   It is odd, to feel more at home when you know that the context is not your own.  I do wonder how I am going to feel once I am back on the soil of North America.

So my plan is to keep writing here, to continue the odyssey with all the amazing lessons of learning Chinese.  I may no longer be writing from an exotic island in the Pacific, full of Chinese, Japanese and Aboriginal influences, but I will be writing from the place inside me that now has a little bit of it all.

It is still compulsively raining here in Taiwan.  I have been back for a week now and every afternoon it breaks into huge deluges of rain with thunder and lightening often continuing through the early evening.  Really, it is like winter here, only summer, where you can’t really play outside and you have to have some mechanical means to ameliorate the temperature.   Yesterday, I played with a Taiwanese friend and we simply walked through the huge rain until our shoes were squishing water and then we sat down to eat our dou hua 豆花 (silky tofu with sugar syrup and a host of tasty additions like red beans, peanuts and seaweed jelly, plus piles of ice if you like).  We were almost unable to converse because the sound of the rain was so loud.

For the almost year that I have been here, I have been thinking about going to China, what people here call, Zhong Guo Da Lou, the Chinese continent, the mainland.  Taiwan has a unique relationship to China.  The Taiwanese, for the most part, consider Taiwan an independent country but their cultural connections are deeply shared with mainland China.  The government of China doesn’t see the island of  Taiwan as an independent country, but rather as a part of China proper.  Most of the current Taiwanese have genetic origins in the south of China, some even have recent history there, but still Taiwan is a very different place from mainland China.  As I readied myself to step off the plane and into Shanghai, I prepared myself mentally for the chaos that so many have said is the experience of China.

Oriana in the stairwell to her apartment

Chaos it was, though, very fortunately, I had a friend who was meeting me at the airport.  We plunged into the Shanghai traffic and began the trek through the city past the huge area designated as the Shanghai World Expo.  The Expo is represented by a huge blue figure who looks like the spawn of Sponge Bob and the Jiffy Lube guy.  Very scary, but he is everywhere.  China is very proud of this expo and every single Taiwanese person I spoke to before I went asked me if I planned to go there.  What with the reports of 10 hours in line to get into one exhibition hall and the 400,000 per day visitors, I said decidedly “no” I did not plan to attend.  Each and every person was confused and consternated by my blatant lack of interest.  As far as I am concerned the real reason to go to China was to see history in the form of old buildings and geography.  I am not much interested in the almost universally hideous new buildings that dominate the cities.  So, most of the time I was in Shanghai, I spent trying to get out.

Shanghai street

The first day I went with my friend to see her school, Fu Dan University.  It was unremarkable and compared to National Taiwan University where I have been going to school, it was ugly.  But I got to ride the subway, where every car has a little TV screen listing the current number of visitors at the Expo.  The second day we went to the fabric market with a friend who wanted to have some suits made.  This was a very Shanghai experience.  The market is indoors and has 5 floors.  We only made it through two and didn’t even really finish the second one.  It was quite a thrill for me to talk with the merchants about colors and fabrics and finally to choose one who seemed both economical and very skilled at making garments.   Our friend ordered two suits which would be ready in a week for about $75 a piece.  Quite a deal for wool fabrics and tailored to fit.

QiBao canal

On the third day, we went to visit a place called QiBao, an old part of Shanghai situated on the river and canals that make up the Yangtze river delta.  Unfortunately, it has become a very touristed part of town and much of its original charm has been compromised.  But I enjoyed it nonetheless, slowly getting used to the crowds and intensity of being in China.

house on the canal in QiBao

On the fourth day, we were finally able get out of town.  After some research we decided to visit ZhouZhuang, another river town fairly close by, only an hour and a half by bus.  We didn’t actually realize that for $10 (there and back) we had also signed up for a guided tour.  The tour guide literally talked for the entire hour and a half ride there.  We determined to escape as soon as possible after we arrived, feeling overwhelmed by the 40 other people (all Chinese) and needing to go at a slower pace than this tour guide promised.  This meant we spent the first half of the afternoon wandering around in a strange ghost town of empty shops and hotels and restaurants that looked like they had never been used but built on behalf of some giant amusement park that would one day blossom.  It was very strange.  We kept trying to figure out what we were there to see.  We started to feel regret that we had ditched the tour guide.  We started to get hungry.  Finally we trekked back nearly to where we had started to find some lunch and happened to notice a sign pointing down the canal to something called the old town.  We resolved to go there after lunch.

temple on the canal at ZhouZhuang

chair (wheel?) in the wall on the corner in ZhouZhuang

The old town was packed with tourists, temples, stone walkways and old buildings.  I was happy, except for the crowds.  We spent a good 3 hours wandering around, found a huge lake, a huge Buddha statue, some strange exercise equipment and some Chinese tourists who wanted video footage of my friend (who is tall and blonde) and said not a word to me (not in Chinese or any other language) since I was obviously too short and dark to make any impression.

Oriana on the strange exercise equipment

Somehow, in the end, China did not make such a huge impression on me, but I want to go back.  I want to see more.  In contrast to Taiwan, where I no longer feel so much like a tourist, in China, I not only felt like a tourist, I was happy to be one!

Son of Sponge Bob

It is the season of big water, monsoon season, 雨節, raining season, here in Northern Taiwan and that is what it does basically every day, rain.  The air is so wet that there is almost no point in showering.  Needless to say that makes for a bad hair season altogether for anyone who isn’t Asian by birth.  This week during my school break, I decided to head for the ocean.   Despite the relatively small size of Taiwan, the top half and the bottom half have very different weather patterns.  So I went as far south as I could get to the southern eastern tip which is really a peninsula and is dominated by Kenting National Park.  Down there it is comparatively dry, (which isn’t to say it is dry, just compared to the north it is dry) and it is starting to be quite hot.  I wanted to go surfing but the waves were too small for much more than bobbing about getting sunburned which is exactly what I did.  Being in the ocean, this big body of water, restores me to a kind of happiness I know nowhere else in my life.  Though I haven’t yet had my first official surfing lesson, just bobbing about with a board made me completely understand the devotion and intensity of most surfers.  It is both a motherly and fatherly sort of sport.  You feel both nurtured and challenged by the power of the water.  It is both rhythmic and unpredictable, laughing fun and hot dog fun, laid back and intense all at the same time.

I did  a lot of reflecting (both physically i.e. sunburn and metaphysically) while in that big water.  Reflecting on my time here in Taiwan which I may soon be leaving, I realized how much this place where the air is nearly as wet as the water and where hot water bubbles up from the ground all over the island, has been like a womb to me.  I have felt myself slipping around, contemplating all manner of things, all the while feeling contained, almost oddly cocooned in a way, knowing that at some point I would emerge.  Finally surrounded by the salty ocean, I felt the strength and energy of new life, new possibility.

Floating-being, surfing-doing.  The balance between doing and being is always interesting to navigate.  In the doing there is some kind of momentum, sometimes even a rush of energy that can be just as invigorating as a good cup of coffee.  In the being there is a deep sense of relaxation and peace, an unspecified knowing that things are perfect just as they are.  This last year has been a time of re-negotiating the balance for myself between the being and the doing.  One of the most interesting things that I have noticed is that often when I think doing is required, it is actually being that is called for.  Like learning Chinese, for example, my daily endeavor.  I can do, do, do, writing characters, memorizing dialogue, doing homework, but when I open my mouth only being will save me from complete humiliation.  Strange, isn’t it, how this seems to work.  Packing in knowledge and then finding a way to let go into the being of the moment.  Rocking along in the water, when suddenly the wind picks up and a big wave heads for me and my board.  Instantly, I must be up and doing.  From complete rest and surrender to up and at attention in a millisecond or I will slammed down on the sand without mercy.

Normally, I don’t crave danger, risk.  But this ocean reality, this constant flux of energies that provides relaxation and demands attention, well, I think I am addicted to this.  I am in awe of both the power and gentleness of this big water.   I crave this lesson over and over.  I try to remember this lesson as I sit in my apartment again in the thundering noise of big rains, restless and wanting to move, but instead surrendering to the inner reflections resulting in a lot less sunburn and perhaps equal amounts of doing and being, if I can just learn to surf…