Hiatus

It's been a while since I last posted here and I thought I would give you a chance to decide for yourself what it was that kept me away.

a) I finally gave into the pressure of my boosters and entered the rickshaw derby from Mumbai to Goa.
b) I took on the ascetic lifestyle and gave up on computers and internet for two weeks
c) I ate too much food one night, suffered a severe case of delhi belly and laid in bed for half a month
d) Meditated in silence for 14 days
e) Decided to commit myself to modeling traditional Indian clothes on a full-time basis
f) All of the above
g) None of the above

Well, if you guessed g, then you are right. While this may disappoint you (and somehow it slightly disappoints me) I actually spent the last three weeks in a mad rush booking tickets and getting visas and preparing a thousand details in advance of our program's move to the Far East. Oh, and we also arrived in the Far East during that time, so I'm writing on from Taiwan.

A couple of notes about the upcoming posts. About five will be backdated to the beginning of February, while a couple feature my most recent experiences on the island. Please keep an eye out for both.

I'll do my best to keep writing and I hope you enjoy what you read.

Xie Xie,

Chris

A Few Hours In Malaysia

For a number of reasons, I had a two-stopover trip to Taiwan from Mumbai. Following a five-hour trek down from the plateaus of Panchgani to the mega-city, I camped at the airport with my friends before departing on an overnight flight to Kuala Lumpur.**

The flight itself was memorable if nothing else. As we boarded the plane at 11:55pm, we secretly told the cabin crew of the Malaysian Airlines (an airline I will now officially endorse) flight that one of our friends would actually be celebrating her birthday at midnight. We asked if they could do something special for her. Sure enough, when we were just airborne, the captain made his usual flight announcements and then wished our friend a happy birthday over the intercom. This led to an uproarious version of “Happy Birthday”, which we sang several time and was later repeated by all the flight attendants. The cabin crew supervisor gave her some sweets and even two bottles of wine! Amazing. Into her sixties, my friend could not believe the whole scene and beamed one of the most genuine birthday smiles I’ve ever seen.

Of course, the excitement eventually subsided into relaxation and after dinner I settled into watching “Eagle Eye” before trying to nod off in the late night hours. It turned into fruitless search as my mind buzzed with a million thoughts of my upcoming trip to Taiwan, Hong Kong and China and beyond that. Exhausted, I deboarded the plane at 7:30 in the Malaysian morning, cleared immigrations, loaded up my bags and walked into the swollen humidity outside.

I would still need to take two more flights in the day, but we had an 8-hour layover and my friend Cheng had spoken to her friend Kei-Kei who offered to pick us up and show us around KL. In a flash, we were in his SUV and flying towards the capital. It’s been three years since my last visit to KL, but the palm plantations and hazy air felt familiar and as the city came into view it seemed like a memory coming alive.

I have a fondness for Kuala Lumpur primarily because I met my good friend Jeff there at the tail end of my long trip to Asia a few years back. Over long correspondence we had agreed to cross paths as he was setting out on a solo backpacking adventure and I was finishing mine. He had the brilliant foresight to book us a hotel and smiled thinking of our night of reunion when I laid on a comfortable bed and watched a baseball game before he arrived and we sipped tiger beer in the street sharing stories in the late evening heat.

I’d seen the city before and I was happy to pass by some of the old sight-seeing hotspots, but I felt a kind of joy when I arrived in the Chinese district where I met Jeff on the hot August night two-an-a-half years ago. I saw the rows of hawkers under the plastic waving the plastic ceiling. I remembered the place where I saw the biggest rat I’ve ever seen in my life. The exotic smells that make up an open-air market. The old hotel, the tea stalls and the knock-off shoes.

The expedition was perfectly timed. It was the last day of the Chinese New Year celebrations and we caught the excitement of three traditional lion dances. And Kei-Kei went out of his way for us to dine on all available market cuisine. From rice milk drinks and nuts to Chinese buns and coffee we ate our way down the streets before rollingback to the airport for our onward flight to Hong Kong.

Without question, Kei-Kei’s attention made a lasting impression on me and the others along for the ride. I’ve been on the receiving end of some incredibly generous hospitality in my life (often feeling quite undeserved), but Kei-Kei really went out of his way to pick us up (an hour out of town), show us around and make us feel that we’d really been to his hometown. When we asked why he made such an effort, he said that he had traveled to Taiwan a few months back and been treated so well that he wanted to make sure that if anyone was coming to KL, he would give them the same kind of care and attention. It must have been some trip to Taiwan.

My companions and I were so touched by the spirit that we made a mutual commitment to pay that sentiment forward and take up the challenge of being equally gracious hosts when given the next opportunity.

We wished Kei-Kei a cheerful goodbye at the terminal. True to form, he gave us one final gift, handing each of us a red envelope, the traditional gift given to celebrate the Chinese New Year. Inside was a small coin that signified good luck for our upcoming journeys.

** I’ve developed a theory that because Americans developed flight technology and pioneered the subsequent commercial air business, they [and perhaps reasonably so] picked out the best departure and arrival times to which the rest of the world had to adjust. Given their considerable sway in terms of capital, Europe managed to get in on this as well, pushing countries like India to the margins. Therefore, whenever you leave or arrive into India, its almost always at some ridiculous hour like two in the morning. Of course, to this theory I will add the “camp corollary”, which basically states that the kid who shows up in the cabin first gets to pick whatever bunk he wants. Tough luck for everyone else and “stay off my bunk!”

Lesson 3: Loving People When its Impossible

People are incredibly difficult. If you have lived with a family, being with the same people day in and day out, you’ve reached the height of understanding this difficulty. The ones we love the most are also those who often become the most difficult. Sometimes, its just because they know how to be difficult and want to do it. Sometimes, its because we are actually the difficult ones!

Traveling with a group of nine people over the course of two months is the closest I’ve come to having a second family. We spend almost all of our waking hours together, bouncing from meal to meal, appointment to appointment and planning, discussing and sharing life together. In many ways it’s absolutely brilliant, we see the best of one another. But there is no question, time and travel always reveals the worst in someone as well.

It’s no wonder that this is the time and place that I would reach the conclusion that people are difficult. And even more, people are difficult to get along with. And the most of all, people are difficult to love. But this is the challenge – to love people when it’s difficult. Even more – to love people when it’s impossible.

Impossible? Yes. I’m not talking about impossible in absolute terms, but in our own thinking. How many times do we construct a limit of impossibility within our relationships (“I’ll never forgive him”, “She’s just impossible to love”, “I can’t stand them”, etc)?

In the right light, it’s quite helpful to recognize something as impossible. It’s an acknowledgement of our own limits. When we’ve felt our own endpoint, we’ve reached a point of growth, in faith and in relationship.

More and more I’m welcoming the point of impossibility. When something seems impossible, it’s a challenge. Am I willing to extend myself into the void and trust? Can I step where I’ve never stepped before? Can I ask someone for help and work with them to do what I can’t do on my own?

Somehow, I find the realm of impossibility (our own self-imposed limit) somehow sits at the heart of the human experience. The most inspiring people I know have repeatedly come against the abyss of impossibility and stepped forward, only to find that somehow, their faith was received by an even greater faithfulness on the other side. I find myself increasingly motivated to take these steps.

And so it is with difficult people and difficult situations. Will I keep confined to my own limitations and act in the realm of what’s possible? Or will I instead choose to love people beyond possibility and step in faith towards the impossible?

Lesson 2: Taking the Challenge

These days I’ve come to a final conclusion about living. Life requires risk and true living means putting faith into action, even when the risk seems great.

Over the past week I’ve come to see some things about myself more clearly. Importantly, I’ve run up against a familiar trait of people-pleasing. To put it more precisely, it’s an issue of appeasement. In many ways it’s far easier to appease those I find difficult and hope that a steady dose of this strategy will keep any rising problems at bay. It’s a strategy many people employ on a regular basis. But it’s flawed and doesn’t tackle any of the root causes of the problem. Furthermore, its usually devoid of love.

To sort out these relational issues one must act with a spirit of bold and unfaltering love. The kind of love that is the very opposite of fear (the central motivator in people-pleasing). We can live forever in a state of fear regarding relationships. Fear can actually provide a sense of purpose and meaning in a relationship because it gives it a direction, an intention. At the same time, fear fundamentally spoils our ability to love, our highest human calling.

For me, living in fear as a leader on Action for Life means not risking. I am constantly in a place where I can deliver important criticism to those on the program, but at the same time, I need them to work with me and be with me for our group to function. If one person loses grip because the criticism cuts too deep, the group can faction off and destabilize completely. We’ve all been in groups where one statement set off a chain reaction that destroyed team chemistry. I frequently find myself measuring the content and timing of my words for impact, but often find that my fear of a negative impact keeps me silent, happier to keep an uneasy peace than to stir up a storm.

This policy is based on a belief that the unsaid word will make no impact or keep the status quo. But this isn’t true! If the word goes unsaid, it still makes a significant impact. For one, it keeps the feeling inside of me, doubling its potency (and perhaps venom) if it would ever come out. Further, it doesn’t address the issue at all. There is a reason it came up. That reason is important because it’s hitting on the root of an issue that, if changed, could bring significant, positive results in the future for that person, that person’s interaction with the group and the group as a whole.

On top of a misty mountain in Yercaud, Tamil Nadu, I managed to write a few words on the water-logged pages of my journal:

Observe behavior carefully. Listen in silence to understand the root cause of that behavior. Develop a clear line of thinking. Act swiftly; don’t hesitate on sharing the insight. Deliver the insight with genuine love and respect.

Lesson 1: People Where They Are

My whole trip back around the world is full of more lessons than I could ever possibly recall or fully understand in the short time I've been given. But this the first of four lessons I've written about specifically since I've been on the road.

Take people where they are and give them a vision for where they can be.

When we look at people, can we accept them for who they are and where they are? I’ve found regularly in my life that I meet people and wish that they were someone different, somewhere different. What I mean is that sometimes I see a person and wonder how they can act a certain way or why they can’t see a blind spot in their life. I’m sure people look at me the same way, wishing I could somehow break away from something that is holding me back. I imagine that parents frequently feel this way when they look at their children learning lessons (or not learning lessons) the hard way.

But one of the most remarkable things about human life is that despite our almost identical biological compositions, we are each unique, shaped by our genes and experiences like no other. Each of us walking our own path of life. Sometimes its alone, sometimes we share it with others or even walk long distances with the same person, but the small truth remains the same: each of us is at the point we are at on the path we are on.

No one can make another person move faster or slower on that path. Or climb the rocky patch that’s difficult or take it easy and smell the hedge of honeysuckle. It can’t be done without that person’s consent. This is free will. And free will plays as central a role as any in the course of humanity.

But in the same moment that we can’t move someone (no matter how frustrating this may be) we can do something about it. True education and leadership and care for another human being is helping them to see who they can be and what they can do on their path. It’s believing in the possibility of each person and giving them a vision that excites them to the point of taking action of their own volition. Not for any other reason than that they saw a vision for their life that inspired them to new action.

(There is another side to the concept of vision expressed here, and it’s the idea of judgment or rebuke. I’ve recently been reading “A Generous Orthodoxy” by Brian McLaren who writes exceptionally on the important role judgment plays in bringing the truth into the light. I hope to reflect more on this later).

It’s a difficult task to move past the frustration that others cause us when we see where we would like them to be and have to deal with the reality of where they are. It requires the wisdom of patience and acceptance. But it’s also an incredible opportunity to shine some light on the path ahead.

Postlogue: Upon writing this, I want to acknowledge the many who have taken the time to give me a greater vision for who I can be in my life and I’m grateful to those who have waited out a remarkably stubborn man uninterested in change. Now it’s my chance to work with the lesson learned and take my turn.

Two Holy Men

I haven't written an ounce of fiction in years. I don't aim to write it and its the rarest of occasions when it even comes to mind in a daydream. That said, I was sitting in a Jain temple in December and scribbled this out as the sun was setting in Maharashtra. Thought it was worth sharing here.

Two holy men from neighboring villages were traveling on the road. Coming from different directions, they arrived at the same village together on the same afternoon. As per their custom, each went to the local temple to sing prayers at sunset.

Both men had reputations for being the best singers in their respective towns and both walked into the same temple ready to give their offering in song. One arrived a few seconds before the other, bowed his head and began to sing his prayer. Mere moments later the other launched into his melody and the two voices rang aloud throughout the temple. Like a pair of clanging cymbals in discord, their voices clashed harmonically, rhythmically and in all imaginable ways. The cacophony drove the other patrons quickly out of the temple. Too stubborn, each singer continued his song until the temple emptied and both were completely exhausted and sore in the throat.

With the painful event concluded, they parted ways without a word and left the temple to their separate quarters for the night. Each thought to himself, “Every time I enter a temple and sing, everyone is blessed by my prayers, but today they were not. They left unhappy. If only that other man had not come, then I would have pleased everyone with my sweet songs. Surely, tomorrow he will have moved on and I will be able to sing my prayers alone.”

The next day, both men arrived at the temple for prayers at sunset. When they entered they noticed each other and raced to the shrine, leaping into song at the pint of kneeling. Again, one started a moment before the other and both, out of breath from their race, struggled through their prayers. All those in the temple left quickly, deeply irritated with the two holy men.

With the temple cleared for the second straight evening, each man glared furiously at the other and again stormed off in different directions. Each more determined than ever, the two men separately developed identical plots. “I will arrive at the temple early tomorrow. This way I can start my prayers alone and if the other man comes, he will already be too late. If he doesn’t sing, I can continue in peace. If he does sing, he will interrupt me and this interruption will look like pride. The people will discourage him and a send him packing.”

The next day, both men reached the temple and hour early, walking from different sides of town. They entered from different sides of the temple and arrived at the altar seconds apart and each launched into song. Exasperated and desperate, the sounds emerged and again the temple suffered from the tragic tones. The noise was so horrible that no one even entered the temple that day.

Cursing each other’s name, they each stormed off even more determined to win the developing competition. With renewed vigour, each man committed to outlast the other. For weeks their battle continued. Few people visited the temple. They could not believe that two holy men could feud so relentlessly.

Weeks turned into moons. Moons turned into seasons. Seasons turned into years. And even when the heat of summer and cold of winder kept other inside, both men would religiously visit the temple and sing their disgraceful duet in the emptiness.

The town’s morale began to fade and many gave up on God. Many saw God as the source of the problems. As the years rolled by even the temple workers and custodians could no longer take the wretched noise. They left to find other work in other villages. The temple fell into disrepair and no longer meant anything to anyone other than the two holy singers who continued to use it as their personal arena.

Although the two men were blind to many things, they could see that the people no longer visited the temple or prayed – nor did they treat each other with the neighbourly love that used to emanate from the temple grounds and their hearts. Hope had left town and faith had been replaced by apathy and cynicism.

Dismayed, each man decided to try to see if he could spy on the other to find a way to end the competition once and for all and thereby restore to the people what had been lost.

One morning, one of the men snuck over to the other’s small flat and watched through a hole in the wall as he washed his clothes. While doing the chore, the man began to sing the most beautiful song the listening ears had ever heard:

Join us together in love
For we are of one mother
We are of one father
We are children born in love and of love
Born to love

It sounded vaguely familiar and the listening man strained to place it. After some minutes he realized. This was the prayer that the man had been singing everyday at the temple.

Shocked, the man hurried home and sat at his table thinking. “What a glorious voice this man has. He is right to be singing at the temple. I should have noticed years ago, but I have been too interested in my own song. Tonight I will pack up my things to leave. Tomorrow I will apologize to him, let him know that I’m leaving and that he has well earned the place of honor as singer in the temple.” He set to work, singing as he readied his things for the onward journey

But as he prepared, the other man wandered over to spy in on his competitor. Peering through the gate, he head a most joyous tone – the sound of someone no longer burdened by the weight of suffering:

Let my heart be pure enough
To embrace my brother
In bold and delicate love

His heart warmed with the music, but it confused his head. “I know this song,” the man muttered to himself. A few more repetitions and it clicked in. “My God! That’s the song he’s been singing in the temple these many years. Surely God has given this man the voice of angels.” The man continued to listen until slowly walking back to his house, ashamed.

As he walked he thought, “That voice deserves a temple to sing in alone. He felt clear to pack up and leave the town at once, stopping first to apologize to his enemy before heading out. He too set to work, getting ready for the journey.

The next day, both left for the temple to meet the other at evening prayers. As usual, they arrived within seconds of each other.

One spoke first, “Brother, I have wronged you. I’ve made this temple a place of my personal agenda and I believe that its your voice that should be singing here and not mine. I’ve come to apologize to you. Please forgive me.”

“No, no!” the other said. “It is I who have committed the crime. I’ve held a bitter feeling in my heart against you and made a competition between the two of us. I’m sorry for this. I believe that it’s your voice that rightly belongs in this temple. Please forgive me.”

For the first time in years, both men stood in the temple and there was complete silence.

“I forgive you.”
“I forgive you.”
“But my dear friend, what do we do now? Should one of us stay? Should we both go?”
“Dear brother, let’s pray to see if we get some direction.”

Both men kneeled down together and humbly began to sing their prayers underneath their breath at the same time. But something had changed. Their hearts and attitudes had moved. Their postures had shifted. And now they were listening.

Instead of singing to feature their own voice and blast the other to the wall, the modesty of each voice brought gentleness into the air and painted the walls with colors. And something incredible occurred. As each man listened, he began to vary his melody to fit with the other, slowly developing into balanced harmonies first whispering and eventually soaring together as two voices in one. A flawless duet rang throughout the town, resonating with creation.

In the street, a small child heard the song. He picked up his ball and wandered into the delapidated temple, sitting next to the men, cross-legged with his eyes closed. Listening. Minutes later, his mother, frantically looking for him, entered the temple. Relieved to see him, she sat next to him and caressed his head as they both listened to the music. Having not seen his wife for a while, a husband searched the streets of the town in search of her. Eventually he came to the temple and sat with his family, joy-filled by the music.

And like this, the temple slowly began to fill with people, song, faith and hope. And the music played for many, many years.