Breeze

14x18 Oil

In painting there are certain artists I look up to, people whose work I admire and connect with. I can say the same about my life, as seen in a handful of people who have had a profound effect on me as a human being.

I am dedicating this painting to three young monks I met in 2015 on a trip I took to the remote Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan. I was not expecting what I found there.

There were twelve of us curious adventurers led by two experienced leaders and three amiable Bhutanese guides. We could not have been a more agreeable group of people. Our reasons for being there were varied, but for me it was a yearning to experience something deeply meaningful. I didn’t know what or how or when or even if I would wander into such territory, but I was hopeful. I mean, jeez, I was going to the Himalayas!

When friends asked why I wanted to go to Bhutan, I jokingly told them I was going there to “shake hands with God.” But under that levity was exactly that desire, in whatever form it was even possible.

This story is a testament to the power of the Universe to work in one’s favor when one sincerely desires it to do so. I say this because on November 9, 2015, I was surprised and humbled by an unexpected gift.

There is so much I could say about my experience in Bhutan – the people, the ceremony, the scary muddy roads carved into mountainsides with terrifying thousand-foot, no-rail drop-offs, the monasteries, the yaks, the cows and packs of feral dogs roaming freely in the streets, sleeping on the sidewalks during the day and gathering in loud territorial gangs at night, the compassionate young king and his family, the architecture, the ubiquitous traditional dress, and most intriguing of all, at least to me, the red-robed monks.

On that particular November day we arrived in the village of Gangtey, which is located in the vast Phobjikha Valley, home of the black-necked crane. There, we visited the Gangtey Sangag Choling shedra, a monastic university where over 400 young monks were earning their master’s degrees.

We were met by three student Mahayana monks in their early twenties. One of them spoke English. His name was Sonam, who was without question the most kind, humble, and calm human being I had ever met. I watched him as he welcomed us, spellbound by his serene and welcoming demeanor.

After treating us to a rare ceremonial performance by fifty or so student monks, a few of us and our leader, Jessica Maxwell, gathered to thank the three young monks for their generosity. In Bhutanese tradition, they put their hands together and bowed, a gesture I could not help but feel honored by. Then, in a voice so soft I could hardly hear, Sonam asked if we would like to return that evening for a lesson on meditation. We accepted on the spot.

It was such a simple thing, a handful of us standing around, talking. But I was completely captured by the grace and tranquility of these three young men.

As we left, I said to Jessica, “Those guys are … are … I don’t know … like the kind of person I want to be.”

Seriously, I was about ready to cash in my jeans for a red robe.

That evening, we returned to the shedra for the offered lesson on meditation. The experience, for me, turned out to be meaningful to the core. Fortunately, I kept a journal.

***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

We removed our shoes and entered the old plank-floored temple, a large open space looking much like a church without the pews.

As we filed in, Sonam, the young monk who had invited us, pulled me aside and asked me what my name was, and I told him it was Sandy (my nickname). He smiled and repeated it. He placed his hands together in the way of respect, and I went on to sit cross-legged on the floor wondering why he wanted to know my name. Within moments, student monks emerged with warm tea and crackers for us to enjoy before the presentation.

After tea, the meditation master came out and sat on the Dias. Sonam sat to his right to translate.

(I go on in my journal to explain the lesson, including a description of my extreme discomfort at having to sit cross-legged for almost an hour).

After the presentation, we thanked the young monks profusely, for we were all very thankful for the rare opportunity to be taught meditation in a monastery, by a master, in the Himalayas.

As we mingled with the monks, saying our farewell, Sonam with several of his friends approached me again. He said, “May I tell you something I experienced with you?”

“Of course,” I said. “Please.”

He said, “Sandy, when we were meeting earlier in the day, I saw a deep sense of kindness in your face, and I felt as if you were one of my friends, a brother, just like here,” and he swept his hand toward his ever-smiling companions.

For a moment I was speechless, absorbing the comment. Me? All I could say was — and this was deeply heart-felt — “You don’t know how much that means to me. Thank you.”

We stood talking for a moment, me not having an ounce of presence to ask for more, to go deeper, to ask why he would feel as if I were a brother, a friend. I was a foreigner, far more than twice his age, and we lived in utterly different worlds.

When it was time to leave, I shook his hand, twice. I was perplexed … I mean, the Universe must be working overtime. I’d told Jessica that I wanted to be just like these kind and humble human beings, and here they were likening me to a brother, as if perhaps I had been a monk in a previous life, or something.

That night in my room at the Dewachen Lodge I fell immediately asleep, just as I have done every night here in Bhutan.

In the middle of the night, I awakened and grinned, and without time to even think about it, sat up and said, “God, did I just shake hands with you?” Honestly, I actually did that.

There was no answer, at least not in a voice coming out of the mist, and there was no apparition at the foot of my bed. The night was silent, my room illuminated by a billion stars outside my window. But it was utterly clear to me that I was communicating with … something. Because there was a message.

I did not hear it.

I felt it.

And it was as clear as the infinite night sky. “I am very pleased with the progress you are making.”

That was it.

Anyone can think what they want — woo-woo, weird, over-worked imagination, losing it, spiritual looney tune — but as as far as I am concerned, the message-feeling was real.

This morning as we prepare to go for a hike across the valley, I smile as I reflect upon my naïveté. Here I had not so seriously proclaimed to my friends back home that I was going to Bhutan to shake hands with God.

That did not happen.

Silly boy.

No … God shook hands with me.

***

My life has not been the same since.