DACMan

Trekking in the Himalayan Kingdom of Mustang was everything I’d imagined and much more.  The land was shockingly beautiful at every turn, the people endlessly sweet, and the villages simple and incredibly photogenic.  The trekking itself was often extremely hard, testing my physical and psychological limits for hours at a time.  Fortunately, I had no altitude sickness, even though the 13,700’ passes took every ounce of strength and determination I could muster.  The air is thin up there, however, within minutes of crossing a pass, I was happy to hike on, as if no trial ever existed.  Pain is forgotten in the face of such beauty, joy, and a powerful sense of accomplishment.  The trek was about living in the present.  It was a joy to be free, “off the grid,” and filled with simple happiness.  That joy grew each day, as the world I once knew receded and the now became the all.

One of my greatest joys here was experiencing the utter authenticity of life.  Stone Mani (prayer) walls were built by hand over the centuries, some being 1,000 years old and stretching over a kilometer. Each stone was hand carved with inscriptions and prayers to be sent to the heavens by winds through time. Every home and monastery was built with rock, adobe, and wood, and every roof is stacked with firewood for the long, cold winter.  The monasteries have remained virtually unchanged since they were built.  I never saw or heard a television or radio.  Instead, there are prayer wheels everywhere, used daily by young and old alike. Here, people mostly cook with dried dung or very limited local firewood. In the distance, the sounds of goat, pony, and mule bells intermingle with the quiet muffled chanting of “Om Mani Padme Om” by someone with prayer beads.  A soft, “Namaste” comes from passersby, along with the sound of hooves on stone, as goats are herded through town.  If this sounds like perfect simplicity, it is. This is a rare, authentic world.  The only thing that reminded me it’s 2012 were the modern sunglasses worn by young men in the villages.

Hot coffee was brought to my tent early each morning.  Getting ready, we’d ask our guide Hem for details of the day’s trek and he’d smile and say, “We are in the mountains, what do you do in the mountains?”  We’d laugh, “We trek!  First up, then down, up then down, up and down.”  We hiked most days between altitudes of 12 and 14,000 feet, up and down, up and down.  We watched our footing at every step on the rocky trails to prevent a twisted ankle or a fall off a cliff’s edge.  This was our moment-to-moment, Zen, be-here-now practice.  The ever-changing mountains loomed another 14,000’ above us. We were never prepared for the inevitable awestruck moment when we did look up.

On the trail, mule drivers, horsemen, and goat herders have their own language to direct, encourage, and calm the animals. I loved to walk near them and listen to the endless chatter of whistles, songs, repetitive humming, and quick shouts that created a comforting, mesmerizing rhythm. I was happy to pretend be in the line of mules, guided and soothed by the punctuated drone. After all, we were doing the same thing as the mules, walking up and over the passes and through the valleys of the Himalayas. Their sweet song said, “Keep moving. Don’t stop now. The land is beautiful. Dinner is waiting. Now, just keep moving. Next step, next step, we’ll rest when we get there…”

The land and the villages are untouched, real. The people are beautiful with a healthy, pink color coming through their brown Tibetan faces.  The harsh climate makes people age early, but with deep character.  They live without pretense, not trying to be something other than what they are. Life is hard, real, and simple.  The Kingdom of Mustang is in a state of being more than becoming.  In joy and pain, we trekked the middle ground, halfway between heaven and the sea.

Often, the sweetest times slip by unacknowledged.  The day we rode horseback from Mustang’s capital, Lomanthang, population 800, to some newly opened caves near the border of Tibet, was a painful one.  The land we needed to hike, to the caves and back, was both too high (over 15,000 feet) and too far (about 15 miles) for us lowlanders to cover in one day so we went on horseback.

My horse was uncooperative at best.  The stirrups, when I used them, were far too short, forcing my knees to a position just under my chin and only a thin blanket separated my tailbone and the horse’s bony spine.  The horseman and I had no language in common but had been traveling together for ten days at this point.  Seeing my distress, he simply walked at my side, speaking softly, humming, and giving directions to the nasty nag I was riding.  I think the calming sounds were really for m.  His hand usually rested lightly on my boot or calf in a sweet, reassuring gesture that overrode the discomfort of the day.  An unbridgeable gap was dissolved by his kindness.  I could only thank him with my eyes and smile.

The five-story caves were astounding with 108 rooms carved into solid rock 2,500 years ago.  With wooden ladders connected the different levels, the lowest opening being about 30 feet from the flat ground, making entry dicey at best.  It was hard to imagine the life lived by these families for fifteen centuries.

On the return trip to our camp, the horseman again walked at my side, his endless calming chatter of repetitive humming. Whistles, songs and quick shouts were we woven again into a mesmerizing rhythm.  When Lomanthang came into view, I slid off my horse and walked the last hour home.  Our two guides, also in tailbone pain, immediately followed suit, and we happily walked back to camp.  My memories of this incredible day are as much of the friendship of the horseman as of the caves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This ancient Mustang palace, abandoned 500 years ago after 400 years of use, is home to an unusual monastery museum. It is five stories high through only two rooms house the museum. The building is maintained only enough to keep it standing.

When we asked to see the museum, the village headman climbed up to the monastery to get the key. No luck. He ran back to the village as we waited and reappeared some twenty-five minutes later walking up the switchbacks to meet us. He clearly had the stride of a man without a key. He said the key is coming, but couldn’t say when.

In a land with a very different sense of time, “the key is coming,” is not what one wants to hear. Having seven hours of rigorous trekking ahead of us, we were concerned about time, especially knowing that by noon the winds would pick up and the trekking would become considerably more difficult. As we stood on a point high above the village, he started calling out to the village, “Bring the key! Bring the key!” Over and over like a chant, a chant that could be heard at least a mile away.

We were all in buoyant and playful moods, unperturbed by this setback. We learned the words to his chant, and thinking we would help out, we all started chanting/shouting to the village far below, “Bring the key. Bring the key! Bring the k-e-e-e-y-y-y-y!!” or whatever we were saying to whomever might listen. We all thought this was hysterically funny and laughed about it the rest of the day. How can you shout to a village, “Bring the key!” and expect a key to show up?

When we were about to give up and begin the day’s trek, we saw a monk coming up the switchbacks below, heading our way, carrying the magic key to an even more magical museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our November 15, 1969 chant during the anti-war demonstration in Washington DC was:

“Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Min, the NLF is gonna win.”  It rings in my ears every day I’m in Vietnam, especially in Hanoi where he lived.  Back then I barely understood what the NLF (National Liberation Front) was.  What I knew was the Vietnam War had to end.

In today’s Vietnam, Ho Chi Min is the honored and revered father of the country, the Mahatma Gandhi.  It seems for the past 2000 years Vietnam has been continuously either subjugated or at war.  For the first 1000 years AD, it was the Chinese who ruled and most recently, the French, until 1954.  This colonial occupation was followed by the U.S. support of the South against the North in an anti-communist war fought in the 60′s and 70′s in part, to stem the “red tide.” The Communists did win and Vietnam was united under the Hammer and Sickle.  The socialist experiment to make everyone equal ended after a long series of failures.  In 1986 a free market system was adopted followed by a messy, often confusing period of change.  The pre ’86 government controlled virtually everyone and everything, right down to a coupon system that rationed every breakfast, lunch and dinner eaten in Vietnam through a coupon system for getting food.  By 1989, the change was substantially complete and the economy has been growing at an amazing rate ever since.

When I planned my latest work trip to Bali, I looked forward to meeting with Dek.  I “reserved” as much of time as possible with him so we could work together making and designing furniture.  Dek’s my main man in Bali.  We share a warehouse, workshop space, and meet daily to move all our projects as well as our lives, forward.  He is smart, highly skilled, intuitive, incredibly hard working, fun to be with, and fully Balinese.  He and his wife from NYC, own and run eight or nine businesses, which, by all reports, are starting to run them!

We’d set up a breakfast meeting for my first morning in Bali at his wildly successful Kafe and planned to drive from there to the workshop.  After half an hour of catching up on news, he casually said, “Someone in my village died last night.”  My heart sank, not because some unknown person died, (knowing we’ll all die one of these days), but I know Dek well enough to know that this is probably really bad news for my time with him.  He went on, “That person was from the royal family.”  (This is even worse news for me!)  Continuing, “There will be major cremation in two weeks, and my family has the honor and responsibility to build the tower and bull essential for the ceremony.”  (Worst news yet.  Bye bye Dek for two weeks, my plans are suddenly down the drain).  “It means at least 10 hours extra work for me each day.  I have no choice.  I’m Balinese and this is what matters and what must be done.  I’m sorry, brother.”  (Damn!  Of the 3,500 people in his village, why did that person have to die?  Why couldn’t they have just waited a few weeks? I thought to myself).  He went on, “It may not matter that much anyway.  All six of my woodworkers are still in Java for Ramadan etc., and are coming back two weeks late.  Nothing I can do.  No workers, no furniture.”  (Double damn!)  I answered.  “It’s OK Dek, you have to do what you have to do.  I do understand, it’s harder for you than it is for me.  We’ll grab some time here and there.  What about the Java workers?”  “No telling if or when they will return.”

My work in Bali appears to be designing and making furniture and art, managing business there, buying special pieces from all over Indonesia, and managing the house and warehouses and their staffs.  While this is my outer work, the inner work is just as important.  I’d planned this trip six months in advance.  Central to that plan was Dek.  Dek was 90% taken out of the picture in one second.  The inner work is: to accept what is, be happy, and change all the plans and some of the goals of the trip with compassion, speed, and without looking back.  Thirty trips to Bali have given me a great deal of practice in moving past frustration with some degree of ease and humor so I can be happy (a critical component) and so the outer work can be done.

It was love-at-first-sight. I’m hopelessly in love with our pair of two hundred year old tigers. They are paper thin, wrinkled, and torn in a few places, but they’re the cutest tigers on earth.

After many years of collecting, then selling some of the most beautiful and endearing pieces of man’s creations, I know better than to fall in love. In fact, I’m surprised I am attached to so few things. I buy each piece of art or furniture for David Alan Collection because it has soul, quality and beauty. I also know I am only the steward of these pieces until the next owner shows up to claim that piece. That’s my job, my life, my love.

These tigers are a rare exception. These tigers own me. I’m theirs until they let me go. I surrender to their power and charm. They were painted from a verbal description before a photograph or a realistic likeness of a tiger was ever seen by the artist. They were imbued with human traits, expressions and emotions.

For now, they are mine and I am theirs, in mutual loving bondage as they tell me fantastic tiger stories when no one else is around. After all, they are shy by nature, one man cats.

I have spent my few weeks at the Folk’s house as Dad was dying and finding photos, keepsakes, papers, and awards in the file drawers and boxes in the garage, as Dad was completing his life in preparation for the day.  I was driven to pull albums down from the highest shelves to look at the photos and records.  I didn’t understand the compulsion, but went with it.  That urge is over since last night.  There are many things untouched, but no pull to open them now.

Death is a good thing.  Going through this last week with the Folks, I never doubted the gift of death and never resisted it.  I felt like a strange human, having felt none of the grief and anger usually talked about, written about.  I mostly felt a quiet joy:  This is right.  This is good.  Every part of the process is natural.  Watching Dad go through the dying process was remarkable, from his occasional raising the eyebrows to a quick smile.  I wasn’t sad, tired yes, but not sad.  Even seeing him shrink was OK.  Not the reaction I expected from myself.  I was in suspended animation.  I was very functional, but separated from the outside world, focused here, with my Parents.  If Dad was OK and Mom was OK.  Then I could be OK.  Actually I don’t know if it was the chicken or the egg.  Actually everyone was much better than OK, and Amita accepted at each moment what I needed to do.

After hospice arrived, Dad started to be more than “my Dad.”  More like his total self, beyond me and Mom.  I was perhaps a flicker of a life he knew out of a 100 lifetimes.  There were many, many times I didn’t, couldn’t see him as my Father.  There was love, but not attachment.  There was also no duty.  This was absolutely where I wanted to be, was meant to be.  Not because I should, rather because it was right.  No further explanation was needed.

Lots and lots of people have said that the Folks were lucky to have me here for them.  Yes, that is true.  Most people don’t get a situation like this; full attendance, good vibe, great care…etc., but those comments, though accurate, were not about me, or at least I couldn’t take them personally.   It was a fact, not a credit.  I have been at least as fortunate as they to have them as my Parents.  I’ve learned and grown as a human being these weeks.  I have a dimension and understanding that was simply not previously available before about one of the two great acts of life; dying.

During the last couple days, I had the following conversation with my father in a rare moment of clarity.
Me: “Thank you for everything…”
Dad:  “You’re welcome”
Me:  “This has gone very quickly…”
Dad:  Nodded his head and smiled.  Dad sat up when Mom came in for a visit.  She tripped next to his bed.  He insisted that I get his pants and put them on him.  I was confused but not about to question.  (Mom’s still on the floor).  After I got his pants on, then the belt, he looked at me and said, “I don’t know how much weight I can pick up….” And looked at Mom sitting on the floor where she fell.  “Oh Dad” was all I could say.  Helping Mom was all he could think about.

I sat and waited
Watching my father die
Gradual, nothing dramatic

I felt love, connection
But not only because
He was my Father

The love was from beyond
The relationship “Father”
I could barely recognize

I felt our souls
Had been offered
The opportunity to share this time

To share the joy
Of recognizing, knowing
That God does in fact exist

We’ve all jokingly said
“There is a God!”
When something turns out well

This was the real thing
There really is a God
Feeling relief, joy, gratitude and peace

As he reviewed his life
And his body shuts down
Flickers of smiles appear and quickly fade

This is about
“That which can’t be said”
Present is gratitude for all

 

 

Through the sunny days and cool nights of Southern California’s October and early November 2007, I watched Dad’s withdrawal from life; his losing weight, talking less and less, then not at all; eating less, than not at all; drinking less, then not at all. I knew his last two bites of ice cream were indeed the last food he would eat. He was disappearing from life, pulling inward, hour by hour, until he participated only in the inner world unless disturbed or called out for a minute or two by a visitor or upon hearing something like Rachmaninoff’s 2nd piano concerto, a long time favorite.

I went with him on this journey of withdrawal from life during his last five weeks of life. At first, I would visit the Folks home every other day, then everyday, then longer each day, then only leaving to sleep at home, then not leaving or even stepping outside for the last ten days. My outside world also grew smaller and smaller each day until it almost entirely disappeared and the inner world, the world of spirit, thoughts of mortality and concerns about my Mom took over. Life became more and more simple on the outside and fuller and more complex inside. Dad’s inner world gained dimensions I’d never imagined, populated by a world of spirits of those who had passed on, waiting to greet and help. I’d sit and watch him as he reviewed his life, greeting those from the past, his face animated with surprise, joy, soft happiness, sometimes shock or pain. Quite a show he must have seen in those last few days. He did his review and I did mine, sometimes together, but often in different rooms in the same house.

We were connected. I spent my days digging out records and photos from the mostly distant past for him. It wasn’t his verbal request, more an inner compulsion I could not understand nor could I deny or resist. I just did what I must. I dug through boxes and files, often feeling his gaze over my shoulder, as I found photos of his childhood friends, his WWII photos, his parent’s wedding, Purdue fraternity, and 8th grade class 1934. Each touched me. Each one touched him. From our separate worlds, we communed.

I would have expected that his degenerating appearance would have disturbed me. One might say he was “wasting away” or “disappearing before our eyes.” It didn’t disturb me. It was natural, perfect, and he took (or was given) enough time to quietly review this life and to be greeted into the next life, whatever. It was all a gift to me and a gift to him. It was exactly how it should have been. How could I wish to change what was so right? Yes, he looked like some of those horrible renaissance paintings of the dead and dying. But that is how it looks on the outside if you’re fortunate enough to be part of it. Yes, there was the “death rattle.” I learned that from the amazing Hospice people it didn’t make Dad uncomfortable or disturb him. I could let go. This was all about letting go, over and over in every way. This is indeed how it is and should be. My wishes, preferences, had nothing to do with anything. Letting go of him, the process, the appearance, and my thoughts, all of it. It was utterly clear then that what Dad needed to know was that it’s ok to go, that we, especially Mom, are ok and taken care of now and will be taken care of in the future. I did that. I told Dad it was ok to go, just in case he worried. I got an unmistakable verbal message back from him that was something like this, “Don’t rush me, I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready.” I was taken aback. I didn’t mean to offend him at this juncture in life. Then I laughed out loud. There was irritation, humor, and wit hidden in so many things he said in life, right up to the end. He then smiled his elf smile for just a moment. It took him two more days to move on. Anytime I walked in his room to “visit,” he was active in his inner world, 24/7, never sleeping, always on his own (remarkable) schedule.

It is now December, a month after Dad died. There’s snow in the mountains and frost on the lawn this morning. What I remember is his unfailing sweetness even as his body was going through intense agitation while he could still walk.

There was so much I didn’t know but learned along the way. That the agitation often comes along with the process of dying and it’s not at all unusual. If I’d known, I may have been more relaxed. As it was, I didn’t understand why he incessantly needed to get up and move from chair to chair, room to room, go down for a nap and be up 3 minutes later. Dad didn’t know what was driving that agitation either. If I’d known, could I have said, “Dad, your need to move around every 5 minutes is just part of the process. There’s nothing wrong with it and it will pass in a few more days.”

I don’t know when the realization hit me that he was dying and dying soon. During my first week back from Bali in September, I knew it would probably be 6 months or less. The third week back I knew he was dying soon and by the beginning of the fourth week, it was only a matter of weeks.

I have been in Kyoto for two days now.  Today, Sunday, we got up at 5:00am to get to the biggest temple flea market in Kyoto by 6:00.  3 1/2 hours was not nearly enough time to see half the stalls, much less take in the temple and gardens.  I chose a beautiful stack (mountain?) of men’s and women’s kimonos which took three of us with four bags each to drag to the car half a mile away.  We were also carrying a cast iron lantern and the backpack mentioned below.  This is a strange and wonderful culture.  I found a 200 year old Edo period raincoat with rare Edo patterns of indigo dyeing and a huge, 100 year old, leather, herbalist’s backpack with perhaps 20 woven trays and one hundred sections for healing herbs.  On our way to the car we rested next to the most famous plum tree garden in Japan.  I was warned I would miss cherry blossom time, but the plums would be in bloom.  I never thought much about the importance of plum gardens until that moment!  There were hundreds of 200-300 year old trees, all in full bloom in a multitude of pinks. Having massaged our hands and rested, we made our way through Kyoto’s backstreets to the van and headed toward Rhett’s warehouse.

The warehouse is well out of town on a fast moving river.  It’s up in the hills above the city, often above the snowline, even now in late March.  We spent a few hours at the warehouse, mostly looking through 150-250 year old folding screens. Last trip I’d spent many days here learning about the history of 100′s of Japanese antiques and how they fit the culture of the time.  I am most fascinated by the Edo Period, the Time of Shoguns, 1600-1868, when Japan was entirely isolated from the rest of the world and developed its unique culture.  I buy whatever is good that I can afford from that era.  This trip included two (!) pairs(!) of rare black and white, 6′ x 12′ folding screens, each pair showing a dragon on one screen and a tiger on the other.  Neither painter had ever seen a tiger (or dragon, for that matter), so he made the tiger almost kitty cat/human-like.

In the early afternoon we went higher into the mountains to visit a country dealer, Jiro, to find old cabinets, folk art, and other odd goodies. Our hours of digging through his warehouse were cold, windy, and hugely rewarding!  It was snowing much of the time and the winds shook the roof and wall panels.  So far the only heated places I have been on this trip are restaurants, convenience stores, and my room, which takes an hour to heat up when I return at the end of the day.

I have now been in Japan a bit more than 24 hours in Kyoto.  I so love it here!  Got in late and was picked up by a good friend, Rhett, at 7:15pm at Starbucks across from the new train station.  We went out to my favorite (to date) Okinawa restaurant.  Having been up for 30 hours with no sleep, I slept well in Rhett’s guest room from 12:00am until 6:00am this morning when we needed to be up to get to a country auction up in the mountains 1 1/2 hours from Kyoto that started at 7:50am.  It was cold and raining hard all morning, but at least they let me stand under the roof this time!  Eight hours of standing on cold concrete in the windy winter was a painful, but amazing adventure.  No one is allowed in these auctions without a license.  Rhett thinks I’m cool enough to slip in, white skin and all.  We found lots of crazy good pieces straight out of Kyoto area country homes.

I am always impressed with how the Japanese treat each other/everyone; always with respect.  Just walking into a 7-11 is refreshing, complete with bows and greetings, coming and going.  Coffee at McDonalds is served with a smile and a bow.  The conductor on the train from Osaka to Kyoto walks to the front of each car and bows to everyone before collecting tickets, then smiles and bows to each passenger after he punches the ticket.  Monster and I are happy here.

Dinner out tonight at a vegan Japanese buffet, then up at 5am for a trip to the once-a-month huge temple flee market, then back up to the mountains in the afternoon to see my favorite country collector, Jiro.  Life is too good to be fair.  I couldn’t deserve this!