Wednesday, Day 4 of my week-long retreat.
Stricken with after-lunch wanderlust, I decide to go on an afternoon walkabout. My eyes took the first steps. There in the corner, by the front entrance of the main house, was a grayed 5×7 photo of Mabel in a stoic stance and thin layered gown. She stares into the camera, plain faced and strong. Standing behind her, on an adobe mantle is a gold statue, several feet tall, of a lean Buddha. A striking portrait of Tony Luhan, Mabel’s husband and personal buddha, also hangs on the wall.
A barely-there tug of intuition made me look over my shoulder before I headed out the door. There on the coffee table was a book: Monk at Mabel’s . Tibetan monks had practiced for one week here in December 2008 and July 2010. A sense of belonging settled into my bones. Laos, my birthplace, was a land of monks. And now, come to find out, Taos, my practice space, had served as a temporary temple.
Lineage matters. The recurring message on this trip.
My first real moment happened Sunday evening right after check-in when a lone cloud glowed at dusk. Out of my bedroom window, I saw Natalie walking up the path toward the kitchen. Her back was tall and strong, like the silver birches lining the walkway. There she was. Alone. Walking. Gait strong and soft. Moving forward on a familiar path. Her book, newly planted on the night stand, rested below the shadowy window sill. A glossy black road graces its front cover. And in the distance, a woman walks alone. Bare-limbed trees, drenched with ice and snow frame the world around her. She stands quiet with the lamp posts. Old Friend from Far Away…what a great phrase. The title of so much. Expressing precisely and poetically the feeling of having to travel to far off places in order to unpack your heart…to arrive at your own doorstep…to come home…to yourself, your teacher and your practice.
On the mantle of the zendo rests Allen Ginsberg. His photograph aged and framed in yellow. He was Nat’s writing teacher at the Naropa Institute when she was struggling and unknown. So, here, I am. A long-time student of Natalie’s. One who has been studying seriously but living in the shadows for almost 10 years. She just found out today that I have studied with her for this long. Stalking her for almost a decade. Attending her workshops and retreats in Sedona, Charleston and Taos.
So, lineage matters. The cottonwoods, aspens, silver birches. Allen Ginsberg, Katigiri Roshi, and Natalie Goldberg. Grandma, John, Mom and Dad. The entire universe lives in the limbs of the New Mexico forests, your family tree and your literary kinships. The world is very large and backed by a lot of people, places and things spanning eternity. I must remember this on days where I follow my own shadow, feeling small and undefined.
This was my river of thought as I walked down Morada Lane. When the gravel road forked, I went left. The gap quickly closed between the bend in the road and the front door of a house-turned-art gallery. The kitchen window exhibits the tallest silver birch tree that I’ve seen in Taos. An eternal glow, the color of bone and ash, radiated from its nakedness. The spontaneous honk of a magpie on its lower branch awakened me to the moment’s picture-perfectness. The bird’s darkness popped against the tree’s brightness. An oily trace of turquoise shined down the magpie’s spine. This was art to me.
I lazily retraced my footsteps back down Morada Lane. Further down the street, I searched for the hollyhocks. Last August, I had seen my mother’s face in the starry center of their see-through petals. Now, in March, the pods are puckered and stuck, frozen yellow. Everyone is dying around my mother and father. Their son. Their grandson. Three daughters buried back in Laos. Their friends. Their body parts. My mother’s right eye is gray and shrinking from cataracts and glaucoma. She’s half blind and her fire has fizzled. The blazing bonfire of a woman that once menaced my childhood is no longer alive. My 73 year old mother is now flower-faced. Her flesh soft as ice cream.
I turn right on Kit Carson, wanting to revisit an alleyway littered with newborn peaches that I had stumbled upon the last time I roamed Taos. The spot was now shady, living between two galleries: Parsons and Total Arts. No peaches. Just some river rocks, green shoots in fresh soil and bronze garden statues.
I write this at Cafe Tazza, sipping Taos chai. Yes, locally made chai. Actually, the chai guy is sitting at a table behind me. He’s got wild hair and child-like eyes. He’s busy talking on the phone while pecking on the keys of his laptop. When I told the barista that this was one of the best chais I’d ever had, he pointed to the man in the back of the room and said, “thank that guy.”
This is a hole-in-the-wall cafe filled with hippies toting infants and computer bags. There’s a sloppy charm to the place. It’s dusty shelves with books on hydroponics and its mismatched patio furniture indoors.
Two hours of walking made me want to write. Made me realize this message: lineage matters. That’s why I’m here. To give reverence to my life, my parents, my teachers…and to take notice of the chain-reaction that is this moment.
(written at Cafe Tazza)
