wherefore art thou . . . ?

(introduction)

Okay, so I haven't written anything for quite some time.

That's just how it goes, I guess.

But what the hell do I know, really?

A far better, much more experienced writer than I once replied when asked what he planned on writing just after his first novel made the bestsellers list. He said:

"I answered then that I didn’t have to write anything next, not a word, and that all my books together said everything that I had asked them to say. I do not enjoy writing at all. If I can turn my back on an idea, out there in the dark, if I can avoid opening the door to it, I won’t even reach for a pencil. I guess that that is the place that I have come to. But once in a while there’s a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, “I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper"."

Unfortunately that same writer went on to, quite a few years later, churn out more than a couple of second-rate, disappointingly bad novels that needn't really, in my very humble opinion, be " . . . set in words, on paper"; that all his previous books had, in fact, said everything that he had asked them to say and that he was only cheapening those words by trying to regurgitate them over and over again.

That being said, he still remains one of my favorite authors.

Past work does count for something.

A lot, actually.

Perspective. Use it or lose it.

Those are his words.

I guess that we can all lose our perspective from time to time.

Perspective is everything . . .

To be honest, it's been quite some time since I feel that I have really had anything to say.

Well, not "say", say.

I mean I haven't been walking around mute, like, not saying stuff.

Grunting, groaning and head-nods can only take one so far.

Usually not far enough . . .

You know, I mean, "say" . . .  like this. Like . . . write down; contemplate; think about - that kind of stuff.

It's not that I haven't been thinking, either. Or contemplating.

My life is nothing but one grandiose, non-stop contemplation.

Even when I wish that it wasn't.

It's certainly not that my adventures have dried up, either.

My life is nothing but one great-big, non-stop adventure.

(okay, so it is a non-stop contemplation and a non-stop adventure. Both.)

I guess that this is probably true for most of us, though . . .

ALL of us, probably.

Our lives are always a great big adventure.

And a contemplation.

One only needs to see it all from the right perspective.

Perspective.

Let's face it. Perspective really is everything.

If we could only see our lives from the right perspective then our world would open up before us in ways that we never imagined.

I was talking with my thirteen-year old niece a little while ago - one of my favorite people in the whole world - we were talking about the fact that the world hadn't ended as predicted - you know that whole "2012-thing"; that "Mayan-calendar-thing". She replied that yes, it didn't ended as predicted, but even so, it still had to end someday. I asked her to explain - I mean, I understood what she was saying: her words, but I wanted to hear what that idea - the idea that the world had to end someday meant to her.

She replied: "Gotta live life to the fullest and live like it's ending tomorrow!"

I love her for that! 

See - it is all perspective.

There are many people out there that have this same mindset: that the world "has to end someday", but what does it do for them? It turns them into a terrified mess - they cower in fear; they start hoarding cans of Spam and creamed corn, stockpiling guns and learning to protect themselves from imagined enemies. Now, I have no doubt that these people might eke out a couple more days or weeks - maybe even a couple more months of extended life should the "shit really hit the fan" in our lifetime -  but their perspective: that fearful, frightened perspective, shelters them from all of the beauty of the world until that possibility becomes a reality.

Until that possibility does become a reality, I'll be hanging with my niece living life to the fullest like it's all ending tomorrow.

Believe it or not, this is actually leading someplace.  

You see, I finally feel a need to write. To express. All of that stuff.

I have a story to tell.

My own story.

You could say that life has "seized me by the throat and NOT-SO-gently said, I will not let you go until you set me in words . . ."

This is a story that needs to be told.

Probably mostly for my own sake . . .

Hold onto your hats, as they say. This is a different kind of story.

Well, not so different in the relative scheme of things - for in the relative scheme of things this is a very common story.

You might say, the most common kind of story.

It is the kind of story that has compelled more great men to more great works of art than probably all other subjects combined since the beginning of time.

It's just different than my other stories so far.

But, really the same.

You see, this is a love story.

Love, you might say, is the greatest of all of life's adventures.

To be more precise, I would say that this is a story of many 'moments of love' all raveled together in one tangled mess . . .

For that is what love is.

It is a moment to moment experience, constantly changing.

Even when we wish that it wasn't.

But, be forewarned.

This is also a story of tragedy.

For this is what love can be sometimes:

Tragic.

You might say that love is a breeding ground for tragedy.

Even the most seemingly ordinary relationship contains within it the germ of possibility for at least some small tragedy lurking around an unexplored corner. For it isn't until we've pushed our hearts to their very limits and held them hostage in very dark, scary places; places that they would never dare go voluntarily; never surrender to without some degree of terrified struggle, that we can say that we have truly loved. And only when we have truly loved can we say that we know the edge of our own fears. It is there: there in those dark, lonely, secluded places -our hearts and heads held on the chopping block -that tragedy, like a restless tiger, waits to pounce . . .  

I certainly never saw it coming.

Once I did it was too late.

I'm sorry, my love.

So sorry . . .

But, this is how both love and tragedy are.

U-n-p-r-e-d-i-c-t-a-b-l-e.

Especially at those moments when we wish that they weren’t. 

                                   

                                                      *             *             *             *

(part one)

I had been traveling throughout India and Southeast Asia for a little over a year. I was in the process of making plans to leave Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), Vietnam, where, among the many memorable events that transpired during my four-month stay, my backpack, containing every item of any value that I travel with, was stolen right from under my nose as I honked away on my harmonica late one night in a local park (see: STOLEN, a.k.a ARMY CRAWLING TOWARDS ENLIGHTENMENT). I rationalized then, and in retrospect, justifiably so, that life was preparing me for my eventual return to India, where I had been accepted into a long-term residential course studying 'Vedanta' at the Dayananda Ashram in the northern city of Rishikesh. I recognized, reluctantly, I admit at first, that the infallible order of the universe - the order that had guided my travels, and, one could argue, had guided my life without fail from the very start, had chosen to rid me of all my attachments and distractions: computer, camera, Kindle, Ipod and wallet, in one grandiose 'karmic garage sale', so-to-speak.

Though the course wasn't scheduled to begin for another three months, my visa was nearly expired and I needed to find a way out of Vietnam. I also needed to find a way to head-off, what felt to be an on-coming depression; a depression that had been creeping its way in steadily like an opaque, blackened fog; a depression that seemed to be fueled by both my struggle to endure 'rainy season' in Saigon and the Vietnamese Language class that I had signed myself up for. I had been clawing and lumbering my way through that class for about three weeks in a brutal, bare-knuckle, all-out, tooth-and-nail brawl; a brawl that I finally had to admit, I could not win. The squeaks, squeals and 'infuriated-sounding' tones that comprise the Vietnamese language turned out to be much more difficult to cognize and replicate than I ever could have imagined, and in comparison to the rest of my classmates: mostly hardworking Korean and Japanese students, I was by far the worst student in the class. There was one other guy in that class: an optimistic, cheerful Brit that rarely came to class who wasn't much better off than I , but still . . . in that nerve-wracked, sweat-soaked classroom setting, the barely-perceptible difference that he and I shared made all the difference in the world. I was reminded of a line from a favorite movie: "There are only a handful of people in the world that can tell the difference between you and me . . . but I'm one of them."

Seen from another perspective: He was the skinniest kid at "Fat Camp" while I was nothing more than his tubby little henchman . . .

I needed to leave Vietnam, but I also needed to find somewhere to go for the time leading up to my return to India. More importantly, I needed to find a path.  I needed to find a reason. I needed to find a way to be useful to someone, somewhere. I knew . . . knew, when it came right down to it, when I was being completely honest with myself - I knew that what was missing from my life at that point was a sense of purpose. That growing feeling of dissatisfaction that had been inching, clawing and tunneling its way into my thoughts, my psyche and my heart wasn't the result of rainy season, or language class or Saigon - yes, these factors might have helped stoke the fire:  the fire that had been kindled by my own complacency - but the new, searing back-stab of pain that was beginning to manifest as depression was clearly coming from the lack of purpose that had been smoking, smoldering and glowing in the ash and embers of my heart for some time.

                                                     *          *          *          *          *

Some would argue that it was dumb-luck, a curse-of-fate, or perhaps a random ‘throw of the dice’ that brought me back to Thailand.

I would argue, however, that it was yet another piece of the puzzle matched, fit and placed just-so in the carefully orchestrated plan of the infallible order that was shuffling me back over hundreds of kilometers of terrain; over mountain passes and valleys; over dense jungles and brightly-lit, raucous, bubbling cities . . . all for the purpose of life-lessons yet to come.

Of course I couldn't have possibly known all of that then: all of the lessons waiting ahead; all of the joy and the sorrow that was just around the corner; all the pleasure and all the pain.

But it is always like this . . .

Life.

It is always handing us new lessons.

And holding back others to be given out the next day.

And the day after that . . .

Everything: every event, every action, every result, every lack-of result, every moment. All the ‘seemingly’ good and bad of it.

All of it . . .

Just lessons. Always.

We only need to see it all from the right perspective.

Even now: this very moment  . . .

Today's hardships are tomorrows lessons learned. Today's joys and pleasures are also that: tomorrow's lessons learned . . .

To be able to see it all simply for what it is in the moment . . .

Ah! . . . But this is the secret!

But, you see . . . life is cautious with its secrets. It doesn't give them up easily and it doesn't hand them out indiscriminately. Sometimes they may even come at great cost: these secrets. Still, if one is to live - truly live, they must be willing to excavate and examine their own lives and their experiences; to dig, sift and sort through even the most minute fragments of truth hidden within the wreckage and the ruins of those lives; from their memories; from their pain and their fears and their suffering; from their joy and from their happiness. All of it . . .

Then, and only then, will life hand them over to us: those secrets. And then, it will do so freely and openly without the slightest hesitation . . .

Oh, but, I digress . . .

As you might recall, I had just returned to Thailand . . .

                                                     *          *          *          *          *

I arrived at the foothills of the mountains of Northern Thailand in the small Akha Hill Tribe Village of Ban Huai Nam Khun during the very early part of September. I had stumbled upon a foundation called Pennies for Papa that was providing free English lessons to the children of this impoverished, minority village. The foundation was seeking additional volunteers to assist as English teachers.

Technically speaking, I was moving from one bleak, desperate rainy season to another and from one incomprehensible tonal language to the next, but the stark contrast from the listless urbanity of Saigon at that time to the technicolor brilliance of the green jungles and mountains of Thailand was so vast and undeniable that the affect it had on my head and my heart was immediate. Whereas the monsoon rains that hammered away at the polluted streets and alleyways of Saigon only seemed to exaggerate and amplify the city's septic, toxic qualities, those same seasonal rains falling on the small mountain villages of Thailand had a diametrically opposing effect: the green became greener; the foliage became increasingly more robust; the entire surrounding was transformed into a bold expression of vitality that was far more radiant and vibrant than ever. Even the small roads and pathways that ran through the village seemed to shake off the insistent wetness with an optimistic, invigorated grace.

I had also, at least for the time being, discovered the sense of purpose and the path that I had so desperately sought when I left Vietnam. Teaching English to the children of this rural village was just the kind of opportunity that I had dared and hoped that I might find, and as the volunteer positions were divided into three-month periods, the timing would work out flawlessly: just as my three month teaching position would come to an end in the village, my course would begin at the ashram in India.

Perfect!

And it would have worked out perfectly . . .

Except for one thing . . .

You see:

Right about the time that my volunteer position was coming to its end; right about the time that I was beginning to shop airfares for my return to India; right about the time that I was berating myself for how little English the students that I had been teaching had actually absorbed and retained during my stay at the village; right about the time that I was abandoning any and all thoughts that I might have previously entertained about future endeavors as an English teacher (see previous statement); right about the time that I was seriously questioning the integrity of the foundation that I had spent those months serving . . .

It was right about this time that the infallible order stepped in and very enthusiastically - very emphatically declared that it had a very different plan for my immediate future.

 . . . as it often will.

(Just lessons. Always . . . )

I received word that the course that I was to scheduled to attend in India had been postponed from December until April.

Now, one must understand that, belief in an infallible order does not necessarily mean that one will always openly and freely accept all of the decisions, plans or changes that that order hands over to us . . .immediately.

No.

Sometimes it may feel as though these plans or decisions (i.e. job loss, medical diagnosis, relationship failure, family death, financial crisis etc.) are like grenades lobbed into our laps by an invisible enemy bent on our immediate destruction.

What I've come to realize, however, is that the sooner that we can stop resisting and begin to explore the new situation - whatever it may be - objectively; the sooner that we can begin to look clearly to find the lesson hidden within the situation (or if the lesson isn't immediately apparent, we can cultivate the patience to ‘wait out’ the lesson (or lessons) that will eventually come as a result of the situation) the sooner we will begin to understand the why of it all . . .

My current situation was quite simply, objectively thus:

I had about five months of 'free' time that I needed to fill until my return to India.

I would soon - very soon - be out of money. This money situation was, more than any other factor, severely limiting the options of filling 'said' time . . .

I would soon be without a place to live . . .

I was soon to be, yet again, a man without any real sense of purpose or direction . . .

My visa was soon to become a fairly serious issue as well. I had been living very casually up to that point on short-term Thai visas that had to be renewed by crossing the border into Myanmar every fifteen days. I was not sure how much longer I could technically get away with this arrangement and it seemed that every foreign traveler, every ex-pat, every friend, wife, or relative of an ex-pat or traveler, every website, every chat-room, every source anywhere that had any thought on the subject at all, had vastly differing opinions about the realistic expectations of the longevity of short-term Thai visa living. Even the Immigration authorities at the border couldn't seem to come to a definitive agreement on this topic. Their opinions, curiously, seemed as varied as everyone else's (at least from what I could understand from their garbled, unfathomable tonal language).

Consequently, every time that I crossed the border into Myanmar to renew my visa I carried with me the fear that I wouldn't be let back into Thailand (as I had been warned by several sources that this was a possibility).

Myanmar, I'd heard from many, was not a place that one wants to get ‘stuck’. 

(Side note: I would eventually come to learn through personal experience that one could actually get away with these short-term border crossings for quite some time. By the time I finally left Thailand, I had come and gone over the border sixteen consecutive times).

Individual results may vary.

(Probably will vary.)                                                                                                     

So . . . this was my situation.

Whatever lessons were waiting for me; whatever situation was being set-up for me; whatever new experience I was about to walk into was certainly not yet apparent . . .

Yet, I recall knowing at that time, knowing very clearly that there was . . . there had to be a reason for all of it. I was choosing once again, to place full trust in the infallible order. I was choosing to accept without question that whatever experience was coming my way would eventually lead to new growth and new understanding.

As I said before, it is always like this.

Life.

It is always handing us new lessons.

We only need to see it all from the right perspective.

And, as if faith, belief and trust themselves could birth and inspire new opportunities, or perhaps simply flush out opportunities already in waiting: everything seemed to unfold very quickly . . .

                                                     *          *          *          *          *

She sat with her back to me and combed her long, black hair in the mirror while singing softly in Thai to no one in particular. The moment froze and lingered in time like a smoky, vaporous haze as her soft voice punctuated the still morning air. The simple beauty of that moment left me paralyzed and I could feel tears beginning to sneak into the corners of my just-wakened eyes as her delicate voice began to wash away years of gathered dust and debris from my wanting heart.

If God had a voice - I thought - this would be it:  soothing like a mother singing her child to sleep; innocent like a lover's first kiss; painfully beautiful like a final, dying breath; yet, imbued with a hint of unintended seductiveness hidden enigmatically within. It was, as I would imagine God's voice to be: simple and unadorned, saying everything and saying nothing at the same time; flawed and flawless in the same instant; living and dying in the same exaltation.

I lay frozen in bed, the bed that she had shared with me only moments before, and dared not move a muscle for fear that it would shatter the spell she had woven. To break that spell would be to render it unknowable, for a moment like that could exist only under the most flawless of conditions. It was many lifetimes of learning and unlearning, growing and declining, loving and forgiving that would allow such conditions to come together as they had at that moment.

God surely exists, I thought, and he exists in this perfect moment, in this perfect voice, in this perfect, beautiful woman that has just left my side . . .

                                                       *          *          *          *          *

                                          I openly welcome and request your comments! 

                   (you can post below or email directly to me at: ronkleinsmith@hotmail.com)

(PART TWO COMING SOON)