VIS '08 Video

Hey everyone. I set some video from the semester to music (All We Perceive by Thievery Corporation). Hope it works. ~James

Otto Pierce--Emptiness

To be empty, truly empty, one can never be more full. When your mind is emptied of all wants, desires, greedy and needy thoughts, then it can be filled with everything else. It can be filled with understanding, empathy, love, and the ever-present Om. When you understand you can be made to care, which leads to empathy, which leads love. Love though, is not a skin-deep love, an artificial love, but a love that goes much deeper. Love is something that goes straight to the life force, the inner peace and calm and Nirvana.
When you are empty you do not dwell on what has happened, or what will happen, you simply are in the moment. Time has no hearing on you anymore because the passing of time means nothing if you are everywhere at once, yet completely in one place.
When you are empty you are everything, as well as part of everything. You are pain, suffering, love, knowledge, peace, and enlightenment. You are the smallest grain of sand, the graceful stag of the forest, the powerful and immovable mountain, and even the thumping washing machine in your back room.
To be empty is to be a glass full of superficial substance, as well as full of something that can’t be seen. What can’t be seen, what the glass is truly filled with is what truly matters. Inside the glass, behind the cover of substance, little bits of everything pile up upon each other until they flow over the top. Those little bits of everything are all separate, yet inextricably connected. Every action intimately affects every other piece. The whole of all the little pieces is called existence, and while one may dwell in the present, if they exist they are part of everything that is, was, and is going to be. Their thoughts may not reside in those realms, but their Om, their existence does. Whether it is our soul or our Nirvana or our just our indestructible sub-atomic particles that have existed since forever, it means that we have too.
Emptiness is to simply be aware of ones existence. Awareness is what we strive for, the banishment of ignorance. When ignorance is gone, then emptiness arrives.

Emma Gershun-Half

Ladakh is a place where the mountains are the size of dreams. They reach up past the sky, their tops dusted with snow and high-flying birds.
Ladakh is a place where the incremental creeping of the Indian subcontinent somehow results in a majestic collision of earth and stone and peaks three miles above sea level.
Ladakh is a place where weather worn faces smile from every direction and where young children look with wide eyes but never say a word.
Ladakh is a place where one can hike for miles with endless possibilities in sight, but never know the destination or what it will hold.
Ladakh is a place where dust settles and blows and is a general nuisance, but belongs just the same. It coats the nose and throat, but also is the stuff that mountains and stream beds, gompas and homes are made of.
Ladakh is a place where the day is greeted by the sun, and the night by the moon, both of which are so bright and vibrant that midnight and midday are equally inspiring and un-oppressive.
Ladakh is a place where the landscape is barren, yet full of otherworldly life. A place where it is possible to feel peacefully alone and part of everything simultaneously.
Ladakh is a place where it is possible to be.

Post 2, Tess Townsend

The following entry is a response to the prompt, “Emptiness.” In Buddhism, emptiness does not denote a lack of something, but rather is viewed as the ultimate wholeness and fullness. The goal of meditation is to empty one’s mind. To be empty is to recognize that the “self” is an illusion, merely the product of every other thing that exists. A tree does not exist independently. It is the result of air, water, earth and sun, as well as the result of whatever results in air, water, earth and sun.

emptiness emptiness emptiness emptiness fullness fullness fullness breakfast breakfast fasting fast fast running running running walking slowing-down sitting emptiness emptiness emptiness wholeness wholeness wholeness hole

hole in the center of a bagel
hole in the center of the earth
black hole in the center of the universe vacancy void
the universe itself is a hole of wholeness and emptiness

dogs barking in the abyss barking barking barking inconsequentially

emptiness emptiness emptiness

celestial twinklings
infinity and nothing
nothing for infinity
nothing forever
everything for eternity

no eternity no time no beginning no end fishbowls snow globes finite floor and ceiling try not to bump your head impossible existence of beginning and end within infinity there is no infinity there is not light there is no earth there is no basis no ground and no sky no floor and no ceiling

emptiness emptiness emptiness void vacancy abyss droning droning droning a flower roots bees air water soil no words complete collapse words inexpressible words illusions no separation no tangibility no strength and no weakness

emptiness emptiness emptiness

books class time passed ineffable

students screaming into the void
dogs barking into the abyss
beggars begging bits of illusory sustenance
addicts addicted to dream-creations
painters painting reflections of mirrors

look into the void see the void reflected infinitely
see it reflected not at all

Ladakh is a place where...Duncan

Ladakh is a place where…
Duncan Nelson

Ladakh is a place where time has seized to exist, a place in which humans do not revolve around the fourth dimension, a downward spiraling death trap. It has not yet been invented here. A river, has no sense of its own fate, it doesn’t abide by time’s suzerainty. It exists everywhere, always. People here embody a river, omnipresent in all realms of existence. To have the gift of this wisdom is something humanity secretly strives for. Part of this wisdom means that you do not have to search, you do not have to tread down a beaten path to find it. So, one thing I have learned is that a river not only is the universe, but it is also nothingness. Can anyone melt into the river? Be warned, it pours into lush valleys, screams down rapids, carves out stones, stumbles through grassland and disperses into the ocean, again, again, forever. Some people end up in the ocean, others remain dust. To let go, to be like a river is easier said than done. We are only human, and only humans let their lives get in the way of living. Only Humans abide by time’s cruel restraints. I can only hope that someday, We can finally deem time antique, old, wrinkly, and place it in a red collapsing barn along with other useless trinkets and melancholy memories, where it collects dust and mice use it’s confines to make their nest. One day, I can only hope Ladakh can be a model to the world, a representation of simplicity and meaning. Only then will the naïve idealist hopes of total peace and happiness come true. A day when time dies of its own fate, never to be dusted off and given back to humanity, that is my hope. Ladakh is a place where time cannot pierce through eight thousand meter peaks, it cannot breathe the blood boiling air, and it cannot put wrinkles in the soul. Ladakh has been untouched by time, and will remain that way for eternity.

Jansyn

Ladakh is a place where I see my “other life” contained in an invisible snow-globe. I hold the globe very still in the palm of my hand and watch the pile of plastic flakes grow. That which was previously hidden by the swirling snow is now revealed as the flakes settle.
Ladakh shelters me, shrouds me in a sky full of stars. In Western Mass. these same stars cower behind a veil of artificial light. In Ladakh I drink in their presence until a heavy wind throws sand into my face and I stumble back into fluorescent reality. Conventional reality.
Ladakh is a white screen. Steep, eroding mountains are projected onto the blankness. Packages and postcards arrive through a small door on the lower left hand corner of the two-dimensional landscape. Ladakh is so fantastic it can’t possibly be real.

No longer am I wedged in that glass snow-globe staring out at a distorted truth. Ladakh is a place where I no longer know what “truth” is.

Ashleen

Ladakh is a place where I never feel rushed or stressed or scared. I can sit on my greenhouse landing, put off my homework and soak in the sun. It doesn’t matter what I do because it is always well worth my time. The days go by in a daze of enjoying each step. We trekked through Sham stopping each day to stay and live with a Ladakhi family each as welcoming as the last. Showering us with sweetly overpowering milk tea and cookies and watching us eagerly as we forced down a cup of butter tea and instantly refilling it. Once in a while there are day hikes that take us to spectacular views and cascading glaciers. We’re never quite sure what we’ll see each day.
Ladakh is a place where every morning it takes my breath away, and not just the altitude. I walk outside to see the Indus River to my left and towering, snow covered peaks surrounding me from every direction. I take time to walk down to a footbridge about three miles off campus. I sit by the river, watching the water rush by. Occasionally I throw a small stone in to hear that wonderful plop sound. Thoughts flow freely in and out of my mind as I sit on the shore.
Ladakh is a place where I lose myself in the sights and sounds of my surroundings. At night as I wonder aimlessly in the dark, I can hear the wild dogs barking and howling close by. I look up at the star strewn sky and feel as though I am falling upwards into the black abyss of the universe. The bright star, Sirius that represents the black dog who follows Orion through the sky follows me as I travel across the world. At night as I sit awake reading the wind beats heavy on the greenhouse plastic. It reminds me of hot summer nights when a storm begins to brew. When the plastic smacks loud against a beam it is as though a bolt of lightning has struck.

Terri

I see clouds as Chinese temples and elephants, but once saw them as clouds. Shadows cast on the wall are not shadows but monsters. Places that seemed so big to me as a child now don’t seem so big. The perspective I learned in art class, and the perspective I have on religion. Perspective is everything. What you see and how you interpret it. There perspective of this room, and my perspective on life. How the shade on a face can easily change its shape. How the world looks upside down, or from the top of a mountain. Big, small, insignificant, important, confusing, and clear. Reflection is the perspective of a landscape wrinkled in water.

Ella

I am empty?
I am empty.
I am empty not in the sense of nothingness, but rather I am empty in the sense of everything. My being connects to that of everything, every atom that surrounds me constantly. I am everywhere, yet I am nowhere. I should never question who I am. Instead I should just be. Don’t think of where I am. Don’t think of where I am going. Don’t think of what I have done, or where I have gone. Think thoughts constantly. Think and think until my mind is blank. Think thoughts of prayer wheels, and of old weathered Ladakhi faces. Think of yaks, and of the Himalayas reaching far into the sky. Think until I can think no more. Think until I am empty of thoughts rushing through my head.
Emptiness. Emptiness. Emptiness.
I do not feel empty.
I feel full.
Maybe, I am full of emptiness.

Terri

Morning is my favorite time of day here. The curtains in our room open, letting the early morning rays of sun set on the floor. The laughing and shouting of the Ladakhi girls echo through the hallways. Each morning I am greeted with great enthusiasm, the smiles of everyone around me are surprising. A cup of milk tea is exactly what I want, and every morning it is waiting in the kitchen. A place of constant motion, where everything moves in a rhythm.
The sharp mountains that surround us in every direction tear into the clear and heavenly skies. A landscape, that defines in every way, this place. Remote, and vibrantly alive at the same time. In English we were asked to write about what Ladakh is, although it is not hard to describe Ladakh in all of its beauty, it is hard to explain what isn’t of importance here. Each moment of every day seems like something that needs to be recorded, that every conversation should be remembered. What has stood out for me the most so far is what I chose to write about.
There is unbelievable warmth, even in the frigid snow covered months of winter. Where the smiles and greeting of those you pass in the streets are filled with sincerity. Where the remote villages are speckled in valleys amidst the unforgiving mountains. Ladakh is a place where you become accustomed to the reward of tea after each feat, no matter how simple. Where relaxing all day is hardly a waste of time, in fact time has little meaning. The way that people dace through their days, and chores are done with a grace that is unknown to me. Where the silence is entertaining and laughing comes naturally. Ladakh is a place of reflection, while at the same time a place of emptiness
What I have learned so far about Buddhism is the concept of emptiness. The idea that nothingness is infact everything. For everything is interconnected in a way that makes everything, something and nothing at the same time. Emptiness is the realizing that you do not exist independently. The idea of nothingness is something I have pondered from a young age, something that we have talked about in class and something that I think about, especially when I gaze up at the stars. I’m not sure how it is possible that nothingness exists, or is that the point? That nothing is in fact everything, and the simplicity of that idea is perhaps why it is so difficult to understand.

Ashleen Buchanan

March 6, 2008

The past 31 days I have spent cradled 11,500 feet above the sea, nestled between the Indus River and the surrounding mountains that tower around me. In the evening the wind blows heavy on the plastic of the greenhouse outside my window. It beats down like a thunderstorm beginning to explode. I lay awake reading Shalimar the Clown listening to the dogs howling in the distance. In the deep of the night I often awake and stumble through the darkness, neglecting my headlamp, and trusting my footing on the cool stone steps that lead outside. The cool air hits my face and brushes through my knotted hair. I look up at the stars that sprinkle the black sky. I find the bright star known as Sirius, the black dog who follows Orion as he hunts through the heavens. As Sirius followed Orion he has followed me from the back yard of my home in Vermont to here on the shore of the Indus.
Each day here has been fulfilling to say the least. No matter what I find myself doing I never feel time has been wasted. In the evenings we watch movies occasionally. This past evening we watched Cry of the Snow Lion, a documentary about the current situation in Tibet with the Chinese invasion. 1952 –incidentally caused tension between China and India which lead to the 1962 Sino-Indian border conflict -- the Karakoram pass was closed thus beginning the severe oppression placed on the Buddhist nuns and monks by the Chinese government primarily in Lasa, Tibet. The pressure became so immense that in 1958, the Dalai Lama was forced to take refuge in Dharmsala, India, where he remains to this day. Beginning on March 10 there will be huge march from Dharmsala to Lasa in protest for Free Tibet. Though they may not ever be able to pass through to Tibet I feel the message remains strong.
Splattered throughout the weeks we have been traveling about to different monasteries. At each I feel I have stepped into a surrealistic world filled with blue-faced daemons, with wild eyes and golden crowns. In each Buddhist temple I am surrounded by psychedelic images of violence, sex and enlightenment. On February 20th we attended a Tibetan New Years Festival at the Matho Monastery. I crammed my way in between the masses and nestled snuggly with one rib rubbing sharply on cement and my other rib being kneed continually by the full weight of a grown man who kept smiling at me and saying “julley”, in between gasp for air I would politely sputter “julley”. As I sat there I was reminded of Frida Khalo’s depictions of La Dia de los Muertos because of the many skulls and vivid colors. Then I watch the Buddhist monks come in and dance unenthusiastically to a monotonous beat waiting to see the famous oracles jump from atop buildings blind-folded and slice their tongues with swords. I felt my lungs begin to collapse and was quite positive the oracles would never make their grand entrance. I decided it was time to make an escape and find some chow mien. It is experiences like that, which I will not soon forget.
After we returned from our five-day trek on the first of March it seemed so many aesthetics of SECMOL had changed; most of the snow on the western peaks had melted, the weather had certainly began getting warming, clearly forgoing spring and the ice rink had melted. I will remember the ice rink most fondly because before the trek I had played goalie for the Vermonsters (the VIS team) in our hockey match against the Rough and Tuffs (the Secmol Boys Team) we, to my great disappointment, lost, but only by the two penalty shots in over time.
The days pass all too quickly here at Secmol, but each day is never wasted. I find myself learning continually, whether about the Kashmir conflict that remains today referring to the autonomously of the Jammu and Kashmir region. Or the Lu spirits that, according to Ladakhi folklore, cause women become twisted and stiff. Though of course they never really bother the tourists. One day woman who has studied Amchi medicine, came to speak to us and told us about how she reads your sickness through your pulse and tells you whether you have anger, jealousy, hatred or maybe a bit of bile. On the more laid back days I’ll often find myself gossiping with the SECMOL girls about dating via text messaging. The first month has already flown by and there are only two to go but each day I awake and take a deep breath, look through my window at the sun coming through the opaque plastic and think to myself “maybe we won’t have sku for dinner tonight.”

Duncan

We have now been in Ladakh for one month and two days. I have never felt so at home in a place so far away from New England. Ladakh is a world of its own. It has its own language, trees, mountains, culture and especially its own people. The world that exists here is one of not only tradition but also of innovation and advancement. Yes, the slow permeation of the stench of westernization is also apparent, but life here is so simple it almost isn’t real to me. The people here use anything and everything they can to support themselves and their families. Its separation from the rest of the world is so apparent in the smiles of the people, the ancient flow of the Indus River, and the immaculate beauty of the Himalaya.
Buddhism has made its eternal mark on this society, which is almost entirely based on the Buddhist way of life. Ever since the second spreading of Buddhism to Ladakh around 200 BC by the Indian King Asoka it has been the way of life for over one thousand years in Ladakh. On the last day of our previous trek in the Sham region we stopped to visit Tamisgong monastery, where the treaty of Tamisgong was signed in 1684 setting the boundary between Ladakh and Tibet, which still exist today. To be in intimate contact with such rich history is something that can be surreal to the senses. It is very hard to appreciate how much history and how many stories are engraved into the stones and the cliffs.
The Leh palace, which was built during the Namgyal Dynasty, Ladakh’s most prominent Buddhist reign, has come to be a very familiar sight. It is built on a brown cliff overlooking Leh and it has become an almost weekly experience to look up to it walking into the Internet café or the bakery we ravage for cookies and sweets. Now only a museum, the Leh palace is an artifact left by Ladakh’s golden dynasty. We have yet to explore it, but I hope it is in our future.
Two other events, which will remain in my memory for a long time, are the festivals we explored in February. The Stok festival and Matho Nagrang are Buddhist festivals which are centered on dances of the Buddhist tradition. Stok is more focused around the story telling of Buddhist life through dances, each dance representing a different stage of life. The entrancing nature of the colors and the simple natural movements of the monks were incredible, but only for a few hours. The next three hours seemed to never end, and were extremely repetitive. It is hard appreciate the tradition if you are an outsider, and foreign to the culture. Matho Nagrang was a sea of the social spectrum of Ladakh, and was much more popular. On one end of the spectrum were teenagers with western clothes and Pepsi, there for the sole purposed of the social scene. On the other end were Ladakh’s elder generations, there because they believed in the Buddhist traditions, and they were meaningful to them. This festival’s main attractions were the monks who were called oracles, and who supposedly could cut themselves with swords and leap from rooftop to rooftop blindfolded. These and other such salient features of Ladakhi culture are things we are lucky to literally be able to touch and feel their beauty.
Life here is a test. It has tested my ability to live in a place where I need to throw myself into the world, and assimilate myself in a way I have never needed to do before. I have adapted, and this place has morphed into home. It is the new family I’ve joined here, my intense happiness when the sun shines and the sky is cloudless, and even the five radios all playing simultaneously that makes feel this way. Something here makes me feel at home in a whole new way I’ve never experienced. It may not be better than home, but it is just as meaningful.

Life At SECMOL -- by Dylan

My life at SECMOL is an interesting one, one I’ve been longing for ever since I joined the public school system. This school is run by the students; anything we want done we do ourselves. This is exactly what I needed, because I was tired of being herded like a sheep at my school back home. The things I learn here relate to things I can see outside the class room window, so I feel that I’m learning with a purpose. I also learn a lot about the Ladakhi culture, as well as traditions.
I wake up to a bell ringing just outside my room, a call for the Ladakhi student’s to class. I lay in bed for however long suites me, and then roll onto the floor, where I begin my stretches. From here I meander my way to the community kitchen, and fill up my glass jar with some green tea. I am now left with about a half hour until breakfast, in which I often read, or loiter in the kitchen. I enjoy a different breakfast every morning, and then I collect the necessary books for the days classes. I stop in the bathroom, and join my fellow teeth brushing students. I then continue my way to the classroom, settle down cross-legged on the floor, and anticipate the next few hours of education.
In my science class, with my Viking teacher Daniela (alias Gailstrong), I’m studying the comparison between ancient methods of farming in Ladakh and the new methods brought about by modern technology. I had an interview with the head officer of the department of Horticulture, and I have several more lined up with other higher-ups. In my ‘History of Ladakh’ class, I am studying the roots of conflict in Kashmir, as well as routes to peace. I am also doing a project in this class, where I am going to have to lead a discussion on the conflict over modern technology being introduced into farming. In my English class, we’ve been writing journalist pieces on different Buddhist celebrations we have witnessed in the last several weeks. I am doing a final project in this class as well, were I have to write a final piece on my agricultural studies from my other two classes.
I have learned a lot about farming here, and the methods aren’t completely different to those in VT. Depending on different villages’ elevation, they plow in different times, but usually around early April. The whole family helps for this process, because most Ladakhis use animals to plow, which is a much longer process then with a tractor. The plow is of the same design as the one we hook up to a tractor on my farm. After the field is plowed, they whole family helps to plant. Most families grow barley, and vegetables, and many are now growing apricots. Irrigation is very interesting, and most fields are propagated by the Indus river through gutters that channel the water to the fields. In the last twenty years there has been a major increase in farmers using chemical pesticides and fertilizers. However, many use home made organic pesticides, and almost all use ‘humanure’ from their composting toilets.
Harvest season is usually around August or October. The apricots are put in jars with sugar, and stored in a cold cellar. The families also store onions, potatoes, barley, cabbage, and other vegetables in the store room.
After we drink tea at around 11:30, everyone on campus is assigned a job from our student elected coordinator, Dolma. The jobs differ every day, depending on what needs to be done. Some of us work in the greenhouses, some of us build stone walls, and the unlucky ones have to clean out the composting toilets. Work hour is one of my favorite parts of the day, because you can see all 30 some odd students going to and fro’ working on this and that. It really gives you the sense of a working community.
After work hour, we all do our responsibilities for a half hour. Our responsibilities are assigned to us; each one of us has something different to do for a period two months. I was put in charge of the garage, and all tools inside. This means I have to go campus several times a week, searching for tools people borrowed and forgot to return. I also have the task of putting handles on all the tools with out one. This week I made two axe handles, and thee pick axe handles. This is my favorite part about the job, because it reminds me of working in my school shop back home, making axe handles for my forestry class. Other responsibilities include working in the green house, the school store, the library, and many others.
Lunch is sometimes good, sometimes not. Either way I eat, and get on with my day. For most of the afternoon I do my homework, or take part in soccer or cricket games. At 6:00 most days we have conversation class, where we talk about various things with the Ladakhi students to improve their English. After an hour of conversing, us VIS students have Ladakhi language class, where we learn to speak simple, yet necessary phrases.
After language class we all go to dinner, where we sit cross legged in one room, a real community. After we eat, someone has to get up and talk about whatever they want, for however long they want, and are then asked many questions. Most Ladakhis talk about their villages, and some VIS students have talked about traveling, and snow boarding. Dinner is often followed by a movie, or sometimes various activities, that help everyone get to know each other better.
In short, my life at SECMOL is similar to my life at home, only I’m much more involved with everything that goes on around me.

Toben

The mountains that shoot up on either side of the river valley are tinged with pink and gold. Below, the Indus is still immersed in shadow, it’s ever flowing waters pushing on into Pakistan. Perched on the cliffs above the river, the SECMOL campus is just beginning to stir. Just above the subterranean kitchen is a long building with plastic green houses attached to the south facing side. These green houses keep the inner rooms warm during the day and night. Inside one room are two beds, and next to mine, a small black wrist watch begins to beep repeatedly. The digital numbers read 7:30. Not without a groan, I fumble for the button that will stop the alarm. Then I sit up. “Dylan.” But my attempt to awake my roommate is drowned by the loud ringing of the breakfast bell. Ishey, the cook, has already been up for hours. After about half-an-hour, I am sitting with all of my fellow Americans, still trying to blink the sleep out of their eyes, mixed together with the bright eyed and eager Ladakhi students, all smiles.
As I look around, the scene of chatting teenagers reminds me of the pattern I have fallen into. What may have been strange at first now seems so natural. This community, holy in its youth, sacred in its willingness to learn, reminds me of the Sangha. During my time in Ladakh I have learned much about this revered society, founded by one of histories most famous princes: Siddhartha Gotama, the man who would become the Buddha. The Sangha is the community of disciples that flocked to the Buddha’s teachings. Sangha means ‘society’ in Pali, an ancient language of India, the birth place of the enlightened one. When the Buddha began to spread his teachings of the eightfold path and the four noble truths around 450 years BCE, many people were willing to strip them selves of worldly possessions, living a simple existence of scholarly worship and meditation.
Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I find that I have absentmindedly finished my meal. Now the four or five monk-like academics immediately surrounding me are preparing to “gamble away” their dishes, a tradition at every meal. I quickly throw my empty bowl and spoon onto the growing pile and put my fist behind my back. The game is rock-paper-scissors. “One, Two, Three!”, we all a shout, and then reveal our weapon, either a rock-like fist, a pair of sharp finger-scissors, or a thick crushing sheet of palm. Sometimes we play with variations, using a fist and a thumb as the “mountain”, which is climbed by the “little man” (a pinkie finger). The “little man” is chopped in half by the “sickle”, (the longest three fingers) but the “sickle” can’t cut the mountain. In any case, today my rock as crushed the scissors of my foes, so I am free to go back out into the now bright morning.
The day continues as it will, with classes, and then a work period. During this solid hour the entire community comes together to help maintain the campus with odd jobs, anything from collecting stones from the near-by desert, or mucking the composting toilets. I stop for a moment and rest on my shovel. All around me, foreigners and locals alike work side by side, and once again I allow my self to imagine the Sangha. This ancient society comprised of boys as young as eight and elders as old as seventy all work together to haul water and keep their monasteries in order. These large buildings run both as religious centers and places of learning, as well as hostels for the monks. In Ladakh, it is a common sight to see monks standing in lines, passing stones and the traditional lamp oil. Since the monasteries in the Himalayan mountains are traditionally built on high ridge lines in impressive locations, it is quite a walk to reach the top.
If Buddhism is the soul of Ladakh, then the Sangha, called the lama in these icy fortresses, is the heart, pumping the knowledge and teaching to even the highest peaks. Even in the remotest places the flashing colors (red, green, blue, yellow, white) of prayer flags can be seen fluttering in the wind.
Shaking my head and smiling, I settle back into the routine. There is homework to be done, desert hills to explore, a tasty lunch, probably rice and daal. Soon it will be dinner, and then, a nightly activity. Before the day is done, any visitors to SECMOL would be able to see a room full of teenagers, singing and frolicking. It wouldn’t take much imagination to see a room full of devoted monks, prancing about in reverie, wearing traditional dress and masks. Festival and celebration has been a part of Tibetan Buddhism since time eternal.
Finally exhausted, my roommate and I stumble back into our incensce room. All over campus, a hush has fallen. It is nighttime at SECMOL. The moon rises above glistening Himalayan peaks, just as it has done for so long. Even this sight has become part of the routine, but even though it is a comfort to me, just like every other part of the day, it’s beauty will continue to mystify me forever. I drift off, my thoughts on prayer wheels and my Ladakhi friends, my Sangha.

Jansyn

As I sit here, gnawing on dried apricots, I feel accomplished. I have mastered a way of living that was foreign to me before this moment. I have finally realized that this journey to Ladakh is just a journey and there should be no expectations. I live day to day with minimal forward thinking. I live in the present.
Buddhism has made me realize and accept my “in the moment” approach. As the Dalai Lama XIV said: “What we think of as “I” is a succession of instants in a continuum of consciousness” and right now, as the wind whips through the valleys and the sun settles behind the mountain peaks, I am just a succession of instants.
On South East St. in Amherst, Massachusetts, my life progressed like a checklist. The infinite, empty white squares lined up in my mind, begging to be checked off. I spent my days anxious to finish the list that didn’t have an end. I do not totally blame myself for this unfortunate situation (nor my parents who have raised me in this way). It seems one must live like this in order to “succeed” in our western culture. When we desire good futures, our experiences in the present become inconsequential. We move faster and faster until we are hopping around like brainwashed rabbits.
There are no brainwashed rabbits in Ladakh.
Problems arise when western habits are juxtaposed with the Ladakhi system. Homework, for example, seems so irrelevant when I live minute to minute. At this altitude the checklist section of my brain has evaporated and, with it, the concept of homework.
Another western habit that has basically vanished from my life at SECMOL is bathing. I wash my hair when it gets stiff with grease (which is usually about twice a week) and I perform a full-out bath only once every seven days. But it all seems okay here. A shiny, well-clothed student almost seems sacrilegious amongst the endless brown sand. Adapting to my natural surroundings puts me at peace. At SECMOL there is not hand sanitizer in every classroom (like there is in my school in the U.S.) and having dirt under your nails is okay. Once again the ways of the West are drowned in the Indus.
As far as homework goes: the deadline for choosing an exhibition topic has come and gone and I paid little attention to it (this is the problem with living in the present). Now I must appease my teachers and decide what aspect of Ladakh I want to explore further. Nothing immediately comes to mind and I feel weird treating Ladakh and its culture as a science experiment or an undiscovered geode. I feel a part of here now, so much in fact that I refuse to sit in the “tourist section” at monastic festivals. Ladakh is my home. But I will not forget that everything is ephemeral and this sanguine place is just another step in my journey.

Elise Gloeckner

March 7, 2008

No Pudge brownie mix stirred with water
Tin glasses
Processed peanut butter
Laughter & smiles
The Shins blasting out of my Ipod

A Friday night well spent with Jansyn, Terri, Tess, Emma, Ashleen and Ella, each beautiful people inside and out, having different qualities to share.

Up to now, the countless days spent in the breath taking Himalayans nestled at the indirect heart of India has taught and shown me more than I have ever gathered in my 16 years spent in the comforting hills of Vermont. This program is greater than anything and everything I could have ever possibly asked for. Mom, Dad and Curtis, in hopes that you read this, I send thankfulness once again.
Living here has taught me how to just simply be. Be in the moment, be willing, be open, be calm, be exploratory, to be myself. I’ve let my mind slip into a state of easiness that no longer consists of scattered thoughts about desires and expectations. This place no longer has expectations. I discovered that you can’t have expectations while here. You just have to be ready to embrace. Embrace the genuine smiles that the Ladakhis are constantly flashing at you. Embrace the undeniable laughter that is shared. Just embrace and just be, for the days are numbered and the months go way to fast
Every day here at Secmol becomes more and more pleasing and having the sun constantly beaming down makes for a better vibe in all. Walking to the kitchen each morning, I can hear the voices of Secmol students mixed with VIS as I come down the steps. Once I push open the door, which occasionally is hard to budge, the day is started in a place I have become so accustomed too. Having to adjust and adapt to a completely different culture and environment wasn’t challenging at all. The VIS students have become miraculously close so finding comfort in any one of them isn’t a far reach and the Secmol students, whether they pull you by the arm or come and lean on your shoulder, their welcoming attitudes makes you feel as though you really belong and are wanted to stay.
I wish I could cram you in on everything we do, say and the settings of each day. It feels like all things here should be written down and captured, for each moment is treasured like no other. The thing is though that this location is indescribable. No text could come remotely close in describing the emotions that come over a person while in this place. Pictures don’t even capture the true beauty that India holds. The sounds that you hear on a daily basis; the 5 repetitive Ladakhi songs that are constantly playing, distant voices of boys and girls, ice hokey games taking place right outside your room window, the cars coming and going on the impassable roads, become so familiar, I can even sing along to some of the songs.

Emma Gershun-Half

Ladakh is a place where dust settles and blows and is a general nuisance, but belongs just the same. It coats the nose and throat but also is the stuff that age old mountains, stream beds, and gompas are made of.
Living in Ladakh means becoming one with the past and living in history. The mountains are proof of the incremental creeping of the Indian subcontinent, which somehow results in a majestic collision of earth and stone and peaks three miles above sea level. Trekking through the mountains, it is possible to see how the layers of rock converged and mutated to become the austere guardians of the valleys they grew out of.
At the homestay, the Abba-ley (father of the household) sits by his barrel shaped woodstove praying with prayer beads. In the background on a color television is a Hindi sitcom with flashy nose rings and bright saris, but it does not deter him. This meeting of the old and the new appears contradictory at a first glance, but upon further consideration it seems that the east and the west are bound to meet, and if this happens without the east casting its culture to the side then perhaps this paradox (as viewed by a westerner) can exist harmoniously. After all, Buddhism has survived in the regions of Ladakh and Tibet since the time of the Buddha himself, 2500 years ago. Dogras and Mughals (Hindus and Muslims, respectively) invaded Ladakh throughout the years and imposed their religions, but because Buddhism survived in Tibet, Ladakhi monks were able to travel over the Karakoram Pass to learn in Tibetan monasteries and bring the religious teachings back to Ladakh, where, after the second spreading of Buddhism, the religion survived despite outside influences.
Ama-ley (the mother) is cooking dinner: potatoes and carrots in a sauce spiced with chili powder and other herbs, with dough twisted into little rolls to accompany. This meal is a meal any household would be cooking, save for one characteristic. The timok, or rolls, are made from a white flour, an expense many families would choose to forgo. Households usually grow their own food and grain for their animals, and sell the excess, especially apricot products, in Leh or to the army. Rice and fuel are the largest household expenses, although with the government subsidizing solar panels for villages without a preexisting diesel generator, the only fuel these families need to buy is for cooking on a propane stove.
I go to bed with two tremendously heavy and warm yak hair blankets covering me. Even though the room itself is cold, due to no centralized heating and the February night air, I sleep quite well and cozily. In the morning, water is heated to bathe in, and this means the washing of hands and faces. Over the years, full body baths have become more frequent, but in the winter it would be crazy to undergo this process more than is absolutely necessary. When one does bathe, it happens quickly, in a bucket, during the part of the day when the sun is shining most strongly and hair is most apt to dry.
Breakfast is served. As a foreigner, I am served the delicacy of a fried omelet, accompanied by chipates, a thin, tortilla like bread and some orange marmalade. Even though the smell of eggs cooking at home makes my stomach turn, here it growls in anticipation of the much-needed protein. Sweet tea is offered, and I am told to eat again and again. Ama-ley will not be satisfied until my plate is clean.
After this experience, I feel enveloped in the warmth of Ladakh, a place that is barren, yet full of otherworldly life. A place where the concepts of emptiness, oneness and om came into being and are still active in the evolution of life.

Tess

Today, Emma received a package containing 8 Reese’s’ Peanut Butter Cups, 8 Kit-Kat Bars, and 6 boxes of No Pudge brownie mix. Several boxes of brownie mix had burst, spilling their contents into the box they had been mailed in. The box was splitting at the seams with bits of brown powder pouring from its corners. I tipped the package and poured as much of the spare mix as I could into my palm and licked it clean. Emma removed the bags of brownie mix from their boxes and put them in a plastic bag together to keep them from spilling further. I took each individual box and dumped its loose contents into my palm, or into a cup, or onto a folded piece of paper and dumped them directly into my mouth. It was kind of like eating hot chocolate by the spoon full and mixing it with your saliva to simulate drinking it. I have become the most glutinous person I know. After about an hour of gorging myself, I sheepishly crept to the bathroom looking like I’d spent the day working in a chocolate coalmine.
It has taken me about a month to adjust to my current surroundings physically. Sometimes the altitude still makes me act like I got hit in the head with a brick, but I can now spend the whole night in my bedroom instead of the composting toilet. Life sans indigestion is simply heavenly. I’ve started running every morning (if you count the past 2 mornings as every morning) and can feel my stamina increasing. Hopefully, I won’t end up being the one riding a pony on the next trek, which begins the 16th or 17th.
***
I will now describe the schedule at SECMOL. Breakfast at 8 a.m., class at 9, tea at 11. (As I mentioned earlier, I go running every morning. That happens at 7.) After tea, from 11:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., we have work hour. Today I helped dig a canal that may be filled with water by the end of the week. The Ladakhi girls and I would work for about 3 minutes, then rest for about 5. When a man and two women from Rajasthan drove up looking for tin cans, we stopped for about 20 minutes to talk to them. We ended up heading back early. (I want to mention that I was surprised by today’s leisurely pace. The Ladakhis are the most productive, hard-working group of people I have ever met. They’re also tough as nails, yet sweet as honey. But Hell, today’s Friday.)
After work hour, we have 30 minutes to do our responsibilities. My responsibility is gardening. During this time, I usually pick spinach or water the garden. Because the pipes froze every night in February, the plants went through a bit of a dry spill, as did every other being on campus. This dry spell had an effect on our ability to bathe. Thankfully, due to Ladakh’s dry, cool climate, we don’t sweat very much here.
Gulab Singh.
At 1 p.m. we have lunch. From 2- 3:30 we have more class. Lately, we’ve been using our class time to work on a solar-heated garden bed. The heat for the garden bed is created by recycled bottles filled with water and painted black on one side. The black side absorbs sunlight, heating the water. The heat of the water emanates into the soil. The weather has warmed up a lot since we got here (it is now about 65 degrees in our room at night instead of 40), so the plants no longer have to be covered at night and un-covered in the morning to prevent from freezing. (That last bit isn’t actually relevant to the project, but it’s relevant to gardening, which is my responsibility.)
After that class, we have free time until 6 p.m., when we have English conversation class. During English conversation class, VIS and SECMOL students split into groups to discuss designated topics. The goal is to improve the conversational English of the Ladakhi students. The last conversation class concerned VIS’s most recent trek, which three of the Ladakhi students (Padma, Kunzes and Dorjay) accompanied us on. We discussed hiking and home-stays, wood-stoves, farm animals, food, Chang (Ladakhi beer), and 3-storey composting toilets. A highlight from a past conversation class was when I learned how hard it is for women to become trekking guides. Apparently, Ladakhi trekking companies often refuse to hire women. Tinless, a former SECMOL student who visited during February, is a trekking guide. She’s currently working on becoming more qualified so that a company will hire her.
At seven, VIS attends Ladakhi language class. Dinner is at 7:30. Sometimes after dinner, there’s an evening activity, usually a dance party. Most of the dance parties have Ladakhi music. I really liked the Ladakhi pop songs, all three of them, the first 12 times or so I heard them. They play on repeat in the kitchen. And on the bus. I have the lyrics memorized but I have no idea what they mean. One of the VIS students (Toben?) asked Kunzes if she ever gets tired of listening to the same songs over and over. Kunzes told him he didn’t understand. He’s American, she’s Ladakhi. Jansyn said that the songs make her think of a chipmunk prancing around with a fist-full of flowers.

The schedule at SECMOL is fun, but it’s nice to have some unstructured time every now and then. We get this in the form of trekking. Our next trek is in about a week. We’ll be going up to 18,000 ft. and we won’t be bringing any ponies. (Last time, we had two ponies to carry food and sleeping bags and one to carry a person if need be. I guess if we don’t have any ponies this time, I don’t have to worry about riding one.) The picture accompanying this Blog entry is from the last trek when I lent Dorjay my camera. It’s his glamour shot.
MOM: SEND RAISINS, DRIED APPLES AND GRANOLA BARS.

Ella Belenky

My home for the past month has been in a place far from Vermont, the Himalayas. Although the contrast of the East to the West is evident almost every moment here, I find myself slowly growing accustomed to the differences to my life back in Cabot. I am comforted by the vastness of the mountains that surround me, scraping the sky, soaring higher and higher, their peaks are out of sight. I love the feeling that I get as I stand next to these monsters of land. I am so miniscule as I stand at the base of these mountains, yet I am so enormous, so valiant standing at the top.

We returned back to SECMOL last week from our five-day trek and homestay. Staying with a Ladakhi family, in a Ladakhi household completely exposed me to a whole new side to where we are. The means of simplicity that these people live by is, to me, incredible. We hiked to villages that didn’t have roads leading to them. In areas this remote, yaks became the means of transportation. I remember staying in one household where our five-year old brother would help with chores around the house. He carried stacks of dried dung, and wood toward the room we were staying in so we could stay warm next to the stove throughout the night. Later in the evening, after dinner, we all danced to the scratchy tapes of Ladakhi pop songs that played off of the radio sitting by the bucket of water, used for washing. The Ladakhis are by far the hardest working, and most compassionate people that I have ever met. Their energy and resilience to us indolent Americans still seems amazing.

Days before our trek a woman from Leh came to SECMOL to lead us through a full day of Vipassana meditation. Sitting on my mat for hours on end gave me a chance to really process everything that has been happening over this past month. Being here at SECMOL I often forget the significance of my self-reflection. Ladakh is filled with so many aspects that seem so substantial to this trip that at times I find myself moving fast, never slowing down. I get so caught up in the desire to experience it all, that I forget the importance of letting it all sink in.
During meditation I thought a lot about the idea of reaching emptiness or enlightenment, a concept of Buddhism that we have been discussing a lot during our classes. Emptiness, like the law of karma, discusses how everything on Earth is interdependent. I like this concept, this idea that I am in a sense connected to everything around me, and everything is somehow connected with me.

I carry my Vermont pride and I stand with my feet firm in Ladakh.

Pings, Pongs, and the Caste System -- by Otto Pierce

Ping-Pong. It is a game of spin and placement, incredulous players when shots go awry, and constant scorekeeping. The methodical ping and pong of the hollow white ball as it curves and cruises over the net, exciting spirits and inciting laughter. Friendly competition, fiery competition, fun, fun, fun competition.

In Ladakh, a remote kingdom in far north India, lies the campus of Secmol. Nestled in between the towering and powerful Himalayas the campus is a bustle of student life, and a model of green living. Secmol is a place of learning and working, but also a place of play, games, and fun. One of those games is ping-pong.
Here at Secmol anyone can play, and most do. There are beginners and seasoned veterans with blazing ‘power shots’. The blue table has a dulled and chipped white border, and is fully broken in half. To add to the ragged look, one of those halves has most of the end broken off, but somehow the table is set up anyway. In stark contrast is the new set of paddles and balls. In the soft fluorescent light of the ‘ping-pong room,’ the set seems to practically gleam, taking over the job of the old and well-worn set. At the worn blue table no one is ever told that they can’t play, or that they have to go last every time. There is no discrimination on the basis of wealth or social status. Unfortunately this is not entirely true to all aspects of Ladakhi life.
Secmol is an anomaly in Ladakh. It is a place where all students from the hierarchical social system in Ladakh can be on the same level with each other, and work together to run a campus. Step outside the boundaries of Secmol however and those relationships break down. In Ladakh there exists a caste system, or rather the remnants of a caste system. It still dictates social opinion and friendships in Ladakhi culture, but because both the Indian constitution and the Dali Lama’s condemnation, it is only to a degree in most Ladakhi households. The three lower castes are the Mons (Musicians descended from the Aryans), smiths, and Bedas (Musicians as well, who arrived later than the Mons to Ladakh, and are both Buddhists and Muslims as opposed to just Buddhists like the Mons). The middle caste is called the Mang-rigs, and the upper castes consist of the very wealthy families (Sku-drag) as well as the ones with royal bloodlines (Rgyal-rigs). Ironically, even thought all of the higher castes look down upon the Mons and the Bedas they cannot have a festival or event without them.
When the rigs-ngan (the three lower castes) are invited to a festival or a gathering they are made to sit at the end of a special seating order called the gral. The gral is a seating order that dictates where people sit by age, rank, and caste. Nowhere is the issue of caste seen more prominently that in the gral. As you could imagine though, it also has the potential to create a lot of controversy if someone is place lower than they think they should, or someone of a lower caste is placed higher than them because that person holds a very high military rank. Perhaps the most interesting part to the whole controversy is that many Ladakhis deny that they acknowledge caste at all, and they say that the only reason the rigs-ngan sit at the end of the line is so that they can fit their drums. However, when they are not provided a mat to sit on, they have to bring their own dining ware, and the higher castes wont eat the food they bring, it is apparent that Ladakhis only say they don’t recognize caste. It is true though that caste has become less of an issue than in the past, and some if the rigs-ngan are breaking out of their castes by getting an education. Maybe though, the best solution to settle the problem would be for them to all just play ping-pong together.