Note to self: learn to live

I didn't know what the world trade center was when the planes hit them in 2001. I was sitting at a computer in high school doing a math program while listening to either Pink Floyd "Dark side of the moon" or DJ Shadow "Preemptive strike" ( which is incredibly ironic now that I think about it). All the classrooms had a TV so that we could watch a Pepsi-sponsored news program every morning. On this particular day, one of the other students was up on a chair flipping through static until she had come upon news coverage on the crashes. She was shouting "a plane hit a building!" I took off my headphones, looked at the screen, put the head phones back on and thought, "fuck, this is not going to be good for anyone."

It was such a scary time in the US. Not because of the fear of terrorists, but because of the violent reaction against "foreigners" in the US. Everyone was talking about revenge without even thinking at all about what actually happened. First it was "terrorists", then "Osama bin Laden", then "Sadam Hussein". It all happened so fast, and I just remember how completely helpless I felt against this incredible ignorant anger that was driving the masses so intensely during that time.

I didn't know anyone who passed away. I grew up in the Southwest US, in a city in the middle of the desert. Its easy to stay in that little bubble, and many people never come out. You can read the local newspaper, but the "world" section is maybe a page long and it only has the information that the powers that be want you to know. (Its a red state). You really have to go that extra mile to see and understand the world. Most people really can't be bothered.

When I moved to New York, I met so many people whose lives were touched by that day. Its very difficult to imagine the kind of fear that they experienced.

What you begin to learn is that life is always both happy and sad, pleasant and painful. And maybe in places like India the contrast between things is so strong, that you can't help that it can get in your bones.

Today in Mysore we went to the Muslim Quarter. We were sitting in an herbal remedy shop smelling oils and watching a woman making incense. One of the men who worked there said, "this is a very sad day for people." At first I didn't catch what he was talking about, but then I realized that this man sitting in the back of this tiny dilapidated shop, in the middle of the Muslim quarter, with a tattered shirt and hands that have seen years of manual labor was talking about 9/11. He explained sadly that 3 young men from Mysore were killed in the attacks. He went further saying where they worked, what they were doing, and what floor they were on.

When you sit in a shop, they usually send someone to go get you chai, you don't have to ask for it. It comes in these small shot glasses that are either metal or glass. I didn't want mine, and was happily surprised when they gave it to the woman making incense. The incense "factory" is this old woman sitting on the floor, hand rolling thousands of sticks of incense per day. I was there around 2 o'clock, and they showed me the massive pile she had already finished.

Guruji and his family were visiting New York City in 2001 to teach workshops when the planes hit the twin towers. I wonder how many people were at those workshops instead of at work that day.

This morning at breakfast someone said "hey, does anyone want a puppy?" I said "no thanks, not again." I overheard them talking about how there was a little newborn puppy walking down the street outside with the umbilical chord hanging from its belly.

Some things that you see are so haunting you don't know what to do with the image. It stays with you like a dull, acrid smell. Its like a tickle. It doesn't feel good, it actually hurts, but you don't know how to react so you laugh.

Yesterday I volunteered at a local high school. The volunteer teacher I was assisting explained to me that the students attending the school were those who had dropped out of their original school and were somehow tracked down and recruited to this one. They still have to pay though. (When I told someone what area the school was in, they said that that was "real India", unlike Gokulum which is like the Beverly Hills of Mysore). Waiting in the main teacher's office, I sat on a bench and stared at the ceiling. It was made of corrugated cement. I wondered how they got it up there. The walls had been painted, but were now cracked and peeling and I think they were a shade of pale green or maybe they were pink. There were stacks of paper every where that looked one hundred years old. It was very hot. In the corner was a very old metal fan that wasn't on. There were pictures of men on the wall, one of them was Gandhi. There was one window where two young boys had cupped their hands over their eyes to see in through the netting and bars. They waved at us and were grinning while they shouted "hello!"

We were divided up and walked to the classrooms we were assigned. This was the first time I felt like I was in a third world country. Here I was, the stereotypical westerner standing in a dilapidated classroom teaching English to a group of enthusiastic 13 year olds in matching blue uniforms as the shouted "your name?!" and "your country?!"

You never hear babies crying. A friend said that they saw a family of beggars, a man, a woman, a couple of kids, and a baby on someone's back. The family looked very sad and had their hands out, ready to receive whatever people had to give. The baby was laughing and smiling.

"This baby has nothing, and it is so happy!" my friend recalled. "No toys, no nothing. And still, it is so happy..."

Yoga is not just going inside. Sometimes we crawl up inside ourselves. We walk up the stairs to the top floor and stay there all day examining the contents of each room, briefly looking outside for a moment. But this is not yoga. As hard as it is, we have to get up, descend the stairs, brace ourselves, and walk through that front door where the world is waiting. What makes our lives meaningful are those small moments that we share with each other, and these may never come again. Anything could happen at any moment. If there is one thing that is good about pain its that it teaches us in a simple and direct way that we are here, we are alive, and we are so lucky for all of it.

This is for all those who lost their lives that day, all those who didn't pass but still lost their lives, and those who need a reminder to wake up because we are here to live.