An Honorary Tibetan
Last night, Lama convened a meeting in the dining room. He wanted to remind everyone to be very pleasant to all strangers who come here. We must all smile and be warmly welcoming even if we can't speak the necessary language. Most people who come to see this place are actually looking for respite from some sort of suffering, for asylum. So it's our job to show compassion by being kind to them. "Nobody comes here," he said pointedly, "to get more of the rudeness or aggravation they are trying to escape, so please do not be harsh. Just be very nice, very peaceful, very helpful. Please. That is our work here."
Today our work here involved a backhoe and some excavation in the orchard. Lama and several monks went out to see how it was all happening and watched the bucket claw into the ground to rip up witch grass, horsetail and all the other weeds running amok back there. "All the insects dying," one monk said, shaking his head sadly.
"Yes," Lama echoed. "All those beings now suffering because of us."
I'm not sure my little speech about how the backhoe was only loosening the soil and taking it to the other side of the property so we could bring in new soil probably embedded with new insects re-assured them. It's been tough enough taking heat from the few people who wanted those weeds to keep growing out there as part of some perfect biosphere of bugs, bees and plants. As though having wildflowers, orchard grass, herbs and blueberry bushes replacing it won't be a biosphere too. Impermanence is frustrating.
Today the monastery was officially closed and most of the monks piled into their maroon van and went I don't know where except to the local mall for a little shopping. Underwear, shoes, candy. Half of them were piled into the kitchen when I came back from food shopping about 7 PM thinking I would open a can of soup for dinner alone. Our artist was stirring a huge tan slurry in a restaurant sized skillet while three others scampered about putting sauces on plates and making Tibetan tea.
"I'm making a cake," the artist said, when I peered over his shoulder, fascinated at how he was continually stirring a thicker and thicker batter, wondering if this was really how Tibetans "bake" a cake. There was a lot of excitement over whatever it was.
And suddenly there was even more enthusiasm. Somebody saw the fiddlehead ferns I pulled from my shopping tote and started chattering in Tibetan. The artist stopped stirring. "They grow in my village!" he said. "And in mine," another said. Both told me their local name for these coiled fern tops that push up through thawing soil, but of course I cannot now remember. Sorry. Although one sounded like yungsing. These intensely green spirals start the growing season in my beloved state of Maine, where they are foraged and prized as a spring tonic. Because once in late March I saw them on a hillside in Bhutan, I thought eating them in a monastery in Canada would be true fusion. I had no idea it represented home to the Nepali mountain men.
I was going to steam the fiddleheads with lemon as we do in New England but I remembered the Himalayan people have their own way of preparing them. So I opted for boiling them and then stir frying them with onions, garlic, chili and soft cheese. "Sandy, Sandy," they blurted almost in unison, "will you eat some tsampa with us? Can you eat chili?"
That's when I realized they were cooking up their most comforting and common of all Tibetan foods: the iconic barley porridge. And they were anxious to share that with me, chili and all. When I took my plate into the dining room, I saw Lama eating away. And Khenpo next to him. And some horror movie with subtitles was playing on the big screen. I'd crashed a party.
"Sit here with me," Lama said."
"I have to go get a spoon," I said.
"No, you eat like us...with your hand. You don't need spoon." He held up the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. "Like this, you scoop up some tsampa, rub it in the chili and dip it in the butter." I hadn't until then noticed the little well of melted butter in the center of my porridge.
And so with our fingers we ate tsampa and fiddlehead ferns. And drank Tibetan tea. And felt right at home enjoying ourselves.
~Sandy Garson"Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"
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Yours In The Dharma, Sandy Garson, Dharma, Buddhist, Buddhism, Spirituality, Religion
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posted by Sandy Garson @ 10:32 PM
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