-Dharamshala, Himmachal Pradesh, India
January 10, 2008
I am writing to you from the knees of the magnificent Himalayas, where exiled Tibetan’s have come to escape Chinese persecution in their land. Here, Dharamshala, is where the Dalai Lama calls home.
I turned 30 today. No small surprise, but witness, bear witness to a life spent living, with less and less lies. The sun burst out in sky backed joy this morning after a night of wind. Last night the wind washed all the rock off the side of my Himalayas. And laid the rocks thunder shaped, prayer scroll scraped, at the foot of my sleepy slumber bed.
Wind like I’ve never heard. Sweeping down, momentum drawn, from skyscraping slopes to plains dotted with village hopes.
This is my god. Where Shiv Ji sits and spills out the river Ganga, a stones throw away from where Hanuman takes lessons from the Sun. These valleys amidst peaks are where clouds go to rebound, arch up into hand claps, hi-five lightning bolts reaching up united over tree lined ridges, monumental tiers dug into mountains, houses steeped in stone, monkeys of metallic sheen and black faces, golden ones call this place home.
This year I begun awash in wind, rain, sleet, snow, sun, and shine. Washed clean.
Keep reading, the next post takes a look at an important development in post-liberation world politics (outside the U.S.).