Just a small town boy… 

Just a small town boy… 

I first heard His Holiness The Dalai Lama speak in June 2017, where he gave a three day lecture series, for 3 hours each day, on Nagarjuna’s Commentary on Bodhicitta and the Thirty-Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva to the Tibetan Youth at the Tsuglhakhang Complex, HH’s Main Temple and residence in McLeod Ganj, Himachal Pradesh, northern India.  So many long words… 

With little information on the official website, save for “Registration opens approximately 3 days before lectures begin”, murmurs start to spread around Bhagsu as the anticipation builds “have you done yours yet?” “Is registration open yet?”.  Registration must be done in person at the Dalai Lama security office in McLeod Ganj – a typically Indian experience of filling out your application form before queuing on musical chairs in a small modest “office” back-room, filled to the brim with rusted metal shelving, piles of stuff & things that encroach the already limited space. 

Central Tibetan Administration Office


After minimal/no scrutiny, you sit opposite one man and his laptop, who enters your details into the system and takes things into the 22nd century by taking your photo on his webcam. You then pay another man 2 feet away your 10 rupee fare as he prints off your snazzy black and white pass and slips it into a plastic sleeve, complete with lapel clip. Ooh’er. 

Access granted

The day had arrived.  Even though the teachings weren’t due to start until 8:30am, we’d been advised to arrive good an early to get through temple security – another classic Indian experience:  segregated queues for men & women, entering under the arches of a faux metal detector that seems to do nothing, or be taken any notice of, an obligatory bag search (no lighters, cameras or phones allowed), a second bag search 2 feet away, an intimate body search behind a screen and a 3rd verbal check “did you have your bag checked?”. 

Temple guard dogs

This spits you out at a set of back stairs that look distinctly like the wrong way, or an exit, but I press on with no other option and rise up into the Temple arena – a chaotic space that’s hard to grasp, and with no apparent epicentre. Where will the man himself be seated?!  

I’d imagined the Temple to be very different inside, like a huge auditorium with levels of bleacher seating, but this is India. The sea of Burgundy and Gold hits you first, crowds upon crowds of Tibetan monks seated, ready and waiting for their Teacher to arrive, without a piece of floor wasted. Next it’s the bun fight – where on earth are we going to sit? Every square foot was occupied with bums on cushions/mats, cardboard pieces that had been laid down days before, each with hand written signs denoting name & country of the intended occupee, and respectfully upheld, areas cordoned off like crime scenes with string and paper signs selotaped to them, reserving whole areas for “Japan”, “Korea”.  

Copious flat screen TVs are hung aloft for the benefit of the 90% of attendees who didn’t make it into the inner sanctum. Those still in search of a piece of flooring to sit on walk the pathways, earnestly scouring the landscape with eyes staring off into the distance. 

Climbing over a pile of flip flops & footwear deposited at the edge of a designated seating area for tourists, we manage to squeeze ourselves into some spaces in between spaces, me up against a tree trunk and a wall of Ghee canisters, and the others next to the edge railings. It’s 7:30am. 


I’m snuggled in next to Katherine, a Buddhist student from Wyoming with I-Ching tattoos and a shaved head. I look up to see the tree branches coming through the open air perimeter, and watch the monkeys jumping from branch to branch, bagging themselves an arguably better view than me. 

Katherine explains to me that she’s currently learning both Tibetan and Sanskrit to aid in her own learning and to satisfy her skeptical side. She was one of the clever ones who laid her mat down a few days ago, but she tells me she feels a little guilty that her meagre cardboard mat under her cushion could be taking up more space than she needs (for the record, it’s a perfectly reasonable 1 persons bottom size), given the Tibetans are masters of finding space for themselves, and their 3 children, where there is none. It seems she was fully expecting, and ok with, a Tibetan to squeeze into the 10cm that extended beyond her knees. 

His Holiness was to give this talk in Tibetan, so in order to understand him speak you need to tune a radio to hear the English translation. The frequency was ~93fm, and the sweet spot on my little 220 rupee radio was hairline, almost atomic level thin, and the reception flirtatiously fickle. Ah well, you get what you pay for right?

As plenty of people were still arriving, squeezing themselves in, the Monks started to served out small circular loaves of Tibetan bread to the crowds. Stacks and stacks were passed back, person to person and finally into my rumbling belly, which had fallen out with me since the 5:30am alarm. They even served Tibetan butter tea, a slightly salty & acquired taste, served into our own cups (that we’d been advised to bring with us), poured from large steel teapots. How civilised. 

The radio crackled an announcement that the Dalai Lama was on his way in, and the crowd started to stir. I stood for a moment to catch a glimpse of him on the nearest TV screen. Knowing he was in the same building as me, and not just an abstract collection of pixels on a screen in some foreign land this time, I couldn’t help but laugh and smile when I saw him appear, his little smiling, loving presence. I’d heard people talk of his epic rainbow aura and the effect it had on people in his vicinity, and here I was feeling it first hand – star struck maybe, I saw him being led by the hand, his 82 year old body slightly hunched over and smiling, greeting people like he was a member of their own family or as a friend. It was like Father Christmas had arrived, and even the general murmurs of the crowd seemed to be smiling too.

I felt a warmth on my skin, and as I turned around I realised the wall we were sat against sectioned us off from a room full of blazing pujas, their collective heat coming through the window I was now gazing through.  A wonderful sight, just for our little corner. 

As His Holiness settled in got Mic’d up Madonna style, we settled down and tuned in.   In Tibetan, the Dalai Lama speaks with such great speed and clarity, his voice rising and falling in pitch, conveying the intelligence, humour and passion of a well-read scholar of logic, fine arts, medicine, Buddhist philosophy, poetry, drama and astrology that transcends the language barrier.  

Listening to the English translation, whilst doing his very best the translator did little to lift the speech off the page or add intonation, and ohhhh how I wished I could understand Tibetan just for a moment, to be able to hear him speak in his native tongue with his loving humour, but it’s impossible to remain anything but happy in the presence of His Holinesses. 

Of course Lhamo Dhondup, the Tibetan farmers son from a small hamlet in Taktser would eschew such adoration.  Despite being a governmentally appointed reincarnation, recognised through prophecies, visions, extraordinary occurrences and tests as the 14th Dalai Lama at the age of two, this insightful, compassionate, humorous and marvellous person remains humble.  As far as he’s concerned he’s a simple Buddhist monk, a human being like all of us, with the same potential, showing us what we’re all capable of if we put our minds to it.

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Lost & Found 

Lost & Found 

When it comes to packing for holiday I can be a major procrastinator.   I’ve been known to take days, putting clothes, stuff & things into piles as I figure out what I need, wheedling it down the essentials (and probably not so essential), inspiration often hitting me at 2 in the morning of some gadgety thing or other or item of clothing that I need to dig out, #swissarmyjess. 

Might Needs and What Ifs have been the death of me.  I’ve packed and over-packed for holiday so many times as a result, only to later curse the extra weight on my back, or the lack of space in my bag each time I’ve unpacked and repacked the 3 pairs of shoes I didn’t need, or tried to stuff that bulky jumper back in because, you know, “I might want to go trekking in Nepal” or “what if it gets cold in India?”.

Back in 2016, with only a rough idea of travel plans and a 70ltr bag already bursting at the seams, I was forced to go with the Knowns:  to only pack for what I definitely knew I was doing or weather I was expecting, instead of the usual Swiss Army Jess M.O. of packing for hypothetical scenarios, borrowing worry from a future as yet unknown.  Having said that, the notion of Indian heat is a hard one to grasp when you’re in England, in a cold, slightly damp-ridden flat in London, in January, so there was bound to be some mistakes.  

I was the girl who had all the gear for every eventuality, and I’d get a kick out of being prepared for everything.  Letting go of What Ifs and Might Needs was hard for this Girl Scout at first, but has become so liberating, almost addictive – I’ve culled my bag of non-essentials and spent items several times over, leaving little bits of me behind all over the world.  

It made my load lighter, both physically and philosophically, relaxing my fervour for perfect preparation, made me resourceful (if I’m cold, just wear everything I own), forcing me to make do with what I have (which in most cases turned out to be just fiiiiine), to borrow from fellow travellers, and it’s led me to plunge my grateful hands into the Lost and Found bin. 

LOST & FOUND


Most hostels have these tucked away somewhere, and have so often been a treasure trove. The bits and bobs left behind fall into a few categories:

The Rejects: Stuff you’d never be seen dead in, and frankly who on Earth ever bought that, let alone wore it! but proves useful for trashing at Holi festival, or sweating into at humid Lumbini Vipassana retreats.

The Randoms: the unexplained and niche, like a fully reinforced and functioning motorbike jacket, and an apron… true story.

The up-cycle candidates: usually with some kind of defect, like a small tear that can easily be fixed, a small mark that can be overlooked/washed out, or shape/size that can be adapted with chalk & scissors. As my Mum would say, I am my Grandmothers Grandaughter.

The Winners: perfectly fine reusable pieces that have been left behind, either by mistake or necessity, like no more room in the bag. 

Casting shame and judgement aside, delving into the Lost & Found has yielded me extra layers when I’ve needed them, a head torch, a replacement pair of flip flops, a fresh pop of colour from a pashmina, fresh tee-shirts that I’ve adapted to suit, leggings to wear to death and throw away, warm socks for trekking, new shorts that just needed a few stitches, guilt-free fashion faux-pas, like the AliBaba (nappy) trousers I wore for a week in Pushkar (guilt-free because I DIDN’T buy them and therefore can relinquish any responsibility for style choice), “clean” clothes, a fresh wardrobe, all with no attachment – I didn’t have it in the first place, so I can just bin it, leave it behind or pass it on – and all for free/exchange. 

I’m pretty useless at shopping too, so the Lost and Found bin does me another favour, taking all colour and style selection totally out of the equation as the procrastinator in me breathes another sigh of relief, leaving me time to worry about other things, a fatter wallet and a much lighter load on my back. 

Two roads diverge in a forest, and I – I took the one less travelled by, with no expectations, no attachments, into the unknown with a “roll with it” attitude, and that has made all the difference.  I just had to let go of a little part of me that was no longer serving to find my way.


Like this? Related blog posts to “Lost & Found”:

Invest Wisely

You Can Go Your Own Way

Steve Appreciation Society

Steve Appreciation Society

I’ve been meaning to write this blog for some time now.  Let’s start with a little anecdote – back in the day on holiday, a friend of mine started an anarchic running joke, calling every stray dog she saw “Steve”, regardless of sex.

Dumballers being Dumballers, these kinds of thing catch on like wildfire and pretty soon we were all at it.

Y’see, in India there are a ton of stray dogs, wild and free roaming the streets and beaches, as much a feature of Indian culture as the many sacred cows, monkeys or piles of discarded coconut shells that punctuate her hot, fragrant and dusty streets.  

“Hi Steve!” 

…we’d say as we passed a dog, any dog, all dogs.  If you say it in the right pitch they almost prick up their ears as if it were their actual name too, and just for a moment they were individuals, they had a personality, an identity.  For a moment it’s like you knew them, and they knew you… kinda… but they were noticed.  Some even let you pet them, a welcomed and much appreciated liberty for this dog-lover.  

This frivolity grew from being a game and into a habit.  When the Dumballers left I carried on the tradition with me, sharing the fun with other travellers for shits and giggles, and so the #steveappreciationsociety was born.   

I even named my guitar Steve, because at the time I couldn’t take my guitar playing seriously either.

THE PLOT THICKENS…

As I moved around from state to state, town to town, the Steve habit started turning into something else.  I was starting to take notice of the Steves as much as the People, if not more.

I started to notice details.  Obvious ones at first like how the breed, shape and size would change according the climate and setting.  Then I started to notice wider details, like if they worked alone or in packs, if they were friendly, approachable, scared or aggressive, if they were well fed, in good condition, skinny and mangey, how they survived, how the locals treated them etc.

The more places I travelled to, the more I could reflect back and notice correlations between Steve’s temperament and the social undercurrent of the places I’d visited.

I’d never looked at dogs so much before.  What previously had just been background scenes with interchangeable parts suddenly had specific players that were no longer invisible.   

As my awareness grew I started applying the theory, using it as a rough indicator for new places as I looked out the train, bus or TukTuk window, and for the most part it’s been bob-on.

IN ASIA…

For example, in Goa, the Steve’s were all pretty playful, friendly, solid, good condition, tended to move around in gangs with a feeling that everything was pretty cushty, that they’d protect you if you asked, and I’d’ve adopted all of them if I could.

Arriving in Kolkata, I watched from my Ambassador window as independent, stocky, battle scarred but solid Steve’s roamed the streets – a quite obvious sense they had to fight for their suppers, but could each definitely hold their own in a much tougher competitive city environment – that was to be an accurate echo of the backstreet vibes of Kolkata.

Hitting Delhi, the connection became more obvious still – Delhi Steve’s were skinny, dusty, much smaller, mangy, usually alone and scared, eating anything and everything they could get their snouts on, even if that was a babies nappy – a distressing echo of the destitute and poverty stricken conditions in Delhi, and the many street kids who have to survive it.

Landing in Kathmandu, I was surrounded by the familiar and comforting sight of scruffy, friendly Steve’s, and I realised how much they’d become a part of my trip.

IN GUATEMALA… 

When I hit San Marcos in Guatemala, another level of intrigue hit me.  San Marcos is a very nice place to be, a yogi/hippy/tourist haven, and on the outside it’s all sparkly and friendly and safe, which it is really.

Like the people, flying halfway across the world meant the breed of street dog had now completely changed – compared to the typical stocky street Steve’s I was used to in India and Nepal, I was seeing a lot of smaller lap-dog Steve’s, larger and fluffier husky/wolf-like Steve’s who, for the most part, all looked pretty comfortable, lazy and pretty complacent in their lakeside habitats quite frankly.  A clear and good indication that food was plentiful, and that being a street dog in San Marcos was a pretty sweet deal man.

However, despite the glittery sheen there were several Steve’s who shied away whenever I tried to show them love, cowering away in fear, and it just made me think, “what happens to these Steve’s in this place of paradise and tranquility to make them act this way?”

Gandhi said:

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

San Marcos is definitely a shiny happy place on the outside, but those anxious Steves gave away her slightly malignant underbelly, which was also described to me by some local friends, confirming my couch flip-flop-filosophy theory further.

MEANWHILE, IN SOUTH AMERICA… 

When I touched down in Peru, I started observing the Steve’s of course, trying to get sense of South America and Peru.  They were tough to read:  I struggled to see the same breed twice, a lot looked like hybrids/mongrels in one way or another (think Sausage Steve’s with Labradors), small Steve’s in tee shirts and hoodies, and the indigenous Peruvian “Incan Orchid” breed is an adorably weird hairless alien-looking thing.  It’s like they didn’t make sense at all, an ironic echo of my confusion and hesitations about South America! (see my last blog).

Peruvian Inca Orchid – the indigenous hairless dog of Peru


 
I’m glad to say that that feeling has now completely passed.  Not only that, the diversity, quirky individuality and friendly mien of the Peruvian Steve’s has just made me fall head over heels in love with everything that Peru and South America has to offer – new and unchartered territories, of both mind and matter.

Look to the Steve’s – the Animal Kingdom can tell us more than we realise.

#steveappreciationsociety

Consultations with the original Steve

Checking for update

Checking for update

For all those who truly want answers and who truly care about the questions;  for all those who have embarked upon quests for truth with sincerity of heart, longing of soul, and openness of mind, this blog is for you.  

When I reflect back on the last 8 months, my quest to find My Way Up, I can pin-point specific “spots in time” when I’ve experienced change, a shift.  Some were small yet significant, and some were seismic game-changing epoch-defining shifts that altered my perception of the world around me, as well as my perception of Self, from where I could operate from a point of ignorance no longer.

I figure I’m currently operating on Jessington software version 36.5.0, and version 36.5.1 is ready to download.  Each version has featured its own bug fixes, removing redundant features and replacing them with upgrades.  

Jessington Version 36.5.1:

– shadow work:  embracing my darker, denser side in the paradigm of duality, true balance. 

– discernment:  listening to my highest thought: joy;  listening to my clearest word: truth;  listening to my grandest feeling: love;  listening to my greatest messenger: experience. 

– exploration:  asking my higher-self (from my heart) “what experience do I need to have?”  We are all led to the truth for which we are ready by being open to everything, by being willing to hear, and remain open to the communication even when it seems scary, or crazy, or downright wrong. 

“Feeling is the language of the soul.  If you want to know what’s true for you about something, look how you’re feeling about it.  Feelings are sometimes difficult to discover – and often even more difficult to acknowledge.  Yet hidden in your deepest feelings is your highest truth.  The trick is to get to those feelings.”

Conversations with God, Neale Donald Walsch

UPGRADE AVAILABLE:

Denser feelings, such as anger, depression, frustration, are still a part of us (I’m working on this) but they can get in the way of our joy, our happiness, our truth.  Here’s some magic:  you can choose your response, truly:

Inquire within, rather than without, asking: “what part of my Self do I wish to experience now in the face of this calamity?  What aspect of being do I choose to call forth?”  For all life exists as a tool of your own creation, and all of its events merely present themselves as opportunities for you decide, and be, Who You Are. 

Conversations with God, Neale Donald Walsch

By consciously letting go of redundant features, such as energies, emotions, protocols or belief systems that no longer serve you, you inherently make space to welcome in new ones that better express and embrace your Essence-Self.  

In time, and by working on myself a lot over the last 200+ days,  I’ve come to realise that so many of the issues, or “miseries”, that I’ve had in my past were a result of decisions I made without even realising it – decisions like carrying around other people’s shit, accepting gifts of negativity, or my ego getting in my own way by trying (and failing) to impress people because of a need to be liked, brought on by childhood insecurities. 

Insecurity, anger, frustration, whatever, these are the things that hold us all back; they feed our negative thought patterns, our protocols.  They mean we keep repeating the same bullshit stories we tell ourselves over and over, like “I’m not good enough” or “if only that person would change a little, then my life would be sooo much better”.  

I’ve come to realise that the only person we can truly change is Us. 

Taking that time to work on myself, to really inquire within, to put my ego to one side and hold space for myself means I’m now better able to choose to lead a life that isn’t dictated by my past as much anymore.  I choose to live a proactive life, free and liberated.  It is such a joy not to be kept awake at night with those kinds of feelings anymore, and instead to replace them with feelings of liberation.  

Now, I have the faculty to Pause.  I can choose not to get angry, I can choose not to accept gifts of negativity or frustration from others.  I choose to be me, to try and embrace both the light and dark aspects of me as a whole unconditionally,  freeing myself from the old stories I’ve been told, and to walk in the valley of my own shadow. 

All to often we pick up and carry so much of other people’s shit around, when we have so much of our own shit to deal with in the first place.  If only we put as much energy into outselves as we do other people. 

Por ejemplo:  There were these two monks, one Old, one Young, walking in the forest.  They came to a river, and saw a young woman struggling to cross it.  

Now, they’ve both sworn an sacred oath never to touch a woman, but after a brief pause and without hesitation the Older monk picked up the woman and carried her across the river, setting her down on the other side, and without a word they continued walking.  The Young monk was beside himself – he kept thinking to himself how could the Old monk have broken his vows?!  

He kept quiet until he could no longer, and confronted the Older monk “How could you pick her up?  We both swore a sacred oath never to touch a woman?!”.  

The Old monk replied “Brother, I set her down on the other side of the river, why are you still carrying her?”.  

Told. 

Along this theme, and to help keep me a shit-free zone, I constantly refer to some powerful and beautifully simple principles, or keys: 

1.  The 4 Agreements: thank you Anna Cooper, I FINALLY understand them all:

2.  Forgiveness:  to liberate my soul

3.  Gratitude:  to open my heart 

4.  Anicca: The law of nature/impermanence.  Everything changes, goes in cycles, so just Let Goooooo of any cravings or aversions:  the key here is to accept everything just as it, not as you would like it to be.   For example, the Sun will always rise and it will always set:  we have no control over that, so just accept it just as it is, and most importantly do that with equanimity: i.e. no labelling it Good or Bad.


5.  Pause:  Choose your response proactively in every situation, not reactively.  Take control.  Take a conscious breath.  Pause, and the solution will present itself.  Be 100% Present – hold space, be in the moment, and your true Essence-Self will be revealed.  

Seems relevant at this point to also introduce the Law of attraction/repulsion, as summarised in the video below, which is well worth a watch:

Bashar :: The Law of Attraction and Repulsion

God bless every child travelling the road home 🕉 

You can go your own way

You can go your own way

“Welcome to Hogwarts” he said, as I walked through the gate.  “This is going to be an interesting month” I thought to myself…

Sometime ago I decided to throw out plans, to Let Go and just go with the flow.  India is massive, and in the beginning just choosing what direction to go in was hard enough (FML).  I soon realised that if I just shut up, sat back and waited, the solution often presented itself.  It was then that I really started letting go of any idea of linear, logical, north/south/east/west routes, and instead to listen to my intuition and literally make this shit up as a I go along. 

That decision led me in directions I never expected, led me to simply fabulous people and places I might never have met/seen otherwise.  By being open to absolutely everything and going with what felt right in the moment meant I never shut any doors.  

I just stopped thinking about travelling in geographical terms and instead as a field:  I can go in any direction I want, I just have to follow the feeling and find my own way.   Plan B was everything else, Plan A was just being present in the moment and going with it. 

7 months later, I followed a feeling and flew Guatemala from Nepal, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. ok ok, Las Piramides School of Yoga, Metaphysics & Meditation in San Marcos La Laguna.  They’re basically the same thing.   

  

I’m halfway through week 2 of the 4-week Moon Course here at Las Piramides, and I’m certain it was the best decision I ever made.  

I’m doing Yoga every goddam day, meditating, getting in touch with my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual bodies, learning about metaphysics, dimensions, astral travelling, lucid dreams, channelling, Reike, Kirtans, healing techniques, mantras, I’m chanting Om Mani Padme Hum and I understand why, I’m opening my 3rd eye with Ommmmm meditation, I’m learning breathing techniques and Pranayama, I bought a crystal the other day and I’m living in a fucking pyramid!  

yoga every goddam day

  

my little hobbit house
 

I feel like Hermione Granger as I note down the instructions for Lucid Dreaming and Astral Travelling, dictated to us from one of the coolest, most authentic 60-ish year olds I know off’ve the 70’s (with the best anecdotes, FYI).  We’re not even halfway through the course yet, and we’ve still got another 5 dimensions to learn about!  It’s fascinating. 

I know what you’re thinking… “She’s gone full Hippy now”, and up until very recently I would have agreed with you.  

To back-track a little… 

I came to San Marcos two years ago, sat in Shambala coffee shop, observing many cliches around me:  Ali baba trousers, dreadlocks, and all Peace and Love maaaan.  My friends and I laughed a little at the time, remarking how we thought those kind of people had died out in the 90’s, and as it turns out they’d all retired to San Marcos to set up organic coffee shops.  I scoffed a little, and called them “Hippies”.

Now I’m on the other side of the fence I’m beginning to understand where “they” were coming from, and what they were aiming for, and I’m wondering – when did Hippy become a bad word?  

I’ll fully admit that for me it had slightly negative connotations at the time.  They were different, perhaps weaker for some reason I couldn’t express, alternative, running away, new age, definitely out there and something I judged because of ignorance.  

Labelling puts us into categories, segregates Us from Them.  It happens all over with things like job titles, fashion statements, religion, race, whatever – they’re all just ways we fit in, all different vehicles to use, and all subtly perpetuating apartness, a separateness from the Whole, in both positive and negative ways.

I didn’t want to feel separate from my friends or my family just because of a new perspective I was getting, so I began thinking “there should be a new word for this”.  I wanted a word that could encapsulate the beautiful essence of what I’m experiencing and seeing so clearly, without having to feel different, or separate, because I’m not different exactly.  I’m still me, I’m just becoming more of me.

I’m here with 20 other like-minded people who are just as cool, grounded, funny, and normal as my mates from home.  We’re not bonkers, I promise.  We haven’t flown away with the fairies.  We’re all very grounded, normal people from normal backgrounds (who still take a pinch of salt in their diets), we just all followed a feeling:  we’re here because we want to find out more about ourselves, and ultimately to make a positive contribution to the world.  If that’s what being a Hippy is all about, then yeah!  I’m all for it! 

Then I thought about it some more.  Why does there need to be a new word, or a word at all?  By finding a new word I’m just perpetuating that concept of categorisation, the idea of separateness, difference. 

So instead, I prefer to think of it like this:  

We can be everything.  You don’t need to label it, you don’t need to close any doors.  Life is a field remember, and we can all go in all directions. 

You could be the Grande Fromage of a big corporation, wearing a suit from Monday to Friday, or a person who just really likes video games, whoever, we can all embody the essence of what we’re learning, which is basically a way to be, a way to present yourself in the world for your own benefit and to make the world a better place.  It doesn’t need a name, you can just Be it, be the example. 

Keep the doors open, and Be the change that you want to see. 

Om shanti shanti Om, peace, peace, peace, love, light, freedom and compassion for all beings, light and blessings for your day, Namaste.

the Flip Flop Filosopher x

A Day In The Life…

Bottomless Thali served with effortless beauty on banana leaves and eaten with one hand, the spectacle of watching hot sweet chai brewed by the side of the road, scalding your fingers and throat as you drink it, the call of the lyre bird, the rust bucket scooters, the Hindustani Ambassadors, Kites and Eagles circling overhead, piles of spent coconuts, kids playing cricket, everywhere, cranky air-con fans, ill fitting idiosyncratic mosquito nets, endless negotiation, street dogs running wild and yet always keeping you company, cows in the street, the fervent steamy production of simple delicious fast food, the chaos, the head wobbles, the glint in the eyes…

It’s the small details in India, the ones you don’t think to mention when someone asks during a phone call to home “So how’s it going?” that are so rich in meaning. These are the ones that seduce you, and ultimately make you fall in love.

Click to watch  A Day In the life of India