Last seen in Lhasa

I like to think I’m hardy.

Not in a brawny or burly manner. Perhaps not even in an entirely able-bodied fashion. My flailing eyesight, flagging endurance and spindly limbs, discounts me from passing myself off as the robust sort.

But I always thought I have a tenacious temperament, brimming with fortitude and generally mental mucilaginous.

Then I read ‘Last Seen in Lhasa’ by Claire Scobie and realized that I am in no way hardy. Especially compared to Ani, a Tibetan nun. The memoir charts the unlikely friendship that develops between English journalist Scobie and Ani.

I’m the sort that hates to spend too much time alone and generally feel compelled to colour in silences with idle chitchat. Whereas Ani retreats into mountain top caves, for months of silent meditation. I doubt I would physically or mentally last a day.

Scobie initially travels to Tibet, as part of an expedition in search of a rare red lily. Ani is invited as a spiritual guide, as the region they are travelling through is a sacred site for pilgrims "Pemako was a nebulous place…a spiritualscape where legend merged with truth."

This expedition is cut short due to political bureaucracy, Scobie returns a few months later to find the flower. During this second visit Scobie becomes eager to learn more about the mysterious nun.

Ani is a yogini  “a woman who undertakes physically and psychologically demanding practices”. Including Chod:

“way to sever emotions such as hatred, desire and ignorance to...limit one's attachment to the physical body and the inherent fear of dying.... 'chod is a short path to enlightenment,' writes Phillip Dawson, 'a vivid enactment of self-sacrifice.' It involves visualizing one's body and brain 'being totally dismembered, smashed, crushed and herded to a bloody pulp' before calling upon the spirits or hungry ghosts to devour it.'”

Ani is an extraordinarily resilient physically and mentally, it's no wonder Scobie becomes consumed with thoughts of her and revisits her several times.

'Over the years Ani, in my mind, had become whatever I imagined her to be - my teacher, my soul mate, spirit sister, cho-drok or pilgrim friend - my heroine no less.'

Not only apt in describing the metaphysical, Scobie deftly captures the tremendous physicality of Tibet, its unique sights, smells and sounds.

'The sounds of prayers rising, the smell of unwashed bodies and saccharine aroma from the butter lamps contributed to the heady atmosphere.'

Reading this instantly transported back to the temples we explored, moving through the dark labyrinth of corridors in clockwise fashion. At the time I was only aware that this was protocol. Scobie describes this protocol as Kora, a moving meditation, which earns the practitioner Spiritual power otherwise known as Wang.

I now understand the bullrush in temples, as nomads pushed and scrambled past us to get through the narrow doorways. Racing up and down ladders, they completed the clockwise circuit as quickly as possible so they could repeat it again and again.

Scobie visits to Tibet coincide with great political turmoil in the region. Scobie weaves fact, history, context and emotion into the narrative. Through her friendships, Scobie access into Tibetan society and how it was changing as a result of the presence of the Chinese. This insight is something outsiders are rarely privy to, especially given the heavy military control and surveillance present

"I asked ani if she ever felt hatred towards the Chinese for what they had done in Tibet.

'It’s Tibetans' bad karma - including my own - from previous lives that has lead to the present situation.'

Not only informative, its strong narrative thread makes it highly readable. In fact I thought I seen enough of Tibet when I was there last year, but after reading this I am itching to go back and explore some more.

Vive la revolution!

I’ve been having an awful day. A day full of straggled sobs and salty tears. I got some sad news regarding my darling Nan*.

Earlier in the week I was actually knocking together a post about happiness. I had come to the realization the more I tried to force creativity, the more I struggled to produce anything. Well nothing other than a set of shoulders knotted with stress.

Whilst I am aiming to make a living from writing, I have inadvertently been sucking the life out of my writing. Extreme expectations, intense workloads, strict deadlines etc.  So it’s almost no wonder that writing was making me feel rather stressed and anxious.

I was feeling so miserable I started reading ‘The Happiness Project’ and this quote hit me like ton of bricks:

“There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.” Robert Louis Stevenson.

Today this seems particularly potent, as I've been painfully reminded about the fragility of life. It makes me even more determined to prioritise happiness.

Last week, after reading that quote, I let go of the self-imposed pressures and just chilled out*. 

Once I stopped forcing myself to produce work that would make O. Henry go “oh my!” - I found that ideas starting popping up faster than corn kernels in a hot pan.

Like they say - a happy worker is a healthy worker.  In fact I stumbled across this report “Making employees happy, healthy and productive”

"First, consider the domino effect. Employees are overworked. This overworked environment encourages stress and stress-inducing behaviors and illnesses, which in turn increase turnover, absenteeism and employee dissatisfaction and ultimately costs employers billions in higher healthcare and labor costs" **

It feels like I’ve just given the one finger salute to a bitch of a boss.  I’m now working in a much healthier (and happier) working environment.

I’m learning to be the nice boss. The one who says things like “my door is always a open“, ”free muffins for all!” and “of course flannelette is appropriate for casual Friday!”

Of course there will still be demands, I won’t allow my writing to slip to just jotting down shopping lists, but I can already see that happiness doesn’t hinder productivity.

Whilst Red Smith famously said “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein”

I think that would be a dreadfully messy business to engage in on a daily basis. I definitely think experiencing a spectrum of emotions is important to foster a sense of honesty and excitement in writing (I can attest to braving the stormy swell of emotions today). But I think that one needs to establish a happy working environment to ensure that the creative muse turns up and clocks on.

So Vive la revolution! Farwell Fi the dictator! And hello happy little camper!

Every revolution needs a couple of smashed eggs

*She is just the best.  Plain and simply – the best.

The woman herself! [photo taken 3years ago, during a freezing Irish winter!]

** This may have coincided with the discovery of the truly amazing show – Downton Abbey AND the hilarious podcast 'The Minutes'

**Note that this report was written for actual corporations, so perhaps it's prudent I edit out the word 'billions' for - “ultimately cost employers (read: Fi)…a fine button collection, a stack of tatty band posters and her sanity”. I think that this gives a clearer indication of my fiscal relationship with my writing!

Tunesday #10 - Reptar

By a sneeze

I didn’t anticipate my Madeleine to be so – unpleasant. With a rib-rattling sneeze a wallop of mucus flung from my nose, and I was instantly transported back to the brothel Bucharest.

Hot tea and cake is so much more delightful to yield a relaxing reverie. But I suppose you can’t be picky about sensory stimulus! So here is the result of last week's writing exercise: 

Bucharest

I lay on the floor of my tent in a sweltering fug of fever. Lashing rain drowned out my haggard cough. I fidgeted, fighting to get comfortable. I finally flung off my sleeping bag, only to retreat under it moments later. A platoon of mosquitoes laid siege. We were camping in a poorly drained swamp. Even without a fever the air hung like a soppy, hot towel.

We had pulled into Bucharest earlier in the day. We pitched our tents in a campsite in outskirts of the city. The campsite used to house laborers during the communist era. A handful of original plywood huts still stood. They had since been tarted up with bright paint. We were later told that that wasn’t the only tarty behavior.

Campsites have a less then savory reputation in Romania. After the Iron curtain fell, these types of huts were sold off for private enterprise and turned a fine profit when rented by the hour.

This particular campsite was built on the edge of an industrial estate, a forty-minute bus trip from the city. We eagerly pitched our tents and set to work washing our filthy clothes in the bathroom sinks. Giggling at the strategically placed massage tables in the toilet sheds. Not yet knowing about the campsite’s avenues for revenue.

With everything washed, we negotiated with each other for space in the campgrounds backfield. We hung our wet clothes from fence posts, tent guide ropes and trees branches. The field looked like a launderette had exposed. We were immensely satisfied. Everything was washed. We failed to anticipate the impeding rain.

It wasn’t the rain that broke us. Bucharest broke us. As we eventually drove any from the wretched city we were weary and unwell.  My lungs were still a cesspool of mucus; everyone else had hangovers from a night on the city’s wild side. I suppose I haven’t explained very well why I’ll never return to Bucharest, that’s for another time. I highly doubt anyone else I travelled with would return either. I guess I risk the possibly of returning to it whenever I have a heavily laden sneeze. 

Writing Task #4: Proust it!

I've been reading The Memoir Book by Patti Miller. Her chapter on memory has been greatly influenced by the Proust. Miller defines memory as either being ‘original’ or ‘remembered’. 


‘Remembered’ memory is simply your ability to recall events, ‘this is the extracted idea of the memory’ as it may feel as though you are ‘watching’ the events. Whereas ‘original’ memory is ‘the product of a sensory stimulus’ and you ‘relive the experience’ hence the heavy referencing to Proust.

So this week’s writing task is to find your own madeleines. Try and unlock some original memories by setting up some sensory cues – whether this means going for a slice of cake, sniffing out the spice rack, listening to music, touching silk or corduroy - anything that may trigger of some memories.

According to Miller, Proust said reverie was his favourite emotional state and the one he believed all good writing ought to induce. So allow yourself to slip into "a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream" and record all the words/memories associated with the sensory stimulus you have selected. 

Fuel for thought

Fuel for thought

I’ve been a trifle busy this week – when I haven’t been contorting myself with pilates, I’ve been house hunting*, working insane hours**, studying, attempting to regain running fitness and attend to basic facets of everyday living. Needless to say my writing has once again fallen to the wayside.

Then this made me stop in my tracks and gave  me some fuel for thought. This is perhaps the most poetic press release of the week:

And that the letter of law has no top and no bottom. And everybody in the world knows who is responsible for the wrongdoing of News Corp: Rupert Murdoch. He paid the piper and he called the tune.

This chap sounds like a wordsmith! Perhaps I should start to incorporating some wordsmithery at work. Perhaps I should utilise lovely word images when educating my patients about their various ailments!

Two birds, one stone, eh?

Or I should just get more organised, ugh.

*Note: Word of the (newly) wise, perhaps don’t inspect the cheapest accommodation advertised – I tried that tact this week and found myself in the sleazy surrounds of a derelict squat. Lovely folks living there, somewhat spacey in demeanour, but not lovely enough to convince me to rent a room there. The black mole, damp and lack of a toilet also factored in on the decision!  

** I'm a physiotherapist

Book an escape

Whilst traveling I wanted the crib notes about each country. Not just to ascertain key landmarks (a quick search on wikitravel can do that) I wanted to sit in the shoes of someone - be fictional or nonfictional - and experience the country through before landing it’s doorstep.

In fact nearly everyone on the truck felt the same. Most of these books went on high rotation, passed along to whoever had dibbed it next.

Britain - Notes from a small island

India - The White Tiger, Shantaram, Life of Pi and A Fine Balance

Nepal - The Climb and Into Thin Air

Tibet - Seven Years in Tibet

China - Wild Swans

Cambodia- First They Killed my Father

Thailand - The Beach

Australia - Down Under

After travelling through India I read 'A Fine Balance'. Even though I was in subzero temperatures in China, each time I flicked open the book I was transported me back to the bustling streets of Delhi. I could feel the hot slap of humidity on my skin and hear the story unfold to a sensory symphony of sights, smells and sounds.

It was a wonderful reading experience! Though I literally had to take breaks from the novel, as at times it became a sensory overland. From the jarring symphony of high-pitched car horns to the soft drag of handmade dry grass brooms on pavements. The angry spit of hot oil from street stalls frying Samoa to the heady perfume of cooked mustard seeds. The sickly sweet chai to the retched stench of faeces from open sewers. The kaleidoscope of colourful saris from roadsides to harvesting in fields. The crush of thousands of people passing under the stern gaze of policemen barricaded by sandbag walls at train stations.

I became conscious of recording the true essence of each country I visited. As I want each country in my novel to be a thumping beast of a character. To leap off the page, to curse, groan, moan or laugh, leap and pulsate with energy. Each country, city and region had its one vibe, it's own personality. Bucharest was crumbling, Delhi bureaucratic, Singapore a slick shoppers paradise, Berlin a bohemian playground and Jakarta a series of sweeping, traffic laden boulevards.

I don't want my novel to be all about me - that would the dullest book written. I didn't travel just to think about myself. I set on the road to see, feel and grasp the globe. I want to ensure I capture the character of each place. I want the reader to feel like they were on the road with me.