The only green leaves are the ones painted on our ceiling.

This week Alice and I are living with three Buddhist nuns in Ban Rai, a small farming community on the outskirts of Erawan National Park. Here, we have a small house to ourselves and are surrounded by leafless trees and farmers burning their fields to ash. We wake up at 4:30am to the sound of a bell and roll out from underneath our mosquito nets to a world untouched by the heat of the sun. Mindfulness and loving-kindness have been big influences on our lives over recent days. We will be here for two weeks and then travel on north.

Maybe I should unstick my head from the magical lands of Rivendell and the Shire and peruse my own adventures here in real light. When the sky is still a hazy purple glow over the red clay earth and out there, on a road somewhere, a friends foot is hitting ground. I close my eyes and think this in the kindest way, because that is what the walls praise me for, the three doors that stand before me, either end open and the middle bound closed with coals of faded-silver wire. It is in this land that we rise early to the howl of dogs and rest (easy or not) under the hum of loose-winged bugs. Perhaps elves are not only faired skinned like moonlight as the pages under my thumbs do claim. I am certain they tred under light foot and on nimble bones but perhaps they posses a darker shade of glowing skin and eyes cunning and brown. Perhaps the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet stand lighter in tone, melting stones as they go. Perhaps I see them with my own two eyes, yet instead of arrows and bows they work with machetes and hoes, out in the scorching sugar cane fields. Their true identities hidden to me under mask and hood and arching limb. And say that the hobbits of Hobbiton are no more foreign to me than are the dogs that doze and play all day. That turn in the dirt, hairy and spoiled, under the wandering afternoon sun. And the wizards, oh the wizards we have some, their aging skin dressed in robes with golden bowls. The monks and nuns that chant and follow in suit the words and wisdoms of the noble one. The great truths they bow to and acquire guidance from within, subtle sorcery I deem true. Black Riders seem to take the swooping form of fruit bats as I listen to them swallow up the blood of the shadow insects. And passing by small houses laid into monstrous stones I catch myself wondering if dwarfs dwelt here once long ago. So let the magic in I say and the unknowns run free. As the day submits into night the smoke of distant lands blends into the underbelly of the sky, disappearing above the thirsty mountain backs. Dusty air crunches between my teeth as I watch the road changing in color with the weather, the weather changing with the seasons, the seasons changing with the world and with the deep mysteries it carries under cloak.

Cotten underwear are hung up on the clothes line, on the clothes line strung between two beams on our front porch, a bridge for the red ants with fat abdomens to cross over and an unstable perch for the pigeons that resides under the tall tin roof over our heads. We sleep here, yes, and quite a good time it has been. The neighbor rat sometimes walks the tight rope over our matching porcelain toilet and sink. The geckos creep silently, friends of friends, up walls towards harsh, sheering lights. And the leaping spiders, I dare say, have nearly laid me in my grave. So this house, fancy it as we do, could not suit a pair better than us two. One calm and one fearful but together a team. A duo, a match, an marvelous dream. One moon and one sun in the heart of a home, what more could the world want than for our shine to be shone?

Take a breath, Clarissa

The nuns make us carry a stick every time we go for a run. The house next door has dogs that bite. Though, I could never actually imagine hitting a dog with a stick, Clarissa tells me it’s more on an intimidation game. So I try to look tough, turning the sugar cane stock in my hand like it’s a baseball bat and I’m about to break a windshield. But the dogs only ever bark and stare with angry eyes. After a hundred meters I leave the stick and start running, clouds of red dust form as my feet hit the dry dirt road. Sometimes I see Clarissa’s foot prints, which are the same as mine since we only have one pair of sneakers and must run at different times. To my left are fields of young tapioca plants and to my right acres and acres of sugar cane. On both sides, beyond the fields are rolling brown mountains, dry, lifeless, destitute of any shades of green. I long for rain. It poured once while we were on the island of Koh Phangan. I was sitting on the back of a motorbike, looking over Clarissa’s shoulder as she drove through curtains of water. Up and down crazy steep hills, hooting our joyous calls of triumph.

So much of this trip has been the people we have met: the hip-hop dancer from Austria, the baby wrapped in a sandy blanket on the beach, the frat boys on the boat who lost their passports and followed us to our hostel, George the truck driver from England who believes permaculture will save the world, the boy with the PornHub T-shirt on the bus, Esther the soon to be yoga guru with admirable ambition and self awareness, and many, many more. But one of my favorites was the taxi boat driver who confided in me about his deep loneliness. He told me that he wanted to move to America, just like my mother, maybe open a restaurant, but he could never get enough money for a plane ticket. He never got the paperwork together for a passport, never found the right woman to go with him and start a family. But he likes his job now, better then working at the hotel, he tells me. No boss. He says foreign people will pay a lot for a taxi boat ride from one beach to another but that it’s really hard to make money these days. He has his own home, a TV to watch the news in the morning, but no one to talk to in the evenings. The creases around his eyes intensify as he whispers that he just wishes he had a companion of similar age to spend time with. He senses my reciprocated sadness and quickly lightens the mood by telling me that he goes out on his boat at the night to look at the stars and the moon and drinks a single beer. As happy as can be. We talk for a while longer about my own dreams and aspirations, I struggle to find the words in Thai. It’s so fascinating what someone is willing to tell a complete stranger who is willing to listen.

And now, at the monastery, I am surrounded by three other strong characters that fill me with admiration. Luang May, the eldest nun who speaks very good English and asks me a lot about my mother. Luang Pi Mae who is laughing constantly, showing her few remaining teeth and is always looking for the cat. Then there is Luang Pi Kae who offered to cut my hair today. I sat on the pristine wooden deck overlooking the light green water of the pond as Luang Pi kae delicately took a sharpe blade to my long dry locks. She told me about her two sons, and her life as a hair dresser before she became a nun. She speaks to me more so than the other volunteers because of her limited English. She releases long spiels about the power of meditation and how to move through the world with awareness instead of worry and I understand very little of it, but I just nod along and take what I can. My hair to now back to the length it was almost a year ago and though I look that same as I did then, I feel completely different. Short hair makes me feel vulnerable in the healthiest of ways, forces me to redefine beauty and femininity, short hair is who I am. One of the best hair cuts I’ve ever had. Second to the ones Clarissa gives me by the river, but cathartic nonetheless.

In the mornings, we meditate from 5-5:45 and then drive this funny old van to the market to collect alms food. So much food. I fill bag after bag with curries, stir-frys, fish, fruit, coconut desserts. Now I understand the true benefit of giving. I walk behind the three barefoot nuns in the dark, their bright orange contrasting well with my purples and grays. The full moon is beautiful I stumble left and right unable to take my eyes off it. In the afternoons we work in the garden, clean the house, teach the kids at the local school, and read profusely. I cannot even begin to talk about the emotional benefits I’ve attained while being here. Then we meditate again in the evening and I rest well.

Today, it did rain. But not water. It rained ashes from the farmers burning the fields. I watched with concentration as Luang Pi Kae cleaned the steps of the temple with the hose, the water black as night trickling down the pure white steps. Good and bad exist together always.

With gratitude,

Alice/Nong Sai