Lovely Lisa

Thai people stumble over Clarissa’s name. The clur sound doesn’t exist in thai language and I watch as tongues twist and turn between deep red almost purple lips. So she just introduces herself as Lisa now. Two syllables nice and simple but totally not her. Having everyone around us call her by a different name makes me feel like I’m the only one in the world who truly knows her. And in a way, I think that’s true. We have spent the last year telling each other our life stories, drawing family trees, trading first kiss tales, comparing battle scars, and breaking down the painful habits of our mind to see them with objectivity and forgiveness. Now I am sure we could crush any couple at the newly weds game. Clarissa and I mask our codependency by calling it true-best-friend-love, but we are learning that real love is putting your own oxygen mask on before your child’s, or in our case, your best friend’s. On Saturday, Clarissa started her five day silent retreat alone at a forest temple in Chiang Mai. For the past five days she has lived the life a silent monk, waking at up 4am, not eating past noon, meditating for many hours a day, living without external distractions like books or music. I am astounded by her bravery and curiosity. Meanwhile, I am staying with my friend Ba Bua who actually used to live in northampton and whose late husband is buried at the Bryant cemetery in Cummington. I was the flower girl at Bua’s wedding and she took care of me during the summer, taking me to swim in the Connecticut and to hear evening shows at Tanglewood.

I must confess how uncomfortable I feel writing these blog posts. I find myself questioning whether my experiences and reflections are worth sharing and often times cannot find the words to describe what I am seeing or feeling. But Clarissa reminds me that this blog is really only for each other and our mothers. The two least judgmental forces in the world. And so, I will do what is most comfortable and write to my dear good friend, my second half, my swimming partner.

Dear Lisa,

I have so many mosquito bites-did you take the first aide kit with you because I can’t find it in your backpack. Got a package from my dad today, one of two. It was filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow peeps and so many individually wrapped hand wipes. Absurd I know but it means he loves me and I felt that. I wish you could see the perfectly round bright red sun rising above the rice fields in the morning and setting behind the great big blue mountains in the evening. The sun is so different from the ones we painted on our foreheads that weekend I secretly drove to Stratton to see you. I know if you were here you could right now you could write something poetic about how the air pollution allows us to look straight at the sun but obstructs our view of the mountains. Everyday I look into the horizon and wonder what’s really there. I wonder what you are thinking, if you have dug yourself into a dark emotional hole or are enjoying the views from the cliffs of self love, I bet it’s both. My days without you are pretty simple. I rise at 5:30 and pray and meditate with Ba Bua, then I water the plants and maybe go for a run. Then we work in the garden for a few hours, Bua wears her funny tin foil hat and the dogs run in circles around us. Then I pack a lunch and head out on the bicycle. You were right, that bike is the best thing in the world. Beautiful and blue with a basket and a bell. Sometimes when I pass temples that have wind chimes or gongs playing-I ring the bell to try to harmonize, it never does. Since all of the roads are flat I feel like I could literally go on forever. I turn down every road I can, sometimes getting completely lost down long dirt paths in the woods. I’ve gotten to know the other cyclists too, the older couple who bicker while biking, the man across the street with one single tooth who is always yelling things at me I cannot hear, and the middle aged America man in his faded blue sweatpants and baseball cap, I never feel the need to say more then just hello. And that my dear is the best part of these bike rides, saying hello to the neighbors. Looking into the eyes of the young girl sitting on the ceramics steps with the hose down her shirt. Waving to the farmers as I sit to sketch the birds in one of many poorly built shacks in the middle of the rice fields. No one ever seems to mind my trespassing. Yesterday I biked all around Maejo University, trying to ease drop on conversations between teenagers and wandering around the green houses full of orchids. Strangely enough, their mascot is the cowboys and their motto is “hard work never kills anyone” I’m starting to think you should scrap the St. Lawrence thing and we should go to a big college somewhere where the sun shines all year round. When it starts to get dark I head back towards the Mae Rin village and try to spot the young teenage boy with a pimpled face and orange robe walking along the road hitting a gong. Ba Bua told me he walks down the street ringing a gong to let the residence know monks will be coming in the morning seeking alms food. They have such an organized system in this town: Every few days they release water from the dam which fills the canal and waters all the fields. On Wednesdays everyone puts their trash bags at the same non-distinct locations on the side of the road for the truck to pick up. Women with their baskets and scissors come here to forage for bamboo shoots and sour red fruits, then we go to their yards for the bitter green leaves and seed pods. Everything about this place is straight out of a Miyazaki movie.

At meditation Ba Bua lights three incense and two small yellow candles. We meditate until the candles burn out which takes about an hour. She will go through four yellow candles everyday for who knows how many years. A thought that terrifies my young and restless mind.

I didn’t get to bike today because it rained. That’s right, it actually rained! So instead I made ginger cookies from fresh ginger I pulled from the ground and listened to three episodes of the Ted radio hour, all of which I’ve already forgotten the contents of. That’s just how it goes. Did it rain where you are today? I bet rain sounds different in a bamboo forest. I miss you terribly but am also grateful for this time alone. I bought us some soy chocolate milk to celebrate your return to the real world and still only sleep on the right side of the bed. And that’s all for now.

Love you as much as the sky,

Your little peanut farmer.