On our travels through India,
Thailand, and Burma last year, nothing made a more lasting impression
on me than the ordinary hospitality of people we met along the way.
Many times in the course of our wanderings
people invited us to stay in their homes, eat their food, or drink their
butter tea out in the fields.
One incident in particular stands out in my memory. My wife Juliann and I were walking around the back lanes of a Himalayan village near Kalpa when we happened on an old woman in a green-rimmed cap standing by the road. We stopped to ask for directions, which turned out to be somewhat counterproductive since she had no idea what we were trying to say with our mixture of broken Hindi and awkward pantomime. The fact that we weren't really sure ourselves what we were looking for didn't make things any easier. After a while, we all started laughing, and through the woman’s gestures we surmised that she was inviting us for a meal.
She lived in a small and neatly kept mud house surrounded by terraced apple orchards that she shared with her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren, who all happened to be away at the time. Across the green valley towered Kinnaur Kailash (not to be confused with Tibet’s Mount Kailash), which from where we were standing appeared magnificently huge, filling what seemed the whole sky with its billowy glaciers and ragged peaks. The woman offered us chairs and a few moments later she returned with plates of rice and dal, a stack of chapatis, and two cups of homemade yogurt she ladled from a large aluminum pot on the floor.
While we ate, she hung the laundry, every now and then coming over to offer us more food. After we’d had our fill, she brought out chai and sat down on the patio with her legs outstretched, smiling and laughing in such a jovial way that I wondered whether it is really true what the sages say—that the world is in fact whole and perfect as it is. After a round of thank-yous and compliments (as well as a long and unpleasant interaction with her drunken neighbor who had staggered through the orchard as we were finishing up our meal), we said good-bye.
What’s notable me is how brightly the memory of this experience shines. Nothing much happened on one level. We encountered little excitement, plain food, no interesting conversation or big ideas, no money changing hands, little anxiety, and no exhausting and tedious effort on my part or anyone else’s. An old lady enjoyed taking us back to her house, feeding us rice and lentils, and sending us on our way.
And yet just to recall this event and other events like it, I still enjoy the sparkle and color of the recollection, its simplicity and quiet beauty. I really enjoy thinking about that bemused and hospitable Kinnauri grandmother. But it doesn’t just stop there. In the act of remembering I find myself wishing to be just like that joyful grandma, doing as she does—bringing people home, putting them at ease, and feeding them.
How gratifying to reflect on how the goodness of people’s actions does not really come to an end but rather keeps reflecting like light in a kaleidoscope, multiplying into an infinity of variations, touching beings near and far. Are you touched by Grandma’s earthy and unspectacular goodness? Are you smiling?
In homage to that Kinnauri lady and to all the Buddhas and disciples of Buddhas, Juliann and I started a Wednesday morning sitting group that has come to be known to its devotees as Bread & Dharma. “Bread” because I bake some kind of bread before each meeting that we eat together, toasted, buttered, and jammed, after we sit. “Dharma” because we do what we can to realize the Dharma in each moment we are together. How is that done?
By sharing. We start by sitting, which is the sharing of presence, devotion, and commitment to formal practice. Then we share food and things. The baking stones, bread books, and other baking equipment was offered by bread-eating yogis. Jams and teas have been given, as well as yoga sessions, cookies, and flowers. We share our appreciation for one another’s gifts whether they are too dry or too moist or just perfect. To our foibles—be they of body, speech, or mind—we offer patient endurance and kindness.
Simple, harmless, uncomplicated, sublime: this weekly flour-dusted event—this sharing of simple gifts—has become a source of such joy, such contentment, and such ease for me. Some foolish part of me thinks it shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t be so enjoyable. It should cost more than it does. Or at least people should need credentials to get in. Sound too good to be true? I wouldn’t have believed it either.
