Tea With Three: Notes with Mr. Penguin

A long Monday with ambiguous weather. It started with a bright strong sun, and now clouds are hanging low. The air feels sticky, thick as a soup. I struggle to walk to my table, already feeling burdened by the pile of reading on legal technicalities of carbon trades. My backpack hits the floor as I come to sit on the chair, sounds like a big rock just fell off. The waitress approaches me and slides a folded paper onto my table, "Someone left this note for you." And she waltzes back to behind the bar after a quick smile.

It is a note, a handwritten note. And it reads:

"Came in here earlier, you weren't around. Here's a question from the book I'm reading to ponder: 'How can you have meaning if you don't have self awareness?' 

Also, look up 'palmate' for your botanical glossary. Write me a reply and leave it to Lily, I have a feeling we might keep missing each other this week." 

- Penguin 

By the book he is reading, he must mean The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. And by Lily he must mean the waitress who just gave me the note. I turn the paper over and write on the back of it,

"Right now my brain is too fried to ponder over meaning. Current mood: Like a tumbleweed skittering across the dusty road to nowhere. Shall I summon one of the lokapalas? What's up with your schedule?" 

- Gaya

I look up palmate. 

Palmate
adjective
1. BOTANY
(of a leaf) having several lobes (typically 5–7) whose midribs all radiate from one point.
2. ZOOLOGY
(of an antler) in which the angles between the tines are partly filled in to form a broad flat surface, as in fallow deer and moose.

That reminded me to maple trees, they have palmate leaves.

I can't wait for Tuesday.

Kālá

Have you found that jagged little rock
That makes your tenderness brittle,
Sets your heart ablaze with the flames
Which once created Draupadi?

The safe nooks you hunkered too long in,
unexacting, unbridled, facile.
The romantic filter you put on to see life.
Weaving layers of work to equanimity,
While secretly wishing exemptions from pain.
All now so unbecoming.

Is it time to open the Devi Mahatmya chapter,
Doing the dance to summon the Dark Mother?

the benevolent merciless force
slaying all the weak parts of ourselves
to allow the indestructible authenticity to emerge

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

Om Kring Kalikaye Namah

To The Girl Who Just Got Her Feeding Tube Off

Last night I spent one hour for my voluntary service at this center, somewhat like The Good Samaritan, where people come in to seek comfort from their troubles. People come in with problems from all walks of life: anxiety, depression, identity crisis, relationship and marital problems, abuse, addiction, the list goes on. I had signed up as a volunteer since last month, but I had not really clocked in much hours.

A volunteer was looking for a replacement because they had been on duty for five hours and desperately needing some sleep. The said volunteer was handling an on going conversation with a guest who still needed someone to talk to. In some ways, the volunteers are like counselors, except the fact that we are not allowed to give advice (loosely termed) since we are only laymen with no professional background. The available volunteers were notified of this need via our Communication Line. Volunteer-Guest conversations are confidential, so we are only allowed to make notification in ten words or less. The words came in as: need female volunteer; depression from bereavement, sexual abuse, and divorce. I took up the beeping sound, and the guest was referred to me.

I sat there and listened to this terribly brokenhearted young woman. With a story that is all too familiar to me, the same anguish and void I had until not too long ago, and a sweeping wave of grief. It is the same story that also hit my closest friend Fay, six years ago, and I wish I could do to this young woman what I did to her when I found her trying to cut her wrist open. I held her. I held her so hard and as we sobbed together I could not stop saying, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry this has to happen to you."
Instead, I did as I was trained to do: validate their emotions, reflect back, and ask open ended questions.

Before I closed our session, I decided to say something to her. Something I told myself when I was feeling completely worthless and undeserving of life. "I want to say something to you, and I understand you are in complete shock and pain right now, so what I will say may feel untrue and perhaps even offensive; but I hope you will take time in considering this thought. So, you know how you loved the people who have now left you, and the care you gave in the work for those unfortunate children? If you could give all that to them, you most certainly can give that much love, patience, and kindness to yourself. Because you are the one most deserving, most needing, and most capable of giving and receiving it."

There was silence.

And it made me think.

I did not learn all that until I was left with no choice to be that. Going through a long period of abuse that left dark crevices in my mind, which, can sometimes feel like a funeral home, and catapulted me to endless series of toxic relationships. Culminated in me marrying (and leaving, thankfully) a man who felt it was completely normal to hold me with love in one second, and then hurling me with curses and threats in another.

I did not know how capable I was of loving myself, until I learned to set up boundaries and feel okay to not go home to my parents during holiday because I needed, I wanted to be with myself. That pain is not a punishment, and pleasure is not a reward, as Ani Pema says. To learn to enjoy whatever is in the present time, and not cling on to pleasure out of fear that it will change, or resisting the unpleasant out of fear that it will always stay; because they will, change and go away.

And I did not learn enough about impermanence, until I made my own garden and tended to it. Every morning when I wake up, I go over to the flower bushes and I water them. I spotted the buds forming and watched them bloomed, changed colors, and eventually wilt. New buds come again the next term, and the same cycle repeats. I even had a chance seeing a grasshopper molt its skin (had a near heart attack thinking it had died and turned white).

A lot of my problems came from the fear of being alone. That my aloneness would be evidence of my unworthiness of making people stay. That it is proof that I am unlovable. Oh the lies we tell ourselves! So I learned to love myself a lot. And that is not only enough to keep loneliness at bay, but I actually now find joy and blossom in my solitude.

Having said that, I am still trying (hard) to be okay with my stretchmarks. Still learning to cope with anxiety attacks when memories of the past make a sudden visit and shrivel me to a tiny wrinkled paper ball. Still fear that if the person I hope to like me read this story, that they will look down at my fragility. But I am learning to just be. Gently. Kindly.

And I wanted to write more on this post (as much as I wanted to tell her), of how just when I was not looking for love, it came in a dashing six feet tall--wrapped in blue shirt and khaki pants, with glasses. I wanted to write that I am experiencing the type of romance I had no vocabulary of. Uncharted adventure where I find mutual enjoyment in shared solitude.

But that story will just have to wait.

And she finally said, with a trembling voice that had waited years to be allowed to surface, "I know I have to do that."

Because Today I Remember You

And the first time we met,
You in a green laughing Buddha t-shirt, blowing bubble gum,
Me wrapped in heavy brown cotton veil down to my knees.

How different we were.

I remember sitting down at dinner table for the first time with you.
Discussing work, God, and rain forest. Mainly God.

I remember you picking me up from the floor at night,
Sobbing.
I couldn't hear God back in my prayers now,
That was what I said to you.
And you just let me cry in your arms,
Until I found peace in sleep.

I remember you falling sick.
All the hospital visits,
The singing doctor, the Healer,
Even the spiritual cleansing we did out of desperation.

I remember meticulously planning that surprise,
Talking to your Dad and to Ingrid,
All the rush of adrenaline
As I got one airport closer, and closer.

I remember the thick heavy bell on your red front door.
How I fell in love with that door.
Did I ever tell you that?
I fell in love with that door, the Tibetan prayer flags you had on the porch,
The berries we harvested at the side garden,
The rose bushes, and the cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.
The cherry tree.

I fell in love with that tree the same way I fell for you when I saw you dancing in the subway.
Doing pirouettes for strangers.

Have I told you I am sorry for how I was sometimes?
How immature and fearful I was.
And you had to break the hard shell while walking on thin ice.



I remember seeing your pain when you fell out of love,
And how agonizing it was for me to accept it.
You knew it would wipe me out.
Yet I am grateful we did not put on our cruel masks
The way I had to with my current separation.

Today I remember you
Even though I live with constant reminders of you
For working at the same place we met,
All five years after we separated.

 Today I saw a bird perched on a lamp pole.
Alone,
And I remember you.

Tea with Three - True Names

Late night Friday, I rushed in from the cold weather outside before my bones start quivering. Once in, I threw my midnight blue jacket over the crest railing back of the chair, and I slouched. Hass came in ten minutes after, with a pile of work.

First thing he said was, "Look what I got for weekend, more work!"

"Mmm, that can be good. It makes you feel like you're extra productive, you know, to accomplish something over the weekend instead of just day dreaming it away like me." I smiled.

"Hah, thanks but no thanks. I'm productive enough already." Hass replied, laptop opened. "What did you order?"

"My usual. The ever elegant bergamot flavored Earl Grey." And as I was saying that, my cup came.

"I see, not changing much with your tea of choice, huh?" he glanced from the corner of his eyes, proceeded with unloading a pile of papers onto the table.

"If you haven't noticed Hass, I am one quite faithful to my choices. Unless in several things where I am still ambivalent and undecided."

"Right."

"You're a man of a few words tonight."

"That, I am."

Hass put on his glasses and started typing away. I sank my face to the book I brought, The Essential Rumi, Coleman Barks. Ten minutes passed.

"Hass..." "Haaaasssssssssss...." "Haassss, Haaaaasssss, Haaaasssss"

"Oh my freaking God, stop hissing!"

"I wasn't. I was Hassing. Aha!"

"You and your weird humor, what is it kiddo?"

"Hass, I don't like my name."

"Yeah? I won't even bother to ask you why. Got anything new in mind?"

"I'm so into red. I did not even know this before today. I've been into red for a long time. I was so infatuated with those red Amaranth flowers, they are so alive, a feisty type of grass plants that thrive even in the most adverse lands. I want to be the red that makes Kitri swirl in her dance, irresistible yet she wears it with fragility. I wish I have the intoxicating mystery the red in wine leaves in your palate. But I also want the old age wisdom that Rumi's maroon cloak keeps. Red has shades and depths that can go from vibrancy to sanctity. I want to be named Red, or any other words that mean Red."

Hassan gave me that look over his laptop; one, two, three seconds. "But you are already all that. Names are just an additional attachment."

"So Hass, tell me again why I am not your girlfriend?"

"Because I have already got one. Still the same like the last five years."

We laughed.

"Besides, you're in love with someone else. You know. The one that gives you funny faces when you get texts from?"

"Oh hush!"

I bit my lips in a faint try to keep my cheeks from blushing. I continued,

"But I don't buy Shakespeare's 'what's in a name' shit. There is obviously a lot in a name, just as much as a title is to a book. It gives you the entrance, the plot, the prediction, and sometimes the essence of the whole story. It serves the creator's intention for presenting the story. Their wishes, their vision. That's the reason why a kid named Thatcher would be bullied to death in this day and age."

"Well, if you are talking about superficial realities of names, sure. But you are not anyone's story, you are not a story in that sense, period. You don't have to be anyone's entrance, reminder, or meaning. And you shouldn't be held prisoner by anyone's intentions, wishes, or vision. You could be called Fury, Bleak, Lost, Rage, yet you are not that, those names are more what the callers of the names are and they attach that part of themselves onto you. Those are not your true names. Or, maybe you are all those. Like when I was late for an hour here and you almost sent me to the ER." Hass stuck his tongue out.

Those are not my true names, yet they can be mine for a while. The 'I' keeps changing yet the changes make the constant 'I'.

I stared out the window, mindlessly stroking my chin.
I could hear the soft clanking of rose gold-colored tea spoons when people stir their drinks, subtle chatters in the cafe.

"Where has your mind traveled to this time, kiddo?" Hass said as he closed down his crisp silver screen.

"To the night he first kissed me."

And I turned red.

Tea with Three - Hass and Belhati Protest

I spoke to Hass today, we didn't have our usual tea. We just met in front of the cafe and took a walk. He said he was planning to join the biggest protest downtown Belhati where he is from, scheduled to happen this Saturday.

"I once was part of this massive protest to topple our nation's regime. Have your folks figured out what to do next after the protest?"

"No. Everyone's got a different idea of what could be the cure to this illness in our city. So far, the idea of protesting is what unites us. Thinking of the solution will divide us."

"Yeah, but someone's gotta come up with something logical and likable enough. Your movement needs a face. Once you've got a face, it's easier to find a momentum and make that jump to the next phase."

Hass rubbed his hands from cold and blew onto them, "We'll see..." he said.

We were quiet most of the walk. I asked if he was going to make use of his photography skill during the protest, and Hass answered with a fatigue that he's considering it. And there was silence. A long silence.

At the end of our walk, we stood by the junction, just randomly to break the discomfort I blurted, "I saw a photograph today with a beautiful caption. It was a picture of a very old canoe rower, maybe somewhere in India. He was relaxing on his canoe, floating on a river the color of mud. The old rower has in his hand, a striking yellow flower. I think it's called marigold. And he was gently attending it. The caption says, 'People. Struggling when they can just give up. People. Finding joy in tiniest of things when there's an ocean full of reasons for sadness. People. Believing in colour so vibrant in the darkest of days. People. Strange and hopeful.' "

Hass listened to my monologue while looking down his shoes. He looked up when I finished, gave me an awry smile. We hugged and I whispered, "I'll see you again soon. Stay safe."

And we said good bye.

A Short Note on the Truth

Last night I watched an old movie, Dead Poets Society, and there was a particular scene in which Todd Anderson recites an impromptu poem about Truth:

"Truth - like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold,
 You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough.
 You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us.
  From the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying,
  It'll just cover your face, as you wail, and cry, and scream"

and this morning I opened my World Mythology book randomly, coincidentally it showed me the page where it talks about Bard,

Bards: In certain mythologies bards, or possessors of the divine ability to reveal the essence of truth through words, play significant roles in leading their people. Bards could be poet-prophets like the Celtic Amairgen and Taliesen, literally singing reality or history into life, or Hindu Brahmins who do something of the same thing. Or bards can be lesser figures who simply reveal the myths -- the "true stories of the given cultures. These are the filidh of Ireland and the skalds of the north. Bards, are sometimes blind, like the legendary Homer, which suggests the importance of their insight.

Interestingly, when Todd Anderson was reciting that poem, his eyes were closed by his teacher, Mr. Keating, in order to help him shut down the noise and laughter from his classmate and evoked what's within him.

So, as Russell Brand often says, the sight of what we are, of what things are, is just a temporal illusion. It is what is within, the insight, that is the truth.

Tea with Three

"How are you doing?" said the voice on the other side of the phone.
"I'm doing good, great, wonderful most of the time. And the rest, I am anxious and sad and worried."

"Still?"

My heart sank a little hearing his question. I wish that grief is a type of malady that passes soon enough. What I find instead, is that it gives you a myriad of darkness that sucks things in and sometimes kicks you in the gut. There is something obsessive and incoherent about it. The more I try to run away, the more it grips and tangles over.

There are places I go to sit and heal. One of them is a tea house rimmed with blue linings at the glass window, the corner of Seven and Luck avenues. I have three good friends I frequently meet there.

Hassan, is the first one I met. I call him Hass. One of our first talks was absurd, which is always a good sign of wonderful friendship ahead. We talked about llamas. Hass likes llamas, and amused, I asked with a snort of giggles I couldn't help, "Why?" He said, "Look at their faces. They're just so relaxed, not happy and not sad. They are the zen of the animalia. I'd like to be one of them." "You? You want to be one of them? You're trained in bio-molecular engineering and you want to be a llama?" "Why not?" And we burst in laughter together.

There were nights we just sat at table 23, me turning my tea cup round and round, him with his work. And I'd say things like, "Hass, I can't breathe again," he'd stop his work, looked at my face, and put both his palms in front of his chest the shape like a lotus bud. "Now concentrate on my hands, and as I open my palms, you breathe in; and when I close them, you breathe out."
The lotus-hands bloomed slowly and closed again. That was how I learned to breathe. Hassan taught me.

The second one was Jordan. Now he is the jolly one. We joked and teased each other about having grown up in religious household and ending up a total deserter. Last I met him, he told me he finally bought those casual business shirt he needed for a meeting. The irony. Jordan and I did not get to see each other much, but he's my black belt in emotional taekwondo. Mash that up with a figure of a human teddy bear. How can you top that?

The last one, I accidentally met when I was alone with my old copy of Azar Nafisi. This man was sitting aloof in the corner seat, almost hidden under his flannel grey flat cap. He had on a brown woolen tweed suit and a ginger colored tie. His thin face was framed with graying stubble. One book titled, "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress" was in his hands and he was attending it attentively. Another book I could not quite see was on the table.

I played with the thought of interrupting his reading to start a conversation, the way I intrusively do from time to time with strangers. When he finally put down the book, rubbed his eyes, and saw me across, he smiled. So I got up and approached him. "Excuse me, but that book seems exasperatingly interesting. Can I have a look?"
We ended up talking for hours about authors and terrible movies and trying to define the conundrum of "what is your favorite color?"
He seemed so wise and well put together that all the while we were talking I kept having this word in the back of my head - connoisseur. A savant in life matters that knows the secrets of all secrets, the knower of knowledge.

After two hours perusing memories of titles, I jolted at the realization that I did not know his name. I extended my hand and said, "Call me Gaya. And you?" He glanced over to the book next to his elbow, a Penguin edition of  Les Misérables. He grinned and said, "Call me Penguin."

to be continued-

Almost Home

I lied awake last night,
Remembering the rims of your lips.
Feeling pained that I am not with you.

Sometimes I wonder
If you could ever do me harm.
If,
Ever,
Your temper turns your words
Like a razor-sharp blade
A thousand cuts against my skin,
Or if your tunes are always as sweet as a mandolin.

Sometimes I know,
These questions are echoes from the past.
And that I may never know
How your seasons change.
Sometimes I wonder,
If you carry me within
Even when I'm gone.

Today, like many other days
I walked. Long, languid steps.
And thoughts of you came by.
A wise man once said,
"Tenderly,  I now touch all things,
knowing one day we will part."

I realized,
I never promised you a rose garden.
We never promised each other anything.

But I want you to know,
The thought of being with you
Is as close as I could feel
Of coming home.

Love Gone Wrong in Mythology

As myths and folklore narrate the long and unwinding path towards life's great lessons, a reoccurring theme is love. Now the subject of painful experiences is often found in the great tales that teach us about loyalty, perseverance, or the other side of the coin: greed, jealousy, betrayal, and lust.
Here are some of the famous "love gone wrong" theme in mythology:


1. Ophelia in Hamlet

The love-struck, naive, and young Danish noblewoman got her heart crushed by less-than-earnest prince of Denmark, Hamlet. When she told her family about her love for Hamlet and that she was strongly convinced Hamlet to be mutually in love, they expressed their doubt. So Polonius, Ophelia's father, together with Claudius, the uncle of Hamlet, decided that they would hide behind a big tapestry to listen to the conversation between Hamlet and Ophelia. Meanwhile, the conversation did not go as Ophelia had thought it would. Hamlet was surrounded by ambivalence and self-doubt, and he even scolded her by saying "Get thee to a nunnery" and finally breaking Ophelia's heart with "I say we will have no more marriages", and left her.

Before she could cope with the heartbreak over Hamlet's harsh exit, Hamlet killed her father during a meeting between him and his mother, Queen Gertrude. Madly bewildered and over-grieved, Ophelia went into delirium. She chanted some "mad" songs and talked in riddles. Ophelia sang her way into the woods and picked some flowers while saying, "...there's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o' Sundays; O, you must wear your rue with a difference." It is speculated that rue as a herb is a symbol of regret, but the herb itself can have strong abortive effect. So meanings to the chanting can take on that she was pregnant at the time.

Moments later, Ophelia was found dead by the stream, apparently by drowning. Queen Gertrude in her monologue utters that Ophelia had climbed into a willow tree, and then a branch broke and dropped Ophelia into the brook, where she drowned. The Queen suggested that Ophelia was too overwhelmed by her distress and heartbreak that she could not look after herself. But a sexton would insist that she actually killed herself by drowning. Poor, poor Ophelia.

At Ophelia's funeral, Queen Gertrude sprinkles flowers on Ophelia's grave ("Sweets to the sweet"), and says she wished Ophelia could have been Hamlet's wife (contradicting Laertes' warnings to Ophelia in the first act). Laertes then jumps into Ophelia's grave excavation, asking for the burial to wait until he has held her in his arms one last time and proclaims how much he loved her. Hamlet, nearby, then challenges Laertes and claims that he loved Ophelia more than "forty thousand" brothers could. After her funeral scene, Ophelia is no longer mentioned.

Ophelia is a frequent subject of artistic portrayal, not surprising knowing she might be the epitome of tragic pure love gone wrong (other than Juliet of course). This one painting by Millais is by far my favorite of Ophelia.

2. Circe and Glaucus

The Greek mythological character, Circe, a goddess of strong potions and magical wand, was said to once receive a guest, a fisherman by the name of Glaucus at her abode. Now, Circe is a magnificently beautiful sorceress whom men of Odysseus often fall for, and out of disgust of what Circe considers to be bestial behavior, she turns them into animals with her herbs. However, this time, Glaucus comes not as a potential lover. He wants the sorceress to help him get his love to this girl, Scylla to be returned. My little online digging of the story came up with this excerpt:

Ovid tells of a fisherman named Glaucus who comes to Circe with a problem. He loves a girl named Scylla. She lives on the island of Sicily and although he has courted her in every manner, she has rejected him. Circe looks Glaucus up and down and says 'Forget love potions. Become my lover. Spurn the one who spurns you and reward she who admires you, and in that one act be twice revenged.'

'Seaweed will grow on the hills,' says Glaucus, 'before I love anybody but her.'

The sorceress is furious and decides to take revenge, not on Glaucus, whom she decides she loves, but on the innocent Scylla. Circe Invidiosa (jealous Circe) prepares a terrible potion and pours it in the grotto where Scylla goes to bathe. As soon as Scylla steps into the pool, the 'water around her groin erupts with yelping monsters'. Seven dogs' heads rise snarling out of the sea. Scylla screams and tries to slap them away. But every blow causes her pain because they are part of her. Her lower limbs have become horrible man-eating dogs.

Revolted and traumatized by this metamorphosis, the once-beautiful Scylla takes shelter in a grotto near the straits of Messina, the place where Sicily almost touches the toe of Italy. And when sailors pass by, her monstrous dog-heads dart out and gulp them down still living.

The ever-adored Circe felt her pride was hurt by the one man who was not interested in her, and was completely smitten over the not-so-good looking (at least according to Circe) Scylla. This is what jealousy does to people. What a drama.

Here is one painting by John William Waterhouse, my favorite painter, titled Circe Invidiosa or translated it means Jealous Circe. Circe is shown to be draped in peacock feather-dress, so enticing yet with a deep aura of menace and toxic jealousy. She is pouring her poisonous potion into the water where Scylla goes to bathe.

3. The legend of Roro Jonggrang

Going off a bit from the Greek mythology path, an Asian mythology, more specifically an Indonesian one, tells of the story of a maiden Princess named Jonggrang. The tale says that once upon a time, there were two neighboring kingdoms on the island of Java. The kingdom of Pengging and Baka. Pengging was ruled by a wise old king Prabu Damar Moyo, and it was a prosperous kingdom. Baka, on the other hand, was ruled by a man-eating ogre king named King Boko. 

King Boko felt jealous over his wealthy neighbor and dedicated a full year to build up an army to siege and attack Pengging. He assumed that he would conquer the kingdom easy, and he appointed a Chief Commander, the giant Patih Gupolo. Unknown to King Boko, Prabu Damar Moyo has a son, Bandung Bondowoso, who is highly trained in magical skills and physically powerful with a body that is as hard as a rock and a gaze that pierces through his enemies. 

Long story short, the battle broke. King Boko launched his greatest ogre soldiers, and seemed to be advancing quite rapidly into Pengging. The war was causing so much devastation and famine, not only in Pengging, but also in Baka. Prabu Damar Moyo did not want to prolong the war, so he sent out his son to the battlefield. Bandung Bondowoso mightily fought off the soldiers and he even killed King Boko. Baka kingdom lost. King Boko's assistant, Patih Gupolo, survived and ran back to his kingdom to report to the King's family about the defeat. 

King Boko's sole daughter, Roro Jonggrang, was devastated upon receiving the news. However, before she could even grief over her father's death, the soldiers from Pengging had come in a surprise attack and captured the palace. Bandung Bondowoso marched in and when he saw the princess, he was instantly captivated by the princess' unrivaled beauty. Bondowoso then offered to the princess, that if she would be his wife, he would pardon her family and not slaughter the rest of Boko. Jonggrang, although horrified to the person standing before her whom nonetheless was the one who killed her father, tried to outsmart the prince. She answered that she would agree to be his wife, only if he could fulfill her two wishes. Her first wish was for him to build the deepest well he could build named Jalatunda, and for the second she would announce later. 

The prince agreed and he built the well. While Bondowoso was at the bottom of the well, the princess along with Patih Gupolo then piled big stones into the well, burying Bandung Bondowoso alive. However, using his mere physical strength, Bondowoso came out of the well, not only alive, but also outraged. He was so dumbfounded to know the princess tried to trick him. Yet, being so blinded by love, the prince forgave her and asked her what the last wish be.

Jonggrang said that she wants a thousand temples to be built overnight. She had asked this, thinking it would be impossible for Bondowoso to fulfill. Suprise, surprise. Bondowoso summoned his supernatural powers and invited thousands of spirits to help him build the temples. In a short time, around 999 temples were completed. Jonggrang panicked. As her last attempt to thwart Bondowoso's work, she called on her royal servants and the ladies in the palace, and ask them to start pounding rice, something the women of their nation do upon dawn. This activity woke up the roosters and they start crowing. The demon spirits were fooled into thinking dawn was breaking and they fled the last temple unfinished. Bondowoso soon realized the princess had done another deception and he was unforgivingly furious. He went into a state of meditation and cursed the princess into a stone statue that would eventually become the 1000th temple.

It can't be more dramatic than that!

The statue of Durga, thought to be Princess Roro Jonggrang

So from delirium, to monster making jealous goddess, to princess cursed into stone... that's it for now with love gone wrong in mythology. I hope you enjoy this one as much as I do!

A Quick Note on Pramodhawardhani, Sailendra, and Borobudur: the origins of my name

The famous temple of Indonesia, the Borobudur, which is in the list of 7 Wonders of the World, has an original name that is far from its modern calling.
The Karangtengah inscription mentions a jinalaya (the realm of those who have conquered worldly desire and reached enlightenment) that was inaugurated by Pramodhawardhani, the daughter of King Samaratungga in 9th century. Another inscription, the Tri Tepusan inscription, mentions a sacred building honoring the ancestors named Bhumishambara or in some other source, Bhumishambara Budhara, which according to a historian de Casparis, means "the mountain of combined virtues of the ten stages of Boddhisattvahood". So this suggests that Borobudur was originally known as Bhumishambara.

The many stupas in Borobudur temple, each with a Buddha statue inside.

More on Pramodhawardhani:

Pramodhawardhani (also known as Çrī Kahulunnan or Çrī Sanjiwana. In Indonesian known as Pramodyawardhani) was the queen consort of king Rakai Pikatan of Medang Kingdom in 9th century Central Java. She was the daughter of Sailendran king Samaratungga. Her royal marriage to Pikatan, the prince of Sanjaya dynasty, was believed to be a political reconciliation between Buddhist Sailendra with Hindu Sanjaya dynasties. This would consolidate the Sailendra dynasty's expansive territory that spanned across Indonesia all the way to Cambodia.
Pramodhawardhani - Pikatan's notable achievements were: defeating and expelling Balaputradewa to Srivijaya (Sumatra), as well as constructing Prambanan and Plaosan temples.

Pramodhawardhani is often thought to be portrayed in avatar form as prajnaparamita, which in Mahayana Buddhism, is the perfection of transcendental wisdom.

Pramodhawardhani/Prajnaparamita

  

Sailendra Dynasty

Śailēndra (Sanskrit: शैलेन्द्र Lord of the Mountain) or Śailēndravaṃśa ("Śailēndra dynasty") was the name of an influential Indonesian dynasty that emerged in 8th century Java.

The Śailēndras were active promoters of Mahayana Buddhism and covered the Kedu Plain of Central Java with Buddhist monuments.

The Śailēndras are considered to be a thalassocracy and ruled maritime Southeast Asia, however they also relied on agriculture pursuits through intensive rice cultivation on Central Java. The dynasty appeared to be the ruling family of both the Medang Kingdom of Central Java for some period and Srivijaya in Sumatra.

Some of the reliefs in Borobudur, depicting Sailendran king and queen, in a Maharajalilasana (King's posture or royal ease [ha, they even have a thing like this, fascinating!]) pose among their servants and/or subjects.

There is also "The Prajnaparamita of Java", referring to a famous depiction of Boddhisattvadevi Prajñāpāramitā, originated from 13th century Singhasari, East Java, Indonesia. The statue is of great aesthetical and historical value, and is considered as the masterpiece of classical Hindu-Buddhist art of ancient Java.

The statue of Prajnaparamita of East Java is probably the most famous depiction of the goddess of transcendental wisdom. The serene expression and meditative pose and gesture suggest peace and wisdom, in contrast with rich and intricate jewelry and decorations. The goddess is in a perfect lotus meditative position called vajrasana posture, sitting on a double lotus cushion called padmasana (lotus pedestal) on top of a square base. The statue sits before a carved stela.


The goddess performs dharmachakra-mudra (the mudra symbolizing turning the wheel of dharma).


Her left arm is placed around an utpala (blue lotus), on top of which sits her attribute; the lontar palmleaf book Prajnaparamita Sutra. The head and face is perfectly chiseled, with downcast eyes and forehead urna (a spiral or circular dot placed on the forehead of Buddhist images as an auspicious mark). The goddess wears her hair high arranged in Jatamakuta crown, and behind her head radiates prabhamandala (a halo or aura of light to suggest a divinity that has reached the highest wisdom).

Beautiful history 💓

Me at Plaosan temple

Thanks to the all-knowing wiki and the great world wide web for this note!

Happy Endings in Mythology

One morning I was reciting a local folklore of The Owl who Misses the Moon to my one and loyal audience, and they commented, "why such terrible ending?". Unfortunately as I did not write the story, I had not much consolation to offer. Often times, myths, folklores, legends, they speak to human tragedies and some, in an effort to create a universal and ultimate hope, give birth to Heroes within the story. However, at the behest of my audience's thirst for happy endings, here is one short myth that seems to end so.

The story of Ariadne and Dionysus

Ariadne is said to be the Greek goddess of mazes, and labyrinth. She was first married to Theseus, whom she helped win the match against the Minotaur and escaped a labyrinth, only to abandon her on an island while she sleeps. However, later on she weds the immortal wine-god Dionysus. There are several versions of her story. Here is one by Thomas Bulfinch:

Accordingly, when the time of sending off the tribute (to Minos) came, and the youths and maidens were, according to custom, drawn by lot to be sent, he (Theseus) offered himself as one of the victims, in spite of the entreaties of his father. The ship departed under black sails, as usual, which Theseus promised his father to change for white, in case of his returning victorious. 

When they arrived in Crete, the youths and maidens were exhibited before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter of the king, being present, became deeply enamored of Theseus, by whom her love was readily returned. She furnished him with a sword, with which to encounter the Minotaur, and with a clew of thread by which he might find his way out of the labyrinth. He was successful, slew the Minotaur, escaped from the labyrinth, and taking Ariadne as the companion of his way, with his rescued companions sailed for Athens. 

On their way they stopped at the island of Naxos, where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving her asleep. His excuse for this ungrateful treatment of his benefactress was that Athena appeared to him in a dream and commanded him to do so....

...Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth, was carried by him to the island of Naxos and was left there asleep, while the ungrateful Theseus pursued his way home without her. Ariadne, on waking and finding herself deserted, abandoned herself to grief. But Aphrodite took pity on her, and consoled her with the promise that she should have an immortal lover, instead of the mortal one she had lost.

The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of Dionysos, the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry him to, when they so treacherously attempted to make prize of him. As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Dionysos found her, consoled her, and made her his wife. As a marriage present he gave her a golden crown, enriched with gems, and when she died, he took her crown and threw it up into the sky. As it mounted the gems grew brighter and were turned into stars, and preserving its form Ariadne's crown remains fixed in the heavens as a constellation (Corona Borealis), between the kneeling Herakles and the man who holds the serpent.

Ariadne by John William Waterhouse

 And so they live happily, possibly ever after. 

Women in Mythology I : The many faces of Adi Parashakti

It is interesting to look closely how gender and gender roles are imbued in folklore and mythology. More often than not, women are depicted as a temptress, obstacle, curse, appeaser, trickster, or even victims. Borrowing the words of David Leeming, women are often portrayed as a "source of sorrow", take for example the biblical story of Adam and Eve, or the Indo-European myth of Pandora.

Pandora opening her box of mysery

On another role, the temptress, Leeming wrote, "The femme fatale--the female enchantress--can also stand in the way of the male hero's quest, providing an immediate goal that distracts the protagonist from the sacred one." And there are so many examples for this particular role; have a look at the Sirens, Circe, Delilah, or maybe the famous Helen of Troy.

Circe Invidiosa (Jealous Circe) - painting by J. W. Waterhouse, depicting Circe poisoning the water to turn Scylla into a sea monster.

Circe with her magic wand, offering a cup to Ulysses

Ulysses and the Sirens by Herbert James Draper

In Javanese wayang stories, Arjuna, the most good looking and prowess knight, often depicted going into meditation and would get frequent distraction from women (and nymphs alike) who fall in love with his striking attractiveness. Usually they end up trying hard to seduce him out of his meditation.

An Indonesian dance depicting Arjuna meditating at Mount Indrakila, being seduced by seven angelic nymphs.

That is why for me personally, it is exquisitely refreshing when there are exceptions for women from these roles. Some examples are Gaia as the Mother Earth, or Sophia, the female embodiment of wisdom.

But on this blog post I want to focus more on women in mythology as the  manifestation of strength, necessary destruction and death as the force of life, and divine love; all portrayed by the many forms of Shakti in the Hindu stories of deities. A quick definition of Shakti from wikipedia: 

Shakti (Sanskrit pronunciation: [ˈʃʌktɪ]) (Devanagari: शक्ति; from Sanskrit shak, "to be able"), meaning "Power" or "empowerment," is the primordial cosmic energy and represents the dynamic forces that are thought to move through the entire universe in Hinduism. Shakti is the concept, or personification, of divine feminine creative power, sometimes referred to as 'The Great Divine Mother' in Hinduism.

One of the earliest manifestation of Shakti in the world was as Sati, the daughter of Prajapati Daksha who is a great king and a son of the god Brahma. It is said that when his wife, Queen Prasuti desired to have a daughter, they both went into rigorous act of meditation. They gave up their material worldliness, conducted a penance and worshiped upon goddess Adi Parashakti , the Hindu concept of ultimate power inherent in all Creation (who is the manifested form of Shakti). After their penance was over, the Goddess asked them what boon they wanted to be blessed with; to which they answered they wanted the Goddess herself to be reborn as their daughter (such a greedy request, me thinks). Adi Parashakti granted their request but gave them a warning that shall she be insulted, she would return to her true form and forsake her attachments with them. They agreed, and a daughter named Sati was born.

Adi Parashakti

Fast forward to Prajapati Daksha now being one of the greatest kings ruling the realm of the world. Daksha's greatest glitch is his hatred towards Shiva. Daksha thinks Shiva and his non-material asceticism is threatening the feudalistic structure of status and mannerism. Oh but of course the universe wants to teach him a lesson by making Sati be the manifestation of Shiva's consort. Shiva as the god of destruction has a strong tendency of going into total asceticism, and Sati (as well as later on, Parvati) plays a role in bringing him out of the ascetic isolation and into creative participation in the world.

Sati and Shiva went into great lengths to be together due to Daksha's arrogance and his hatred towards Shiva. Against Daksha's wishes Shiva and Sati managed to get married and they stay married happily, until Daksha purposely created a sacred worship ceremony (a yagna) where all gods but Shiva were invited. Sati has heard about this ceremony and she second-guessed herself on why her father had not invited her and her husband. She knew that it is possible her father left them out intentionally, out of the remains of arrogance and hatred he harbors against Shiva and their marriage. But Sati decided to give Daksha the benefit of the doubt, and she came to the ceremony on her own thinking, "I am a family member, silly me to think I need to receive an invitation to come!" Yet this is exactly what Daksha wanted Sati to do so he could humiliate her in front of all the audience. Daksha told the whole audience of how now Sati had also become mannerless and coming to a high profile event without invitation. Sati felt greatly insulted. She took special insult when her father bad mouthed her husband on and on with demeaning words. So Sati decided to self-immolate herself as an act of purification and sacrifice. She prayed on the god of fire, Agni to burn her body, but Agni rejected out of fear and compassion of the true form of Sati. Eventually Sati  manifested her kundalini power and transformed into Adi Parashakti. She then cursed Daksha to be killed by Shiva before burning her human embodiment to death. (A note on this act of self-immolation, popularly known as the act of Sati, was actually then taken up in real life as a religious ritual in Hindu communities across India and Nepal before it was made illegal by the government in 1829 and 1920 respectively. The act of Sati refers to a funeral custom where a widow was expected to immolate herself on her husband's pyre, or to commit suicide in another ways shortly after her husband's death at war or from other causes. Terrible, I know. So there are still some aspects where Sati in her manifestation of bhakti, or devotion, is now seen in the modern world as a gender repression or sexism).
Sati thus became a goddess representing marital felicity and longevity.

In this video below, depicting the moment of wrath where Sati returns to her true visible form as Adi Parashakti, I love how Sati breaks free from the traditional confines of a woman as a daughter that has to obey and bear whatever the father figure rolls out. And how she transcends into this magnificent, divine, and glorious form of dignity. Watch it from minute 16:00

Adi Parashakti in the form of Sati will next reincarnate as Parvati, who will take on the forms of Durga and Kali. More on that in next blog posts!

Sneak preview: Kali

  

Myths, Legends, and Paintings

As a lover of mythology and legends, I have long fallen for the visual form of myths; most notably the Pre-Raphaelite Paintings. I can write a separate blog post about it, but to mention briefly, Pre-raphaelite paintings are paintings with a style that attentively put abundance of details, brilliant and intense in colors, and capture the melodrama of myths, legends, Shakespeare, Keats, and other poets, sometimes also biblical figures. There is a whole technical and "correct" definition of it, together with a socio-political history and a long list of which painters are technically included as the Pre-raphaelite painters. Let's talk about that another time.

In this post I want to take you to enjoy with me, one of my favorite stories of the Lady of Shalott. She comes from a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson. You can find the complete poem here, and because I am one lazy bum today, I will re-post her story as told in this site:

The Lady of Shalott is a magical being who lives alone on an island upstream from King Arthur's Camelot. Her business is to look at the world outside her castle window in a mirror, and to weave what she sees into a tapestry. She is forbidden by the magic to look at the outside world directly. The farmers who live near her island hear her singing and know who she is, but never see her.

The Lady sees ordinary people, loving couples, and knights in pairs reflected in her mirror. One day, she sees the reflection of Sir Lancelot riding alone. Although she knows that it is forbidden, she looks out the window at him. The mirror shatters, the tapestry flies off on the wind, and the Lady feels the power of her curse. 

An autumn storm suddenly arises. The lady leaves her castle, finds a boat, writes her name on it, gets into the boat, sets it adrift, and sings her death song as she drifts down the river to Camelot. The locals find the boat and the body, realize who she is, and are saddened. Lancelot prays that God will have mercy on her soul.The Lady of Shalott is a magical being who lives alone on an island upstream from King Arthur's Camelot. Her business is to look at the world outside her castle window in a mirror, and to weave what she sees into a tapestry. She is forbidden by the magic to look at the outside world directly. The farmers who live near her island hear her singing and know who she is, but never see her.

The Lady sees ordinary people, loving couples, and knights in pairs reflected in her mirror. One day, she sees the reflection of Sir Lancelot riding alone. Although she knows that it is forbidden, she looks out the window at him. The mirror shatters, the tapestry flies off on the wind, and the Lady feels the power of her curse.

An autumn storm suddenly arises. The lady leaves her castle, finds a boat, writes her name on it, gets into the boat, sets it adrift, and sings her death song as she drifts down the river to Camelot. The locals find the boat and the body, realize who she is, and are saddened. Lancelot prays that God will have mercy on her soul.

Now on to the pre-raphaelite portrayal of her by various painters.

Here are the Lady of Shalott:

And a painting illustrating the final moment of the Lady of Shalott

  

I love you my Lady!

Mythology

I am reading a book by David Leeming titled "An Oxford Companion to World Mythology". It comprises myths and mythological creatures from all around the world and cultures. Here is a collection of quotes I found interesting to keep.

**On New Mythology

"We are either heroes of the new myth or captives of the old. Those who refuse the call will hang on desperately to the dying gods and myths of past value systems and will continue to endanger the world with their blindness to reality. Those who answer the call will depart from the status quo and participate in a breaking away--as heroes have always done--from the merely individual, the merely local, so as to become truly human."

"...where are today's myths, today's mythmaking, and today's mythmakers? Implicit in the question is the widespread suspicion that we have become so mastered by the scientific-rationalism approach to reality that we can no longer take seriously anything beyond the scope of that approach."

"They make use of myth--of stories with characters--because the majority of people are, to a great extent, ignorant of what is, in effect, the sacred and secret language of physics and mathematics."

"But for the most part, myths are created by the collective imagination as metaphorical projections of the way things are in life. Myths emerge from our experience of reality, from our attempt to understand it, and from our instinctive need to clothe that experience in mimetic story and concept."

"The crucial salvation now is communal salvation; without it our species will die and creation will lose its consciousness. ... As Campbell has said, "The modern hero-deed must be that of questing to bring to the light again the lost Atlantis of the coordinated soul ... of rendering the modern world spiritually significant."


**From the Introductions

"Humans, unlike other animals, are blessed or cursed with consciousness and specifically with the consciousness of plot--of beginnings, middles, and ends."

More on this book and other myths later.

This is Love, not Fear - Buddhist Meditation

I came across this beautiful guided meditation some time ago. Read the words, and hear yourself say it while you close your eyes and meditate. Let the vibration of your inner voice sinks in.

"Just sit. Notice where you feel hard, and sit with that.
In the middle of that hardness you'll find anger; sit with that.
Go to the center of the anger and you'll probably come to sadness.
Stay with the sadness until it turns to vulnerability.
Keep sitting with what comes up, the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and acceptance in the moment.
A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.
From your heart you can see the true pigment of the sky.
You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower, and the deep brown of your own eyes.
A tender heart doesn't block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow both beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear."