Tonight, I'm embarrassed to say, it was the paper toilet seat covers in the Rubin Museum which connected me most viscerally to the nuns from Nepal chanting hymns upstairs. My mother would probably tell me to stop right here and start again differently.
The nuns are traveling in the US to share one of the Tantric traditions of Tibetan Buddhism called Chöd. They are performing ritual dances and chants and playing the damaru drums associated with the Hindu god, Shiva. It is the first time these practices have been performed outside of the Nagi Gompa Nunnery in Nepal.
Let me say right here to American readers that yes, I said Tantric, but no, these are not sexual practices, so please grow up.
According to the program: "Utilizing the special meditation techniques, the practitioner cuts through his or her personal demons - neurotic, self-cherishing and the accompanying painful negative emotions." I can tell you, without having first read the program since we got there after the lights were down, that the chants immediately hit the spot in my forehead just about where my eyebrows are most deeply knitted together, and it was with great effort and discomfort that I held on to my cherished, ego-driven thoughts through the rest of the program. So maybe this is why I found it so much easier to think about toilet seat covers.
Many meditation practices like these are aimed at the egotistical "I want what I want, when I want it" that brings us misery when things don't happen as planned. Without telling you specifically what has me tied up in knots, or who, I can say that the chants seemed pretty well designed and knew exactly where in my brain these things reside. And so I retreat to a much less personal topic.
It is my long-ingrained habit to notice public restrooms of any convenience in Manhattan. Most New Yorkers can direct you to McDonalds, Starbucks, train terminals, some rest stations in the larger parks. But I can tell you that the bellhops in front of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue will gladly point you through the lobby to the lovely marble tiled powder rooms. If you try this, please have on clean clothes and smile when you ask.
So while I was adding the Rubin Museum restrooms to the mental list, with an asterisk for toilet seat covers, I remembered the nuns upstairs, and the public toilets I found in India. Maybe I'm treading on your own tender spots by describing the relative convenience of Western toilets, but if you've spent time on a dusty bus through local villages in India, or many, many other places, I'll bet, it's a really nice thing to find even a fairly comfortable and private, uh, privy.
In India they generally involve a porcelain basin sunk into the ground over which one hovers, or squats as best as one's Achilles Tendons will allow (a yoga practice comes in handy here). There's always a cold water faucet on the left, a bucket for rinsing the larger surfaces, and a 1/2 liter measuring cup for rinsing the smaller ones. I'm guessing Nepal is not too different. I tell you this only as background.
It was the fine, crinkliness of the paper covers that set me wondering what the nuns thought when they saw them. Someone asked the nuns what their meals are like at the nunnery and one nun, a fugitive from China who spoke English best, told sweetly about simple meals of rice and barley and vegetables. And I thought of the cost of producing such a luxury as toilet seat covers. And just how damn fancy we are. And just how much we can want what we want when we want it.
But back to the chanting. Was it the plainness of their voices? The harmonic vibration of the sound? Or was it their demeanor, which spoke of slight awkwardness in sharing, in front of an auditorium full of people, their prayer practice? Maybe it was my understanding that as nuns, they do not carry with them the intense desire for something elusive that can get lodged between the eyebrows. At any rate, these gentle sounds tugged at the knotted skin on my forehead, and I resented it.
If I were braver, perhaps I would attend the workshops they are offering this weekend because really, it wouldn't be a bad thing. I decided it was safer to just buy the book.
The nuns are traveling in the US to share one of the Tantric traditions of Tibetan Buddhism called Chöd. They are performing ritual dances and chants and playing the damaru drums associated with the Hindu god, Shiva. It is the first time these practices have been performed outside of the Nagi Gompa Nunnery in Nepal.
Let me say right here to American readers that yes, I said Tantric, but no, these are not sexual practices, so please grow up.
According to the program: "Utilizing the special meditation techniques, the practitioner cuts through his or her personal demons - neurotic, self-cherishing and the accompanying painful negative emotions." I can tell you, without having first read the program since we got there after the lights were down, that the chants immediately hit the spot in my forehead just about where my eyebrows are most deeply knitted together, and it was with great effort and discomfort that I held on to my cherished, ego-driven thoughts through the rest of the program. So maybe this is why I found it so much easier to think about toilet seat covers.
Many meditation practices like these are aimed at the egotistical "I want what I want, when I want it" that brings us misery when things don't happen as planned. Without telling you specifically what has me tied up in knots, or who, I can say that the chants seemed pretty well designed and knew exactly where in my brain these things reside. And so I retreat to a much less personal topic.
It is my long-ingrained habit to notice public restrooms of any convenience in Manhattan. Most New Yorkers can direct you to McDonalds, Starbucks, train terminals, some rest stations in the larger parks. But I can tell you that the bellhops in front of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue will gladly point you through the lobby to the lovely marble tiled powder rooms. If you try this, please have on clean clothes and smile when you ask.
So while I was adding the Rubin Museum restrooms to the mental list, with an asterisk for toilet seat covers, I remembered the nuns upstairs, and the public toilets I found in India. Maybe I'm treading on your own tender spots by describing the relative convenience of Western toilets, but if you've spent time on a dusty bus through local villages in India, or many, many other places, I'll bet, it's a really nice thing to find even a fairly comfortable and private, uh, privy.
In India they generally involve a porcelain basin sunk into the ground over which one hovers, or squats as best as one's Achilles Tendons will allow (a yoga practice comes in handy here). There's always a cold water faucet on the left, a bucket for rinsing the larger surfaces, and a 1/2 liter measuring cup for rinsing the smaller ones. I'm guessing Nepal is not too different. I tell you this only as background.
It was the fine, crinkliness of the paper covers that set me wondering what the nuns thought when they saw them. Someone asked the nuns what their meals are like at the nunnery and one nun, a fugitive from China who spoke English best, told sweetly about simple meals of rice and barley and vegetables. And I thought of the cost of producing such a luxury as toilet seat covers. And just how damn fancy we are. And just how much we can want what we want when we want it.
But back to the chanting. Was it the plainness of their voices? The harmonic vibration of the sound? Or was it their demeanor, which spoke of slight awkwardness in sharing, in front of an auditorium full of people, their prayer practice? Maybe it was my understanding that as nuns, they do not carry with them the intense desire for something elusive that can get lodged between the eyebrows. At any rate, these gentle sounds tugged at the knotted skin on my forehead, and I resented it.
If I were braver, perhaps I would attend the workshops they are offering this weekend because really, it wouldn't be a bad thing. I decided it was safer to just buy the book.
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