Every year when I order my garden seeds, I imagine myself starting a fall crop of cold-tolerant veggies after the summer harvest is over.  Not once have I ever followed through, in spite of ordering countless packages of broccoli seed. Whereas planting seeds in the moist spring soil feels fresh and hopeful, by hot mid-July (when I’m barely keeping up with the bugs and weeds) it has no magic.

Fortunately, we are surrounded by farmers who do plant for fall, who can provide us with fresh local vegetables all winter long, available at a growing number of winter farmers markets. 

But we’re not talking tomatoes and beans, we’re talking about hearty greens and root vegetables, as well as the veggies that store well like potatoes and winter squashes. You have to make seasonal adjustments in your cooking, but that’s okay…there are plenty of recipes that go well with winter.

Here are a couple I’ve been making lately:

THAI CARROT AND SQUASH SOUP

1 TBSP oil
1 onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 – 2 thumb-sized pieces of fresh ginger, peeled and grated
6  cups of chicken broth
1/4 cup white rice
1 TBSP cumin
1/4 tsp nutmeg
pinch of Cayenne pepper (optional, or you may prefer more if you like your soup hot)
8 medium carrots, peeled and chopped
1 small butternut squash, peeled and cubed
1 can unsweetened coconut milk
1 – 3 tsp fish sauce
1 TBSP soy sauce
juice of 1 – 2 limes
fresh cilantro

Saute the onion and ginger in the oil until translucent. Add the garlic and cook for 45 more seconds,  till fragrant.

Add the broth and rice and bring to a boil. Add carrots, squash, and dry spices. Reduce heat to medium and cook until vegetables are soft and rice is cooked.  Add coconut milk and stir.

Puree the soup in your blender in batches. Return to pot and add fish sauce, soy sauce, and lime. (Start with the smaller amount of lime and fish sauce, then test for flavor and add more if you like. I like lotsa lime juice.) 

Sprinkle with chopped cilantro and serve.

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This year, nothing special. Just this.

Can I be comfortable with that?

The truth is, of course, I don’t know what will happen this year. There could be big drama whether I plan it or not. I could get laid off from my job. My mammogram next week could produce results that would pivot my world on its axis. Don’t know.

But I’m not going to intentionally cook up something to keep my excitement level (and my stress level) high. I have a tendency to do that.

It’s mid-January, a time of non-eventfulness. As I gaze out the window at the cold, grey and white, the dullness of the scene mirrors my inner state. One step lower and it would feel like depression. Or would it? When emptiness threatens, I usually don’t give myself a chance to find out. I start a new project and get really busy. It takes mindfulness and self-restraint to just let things be instead of rushing in to make something happen. But that’s what I’m going to try to do.

I follow several blogs that regularly challenge their readers to seize control of their destinies, pursue their dreams, and dare to be extraordinary. I enjoy these blogs and partially endorse the sentiment, especially for the youngish people who write them and make up most of the readership. But I also think, “What’s wrong with ordinary?”

When we pay attention to the ordinary moments of life we sometimes find the extraordinary shimmering within them. But (from my more aged perspective) extraordinary is not something we really benefit from chasing after, trying to engineer, or (heaven forbid) contriving to be. And anyway… ordinary/extraordinary – what are they really but just thoughts?

This makes me think of a scene that I saw unfolding in Laos each morning outside my guest house. At dawn the temple bells would ring, and a short time later the monks would file out from the gates of their monasteries with alms bowls in hand. While laypeople (mostly Lao) kneeled on the sidewalk filling the bowls with sticky rice, hordes of tourists swarmed the scene, often obstructing the process, cameras flashing, striving for the perfect “monk shot.”

I can’t blame them. Monks are incredibly photogenic. And to a tourist’s eyes, including my own, the scene was exotic and extraordinary. We all felt the desire to grab a little of that spiritual vibe and take it home with us. It was worth traveling thousands of miles for, perhaps.

But what was life like for the monks, these exemplars of specialness, of this extraordinary spirituality? Most of them had probably never ventured more than 50 miles from the spot we were in. Each morning they heard the same wakeup bell, chanted the same chants, ate the same white rice. Extraordinarily dull? I don’t think so. Just ordinary life, lived moment by moment.

The weather this week has been weirdly warm here on Cape Cod. On New Year’s Day it was in the 50s and sunny. We took a morning walk with friends on Sandy Neck, and before long we were all sweating and peeling off layers. That afternoon, when the Barnstable Village New Year’s Day Polar Plunge was scheduled, the temperature was up to 56.

“Pffftt!” I scoffed. “Hardly worth the fuss.” As usual, I was looking for any excuse to bail out. Too cold? Forget it! Too warm? Well…

I did go in, however, and afterwards felt fantastic – 100% alive and 100% relaxed.

“If I’m waffling next year, remind me that THIS is the reason to do it,” I told John. Anything that feels that good must be good for you, don’t you think?

The warm weather continued all week. It seemed like the whole neighborhood was out walking in shirtsleeves and light sweaters. Many of us went daily to the Millway Beach Marina to watch a group of six or eight harbor seals that had taken up temporary residence. Lolling on the docks, they looked like fat sunbathers. All they were missing were sunglasses.

Snowstorms in October, sunbathing in January? This has been an odd year indeed. Probably there’s a sinister note of climate change underneath it all. But in the meantime, we’re enjoying the gift.

Ideally, it’s a week for reading, walking, and writing. For day-dreaming and creative musing, for looking through photos taken during the past year. Maybe for catching up by phone or letter with friends who live far away, or for meeting local friends for tea. But no groups or big meals. After weeks of jollity and overeating, it’s best to keep things very simple.

It’s a week for discovering how tired I am, and allowing myself to sleep in. For going to the movies on a weekday night. For avoiding all forms of shopping.

A little deck-clearing can feel good…I finally decluttered and vacuumed my bedroom, not because I had to, but because I finally had time to do it. I may clear away some of the Christmas stuff. I may set up the 2012 calendar. Or maybe not. The key is: nothing is mandatory this week.

I know not everyone has the week between Christmas and New Years off, which is too bad. We all deserve a week of nothing at least once a year. 

I love the picture above, because it captures something about the puzzle that is India. A beautiful woman laughs with her friends in the sunshine. What isn’t so easy to see is that the pile of straw she leans against is strapped to her back for carrying. That must be heavy!

By western standards, the lives of so many Indians should be miserable. But are they? Can we know? So often there’s visible joy, color, ornamentation, and dignity existing alongside toil, squalor and extreme poverty. How does it happen? Is there something fundamentally upside-down about our western view of happiness?

One question that several people have asked me since I’ve been back is, “Was the trip life-changing?” I honestly don’t know how to answer that. I’ve only been back a short time. My suitcase is still not quite unpacked. It will take much longer to unpack all the visual memories, emotions, conversations, and experiences to see what, if anything, they mean.

One thing is true: each time I travel, more of the world becomes “real” to me. It’s one thing to see images on tv or in magazines, but when I’ve been to a place, talked to people, and eaten their food, something changes.

Now, when I read about flooding in Thailand or the latest sectarian violence in India, it feels like this has something to do with me. I feel a concern, as I would if I had relatives there. Because in a sense, I do.

If you’d like to see my full album of pictures from India, click here.

I travel back to Varanasi, and on to Delhi by overnight train with Robin, Diana, and Arthur…

Then the four of us hit the road again…this time by cab (12 hours) up to Dharmsala in the foothills of the Himalayas, where the Tibetan government in exile resides…

We chill out for five days. It’s a welcome break from constant travel and 5 a.m. wakeup calls. There are lots of western travellers in town, which means good coffee, cheap massages, and lots of food choices. Pizza!

We visit the temple and residence of the Dalai Lama. (Alas, he’s not in town.)

And volunteer for English tutoring…

Cool temperatures and clean air! Ahhh!

As we practice Zen, we hope to become more open, compassionate, and responsive. But how to respond to the poor in India – especially the children – is a conundrum that confronts every traveller. Most sources advise against giving money to beggars on the street. We saw a woman almost fall from the rush of children who surrounded her when she gave to a few. And aside from our own comfort, we probably aren’t doing these children any favors by giving them money directly. But what to do? It’s easy to barricade yourself behind a protective numbness.

Here at the temple in Kushinagar where we are staying, we can see a different response in action. Rev. Thich Nu Tri Thuan, a Vietnamese Buddhist nun, came to India in 1989 and built the place from nothing. Through sheer determination, this petite force of nature created not just a temple, but also a school for some of India’s poorest children. There are 335 children currently enrolled in the school, and over 6000 have been educated since its founding.

Before our arrival, the Kwan Um School organized a significant donation to the project. After an early morning visit to the site of the Buddha’s death, we returned to the temple for a hurried ceremony with the children. They waited politely while we passed out new uniforms and packages of cookies to row upon row of eager hands. It’s a small thing, but it feels good to do something.

Then it was back to the bus for another 13-hour ride to Lumbini in Nepal, the final stop on our tour. As the hours went by, we passed from sociability, to boredom, to sleepiness, to silliness. The last leg of the journey was a push. We sat idling in traffic at the Nepalese border for two long hours while visas were sorted out. Carlos and George started dancing in the aisle. Finally, music was pumped over the p.a., and we belted out Simon and Garfunkle songs in exhausted and full-hearted 100%-ness.

We arrived at the Korean Temple during evening practice. The monks were chanting, and in the dark, the temple glowed with lanterns and candles like a huge jack-o-lantern.

As the two week mark in India approaches, I’m feeling pretty beat up. Fascinating though India is, it’s not an easy country to travel in. Let me count the ways:

You are constantly breathing in dust made of finely-powdered human and animal feces, and also breathing toxic smoke from the countless trash piles burning in the streets.

There are no functional sidewalks in most places, so a simple stroll down the street is a life-threatening adventure through crazed honking drivers, cows, dogs, and pushy peddlars.

Because it’s hot, it’s easy to get dehydrated and have your electrolytes depleted. I can tell it’s happening when I feel an exhausted inner tremor.

My body is also rebelling against the unaccustomed steady diet of Indian and Korean food. (We have a cook accompanying the tour who prepares many of our temple meals: boiled greens, more greens, rice, fermented cabbage, spicy curries, radish soup, and did I mention boiled greens? Pretty good stuff, but for breakfast?)

Everything at all times seems to be jerry-rigged and under construction. Take our hotel in Rajir, for example. Last night there was jackhammering on the level directly over our heads till 10:00 p.m. George finally went downstairs and yelled at the management. The jackhammering stopped, but some defiant banging continued for another quarter hour.

The hardest thing, though, has been the length of the bus rides. India is just not set up for long-haul travel by road. I’m starting to brood about the long distances still to come.

The trip to Kushinagar today started at 6 a.m. with an estimated arrival at lunch time. This was quickly revised to 3 p.m., and then dinner time. That time passed, and still we continued to bump along through the gathering darkness, surrounded by smoke and cooking fires.

When we arrived at the Vietnamese temple after 14 hours of travel, everyone was exhausted. Diana and Maggy and I went to our room and I flopped down on the futon-like bed. A moment later, from the bathroom, came an enormous crash.

“Uh…you alright in there, Diana?” I went in to check on her and this is what I saw.

The sink, which had been affixed to the wall with two small dabs of plaster, had flipped off at her touch and smashed to pieces. What could we do at that point but collapse into hysterical, helpless, snot-flying laughter? We laughed and laughed, and all the fatigue and difficulty sort of melted away. It was great.

India is funny that way. The “bad” stuff and the “good” stuff seem to be inseparable.

As we travel from place to place, toilet stops every two hours or so are an unexpected source of enjoyment. Sometimes the buses stop at grungy rest areas, but just as often we are “toileting” in nature. The men pee quickly and then retire to smoke cigarettes, while the women coalesce into a comradely band as we search the bush for suitable coverage. Our tour guides are willing to erect paper port-a-johns (the blue thing in the picture below), but most of us prefer to find a tree and squat. Diana says, “I’m at a point where I don’t care who sees my butt!”

Which is a good thing, because no matter how remote the location, people instantly materialize from nowhere to enjoy the spectacle.  These men and boys are watching the action from the road. The women below, who are collecting kindling, came along during our pee stop in a teak forest.

Elsewhere on the road, we have to come to terms with the Indian-style toilet. Western seats can be found here and there, but the norm is the squattie with a faucet and bucket for bottom-washing. (Toilet paper is strickly a bring-your-own affair.) Thanks to yoga and good knees, I’ve found this operation do-able and even sort of fun, once I got the hang of it. Here’s a video on how to use an India toilet, in case you’re curious. The video is posted on Breath, Dream, Go, a wonderful website for anyone interested in India.

Leaving Varanasi. Trying to get out of the hotel driveway is comical…our way is blocked by a bedlam of wall to wall bicycles, motorbikes, herds of cows, rickshaws, taxis, and trucks. As the bus inches forward, we look down from our orange air-conditioned cocoon at people who are looking back at us. Some of the men look pissed off but many wave and smile. The women look wary. The young girls are the best. It’s a relief to finally be able to make eye contact.

As we leave the city behind, the brown dusty smog is gradually replaced by smoky white haze coming from cow-patty cooking fires. Do Indians know the sky is blue? Our route takes us through many rural towns and villages, where life in conducted on the street. So many lives we get a quick glimpse of!

Bodgaya is a small town, home to the Bodhi Tree where the Buddha was enlightened. We’re staying in the Chinese Temple, which is wonderful despite the ultra hard beds (a thin pad over a wood platform). This town has Buddhist temples of every kind: Thai, Buttanese, Ethiopian, Vietnamese, Tibetan, Cambodian, each with it’s own distinctive architecture.

Our room overlooks the Tibetan Temple, where the monks chant and blow horns and bang drums every afternoon. In the night I try to get comfortable on the mattress. Outside, in the wee hours, groups of dogs have arguments that wake flocks of birds roosting in the courtyard. They tweeter and squawk for a while and then go back to sleep. Would that I could do the same.

We rise before dawn each day for intense, sweaty mornings at the Mahabodi Temple where the descendant of the Bodhi Tree grows. As we walk to the temple, children come towards us in the darkness – little girls with outstretched hands and murmered pleas, and vigorous eight-year old boys pushing maps, cards, malas, flowers, and other trinkets. Inside the compound, the place swarms with Buddhist pilgrims and monastics of every stripe and color.

One morning we occupy a corner for chanting and meditation. The pilgrims ambulate by in waves. Since I’m on an outside corner, I’m lightly brushed by the passing throng. There’s a group of white-dressed women led by a regal leader with a complicated Dr. Suess-y headdress and a gold fringed parasol. Their loud speaker blasts out a chant that sounds like SA-DU-PA! I slide into “listening to world sound,” immersing myself in the bath of drumming, chanting and clanging of bells that surround me.

Finally I’m practically dizzy with Buddhist overload. Waiting till it’s time to leave, I sit on a ledge and watch the bare feet walk by, while an ant skitters across the tiles, trying to avoid being stepped on.