years since my tiny son had died so
unexpectedly. The voice gathered
strength from all my defeats. "You're
not going to make it," I heard.
"You're no good. You'll never be able
to write about this."
What a weirdly confident demon.
I felt myself lending energy to this
voice, pushing it to be louder and
stronger, to see where it would go. A
dangerous game to play in a dark
room in the foothills of the
Himalayas.
The next morning I woke, dazed
and ruined, washed my face, drank
tea, and opened my eyes wide. They
say a man lying at the bottom of a
well can see the stars even in broad
daylight. I saw something brilliant
those days in Dharamsala.
I never considered myself a spiritu-
al seeker. So I was stirred and con-
fused by this unprecedented dialogue
between two major world religions. I
bounded between the serene and pen-
etrating presence of His Holiness the
Dalai Lama and the frenetic and exu-
berant debates and teachings of the
rabbis. Over the net to the Buddhist
side, where calm meditation- brings
peace and clarity; over the net to the
Jewish side, where, as we prayed out-
doors overlooking Dharamsala's
Kangra Valley, I heard the beauty of
all creation sing with one voice.
Buddhism? Judaism? Buddha-
Judaism? Jewish Buddhism? Is there a
God or is there nothing? Or, as the
Jewish mystics seem to whisper, is
God nothing?
The match was called early on
account of darkness. The score: God,
one; Nothing, nothing.

Wisdom To Change

I sought Reb Zalman [SChachter-
Shalomi] out for advice. We walked
along the winding cutbacks that pass
for roads in Dharamsala. Reb Zalman
comes from the Lubavitch tradition
of rabbinic counseling, and his advice
had range, from body to mind to
soul. He peered into my psyche and
also asked after my sex life. In
Chasidic thought, joy in everyday life
is meat for the spirit. Then he moved
on to my Jewish soul, my neshamah.
He said, using Native American lan-
guage, that I ought to go on a spirit
quest. For a moment I pictured
myself in the New Mexico desert,
tied to a pole in the hot sun and
pierced by arrows. But he meant a
retreat, to think about one question:
What do I want, what do I really
want?

They say a man lying at the bottom
of a well can see the stars even in
broad daylight. I saw something
brilliant those days in Dharamsala.

To ask this question for a day
deepens the sense of an interior life
and strengthens inner listening. Later
I met a teacher in Jerusalem, Susie
Schneider, who explained that even
seemingly trivial physical needs and
wants are not to be dismissed out of
hand. In Jewish thought, the
prompting of the heart, even for a
bagel with cream cheese, is a serious
message. Because only by listening
carefully to what we want can we
begin to hear what is wanted of
us.
Reb Zalman gave me a second way
of approaching the question: "Find
your risk."
That is good advice. But how
much risk? Buddha left his family
and palace behind to become a wan-
dering contemplative; Abram obeyed
the startling command lekh lekha —
go and leave your father's house, and
the land of your birth. What sort of
voice was he hearing? Did it come
from within or without? Should I too

quit my job, leave my home, start
over?
Reb Zalman stopped walking,
smiled, and looked serious. "No," he
said quietly. "Have the hokhmah to
change your life from where you are."
Hokhmah is wisdom.

Out Of Sight

When I got to Joshua Tree I felt
very refreshed. I stopped off at a shop
in one of the small towns for a soda.
The storekeeper said, "There won't be
much light left," then gave me direc-
tions: "You can go through the gates,
the gates are open." In my state of
mind, every phrase sounded like spir-
itual advice, every direction was for
the heart as well.
The Joshua trees are delicate can-
delabras with bent arms holding
sprays of green in their fists; they dot
the landscape of the park, among
large hollowed rocks like pelvic bones
or chunks of ankle, broken femur,

white and bare, smooth, with lots of
reds and the preliminary green of
sunset. It was cool after I entered the
park, and I pulled over at a roadside
marker. I wanted my feet on the
ground. I hiked out in the sand, past
clumps of plants here and there, large
rocks ahead, like piles of rubble,
stone on stone, some old disaster, and
all the life bare and clinging: small
purple flowers amid sprays of dark
green plants like weeds in clumps and
wisps of witch's hair and the Joshua
trees everywhere like sentinels and
sounds of birds calling back and
forth.
-
I heard a bird calling and stopped.
On top of the highest arm of a
Joshua tree, calling out. A small bird
with an orange crest, orange going to
salmon. I called back and he
answered. We called back and forth. I
stood very still.
A group of these birds ran past,
upright — quail. They moved just
out of sight behind scraggly weed
hair, a spray of green to hide them. I
edged slightly a few feet and saw
them again. They detected me and
ran on just out of sight.
Then I played the calling game
with another one in a tree. Calling
out. Calling out. The heart of the
world and the spring of the world. I
felt delighted to have such contact,
such calling out again. My heart was
open, but with no human creature in
sight, heart open to them and the
land around me.

`I Heard My Heart'

I left Los Angeles the next day. For
a connecting flight out of Houston,
we boarded a small bus. I noticed a
woman traveling with her grand-
mother. The old woman had difficul-
ty getting up the stairs, and her
granddaughter carrying her bags
could not.aid her.
Dozens of us watched and did
nothing, thinking the usual — not
my problem. Then I heard my heart.
We rode the bus to the airplane,
waiting on the tarmac. I eyed them
the whole time: this old lady and her
tiny granddaughter. I stood at the
bottom of the steps of the bus and
waited. When she came, I climbed up
and took this old woman in my arms.
"My leg doesn't work," she said. I
lifted her. She was so light to lift off
this earth and to hold and to help her
down step by step as I backed down.
It felt good somehow. Like I was sup-
posed to be there. El

1/2
1998

67