INTO THE HEART OF MOUNTAIN LIGHT

 I danced through an arch of fire at the Jampa Lhakhang festival in Bumthang, Bhutan. It changed my life. I made the first journey to Bhutan in October 2004. I came to feel as though I had a connection to the place as well as the people and wanted to experience more of it. I felt a kinship with the land and the people that extended beyond the normal graciousness of Bhutanese hospitality. I felt as though I had something to learn. I was determined to return.

Over the next several months, I made contact with my guide Sonam Chophyel. He had his own company, Bhutan Journeys@ www.bhutanjourneys.com. In August 2005, I was able to make a solo return journey to Bhutan under his capable and entertaining guidance. I felt at ease, welcomed and at home.

I spent three weeks in Bhutan on that second trip. My companions on this journey were my guide Sonam and the driver he hired for me Dorji. Learning of my interest in textiles, Sonam arranged for me to have a farm stay in the community of Khoma. During this visit to Khoma I had my own cook Chimi who excelled at making wonderful soups. While I was in Khoma, I had an opportunity to meet some of the local weavers and to watch them work on their backstrap looms creating intricate patterns with supplemental weft silk threads. These are astonishing pieces of weaving. One young woman, Sangay Choden, actually let me weave a few lines of plain weave weft at the end of one of the kira panels. We laughed a lot together as I struggled to learn the various body postures needed for this style of weaving.

We traveled on to Rangjung, also famed for it’s local weavers. There I stayed in the guesthouse of the local monastery. I again met some weavers, bought an all-silk kira and spent two days sitting on the grass of the guesthouse watching the change of light and shadow across the landscape. I felt a karmic connection to the place.

On our return journey to Paro, we stopped for an afternoon in the lower Tang Valley to visit a museum, a monastery and have a picnic lunch. I stepped out of the car and into a place that felt familiar. We hiked across the countryside up to the museum at Ugyen Chholing Palace. We then visited Tang Rimochen Lhakhang where Guru Rimpoche meditated. I lit a butter lamp with the aspiration that I am allowed to return to this valley. As we left the valley, I spoke with Sonam about this aspiration. He told me he had been born and raised in the upper reaches of the valley and he thought he could arrange for me to return and spend some more time there.

After that second journey to Bhutan, it was clear to me that I greatly preferred traveling solo under Sonam's guidance. It was easier to relate to the local people, go for walks, enjoy the earth and sky, light and shadow, and to connect with the sense of the place. So in February 2007 I made my third journey to Bhutan.

I picked February 2007 to return for two reasons. I wanted to visit Phobjikha Valley to see and hear the black necked cranes. I also wanted to be in Bhutan for Losar, the time of the local New Year celebration. In addition, I requested an opportunity, if possible to stay at a Buddhist Nunnery. Again, my companions were Sonam my guide and Dorji my driver. Sonam was able to make all three of these dreams come to life.

I spent two nights in Phobjikha Valley. During the full day we were in the valley, Sonam and I took a long walk across the northern side of the valley. While we did not get very close to the cranes as they were feeding on the valley floor, a number of them did fly directly overhead. I was able to get a very good look at them and hear them calling to one another.

Sonam then brought me to stay a couple of nights at the Karma Drubden Goemba, a Tibetan Buddhist nunnery in Kuenga Rabten. It was founded by Khenpo Tsultrim Jyamtso during the Chinese take over of Tibet. He brought a group of nuns over the Himalayas settling them here. The goemba or nunnery faces south with a view down and across the valley of the Mangde Chhu. The place is far enough south and low enough in elevation that there are orange and banana trees. The view of the peaks to the west was obscured by clouds during most of my stay there. It rained a lot while I was there. I stayed in the current guesthouse, which has four rooms. The blankets they gave me to sleep under smelled of cedar. The nuns are in the process of building a new guesthouse, which will have room for 24 older people that the nuns will care for. The new facility will also have space for visitors such as myself.

Sonam brought food and treats for the nuns who were busy preparing for Losar. One nun, Ani Chophel Palmo, spoke English and was helpful in getting me settled in. She left the next day with two other nuns who were going to Calcutta so one of them could get some medical treatment. Another nun, Ani Khyechok, who also spoke excellent English, took me under her wing for the rest of my stay there. It was also quite cold. Ani Khyechok told me it was much colder than usual. Because of preparation for Losar, there was no service the first night I got there. However, I did hear the big horns sound for the first time during the trip that first night.

The following morning three nuns came to escort me to breakfast. I had warm fried bread, eggs, cheese and hot water. After breakfast, I went to the temple by myself to meditate, say some prayers and make an offering. At 1:00, I sat with some nuns while they chanted and said prayers. Sonam and Dorji showed up to see how I was doing. The three of us were served some delicious soup and we arranged that they would pick me up around 11:00 the next day so we could drive over Yotung La pass ((11,800ft) during the middle of the day. At four that afternoon, there was a service complete with horns, cymbals and chanting. I felt as though I was floating on a river of blessings. Afterward the nuns wanted to talk so we sat together in the temple hall. They asked questions and we sang songs to each other. We laughed a lot. They sang one song in English about Tara's blessing that ended with her chant. Since I knew the chant, I was able to join them in the chant to her. Many smiles and much laughter.

When I left, I stood on the steps outside the temple and again we sang to each other. As I was walking down the hill to leave I turned and saw them all standing there, watching me go. They saw I had turned to look and they began to wave. I waved back for a time and then turned to continue my walk down to the car. Oh I was so nourished by being among them.

As part of the preparation for the trip, I learned what I could about the Tang Valley. I discovered that the valley had been "hidden" by Yeshe Tshokyel, one of Guru Rimpoche's consorts, in order to protect it. I needed to return. As part of this third journey, Sonam arranged for me to have a farm stay at this mother's home in the upper Tang Valley during Losar. I was able to be there for five days.

I arrived "home" on the night before Losar. Sonam's mother Jangchu Dema, lives on a farm almost at the end of the road on the upper northeast branch of the Tang Valley. Upon arrival I stepped out of the car, looking eastward at the pine-covered slopes. I turned to Sonam and said: " On that slope there is a stream that comes down out of the mountains by some rocks and forms a small pool. There is a sacred spring nearby." He looks at me stunned and said: "Yes. How do you know this? You haven't been here before. Have you seen pictures." "Because I have seen this place in my dreams and visions almost all my life" I reply. I know this place. I know the shape of the land. I am breathing the air of home, the true home of my heart and spirit, a place I have been away from for a very long, long time. A place I have been blessed in this lifetime to be allowed to return. Sacred ground.

That evening I took a short walk by myself into the pines behind Sonam's mother's house. I follow a cattle trail until I find a spot where I can see the eastern pine covered slopes of the valley. In my head I heard a voice saying, "welcome home daughter of the mountain." I sit down and begin to cry. When I am in Bhutan, my heart, body, mind and spirit open up and expand. Now, my western mind knows this is due in part to the need for my lungs to work harder and expand so I can get enough oxygen in these upper elevations. (I normally live at an altitude of about 15 meters.) However, it is more than that. Spirit life is alive, awake and alert here. I am nourished, supported and sustained here in a way that happens no where else in the world. I spend the next four days walking these hills of home, embraced in the arms ofthe landscape. As I walk these hills, I know this land. I know what I will see before I see it. I have arrived. I am truly home. Not many people speak English here besides by guide Sonam and driver Dorji. That is ok. It is with mime, and laughter and an open heart that I communicate with others.

Although the way of living is "simple", there are complex human relationships here. Most of the people are related in some way or another. There are a lot of smiles and laughter. We sit on the floor around the wood stove for meals. As the guest I am served first. Either Sonam's mother Jangchu or his widowed sister Jamayang serves me. No one else begins to eat until I am mostly finished. Other members of the household include the widowed sister's two sons Sherab aged 7 and Pema age 4, his step father Dorji , his younger brother Loday, a couple of aunts Ani Rinchen and Deki, and sister Rinzin, Various cousins and nephews, two cats, two dogs, a chicken and the cows are also here. All the beings, except the cows spend some time in the kitchen-a separate building from the rest of the house. The animals are sometimes fed on the floor with food someone gives them off a plate. In the evening, the ara comes out and then the laughter really flows. Almost everyone drinks. Not everyone though, and that too is accepted. (On my second trip, Sonam taught me to bless the ara rather than drink it. The Buddhist order I belong to does not allow the consumption of alcohol.) I use the fourth finger of my right hand and dip it into the cup of ara. With each flick of the wrist, I say a blessing to the Buddha, the bodhisattvas, local deities, all those who dwell in the house and all sentient beings. I then touch the finger to my lip. The others then smile, laugh and begin to drink.

There is no electricity in the valley-yet. When it is clear, this makes for astonishing night skies. Sonam and I have several conversations about this. I know that electricity will make people's lives easier and the children will be able to have access to better learning tools, but these Western eyes have never seen such night skies anywhere. Water comes from an outside well, complete with pipe and spigot. Members of the family stand around in the morning, washing, shaving, and brushing their teeth. I leave the towel I use to dry myself on a line in the sun.

Sunday, the first day of Losar, begins with a traditional dish of rice porridge, white rice with butter and sugar and Bhutanese butter tea” suja”. Sonam's younger brother takes the first serving and places it on the family altar. Sonam's mother offers me the second serving. She then serves other members of the family. Later that day, Sonam, Dorji and I hike up to a small monastery behind Sonam's mother's house. It is locked. The caretakers have left to join Losar celebrations elsewhere. We leave offerings of incense and food. We then head off for a hike in the hills. I need to get acclimated to the local conditions and altitude because tomorrow we are hiking up over a 3000 meter pass to Thowada Goemba, a monastery on the mountainside beyond the end of the road. It is said that Guru Rimpoche and Gelong Mapalmo also meditated here. The temple is carved inside a rock and has balconies that overlook the valley.

That afternoon Sonam leaves to attend to some family obligations.  Dorji and I spend part of the afternoon hiking around the hills and then stop to watch an archery match. The contestants are using traditional bows. We are joined by one of the archers, Rinchen, a cousin of Sonam's who is home for the winter holiday. He is a student in the south studying to be a schoolteacher. He will be joining up on our hike tomorrow and will later travel with us part of the way back to Paro since he needs to return to start school. The women watching the game shyly offer me ara, which I bless and Dorji drinks. They then offer me milk tea and roasted rice (zaw) to put in it. This I accept, drinking many cups. It is good. While we are watching, someone hits the target. The men singand dance.

Eight of us set out in the morning to hike up to the monastery situated on the side of the mountain at over 10, 000 feet. After driving to the end of the road, we stop and start walking. Seven of us will make the pilgrimage. The eighth, Sonam's uncle, a yak herder, is off to rejoin his herd. He walks with us part of the way. Before he leaves us, he cuts and shapes a piece of bamboo to serve me as a walking stick. We smile, laugh and nod as he hands it to me, demonstrating its purpose. I am grateful for this offering.

We begin the pilgrimage by crossing a river on a very slippery frost covered log that spans the river. Declining assistance from the others, I bring my attention to each breath and step. I cross the river and the ascent begins. Of the seven of us making the pilgrimage, three are men born and raised in these mountains, Sonam my guide, his cousin Rinchen the student, and a friend of Sonam's that I come to think of as the elder Dorji. They are the experienced ones. I have some high mountain hiking experience from my love of being in the outdoors. There are two young women, with us, cousins of the Sonam and elder Dorji They are also from this valley, but as I understand it, they have never made the pilgrimage before. And then there is Dorji, my driver, the city man, who, as he said later "was wearing the wrong tires." (He was wearing running shoes rather than sturdy hiking boots.)

The path is quite steep but hikable, a clear trail, through rhododendrons getting ready to bloom, pine, cedar, and bamboo. I am grateful for the stick Sonam's uncle has cut for me. It is a clear warm day. As I walk, I see wild strawberry leaves and a kind of blooming mountain violet. The wind blows snow off the trees sending it sparkling in the sunlight. Sometimes clumps of snow falls off the trees and lands on me. I laugh and tell everyone that the local deities are having a snowball fight. They laughingly agree. Everyone take turns helping me up the steeper parts. We get to the snow line. Since it is still early in the day the snow is hard, stable, crunchy and holds underfoot. The path is narrow, with steep sheer drops. Along the way we pass an arch made of bent bamboo. Various scraps of cloth, shiny bits and other odds and ends are tied to it. Later we pass a cave. There is a stone set outside the cave. Rinchen tells me that local tradition says the indentations on the stone are the marks of a sacred tiger's paw. We also pass a pair of old cedar trees. Rinchen tells me that the local belief is that once three Tibetan sisters were trying to make a pilgrimage to the monastery. They stopped here; unable to go any further and were turned into the cedars. At some point, one of the trees collapsed, so now there are only two.

I am encouraged to take my own time, make the climb at my own pace. I really could not do it any other way. Rinchen tells me he has been making this climb since he was eight years old. The last time he tried it, the snow was too deep and he could not complete the journey. He is happy to be doing it again. We come to a narrow wooden bridge with no railings. It is slanted slightly upward, covered with snow. It spans a very steep chasm cut by a plunging waterfall. Again, I return to my breathing. A breath, a step. The snow is still hard, cold, and holdable. I cross.

We make it to the monastery. It has taken me four hours and all my life to make this pilgrimage. We present our offerings of food and incense to the caretaker. Money is offered on the altar. I offer prayers of gratitude, and ask that I may be allowed to return to the Tang Valley and the monastery during this lifetime. I also pray for the wellbeing of the people of this valley and for the benefit of all sentient beings. I light a butter lamp. There is a sacred spring here. Using a ladle, Sonam gives us all water to drink from this spring. We make it to the monastery. It has taken me four hours.


The seven of us gather on a small ledge in the sun for lunch. Pictures are taken and we begin our descent. Conditions have changed. Coming up the snow was hard, crisp and held our steps. It is now very slushy, slippery and slick with mud underneath. Because he is wearing "the wrong tires", Dorji, the city man, slips, falls and slides a couple of times. Sonam, the elder Dorji and Rinchen attempt to make steps in the snow for the rest of us. Sometimes these hold and sometimes they do not.

We come to the bridge over the waterfall. The elder Dorji goes first, trying to make steps for the rest of us to follow. They do not hold. Breathe, I say to myself. I feel safer making this crossing on my own. The snow is very slippery and I can see where there are gaps between the wooden planks. I cannot tell how big these really are or if I am seeing all of them. I think about the descent that Francis Young husband made down Mustang Pass in the Western Himalayas and say to myself, "This is nothing. Take a breath, take a step." I cross. One at a time the others cross safely as well.

I pass the two cedar trees and the stone with the tiger paw print. I come to the arch of bamboo with its bits of fabric and others odds and ends. I rummage around in my pocket and find a shiny piece of candy wrapper. In gratitude, I tie this to the bamboo with a piece of string. I pass the snow line. . My breathing becomes easier. Rinchen continually lends a hand to help me down the steeper parts. We talk about our lives. He tells me about his aspirations to be a schoolteacher and help his family. He has two more years of study before he takes his final qualifying exams. The government will then decide where to place him. He will then serve three years in a rural area. He hopes to be placed somewhere in the northern part of the country.

I make it to the bottom. There is a small chorten there. I make three circumambulations clockwise singing a dedication for the benefit of all beings. In gratitude, I leave the walking stick at the base of the chorten. I tell Sonam to thank his uncle for me. Grinning, I cross the log over the river. It is now frost-free. Back at the car, I initiate a high five with everyone who made the trip. We laugh together.

Driving home, it is almost dark. We stop at a house. Of course, the residents come out offering ara. They have heard of our pilgrimage and want to celebrate. I make a blessing and the others drink. Back at Sonam's mother's house, we eat a late dinner. I can feel the muscles in my legs begin to tighten as they cool. I stumble when I try to stand. We laugh. Rinchen offers me a hand which I gratefully accept. We step outside to a brilliantly clear night sky. The crescent moon of the new year hangs just above the horizon with Venus up and off to the left. The streaming arm of the Milky Way is clearly visible like so many gemstones against black velvet. All I can do is stand in the yard and stare. I am blessed to have two more days here.

Before leaving Sonam's mother's house for the last time, I take a protection string from my pocket and tie it around her neck. One of the nuns with whom I stayed earlier in the trip had given me several of these strings. Sonam's mother laughs shyly. We bow, touching foreheads. I leave the house. I take a short walk by myself. I have some of my hair in my pocket from combing it that morning. As I walk down to the car through the pine trees, I find a shrub beside the path. I tie these pieces of my hair to it and again offer a short prayer that I may return to this part of the valley in this lifetime.

It takes us most of the day to leave the valley. Sonam's relatives and friends all want to stop, talk, offering some presents and tea. Sonam and I talk about the possibility of my being able to return to the valley to spend some time in the high country herding yaks. He thinks this may be possible. We are both amused at the prospect of a western woman coming again to Bhutan to herd yaks.

And then I believe I met a magician. I have always struggledemotionally when I start heading back to the west. We are driving from Jakar to Wangdue. We stop for lunch at a restaurant just below the Chendebji Chorten. After lunch, Sonam suggests I walk up to the Chorten. I unclip my hair and let it fly free in the wind. I know this is untidy but it seems like the thing to do. Instead of walking to the Chorten, I walk down to the stream and sit down on a large flat rock. I cry some and then begin chanting the Heart of the Prajnaparmita (a Buddhist chant on emptiness of the connectedness of all things). I chant the final line over and over as I finger the beads of my mala." Gate, gate, paragate, parasomgate bodhisvaha." (Gone, gone, all the way gone, gone beyond to the other shore Slowly I begin to feel a little better. I make a small construction with river rocks, and let some paper money fall into the stream while I continue to chant. I eventually stand up and turn around. There is a man standing there in a red and blue checked gho and a mala around his neck. His skin is dark and he is missing a few teeth, but he is just grinning at me. He bows and asks me where I am from. I tell him I am from America. He then says "I am free, I am free." He tells me he has had the day off from work and he is walking home after visiting friends in a nearby village. He keeps grinning at me. He then asks "Where are you going, Thimphu?" I nod.. We exchange names. He then starts really smiling and telling me repeatedly, "It is a blessing that we have met, it is a blessing that we have met." We bow several times and touch foreheads. He then says, "May you be blessed , may you be blessed." I do feel truly blessed. I get his permission and take his photograph. We exchange more bows as he continues to tell me it is a blessing that we have met. By this time, I feel grounded, solid and serene. I do feel blessed at meeting this man. I turn ever so briefly to glance at the river and then turn to look at him again. There is no one there. I stand there in a state of amazement. I walk up to the car and tell Sonam, Dorji and Rinchen about this meeting. At first, Sonam thinks I am telling them a story from my imagination. I tell him I don't think so, I think it really happened. I do think it really happened, I think I met a magician, a man who with his blessing helped me to feel better at a time when I really needed it.

The next day, I tell Sonam and Dorji I want a Bhutanese name. It takes them a couple of days but they finally come up with something that satisfies them, Gangri Wangmo- mountain power woman. I too am satisfied; I have been to the home of my heart and spirit.
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Lucy Kingsley (Gangri Wangmo) works as a county employee in Eugene Oregon. She is an ordained lay nun in Thich Naht Hahn's Order of Interbeing and aspires to make many more trips to the homeland of her heart- Bhutan. She hopes she will have an opportunity to herd yaks in this life time.