Missing Mysore

Hutch and Alex and I at KL airport.


Cutie pie Amelie, my niece, and I in front of Year of the Rabbit display in Singapore.


The fabulous Filipino ashtangis feasting after practice for B-day potluck.



So far, the hardest thing to write about is the journey home.

I definitely have Mysore withdrawal symptoms. It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s not like I get the shakes or anything. Missing Mysore is subtler than that.

My body misses the routine, morning practice and shala energy. It has been lonely and uncooperative over the last few self-practices.

My mind misses the concentration, input of Sharath during conference and interactions with fellow students, the talks of yoga and the talks you have when you have had enough of talks of yoga.

My heart misses India.

The first few days, I was in a daze, head cloudy of recent Mysore memories, which I am blessed to take home with me. I would smile and try to be present, as I continuously let the intensity of the last 2 and half months wash over me. I was sleepwalking. I couldn’t quite vocalize how I felt. I couldn’t explain. Not at the start anyway.

In many ways, luck has been on my side. I’ve not jumped directly back into the matrix of my “real life.” I’ve taken a slow route, visiting family in Singapore and Manila (where I am now as I write this) before heading back to my own little island nation, Boracay.

And at every stop, there seems to be a reminder that the world outside Mysore is a friendly place. In the airport at Kuala Lampur, when faced with about 6 hours of waiting between flights, I quite shockingly bumped into two Filipino friends Hutch and Alex, who were en route to India. I impart some India wisdom and they keep me company until my morning flight.

In Singapore’s Budget Terminal, I board the taxicab of Mr. Ali, who asks me out of healthy curiosity why I practice yoga. This is an interesting question to get soon after departing from Mysore and I am surprised at how easily I answer, “I feel closer to God.” I explain in brief ishvarapranidhanadva, which animates, Mr. Ali, a Muslim who says that in Islam they don’t use the word surrender but instead submission. A liberal man, he philosophizes about how he doesn’t understand those who claim their religion without studying, without practicing. I tell him it is just like yoga.

This first conversation in Singapore was comforting, that somehow it was a reminder that the spirit of yoga that I saw so alive and well in Mysore lives and breathes outside of India. It comes in different packages, but the essence is somehow preserved.

The unobtrusive comforting ways of family also played a role in my reintegration back into reality, as they ushered me through Singapore's extremely clean environs, mostly from one meal to the other (that's what Filipino families do, eat), a welcome activity since I just realized I have lost 7 kilos over this trip, interspersed with shopping (a trip to Ikea and the giant Konikuya bookstore was a total shock to the system).

Today, in my first full day back in Manila, I went to practice at a local ashtanga studio called Stillpoint in Makati. It was interesting to participate in a different energy, to be adjusted quite liberally, sometimes by two teachers at a time. It was great but odd. I appreciated the intimate numbers and wonderful help with alignment, but I also missed being swallowed in the powerful anonymity of the shala, seemingly forgotten but silently being worked on.

It was a great yoga homecoming too as we gathered for a triple birthday potluck after wards. This was yoga Filipino style, a hard morning’s practice followed by an opulent feast (We Filipinos know how to live it up!). And after eating, I started to talk about Mysore to those that asked about it. Once I got started, it was as if I couldn’t stop. I wanted to share and vocalize my experience. I wanted to repeat the words “Mysore” and “shala” and “Sharath,” as a means of remembering and celebrating my time there.

Last Practice

Shots from that last Anouki's farewell breakfast, with the October-Novemebr-December peeps!

Today's practice was bittersweet. Never have I been more tuned in to the sights and sounds of the shala. Never have I been more conscious that it would be a while before I would experience them again. It would be my last here at Mysore for a while.

I wasn't alone. The knowing smiles at the gate, the sympathetic squeezes from friends at the ladies locker room, Pedro--who I have been consistently in the row behind me most of the trip--saying goodbye. I had to face it. My time was up!

There was nothing left to do but simply enjoy it despite being so tired.

I was utterly pooped from the long goodbye. Ursula and I started it off with a joint casual farewell breaky at Anouki's garden on Saturday. A head start, we thought. And it just never stopped. The days since were filled with little gatherings and intimate get-togethers, solidifying the bonds formed over the last 2 and a half months. Then Ursula left. I was next in line.

I looked around me before I started practicing. I saw the familiar faces of now friends who are near my own mat, each beautifully focused on his or her own practice. I thought about what a wonderful support they have been, whether they know it or not. How amazing it was to be in their presence, each having something spectacular to share about themselves. How inspiring they are to me, their love and their commitment.

As I practiced, I listened to the cumulative breath, the whole room in continuous motion, inhaling and exhaling. Though not in unison, the discord in breath reminded me of the ocean. I imagined letting the waves of breath wash over me. I was soaking in it.

I dove in, tired or not, trying to enjoy the presentness of the practice. I fetl alive when I practiced. And connected. Connected to myself. To the shala. To the people sharing the room. To the practice itself.

I broke from this amazing flow as I neared backbends. I wondered who would drop me back on my last day at the shala. Would it be an assistant? And if so, would I have the hutzpa to hold out? Would it be Saraswathi, who has ceased to scare me? Or would it be Sharath. I really hoped for Sharath.

And there he was as I came up from my last backbend.

"Last day?" he asked and grinned as I nod and say yes.

He gently bobbed me up and down, encouraged my hands to my heels, then hoisted them around my ankles. It all went by so quickly. Before I knew it, I was tugged back up. He said "Good" quietly before pressing me into paschimatanasana.

"One more," he said.

It was over. I felt a cloud of emotions filming over my eyes. I choked back tears and took myself to the ladies locker room where I sniffled through a longer lingering paschimatanasana.

That's was when it hit me: I would miss my teacher. For that is what Sharath is to me now. I wanted to cry because I am going to miss him, his steady presence and gentle but confident assistance. I'm going to miss his subtle, quiet guidance. I am going to miss Mysore. The practice, the fellow practitioners, the cows, everything.

Still all good things must come to the end. And it's no small comfort knowing that all ends are beginnings.

***

I have left Gokulam now. And am making my way slowly to the little island where I live in the Philippines. However, this process, what I call "Realizing Mysore" is far from over. It continues to work beneath the surface and it's surprises, I feel, will continue to bubble forth. In this respect, I will continue to write this blog. Plus, there are somethings about Mysore I still haven't been able to share. I hope all who read this will indulge me further as I continue to share my observations. Namaste!

New Year’s Eve, A Ritual Surrendering

Despite the multitude of non-yoga related activities that made the 31st very special, from sunning by the pool, drinks (ok, one drink! We didn’t go too crazy!) at the Metropole, ringing in 2011 with a raging kerosene induced bonfire at The Green Hotel, finding an after midnight rooftop party with dancing, and capping the early morning off with singing Bob Marley and Lennon standards to guitar playing and a rather unorthodox music sheet filing system, my favorite was the post-sunset trip to Chamundi Hill, where I squeezed into a rickshaw with three lovely ladies to make a New Year’s offering to the Goddess Chamundeswari.

It was Deva’s idea. We would go to the temple, bring puja, and have a little private ceremony to discard the old and make affirmations for the new year. Deborah and myself took to it right away and committed ourselves to the pre-party endeavor as an auspicious way to start the New Year. At the last moment, we bullied Ursula into our rickshaw and she became the fourth member in out trek up to Chamundi.

We might have missed the sunset, but the early night sky was nice too. It was a cool night. And it had a feel of possibility, as the lights from the city started to twinkle below.

Deva, ever a beautiful devi herself, made sure we each had a wicker basket of temple puja. As I stared down at mine, a colorful cartoon face stared back at me, two coconuts for eyes, banana nose and a wicker smile. The flower topping the pretty offering sprung up between the coconuts—like an ornate bindi, we’re in India after all.

When we got to the temple, however, the great goddess was closed for another half an hour. We decided to then make our way to the smaller Shiva temple just a little walk from the temple of Chamundeswari. It seemed apt, to burn our past cycles in the home of the great destroyer. Every beginning has an end, and ours would start here at the temple of Lord Shiva, the god of yoga.

The moment we entered the small enclave, we all knew we had made the right decision. There was none of the people that crowded the entrance of Chamundi’s main temple. Instead, there was peace and quiet. The temple looked ethereal, lit up against the night sky. I was struck with a new appreciation for these structures made out of these massive stones. They seemed much holier in the moonlight.

We were the only ones there. The temple priests ushered us in the coconut breaking area, there was even a sign that designated it so. One attendant took each of our cocos, cracking them open against the metal sharp edge at the center of the massive container that caught all the coconut water.

In the temple, they took the puja baskets to the priests within, it was returned short half a coconut. Shiva’s share. We were told to draw a short chalky line across our foreheads, which we did for each other. Having had finished our obligation to Shiva, we found a serene spot behind the temple where we sat and started our own little ritual of letting go and starting anew.

We each had two sheets of paper, one for the things we want to let go of and another for the things we want to let in. We wrote and wrote and wrote, each filling our sheets with our hang-ups and our heart’s desires, a personal reminder of our intentions for the fast approaching new year.

The things we wanted to let go, we burnt. We watched it crumple and disappear into ash, our lit incense sticks stoking the miniature fire, fueled by the toxins of the things that no longer served us.

The things we wanted to let in went into envelopes, which would stay in Deva’s safe-keeping until the following New Year, when she would post it to us, wherever we might be.

We arranged the remaining puja at the back of the table for Shiva and, possibly, the monkeys. Thus started our celebration of New Year’s Eve, a burning followed by a celebration, a death followed by a rebirth.

At the time, we all felt moved. Speaking from my own experience, it was an important moment to really take stock as well as commit to the things I feel are currently important in my life.

And even now, especially now a week into the new year and less than a week before leaving Mysore (sadly, I have been unable to stop counting the days), I feel the potency of our new year’s eve ritual.

Every day since that night, I seem to be unraveling. The practice continues to be strong and powerful, but I feel a little bit like I’m falling apart. I’ve totally lost my voice and I am really tired. Emotions that I’ve long locked away somewhere deep within seems to be suddenly bubbling up to the surface. In private (and very occasionally in public too) there are waterworks.

The ironic thing is a week ago, I felt quite cocky that I had somehow managed to more or less make it through this entire trip emotionally and physically unscathed. Nothing major, just a little freak out. Some back pain. But otherwise, no tears shed in the shala, no panic attacks at back-bending, I was cool, perfectly happy.

And while I remain happy, there is something going on in me that I can only attribute to some inexplicable heart opening, which is a part of this incredible practice, especially here in Mysore. It is happening quite on its own and it is completely outside the range of my powers to control, which considering that I am a closet control freak, is a little hard to take.

But take it I must. With this falling apart, I see the promise of coming back together, better, more whole, more honestly me.



(Aside: Unfortunately there are no photos of our New Year antics as my camera was on a trip quite without me back from a Gurukulam at Pandeshwara--where I had originally hoped to be for the long weekend. But when I asked Sharath (apparently informing him would have been a better way to go) if it would be ok if I took the Thursday led off for the trip, his recommendation was to not go on account that the long travel would "hurt your back." As I sat there, hiding my disappointment, hmmm I thought it was the practice that was hurting my back. He added that since I had only 3 weeks to go, I should stay. What could I do? It was like him saying "you do!" in the shala. So I did -- not go. He was right, of course. The 8-hour bus journey may have done a number on my back. It's nice to know that he cares too. More than anything, though, I'm glad I stuck around to have this very special moment.)

The New Year’s Shift

Overnight, it got busy. The first signs were over the New Year’s weekend. At every turn, there were new faces, on shala road, hanging around the coconut stand, people loitering around the entrance on Anu’s.

Then by Sunday’s led class I was met by a slew of new arrivals smart enough to arrive early at the gate. It was a packed class with students on the stage, foyer and some even in the dressing room. There was still a comfortable amount of space in between some mats. I’ve been told it only gets worse. Every day there will be new faces. The shala will continue to fill.

By 4pm conference, we filled the entire shala (more on special guest Mr. A.G. Mohan soon). The room was a buzz. The small groups talking amongst themselves collaborated into a massive sound. There was a long cue from Sharath’s office to the shop, students waiting to register. The office was closed since Friday, so there was a bit of a backlog. The new arrivals now outnumbered my self, my contemporaries and those that registered before us.

The shift in numbers don’t only affect mat space, it changes a little of everything. Gokulam is not so intimate as before. Quiet moments are less likely to be found at any of the favorite local cafes and eateries, there are more introductions and reunions.
And the energy, oh my, the energy! At this first stage of it, for newbie like me who has settled into an easy groove already, it’s a little unsettling.

Despite the sudden shift, it’s all very exciting too. The promise of seeing so many devoted students, many returning students with fine-tuned practices, of sharing the room with them all. It’s a lot to experience in my final week and a half in Mysore, but also a good one to see. Though I’ve been told by returning students that numbers are controlled this year, I am looking forward to tasting what it’s like, the fullness and energizing effect of a packed shala, the converging masses of ashtangis from around the world coming to practice at the busiest time of year.

Slipper Slip Up

Do these slippers belong to you?


My original slippers.


Today's topic is as light and frivolous as flip-flops, literally. With the sea of flip-flops parked around the shala steps, some mishap is sure to happen, accidental swaps and so forth.

So, if you're thinking, hmmm, that first pair (pictured above) looks awfully familiar, like a lost pair, I'm sorry. Maybe you have my pair (the second photo). It's cool. Not fussed. A small practice in non-attachment. If you don't have my pair, again, I'm truly sorry.

It started at last Friday's led class. Or rather, after. When I went to fetch my flip flops, they were gone. I searched all over, around the steps, investigated the feet around the coconut stand but to no avail. I suddenly understood why some students chose distinguishable footwear. Still, there were few cream colored slippers around, nothing like the common black flip flops. I thought I would be safe.

There was a pair, similar in color and metallic hue of thong strap, both Haviannas. They were slightly bigger, strap slightly smaller and less golden. But they were in the same area as I left my own pair. Having brought no other alternative footwear, I crossed my fingers that the owner of this pair had mistook my own and that I would not continue a chain of events in which other folks would loose their footwear in the process. Oh well, best foot forward.

At first I felt odd wearing another person's footwear, thinking the strangest things. Who might own it, what might the state of their feet be? Then I thought with the frequency we all go barefoot around here, it didn't really matter.

The mysterious thing is they haven't turned up. Not even at conference, where I'd left the slippers with a small little note for the owner of my borrowed slippers. No cigar. It fits well enough. I've already gotten used to it.

Maybe I just have to accept the strange exchange. Maybe part of being here in Mysore is forcing us to walk in another person's shoe. It might be very similar and only slightly different, but every shift offers us a different footing in our own experience.

Conference: Newly Certified, Faith, & Eat Vegetarian

Sunday, 26 December 2010

Today we witnessed a rare occurrence at the shala. Sharath explains that it’s been over 3 years since someone was certified. And this afternoon, he shares with the room, two students are bestowed the privilege. Australian teacher Mark Robberds is called up to the stage to receive his certificate. The room applauds wholeheartedly. I think everyone feels as I do, how much he deserves it. Mark is such a light and grounded person with a most inspiring practice—I remember waiting for my “One more” at 5:30am and just watching him gracefully move from one insane asana to the next. It’s always shocks me when men can do splits! Well done, mate! Not present is another student: Jorgen Christiannson based out of Los Angeles, who also receives applause.

He talks a little, explaining that older generations have gone. And now these certified and authorized teachers play an important role in continuing ashtanga yoga, that they are key bearers of this yoga tradition, now spanning 4 generations.

Sharath sits, taking his place on the chair he pulls out. This conference, I am a good distance from him. I usually like to sit up front so I don’t miss a word (I’ve long learned to embrace my inner-geek). And from where I am sitting, I am struck by the brightness of his dark eyes. His demeanor changes throughout conference depending on his topic, he moves from serious to authoritative to sheepish when he is being humorous. But the deep pool sparkle in his eyes is a constant light.

He returns to his favorite recurring theme: lineage. He mentions again a saying: a student with two gurus means there is one dead student. He explains that its like when there are too many cooks in the kitchen. What happens, he asks? The dishes go bad. He quietly laughs saying we are the dishes. When you have two gurus, you receive instruction from one and another set of instructions from another. The result is confusion.

Then, Sharath talks about faith. He says that it is important to have “faith in the practice” and “faith in your teacher.”

This strikes a chord with me. I’m big on faith. And I feel that so much of this crazy practice requires quite a lot of it. Faith, a healthy amount of devotion and surrender, whether its getting dropped back, waking up early each morning, tailoring diet to the well-being of the practice, working and saving every peso to get here, or prioritizing India over seeing family this Christmas.

These sacrifices, whether big or small, seem worth it, to be in the shala, to be in Sharath’s presence. Its part insanity, I sometimes think, being here, spending this amount of money to be knackered by 2-hours of practice and, let’s face it, what seems like a very small amount of personal attention. But the moment Sharath’s in front of me, the seemingly impossible task of reaching for my heels from behind my back seems to be not such a daunting one-—sure, it’s still hard, but not impossible. Time is not an issue. Its quality not quantity.

The last time he adjusted me in supta kurmasana, as well. I felt an energy and self-confidence that really is not typical. It wasn’t a deep adjustment but once he’d lifted my legs I was shocked to find myself easily hoisting myself up and into bakasana with none of the usual elephant-like difficulties. Such is his grounding energy. I trust him. The faith makes all the difference.

He also stresses the importance of having the blessing of your teacher also. He shares a story from the Mahabharata. (I don’t remember names and I’m totally paraphrasing here). There was a warrior who went to a great archery teacher. Because the warrior knew that the teacher would only accept a brahman, he lied. So he was accepted and was trained wholeheartedly by the teacher. One day, the warrior was sitting, his teacher asleep on his lap, when a mosquito lands on his leg. The warrior stays really still and doesn’t mind when the insect bites him and draws blood. His teacher gets up right away and confronts him, “You are a warrior.” (Sharath breaks from his story here to let us in on the joke, that brahmins are not known for their courage, he laughs a little, enjoying the joke himself). So, falling out of favor with his teacher, the warrior is unable to properly recall the mantras necessary to successfully shoot his bows against the good guys, Arjuna and the side of the Pandavas. He adds little comment. As it is with our asana practice, he lets us stew the story in our own juices.

He takes questions...

Someone asks for advice on diet.

“You must eat vegetarian,” says Sharath. He states two key reasons. The first, I think though I may be wrong here, because of lightness such a diet creates in our practice. The second is ahimsa or non-violence. Over the last couple of conferences, Sharath has been adamant about practicing the other 8 limbs, especially grounding ourselves in the yamas and niyamas.

And besides, he quips, “Human teeth are like cows.” Later, maybe upon seeing that we are taking his line of reasoning quite seriously, he adds, “I’m joking (about the teeth).”

He does stress the importance of milk and ghee. That it is tradition for Indians to eat a spoonful of ghee with every meal. He adds that the daily consumption of milk will result in a long life.

He then describes an energy drink not to be found at your local Jamba Juice. He holds out his right hand, fingers curled up creating a cup size proportion. He says to take that much moong dal, wash it carefully, and soak it in a copper pot over night. The following day, blend the moong dal, adding two bits of jaggery. He says this is very good for us, especially for backbends. A new spin on the protein shake to be sure!

Another student asks about sweating? If it’s ok not to sweat?

“Everybody sweats,” he says, as if swallowing a laugh.

He says that not sweating can be a result of improper breathing. He reiterates breath with sound, deep and even breaths. We shouldn’t even wipe away our sweat. In fact, we should be rubbing our sweat onto our body and that this process will help detoxify us. He recalls a famous politician who drank cow urine and lived a long life of 105-years old. Much to my relief (I was afraid he was going to add to cow piss to our list of dairy food), he said that wiping our sweat would result in the same benefits. Phew!

At some point Sharath’s children, Shrradha and Sambhav, unabashedly come in and join there father on stage. Shrradha casually addresses her dad in Kannada as if there weren’t a roomful of yoga students fixing their eyes on her back, Sambhav, who is so small and adorable, a mini Sharath—-bright eyes and all, though his is the bright eyes of all children that age—-puts on a show, jumping down from the stage, his bulbous eyes looks at his audience, filling him with the need to step up on stage again to jump. While his father talks, he does this several times, ending up at some point rolling around on the rug below.

Throughout, Sharath is patient and unbothered, he continues to talk to us. At some point, Sambhav is in his father’s lap. He is in a strop with his sister and kicks her as she tries to take him. Sharath gently admonishes him. In retaliation, Shrradha flicks her pen on Sambhav’s head. He gently chides her too. He speaks in Kannada one final time, and the two are obediently off.

By himself on stage again, a student asks how does he balance his family life with his yoga practice?

He jokes, “When we moved here, the shala, I put them upstairs.” (or he says something close to that. On a serious note, he does say that it takes time and balance. He confesses it doesn’t always work.

I love seeing the Shrradha and Sambhav around the shala because it’s nice to see Sharath in another context. They very much look to him as a kind father figure, they don't seem afraid of him at all. I more or less get flustered whenever confronted by Sharath. I get these irrational nervous spasms.

(The other day he stopped me during backbending to ask me what my last pose was. I blanked. The name escaped me. I mentally went to my asana storeroom, looking for the right pose, afraid to say a pose too early and get demoted or a pose later and look dumb, or (aghast) presumptuous. If I had said exactly what was going on in my head it would have sounded: “You know, the one with the feet here and my hands here…” all the time, thinking "God, save me.")

Seeing him with his children--mind you this is just a few times now I’ve witnessed them together--well, they love him, which I know isn’t unusual. But they seek him out and they are allowed to. He doesn’t shoo them away, even when he’s working. He observes them, it seems. Totally patient, he looks kindly on their idiosyncrasies and gives them space to simply be. He is stern only when he needs to be and such moments are fleeting and still somewhat gentle. It reminds me a little of how he is with us.

Before the conference ends, Sharath makes another special announcement. He is being visited by a student of Krishmacharya. A.G. Mohan was a student of Krishnamacharya for 18 years in Chennai from 1971 to 1989. He has invited Mr. Mohan to stay an extra day to visit with us and share his stories of Krishnamacharya’s life after Mysore. We get to meet Mr. Mohan on Sunday, a special treat at the start of a new year at the shala.

A Mysore Christmas

I was resigned. Perhaps this year, there would be no “Christmas.” On Christmas morning, surrounded by children tearing into their pressies, I was happy to be wrong.

Predominantly Hindu, Christmas is not big in India. There are none of the familiar sights and sounds of the season: no decorated trees covered in tinsel, no wreaths, no carols, and none of the holiday consumerism, which dominates the west and the little Southeast Asian Christmas-slave I call home, the Philippines—and which I guiltily find comforting because, well, I am Filipino. My American side doesn’t do me any favors either in this respect.

In my tropical neck of the woods, decorations start to come up by late October and the general population systematically stuffs itself silly for a three-week period leading up to the big Christmas Eve feast. And quite some time after, as well.

Because the shala stayed open it was pretty much business at usual in Gokulam. The 25th was off only because it fell on a Saturday.

Generally, the shala students were pretty casual about Christmas. I guess we knew what we signed up for. Christmas itself could have passed us all by. In the days leading to Christmas Eve, a Friday, there were no definite plans. Quite suddenly though, there were dinners here and there, and at least one big party at Alex’s.

For me, it almost felt as if we were forcing the issue, scrambling for a way to observe the holiday. Still, I treated myself to as many heart warming indulgences as possible: chai in Amruth’s in the morning, lunch at the 3 Sisiters, homemade chocolates from Geetha and Trupti Coffee (a double whammy), classic holiday movies (It’s a Wonderful Life and Sound of Music) that I’d downloaded before leaving home in anticipation for a solitary Christmas. I did venture out too.

In the end, I joined a group dining at Windflower’s Olive Garden (no relation to the stateside chain) for a joint yuletide celebration and birthday party for Yan, also practicing at the shala. It was a surreal event at the garden establishment tucked at the bottom of Chamundi Hill. There, our party was ushered into a raised stage area, where they had prepared seating for cocktails. We were even visited by an Indian Santa. Half the party dressed in beautiful saris, some like glittering constellations. It felt a little like Junior Prom, someone said. Or the pre-prom dinner, arranged by our parents. Us "kids" disoriented by the so-called finery--what? tables not cushions? dresses not yoga clothes.

At Alex, we arrived just in time for caroling. Alex led, while Mark and Lars accompanied with guitar and harmonium respectively. The rooftop was full of students and together we sang a number of favorites, from Jingle Bells to Silent Night. This followed by dancing. It was a great little party.

The Eve was fun. Good company and happy vibes dominated the night. Still, it didn’t quite feel like Christmas.

In the morning I treated myself to a Christmas Day castor oil bath before heading out to meet a group going to Ashadayaka Trust, a orphanage for street children located 15 minutes away from Gokulam.

I was first introduced to the orphanage during the November fundraiser, which was organized by a handful of dedicated shala students. Over the last few weeks, I've joined some of the afternoon excursions to Ashadayaka. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, willing students meet at 4:15 at the coco stand to visit the children. We take them to the park and for an hour they are given hugs, time and attention. Anyone is welcome to join.

These children are so special. They may have been abandoned, they've had it rough in their young lives, but they are still children who like to smile, play, and take pleasure in having a grown-up hold their hand. And for that one hour, they are the center of the universe. I've seen the other neighborhood children stare in amazement as we walk with them down to the park. Sometimes some hang around the playground, inching their way towards our group, the desire to join in and play with us too shining in their eyes.

I was happy to join the Christmas gift giving that Deva had organized. I brought a present for Arathi (one of the girls who insists on holding my hand and wearing my sunglasses on the walk to the park)--a pink-clad barbie doll. Other shala volunteers brought presents, while donations from students and friends all over the world made certain that all the children would have something special.

We started with carols. Bo Chang, a classically trained singer and master gift-wrapper, led us in a cheerful round of carols. Though the English mystified the kids, their tongues glossing over the consonant sounds, they loved fa-la-la-la-ing to "Deck the Halls," which they screamed happily in our kirtan fashioned caroling.

Deva and Ursula brought in the bags of presents. And the distribution began. Shelly's daughters were present and helped give out the first batch. In an unusually orderly fashion (I've been to a few Christmas gift-giving events in the Philippines that could easily have turned into riots) the children came up when they were called, then returned to their spot in the circle, patiently waiting for the moment they could open them. Some curiously investigated theirs, shaking them trying to discern the weight or find an audible clue.

When all presents were distributed, we helped them tear into their gifts. Their faces then...the surprise followed by the elation at seeing a brand new toy (there were dolls, toy cars, balls, cricket bats), their brand new toy was Christmas!

For the next hour, we played. Shelly's husband Trevor taught basket ball tricks. Deepika and Mark played tossed around balls and played catch. Like myself, Deva, Ursh, Z, Bo, Shelly and her daughters moved around the rooftop, enjoying the company of children. Even our rickshaw driver joined in, he visits the orphanage too in his free time, he tells me later. The boys excelled in their sportsmanship. The two older girls with their hula hoops. The younger girls all investigated each other's dolls. The younger boys raced their cars.

Before we left, we gave out cake and they gave us their thanks. The children circulating within our circle, each giving us a hearty thank you and a strong handshake. Some more than once.

Many times over that hour, as I watched the scene, I wanted to bust out and cry. I felt so much love for these children and so much admiration for the fellow students there that day. This was the spirit of Christmas, of giving, and of receiving--that precious transaction of love that eludes us so many times in this modern day.

Get involved. To visit the children, meet at coco stand 4:15pm Mon, Wed and & Fri. Also, fore more info check out the Ashadayaka Trust group on facebook.