Writing

Craig, our TA for culture class, just gave a talk on Tibetan biography and autobiography. Unlike in the west, where autobiography arose out of a sense of individualism (mostly around the time of the Renaissance) that remains everpresent in western thought, Tibetan autobiography emerged around the same time as doctrines like "no self" were introduced into Tibetan Buddhism. Writing about one's own life came about to reconcile day to day experiences with the idea that ultimately I am not distinct from my neighbor.

This is really interesting, especially in a modern context and a culture where I'm not really sure what I think about the self and individual experiences. For some people, keeping a journal makes experiences real. It doesn't happen for me, but sometimes things don't seem validated until I tell another person. In some way, maybe that's a form of writing it down, because I'm sharing my experience.

When you keep a journal, though, (and a blog is pretty much a journal), there's always the question of writing vs. Living. Right now, while I write, am I missing out on some experience? This was always my worry when I kept journals when I was younger, and is the reason why sometimes I wait a few days to post things here and then end up with four entries in span of twenty minutes.

Even if I don't miss out on anything while I'm writing this down, can I ever really relate what I'm seeing through words? Liz and I went on a walk to Gagal yesterday, and neither of us took our cameras. On the walk we talked about how a camera could never even capture the scene, and she wants to make her mom come visit (note to Liz's mom: hi! You should really come). We tried to describe it, and this is what we came up with:

We were walking along a concrete, dirt, and rock road that would count as a wide path in america suitable for walking one's dog. Here, it counts as paved. The road winds through bright green stalks of wheat and mustard seed, with colorful houses set into the fields every so often. There was a huge, neat pile of home fired red bricks next to the road, and you could see the white college buildings up on the hill with all different kinds of laundry fluttering from the balconies. In the background, the mountains were black and white and stood out in contrast to the sky blue sky. Breathing in smelled like dirt and manure and sunshine and the light was bright but not enough to make you squint. The bricks felt knobby but solid, and Liz fit some of the broken ones together.

Or this morning, on the roof:

The mountains are still black and white, and the sun's rays cut through the cloud cover to make it bright even as the sun remains hidden behind the mist. There are no clouds when you look towards the mountains, but behind them there is only white. It looks like the mountains represent the end of the earth, and only heaven is beyond. I talked about that with Liz too, and she thinks the ocean is also endless and it looks like there isn't anything beyond it. The difference for me is that I look at the ocean and imagine it goes on forever, but I look at the mountains and imagine that the world stops behind them.

So now you know what the mountains look like, and the road, but really you don't because maybe writing things down falsifies them automatically instead of making things real, which goes back to the Buddha's command to experience everything for yourself instead of taking anyone's word for it. Which might be difficult with some subjects, so pretty much the jury's still out on how I feel about writing.

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