A Living Magazine - Day 343 - Homecoming - Dublin to Peterborough

There were no strange dreams or unidentified lights. I woke up at about 6:00 a.m. but tried unsuccessfully for another hour to keep sleeping. I think I was concerned about the possibility of rain. So, I got up, packed up and hit the road...

It was only six miles (two hours) to Peterborough. I have to tell you just how nice it was to walk in the cool mist after two hot muggy days, so I will: It was NICE! Ha! ...

I can't help being amused by this town slogan. Could you possible be any more straightforward and direct? On this Journey we've seen so many slogans that seem to have been poetically crafted after many nights at the town hall, with a painstaking town council voting process... But with this town, it's like they all sat down together, and some guy pulled a crumpled napkin out of his pocket, and read aloud: "Ahemmm... Peterborough... A Good Town to Live In." The other members nodded and the motion was passed. Since the town has been around since 1760, I guess the slogan must be true.

The first thing I did was stop by Shaw's (another regional grocery chain) to pick up an orange juice and a donut. I saw this on the way through the parking lot...

Never heard of this joker before. So, as I was researching this post, I looked up the Free Talk Live radio show on Wikipedia. It was obvious that the article was written by someone involved with the show. I say "obvious," because not only are the practices of the show described, but also the reasoning behind them. Read it for yourself if you want. It reads like an ad, and clearly downplays the insinuation of this poster. It is also sloppily edited, with two unclosed parenthetical sentences and about 10 citations needed. These are all Wikipedia no-no's. I was surprised that none of the regular over-editing contributors had flagged the article.

However, things are never quite as simple as they seem. Upon further investigation, it appears that Ian Freeman, was never charged with anything--meaning they found no evidence of child pornography on the things they confiscated. Neither did the FBI call their action a "raid," only a search. Apparently, Freeman's views about "the age of consent" are not necessarily based on the sexualizing of children, but more on the philosophy of believing that governments shouldn't limit the freedoms of any human being. Frankly, I'd never even heard of any of this before.

These guys and their radio show are extreme libertarians. They border on the anarchistic edge of capitalist ideology. If there wasn't this controversy over the child porn, it might be interesting to tune in every now and then. But, my instincts tell me that if an ideology goes so far as to advocate taking the safety of inexperienced children away in order to make them more "free," it seems to not just be missing the point, but not even wanting to find the point.

I got my juice and donut and then took a sharp left, north and off of my travel route to check out the town of Peterborough, touring Grove Street...

The town was far more active than Marlborough had been, also larger, more prosperous, clean as a whistle and completely renovated. I don't mind these kinds of areas. They remind me very much of my hometown of Yarmouth, and the surrounding areas of Cumberland county. Portland, Maine might be an exception. As Maine's largest city, Portland necessarily has its issues with poverty and blight. Still, I think I will return to find it in a better condition than I left it.

The North East seems to deserve the sometimes anecdotal impression that many people have around the rest of the country as the richest region in the nation. Even culturally it is only equalled by the two most northern states of the Pacific Coast: Oregon and Washington. In fact, it occurred to me on this day, that were they to suddenly be moved across the continent and attached to New England, they would fit in quite nicely. I'm speaking in very general terms with all of this of course. If there could be an importing of the Northwest's personal kindness, penchant for cognitive liberty, and desperate loathing of roadside trash, New England might be further transformed into one of the most progressive places in the Western hemisphere.

I had the distinct feeling that I might have been occasionally misjudging my homeland at times during this Journey. Rightly or wrongly, I chalk this up to the kind of naivete that a person constantly seeing new places for the first time can fall victim to. My awe at the ways of other regions may have temporarily eclipsed my memory about the positive aspects of my own region? I may have been undergoing a kind of constant and wishful-thinking state of "going native" in each place I passed through? But, ha!, then again, I do tend to overthink these things...

I couldn't tell if the rain was going to fall or not. The sky was the color of a dusty white bedsheet. The darker patches were not ominous, just shifting. Few places were open, because it was a Sunday. The Peterborough Diner was packed, or I would have gone in. The alternative was the Twelve Pine Restaurant and Gourmet Marketplace. The latter (at first) screamed overpriced stuff. But upon entering it, I noticed the prices were really not that bad.

I was hungry again, despite eating twice the day before. After seating Saggy across the table from an AC outlet, I scooped out some tomato cheddar soup from a big steaming pot on the deli counter, which really appealed to me on this cool misty day, and then grabbed a Vitamin Water. I sat down and caught their free Wi-Fi signal, working for quite a long time, getting a post published. In a rare instance of cooperative digital luck, the card reader worked and I was able to free up space for more pictures later on this day. And, I'd need it!

After working for about six hours, I realized the small bowl of soup just wasn't enough. What I really wanted was a big piece of lasagna. But, the price was too high ($8.95). I was running very low on funds. So, I ordered a chicken and cheese burrito ($4.95), which they offered to heat up. It was pretty large, and instead of a flour or corn tortilla, it was wrapped in a flaky pastry. It came with a side of salsa (that could have used a bit more cilantro--not to be too picky).

About halfway through my second post, a server came  into the dining area and let us know that they were closing early for a staff meeting. This was okay, because I needed to get to the border of Peterborough anyway. I was in search of a Vietnamese Buddhist Temple, located just before Miller State Park. The day slipped by me a bit, and I wondered if I could get there before dark. I had no idea I'd be walking up one of the longest and steepest hills I'd encountered in weeks. I left, walking back down Grove Street toward Route 101...

A nice variety of showy plants. The colors of tulips often remind me of gum drops.

I crossed the bridge over Contoocook River, briefly walking along 202 where it overlapped with 101, then continued up 101 toward what looked like an innocent little incline...

And... I climbed, and climbed, and took a gradual turn while still climbing, and climbed some more, and more, and shit!, MORE? The road would turn, appearing to level out, but then run at an even steeper angle. This crap went on for three solid miles! That's an hour of continuous climbing. As I neared what truly looked like the summit of this mountain, a gray and white structure caught my eye. I'd found it! The Thien Vien Bao Chon Meditation Center...

All that climbing suddenly felt appropriate, as if I had made a great pilgrimage up a misty mountain in Vietnam. I steadied myself, wiped the sweat from my brow, adjusted the heavy pack and started up the driveway to this completely open facility...

My eyes first fell upon this shrine...

Two creatures in one.

I saw a little orange candle that seemed to be waiting for me. I'd wanted to bring incense, but it was a bit too impractical while doing everything else I'd had to do to get there. More excuses perhaps. But I think the gods were satisfied with the candle.

I knelt and prayed for our world--remembering the words from the woman in my dream two nights before and the light I saw rising through the trees: "The whole world is about to change again!" My prayer was that this change would be based around the connection or unifying of people, and not further division--simple. Afterward, I did not forget to give thanks for such a beautiful place as this, where pilgrims might take a break from all the rushing around to appreciate the Truth, Beauty and Goodness that surrounds all of us, in Nature...

One of my favorite statues.

The silent sound of one stone rocking.

When I reached the grand central bell, I'd half-expected to be greeted by someone. But the building off to the side looked dark and empty. The meditation building similarly was locked and closed up. I wanted to ring the bell, but was unsure about etiquette. So, I took a picture instead... 

I really liked this. A giant marble oil lamp (one of two).

It was plain by this point, that an enormous amount of effort and money had been spent here. It was an ongoing project, without the disarray of looking as though it was still under construction. The marble statues were top-end, exquisitely worked, with a high amount of detail and finishing. My head was filling up with ideas for my own future property. Just one of these statues or sculpted pieces would have made a splendid centerpiece for any garden.

Another shrine graces a reclining Buddha.

Behind the meditation building, a wonderful series of winding paths and planters led down to a small pond... 

I made this video of the mist filtering through the pagoda

in an attempting to capture the feeling here--it is at half speed. 

I was steadily losing battery power in the camera, and had to continuously turn it off, wait, and then take more pictures, one at a time...

I recognized this goddess. She is Guan Yin. She is the goddess of ultimate compassion, mercy.

As I understood the concept from my old college studies, Guan Yin represents all who have left

the world of suffering while still in the flesh and are on the way to Buddhahood (enlightenment),

but have chosen to forsake Nirvana in favor of saving the lost children of God. Here she pours the healing water - the Water of Life - from a vase, for healing those who are afflicted.

I thought I should mention that she is also sometimes depicted with

a Spark above her head, as shown here...

Interestingly, though Guan Yin is most often depicted in female form, she can take on the form of either gender. She is the testament that gender is not a barrier to enlightenment. In this way, she is the Perfect Person. The symbol of the water of life brought me back to a dream I wrote about on Day 4 of this current journey, the similarities and stark differences, gave me a chill.

When I reached the edge of the hill, I saw a long stairway, flanked by serpent-like dragons. They let me pass down to the water's edge...

Here, I stood beside this tranquil pond, closed my eyes and deeply thanked the Spark for all that it had shown me; the Light that it transmits into my life and the human experience it pulls back inward to its source at the Center of Infinity.

I dearly hoped - at that moment - that all who seek the leadership of the Sparks in each of their own minds, and have been reading about the adventures of my Journey, might discover a higher path to their own kinds of enlightenment--not through the following of other human beings, but instead through a stronger faith in THEMSELVES.

For me, the Spark will always be the revelation of the ultimacy of each of us to perform amazing acts, by aligning our wills with the wills of our Sparks. There is no religion (yet) on this world that is greater than the spiritual road that the Spark paves out before us, saying...

"This is the Way. Walk therein. And, if you never stop walking forward - never give up - you WILL fly."

The Spark is the assurance that material death cannot be the end. Together with our individual human natures, this Spirit Light builds an eternal soul; one, made out of a substance that can't be destroyed.

Finally, before these still waters, I asked the Spark for one selfish favor. I requested that when my body dies, the people who remember me will display any image of myself with the Spark just above my head--the seven points or rays representing the sevenfold Absolutes of Infinity, issuing forth from it. In this way, until I am ultimately forgotten, my concept of the Spark will always be associated with my life. And, I felt the assurance that it shall eventually be that way...

There was a path of disks leading around the pond, I walked on each one.

I found this fascinating, and had never heard the story before looking it up in my research while writing this post. The above is Bodhidharma. One particular passage in the Wikipedia article about him caught my eye...

Throughout Buddhist art, Bodhidharma is depicted as an ill-tempered, profusely-bearded, wide-eyed non-Chinese person. He is referred as "The Blue-Eyed Barbarian" (Chinese: 碧眼胡; pinyin: Bìyǎnhú) in Chan texts. 

Upon returning to the top of the hill, I stopped at the last shrine. I'm not sure exactly who this is (which person). But it fit right into my appreciation for what I was seeing and experiencing on this day. This figure is seated in the lotus position, and holds one of the flowers in his hand. The sacred lotus flower (Padma)--being one of the most beautiful of all flowers, has had many symbolic meanings in Buddhism. For me, on this day, I saw it in the way that Wikipedia describes one of the meanings. And, how appropriate...

Its unfolding petals suggest the expansion of the soul. The growth of its pure beauty from the mud of its origin holds a benign spiritual promise.  

This figure is wearing his soul on the outside...

It was time to depart. And, even though the sky had remained a solid field of white, my watch told me sunset was coming in an hour and a half. I needed to find a sleep spot. Not being overly concerned about the process, since I was in such a remote place, I walked with an inner feeling of peace back out of Bao Chon. I hope all of this hasn't sounded trite or like a cliche. But, honestly, I don't really care if that impression has been handed to you. I tell what happens to me out here. And, these things happened...

The temple was not at the top of the mountain, but very near the top. I passed by the entrance of the State Park, and within 500 feet I'd finally reached the summit. Right at that point, there was a ledge, with a grassy, mossy surface on top. It looked level. It took a good amount of effort to climb the soft and crumbling cliffside to reach it.

This spot was just perfect. A large boulder stood near the center of the area. I set up for rain, knowing that it was coming around 9:00 p.m...

I had time to reflect on all that had happened, not just on this day, but on the whole Living Magazine Journey. As I said in the last post, circles were being completed. Cycles were resetting themselves in anticipation of the newness that I hoped would enter my life once returning to Maine.

In what other way would a modern human being get to see over half the states in this country, the bodies of water that surround it, climb the mountains, sleep in the snow and the desert, observe the cultures of hundreds of cities and towns, and tell as many people who would care to listen? There was no other way. The modern Nomad lives only for the broad breathing lungs of complete experience. It isn't always fun, comfortable, happy, fair. But, hell, that is LIFE. I had learned to own where I am...

I was once asleep. The life I led was a twilight realm--not really a dream, not really a nightmare. Just a plain, beige-colored, numbness. It was like being intoxicated, without any of the pleasure of being high. It was the pathway to my own death.  And, at some point I fully understood...that was all it was.

Deep inside, I had buried the voice of the Spark; stored it away for later. I imprisoned it in a lockbox, on a dusty shelf, where it was tormented by seeing all that I thought I was doing to improve my life, without being able to join me in that activity. And, when it all went to hell, I found myself barreling toward the pit. The Trap-Maker sat at the bottom with his teeth gnashing in anticipation of my inevitable fall.

In my anguish, I searched for the Spark's lockbox, through all the twisted and rotting junk. And I found it! But I'd lost the key.

Then, in the rain of angel tears I sat alone in a train station, while a thousand others milled around in their own twilight, with a lockbox on my lap that I could not open. It was only when it occurred to me that I didn't need a key that I began to rise.

My will WAS the lockbox. It was when I chose to stand up and break through the double doors of the station, straight out into rain, that the Spark was liberated. And it burned like a million suns above my head.

Now, 19 months later and so many thousands of miles, with the passing of millions of cars, and millions of faces; having been present for countless sunrises and sunsets, I sat on MY ledge, and surveyed MY world. I would never be asleep in that awful way again. My will can never be a lockbox again.

The Spark itself has become my will.

That night I slept in the sanctuary of the stars, even as the raindrops fell all around my tent.