by Shannon

It’s early morning and the fog is thick, visibility no greater than 5 meters.  Figures emerge out of the mist, silhouettes on bikes, women carrying jugs impossibly balanced on their heads, water buffalo heading out to the grasslands to feed.  The frequent signs on the road make it clear we’re in another place – elephant crossing, rhino crossing, tiger crossing.  The scene inside the van is another indicator that what we’ve been calling home is far away.  The dashboard is a shrine covered in plastic grass, lord Buddha presiding.  A bright mobile hangs from the crooked rearview mirror.  It’s the monkey god Hanuman tearing open his chest, Lord Rama and Sita Devi crowned in gold smile from his heart.  Hanuman, the image of everlasting devotion.  As we zoom along the winding streets, I pray that our driver, like Hanuman, is devoted to keeping us all alive.  

Our van couldn’t be more fragile.  The 2 front windows are missing.  It’s not even 40 degrees outside, so their absence is noticeable.  All inside are cloaked in shawls wrapped like bat wings against the steady, damp wind. The three doors are broken, with some type of creative jerry rigged situation keeping them hugged to the frame, which is literally rattling.  The door closest to us is in the worst shape of all and being manned by someone no less than a saint. Honestly, the number of times he has to open it and literally wrestle it back into place, leveraging his foot against the front seat and throwing his entire weight up and to an odd angle to close it,  would have had me hurling it into the jungle after the first attempt.  He just keeps smiling and welcoming each passenger on board the 11 seater.  Having started with 5 people at 6:30 am, by 7:30 we’re up to 18 with no signs of stopping. With each body, the temperature rises slightly and I find myself settling in for the ride.  I have never been anywhere else in the world where I get to sit in such intimate silence with strangers, with only a small smile between us.  By silence I just mean that we’re not talking.  The van is far from silent. High pitched female vocals and thumping tabla drum beat pulse through the space. When I turn my head to see how Celia and Mason are faring behind me, it’s clear they’re awake, alert in a new way.  We’ve got 10-12 hours ahead in this wobbling, metal container.  On the homeschooling schedule today there is no math, no language arts, no science.  Today’s lesson is all about being.

I look back at Hanuman, swaying with everything else in the van, keeping rhythm to the blaring radio beats.  Nestled amongst the warm bodies of my current herd, I ask myself, what am I devoted to?  The answer comes so quickly… to this Earth, to my family and friends, to my spiritual practice, to learning, to growing, to kindness, and to showing my kids that people live in all kinds of different and radical ways on this beautiful planet.