Walking through Thae Pae Gate in the old city of Chiang Mai for the last time. Flocks of pigeons being fed by flocks of people who buy cracked corn, or maybe it’s rice, from the young boy with the mask over his face for 20 baht. The birds eat out of their hands as the people kneel on the hard pavement and squeal with delight. I walk slowly across the red brick. The pigeons lift off, floating on their wings, and then back down again and again as if they are asking me to follow. Some are white speckled with black, some are blue tinted purple, some grey with brilliant red eyes. The Sunlight tips sideways, making long shadows. The same story told twice. The old woman squats, leans back against the ancient wall selling eggs cracked open at the top so you can look in. I think they are no longer yolked, but actually hold small chicken fetuses inside. I don’t look long enough to know for sure. 

I have to cross the crazy street one last time. It is like a video game, how a person has to weave through four lanes of ongoing traffic. Vans, motorbikes, tuk tuks, songthaews flow down the river of pavement that circles the old city. Luckily they are moving slowly enough that I can run along with them as I wade across. My lungs and skin are tired of the old city and its exhaust, noise, and grime. Beautiful grime, can that be? 

I walked eight miles today, round and round, in and out, above and below. It began this morning when I hopped in a songthaew, which is a truck with a roof and two benches in the back, always red in color with a canopy overhead, that can haul about twelve people. It took us up to the Doi Suthep Temple on the mountain, built in 1383 as a destination for seekers, a pilgrimage, for over 700 years. I made it mine today. 

On the excursion, an Argentinian man sat to the left of me, a French couple to the right, and across from me, a Korean woman, a Brit, and two monks in their orange cloth and shaved heads. We weren’t the only crew heading up the mountain. Other individuals banding together on motorcycles, tour busses, double deckered, filled with Chinese families, even bicyclists with such determination, were committing to the 15 kilometers of switchbacking up the mountainside. I don’t know how many people go up there daily, but it is a lot, a whole lot. 

There are 290 steps up to the temple. At the bottom, there are stalls and stalls of material things ranging from Tibetan bells to hill tribe clothing, from corn on the cob to small living birds trapped in woven baskets. They say if you buy a bird you can set it free and it’s some kind of good karma, but really they just get caught again and the gain is to the person selling the birds that just want to be free. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between tourism and worship. In this materialistic world, worship has become tourism.

I ascend the stairs by foot, flanked by two long, fluctuating, green-scaled dragons on either side, leading me to the top. There, I’m met by many shoes strewn about on the marble floor. To the right, monks sit handing out offerings of yellow tapered candles and golden long-stemmed marigolds. A donation is requested for this and the other and another. Even for going to the toilet, they ask for a donation. 

As I step into the temple, I am a small fish unlike the others. Most of the people here, and in Thailand in general, are Asians, Asian tourists from China, Korea, Taiwan, Japan. It is kind of nice to be the lesser aspect of the influx. I watch them take selfies with the golden buddhas that are everywhere. They make their bodies into the shape with one hand lifted and the other open-palmed and down by the hip. Yes, take a picture of me so I can believe, prove, convince the world that I am that. But if I am that, then I am the world, and the world already knows. To us humans, it is very important to be seen, isn’t it? Contrary to that, right now attempting to be unseen, I watch; I witness; I wonder. 

So strange it is that we are the only species that claims to know what is real, but then bow and pray to inanimate objects. Among the offerings at the altar—flowers and food, incense and flame—were pieces of currency, rectangular, colored papers printed with serial numbers and pictures of men who represent only one half of our species, 1% of the wealth, one side of the story, given in homage to God, as if a god would forsake half of us.I ask myself, what are these people praying for? What are they saying inside their heads with their hands together in front of their mouths, on their foreheads, at their heart? Are they doing it right? Do they think they are doing it right? Is there a right way to do it? Oh, I am overwhelmed. Unwittingly, I keep stepping in the way of photo shoots. Small Asian grandmothers are getting frustrated with me. 

In the center of this temple in the open air is a huge golden pyramid. I am sorry. I didn’t do my homework, and I don’t know what it is. Is that the Buddha? Is that enlightenment? For 700 years people have been traveling here to circumnavigate this golden structure three times while repeating a prayer. I watch. It is beautiful. People of all ages, many races, many religions walk in the pathway that circles squarely around the big gold thing that is to their right and to their left smaller buddhas in the shape of cross-legged men, eyes downcast, hands precisely placed, lined along the ledge that banks the pathway. Bouquets of flowers, incense, and burning candles mingle around the statues. 

Okay, I will do this. I have been breathing, paying attention to my thoughts, my heart. I am ready to practice my own authentic relationship with this day, this place, this desire that we all have to be awakened and blessed. Whether that blessing comes from somewhere else or just the feeling inside of being where I am, at ease, in the moment, which is really the only place there is, it matters not. I have my candle. I choose a place. I lean in and between the cameras, the black hair, the devotion of others, I light it and place it in the small holder among many other candles being held. I kneel. I cup the flower in my hands and place my palms together symbolizing the lotus flower, hands to my forehead, silently I speak, “May all beings be happy and free. May my thoughts, my words, and my actions contribute to the happiness and freedom for all.” I place my hands at my mouth, “May all beings be happy and free. May my thoughts, my words, and my actions contribute to the happiness and freedom for all.” I place my hands at my heart; the flower tickles my chin: “May all beings be happy and free. May my thoughts, my words, and my actions contribute to the happiness and freedom for all.” I place the flower on the platter that is here, that collects the flowers of the world, and I walk to the entrance where the words are written on paper to take and repeat as you walk around the golden thing. I am ready. I look down. Ah, it’s in Thai, or maybe that’s Pali. Well, it’s nothing I can read, so I begin with my own self and the mantra that I have been chanting since I arrived in Thailand. It is one that calls together the star that is your destiny and the star that is your desire. It’s a love letter, a phone call, a long lost friend. I begin to walk, hands to heart, barefoot on the smooth floor, step by step. I become aware that, surprisingly, there is no one else walking. I see no one in front of me. There is no one behind. Among the masses, I am alone. 

Oh God! Suddenly I wonder if I am doing this right. I made sure to notice which direction people were walking. That seemed to be all I needed to know. But still I begin to feel the fear of doing wrong in my bones; this is familiar. It is what culture does, society, government, community. I am sorry, even the word community can cause oppression. When you get more than one, then there is ‘other.’  Ah, but then something happens inside me. A spark of awareness or possibility. I take this as a sign. No one knows but me what my path is, what star I am following, what gift I have to give that is within this tangle of thoughts, memories, and wonderings. There is a small, gigantic flame that only burns within me and yours only burns within you. Our task is to find it, to tend to it, to witness it. Here in Thailand, I am beginning to see. I chant. I walk. I count three times around. As I turn that last corner, the two monks who were on the truck are in front of me on the path taking pictures of each other, giggling.