Inner Mongolia: the Beauty in Desolation
I am writing from Beijing tonight, sitting in the small courtyard of my hotel, the Cote Cour, watching the fish in the coy pond in front of me, lazily sipping green tea. The hotel is located in one of the city's hutongs, or traditional courtyard residences in the midst of a network of tiny alleys. My current temporary abode is quite the contrast to the space I inhabited just a few days ago.
This year, for the mid-autumn festival, I decided to follow my Beijing yoga teacher to Inner Mongolia for five days of practice, surrounded by a vast, windy landscape.
To reach Inner Mongolia, I flew into Beijing, on a flight that was delayed by many hours, thus I arrived at 2:30 am, spent a couple of hours at Zhao's apartment, and boarded a van to drive six more hours to our yoga residence. The further outside Beijing that we drove, the more blue the sky, and the more desolate our surroundings became.
Pulling up to our ranch, the landscape looked like this:
When I first began posting photos on social media, my friend, Andy, saw where I was and asked if I had ever read Haruki Murakami's The Wind Up Bird Chronicles. I wrinkled my nose and responded, "I find Murakami writes riddles I just don't understand." But Andy persisted and told me more about the book, intriguing me enough to download a copy. I would soon find myself utterly involved with the characters in the book, and the way Murakami wrote of Mongolia.
In the first days of the yoga retreat, I found myself unsettled. Parts of the hotel were quite industrial, with exposed cement ceilings and cold floors. I felt like I was in a scene from The Shining. And I disliked it. I hate scary movies. And now, it seemed, I had traveled far and paid well to be part of one. Additionally, as I gazed out the window at the space beyond, there was nothing for the eye to grip onto.
Murakami got this.
"Sometimes, when one is moving silently through such an utterly desolate landspace, an overwhelming hallucination can make one feel that oneself, as an individual human being, is slowly coming unraveled. The surrounding space is so vast that is becomes increasingly difficult to keep a balanced grip on one's being."
The Wind Up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Murakami
The unsettled feelings that I had began to have physical manifestations. As soon as I had arrived at the hotel, I began having trouble sleeping, waking in the morning drenched in sweat, as I had finally fallen asleep at some midnight hour with a light on because I was too afraid to sleep in the dark. I mean, what the f? I live alone, I often travel alone, and yet I was spooked by this place.
I was determined, though, to get beyond the grand discomfort of it all. I did not want to simply wish my time away in Inner Mongolia, and miss the lessons the land had to offer. And so, I set to exploring further.
Pictured here are my new friend Guy and I taking a slow run after lunch.
The wind went howling through brittle branches. Leeeetttt goooooo, it seemed to bay. Chilled, I continued to listen. S u r r r e n d e e e r r r, it beseeched me.
slowly
slowly
slowly
I felt an opening ... into the vastness, into my yoga asanas, into myself.
And I continued to read.
"The point is, not to resist the flow. You go up when you're supposed to go up and down when you're supposed to go down. When you're supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you're supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go to the bottom. When there no flow, stay still."
Wind Up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Murakami
Okay. Okeeeey, Murakami, I thought. I hear you. Or I think I hear you, because I think I get you, at least a little bit, but you still have do write these Murakamisms that are like wtf are you even saying, tho? But, yes, I'll flow or go high or low or whatever this landscape is asking of me.
And it did become true, that through the hours, I felt it -- the wonder, the awe that comes, paradoxically, with land so beautifully desolate.
On our last full day, after many hours of yoga practice, my body was saying get out and run. So I did.
As I made my way around the lake, I saw camels, which I did originally called llamas in a text to Mom and Dad because my brain is still in South America sometimes.
I also saw the following, which could be a scene right out of Wind Up Bird, which was cool. And unnerving. For real, Murakami, you're going to manifest in my reality? C'mon, though, man. Save me the chills, pleeaaaaase.
There's one thing to do to feel rooted after taking in such strange sights: An Inversion in the Wild.
On this last full day, on this long run, I began to regret that the trip was coming to an end. I supposed I had noted before, but I was here noting again, perhaps in a new way that if we are open to surrendering ourselves to our present reality, there is this capacity for incredible adaptation. While one day the wind and vast landscape felt unsettling to me, after some time, both became elements of my environment that I felt I could sit with for eternity.
The next day, on our final morning in Inner Mongolia, after a strong yoga practice, I stretched out onto the deck over the water.
I thought of my book, once again, for the final time on this trip.
"The sun would rise from the eastern horizon, cut its way across the empty sky, and sink below the western horizon. This was the only perceptible change in our surroundings. And in the movement of the sun, I felt something I hardly know how to name: some huge, cosmic love."
The Wind Up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Murakami
Lying under a bright sun that was settled into a blanket of blue, I felt ... the incredible lightness of being, and I thought, poetry, it seems, is something I'm destined to find everywhere.
Tonight, as my green tea has turned to a glass of red wine, I'm toasting Namaste to the divine souls that I met on this trip.
