Travel

My Thin Places

SAHIB SINGH

 

 

 

I’m drawn to places that beguile and inspire, sedate and stir, places where, for a few blissful moments I loosen my death grip on life, and can breathe again. It turns out these destinations have a name: thin places ... They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we’re able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever. 

[Eric Weiner, Where Heaven and Earth Come Closer]

 

 

Heaven and Earth, goes a Celtic saying, are only three feet apart.

But, as Eric Weiner says in his wonderful piece, in "thin" places that distance is even shorter.

His article caught my eye with his mesmerizing description of Bangla Sahib gurdwara in New Delhi as a thin place. He writes:

"The temple owes its thinness, in part, to the contrasting thickness amassed outside its gates: the press of humanity, the freestyle traffic, the unrelenting noise and, in general, the controlled anarchy that is urban India. We stepped inside the gates of the gurdwara and into another world. The mesmerizing sound of a harmonium wafted across a reflecting pool. The white marble felt cool on my bare feet. The temple compound was not devoid of people, but this was a different sort of crowd. Everyone walked to the edge of the water, drawn by something unspoken, lost in their solitary worlds, together.

"At the gurdwara, time burst its banks. I was awash in time. That’s a common reaction to a thin place. It’s not that we lose all sense of time but, rather, that our relationship with time is altered, softened. In thin places, time is not something we feel compelled to parse or hoard. There’s plenty of it to go around."

I know exactly what he's talking about. When circling around any sarovar, such as the one in Bangla Sahib or the Darbar Sahib in Amritsar, it is a rare spiritual experience.

I remember my first one at the Darbar Sahib.

It looked enthralling as it serenely rested amidst the glistening waters.

After being transfixed by the sight, I was absorbed by the atmosphere around me. I felt at peace with myself, mindless of any problems or issues I then carried in my head. And I felt aglow, as if I was in The Presence.

Is this what Weiner means as “thin”?

It’s different form that typical, religious feeling one has during a regular Sunday gurdwara visit, for example.

While sitting inside the comforting Harmandar, I realize that I too have stopped singing as the raagis complete their kirtan of a shabad. I had never heard that particular hymn before!

Weiner describes perfectly the sedated feeling I felt then, an inexplicable taste of wisdom, an altered perception of time itself. 

It's an emotion loaded with mystery. Thought provoking, at times. A closeness to Waheguru ... God, Allah, if you will.

It's an experience I've had on other occasions, of feeling "thin". There are three specific ones that I can recall now. These weren't "Sikh" places, though.

Two of them are in the buzzing, exotic country of Turkey.

Sitting atop Istanbul, one could write a thousand pages of history on what surrounds you.

But I came upon a thin place in a small, stone chapel in the outskirts of Ephesus.

It was presumed to be the house of Mary, the mother of Jesus. According to tradition, this is also the house where Mary died. 

My family and I approached the tiny building, only to be greeted by an American-sounding nun: "We don't get many Sikh visitors that often," she remarked, warmly welcoming us.

The structure was cramped, and full of relics. There was also a simple yet radiant fresco of the Virgin covering the wall. Christian pilgrims were praying to this artwork. I sensed a rather eerie, haunted feeling - but I didn't feel scared. I was captivated by the serenity, by the air of piety around me.

It flushed me with memories of the Darbar Sahib.

My other thin place in Turkey is in Cappadocia.  

What's neat here is that there's an ancient city built into the rock-face and deep within hills, mountains and the ground below. Hence, many of the places currently being used as homes and working spaces are part pre-historic caves, part man-made dwellings.

The "thin" feeling occurred during the first morning of our visit. Our stay at this specific hotel (also in a cave) was more like a stay at one's grandparents'; the manager personally woke us up and told us that our breakfast was ready!

After enjoying the local continental-fusion breakfast, I recall walking out onto the makeshift cave-balcony at dawn. It was time for fajir, the first daily prayer for Muslims. The center of the tiny, rocky city stood a grand, stony peak punctuated by cave dwellings. To the left was the thin minaret of a mosque. Immediately, a priest's song blared from it, calling the neighbourhood to prayer. 

The sights, smells and sounds, coupled with my view of the rocky mosque silhouetted against the purplish sky, sent a shiver of through my being. I closed my eyes and savoured the moment, slowly drifting with the preacher’s sermon - of which I did not understand a word.

When he finished, I opened my eyes and felt a wave of pleasure flow through me.

The other "thin" place is in Egypt.

The vast Sinai mountain range in the eastern part of the country serves as a setting for many of the Old Testament's stories, including Moses’ encounter with the Burning Bush, and his receiving the Ten Commandments.

The place - sacred to the Abrahmanic faiths - is marked by a picturesque monastery which was constructed almost a millennium ago.

Our tour guide at the foot of Mt Sinai, where we had stayed for the night, had convinced us to wake up at three o'clock in the morning.. Drowsy, yet excited, we were taken to the monastery. But it was closed.

Perplexed, we met our driver. He simply laughed and introduced us to a young Berber boy. In broken English, the boy turned to us and said: "I hope you are ready to walk mountain!”

It turns out that, in order to experience the full effect, tourists and pilgrims leave early in the morning and walk (with a local guide) through the mountain range like the biblical characters once did. After sunrise at the top, guests trek back down and tour the monastery.     

We weren’t prepared for this hike, but were quite complacent about it all. It proved most challenging - trudging up a mountain trail through thin air, with little food or water, and practically alone with a Berber boy who spoke little English. Before long, we approached a Berber camp that was, fortunately, offering camel rides up the mountain. However, I felt as if the animal couldn't see where it was going - evident by my camel barging into a parade of French pilgrims that had preceded us. (I had no control over my camel!)

At one juncture, the camel most definitely walked right on the edge a cliff. I swear I could hear stones rolling down the mountain as my camel stomped upon the rocks. I was anxious, but the camel turned the corner, quite oblivious of the danger or my terror.

The camel owner reassured me that his camel could "see at night”…  Never have I lived on the edge like that before.

The camels could only take us halfway up the mountain - the most daunting part hadn’t even started yet. We trudged up never-ending rocks, almost tortuously until we found another camp. My dad could not endure the journey any longer and insisted for my mother and I to go on while he waited.

We continued until we started to pant heavily. After what seemed like an eternity, we could see the peak. There was a surprisingly large amount of tourists and pilgrims about, and a path of steps going up to the peak. We had to hold hands and slowly make our way up the very steep path that leads to a miniscule booth/shrine ... in memory of Moses' experience on the mountain. 

My mom decided she could go no further, but I wanted to go up and see the booth.

To my left, I randomly reached out and held the hand of a Italian gentleman in our group. To my right, I gripped the tiny hands of an old French nun. Between these two souls, I was swept up with the dozens of people still intent on spending a mere few seconds where Moses had once walked.

It was a deeply other-worldly feeling in that group. I was so engrossed in it that I do not recollect much from those moments.

Was it the thin air?

Or was it the "thin-ness" of the place?

I do remember watching the sunrise from what seemed to be the top of the world. Even though I can't remember much from the booth, I can say that if heaven is indeed only three feet from the earth, I was definitely in heaven at that time.

Weiner specifically states that these "thin" places don't have to be religious to grab you. It can be anywhere, any moment: at an airport, a hotel, a beach ... literally anywhere!

 

Once in the experience, the trick is in surrendering to the moment.

Whether we feel thin at a gurdwara or during an evening of kirtan, or at home with family, we should avail of it as a battery-charging moment.

It’s gives one a clear mind ... at least for a while.

 

April 26, 2012

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