7. – Dancing in the Kitchen
Good morning, dear people!
News from Shambhala: another scene.
In context with my Tibetan studies I am supposed to write something for my Tibetan teacher Mister Tsering about the animals of my homeland, and by that he means Tibet. Tsering is a cracker. That is would I use to call him, after he left. He realy got no clue! My homeland is esactly where I am, my homeland is Shambhala! I so honestly try to empathize with the homesickness and melancholy that weighs on most of my Tibetan friends, teachers, and relatives, including my Tibetan teacher Tsering, though as far as he is concerned he usually holds it under the surface. But to be truthful, isn’t this whole issue old cheese? Old cheese that’s no longer sincere, but just stale and sticky. I do have feelings of home, but they’re for Shambhala, and—as daddy, the King of Shambhala, once said—Shambhala is everywhere, not just somewhere in Mongolia.
I’m sitting at my Swedish desk looking at my Swedish canopy bed, which, by the way, is where it all began in terms of how my room is arranged.
It seems the Swedes are enchanted by a very special blend of kind of unfinished or worn out paired with gold, wealth, and radiance. It is a strange mixture but it actually got some charme to it. There’s apparently a whole generation of design experts exploring to blend old, used, and handed down with the bright, noble, and rich. Actually, I only really started thinking about this after a conversation with Dada, the flower arranger, the other day. Precisely since then, I am mulling it over. What is so alluring about it? How can it invite real magic even? By the way, conversations with Dada are something special, even though, I think, after a while my questions really get on her nerves. I think she doesn´t like to talk in general. Anyway, thanks to her, I’ve started considering taking design as a profession. But I’m not entirely sure whether that goes so well together with my role and tasks as a princess. Dada had her doubts about that, too. Well, I might ask daddy about it. But by now I haven’t seen him for at least three weeks. He’s traveling! He is always traveling! And if he isn’t traveling, he’s on retreat somewhere. And amala always responds to such questions with evasive answers that don’t help me at all. Tomorrow I’ll see what Aga Hiob, my teacher on European culture and decorum, has to say. He always answers my questions with strange stories but actually shedding light on issues in this way, stories usually very helpful to find solutions or make decisions. He’s raising me at the moment, by asking me to retell stories he told me some days before, which is wildly exciting. If only Tsering’s lessons were as entertaining! But daddy always says: “One can’t always choose one’s teachers. Sometimes we have to go along with what we get.”
So—the wood of my canopy bed looks as if it had been originally light blue, and then someone tried, in a halfhearted way, to cover it up or repair worn patches with a rough, pasty coat of white. The white, apparently applied randomly and often much too thickly, but in such a way that the light blue shines through at places, and even sometimes still dominates. You might think these surfaces were shoddy work—except that, out of this disorder, almost accidentally, a very special kind of magic has arisen. This magic is intentional, because everything in my room—acquired at different times, by the way—has this same kind of surface: the entire canopy bed, the chest of drawers beside it, my chair, my desk—all of my furniture, except the wicker chair. Everywhere it’s the same: blue, thick white, and here and there stripes of gold—a kind of third layer, again as if someone, once more half-heartedly with little skills only, tried to redo the botched matte finish in white. In some places, liquid gold was artfully brushed on with a brush as thick as two fingers.
Even my bed linen is—partly—Swedish: white with strong, horizontal blue stripes. Luckily, there’s still my wonderful, colorful Tibetan day cover in gloriously rich dark colors—red, blue, saffron, green, black, and crimson—and the blue meditation cushion and all the little pillows in deep shades.
By the way, it all started with the bed. It was gifted over to me even before I was born. Honestly! A Shambhalian with German roots presented it to me, overjoyed and enthusiastic at my birth—I am, after all, the first-born—and so it was sent to Kalapa Court, where, however, it stood, still wrapped up, for nearly two years. I can clearly picture my parents circling the “gift,” looking at it from all sides with faces full of big question marks. Of course, everyone—by which I mean the secretaries, housekeepers, servants, butlers, and obviously security—kept their opinions to themselves and tried to not comment on it. But their face´s expressions spoke volumes. By the way, such kind of discretion can be pretty annoying! My nannies often do the same. It takes forever before I can get them to honestly say what they think about things sometimes. It can take forever! I have to be clever, coax them into feeling bold and mischievous, to get them chat. The best way is to tell them secret, personal things about my own life. That relaxes them and they open up somewhat. You see, this once again, shows that the life of a real princess is much harder than those in the old black-and-white movies with that Hepburn Lady tries to make us belive. Amala calls her the Hepburn? Hepburn as a princess seems to think only about keeping her pleated skirts or tight dresses tidy and fall in love with good looking guys. As if that’s all that matters for a princess. I really wonder: did she also have to learn to read and write Tibetan before she realy got into the language of her own country? But wait…! Maybe they tormented the Hepburn princess with French?
So I’m sitting behind my light-blue-white-and-gold desk, gazing at my canopy bed. And as so often, my eyes stray over to the flower arrangement on the shelf right beside the window. The arrangement is changed weekly only. It is always very different, and often you can figure out the personalities of the artists who made them. This one is by Dada. She can really work magic!
The Kado ladies—that’s what we call these “sorceresses” responsible for the palace flowers—have their big day on Fridays. On Fridays, they redo everything, and for a few hours can be found all over the court, diligently practicing their art, intensely focused yet glowing with a kind of cheerful light. They also are busy in the garden, too. At the court, they don’t tolerate a single plant that hasn’t somehow been awakened and tended to. Their motto isn’t “Discipline is joy,” but more like “Discipline is beauty.”
But in my room there’s always just one simple but powerful flower arrangement. It’s supposed to be especially heavy and earthy. Because I’m the princess? They think a princess from beeing born onwards have too much „heaven,“ so the flower arrangements in her private rooms need to be heavy and grounding? Yes—and they even get somewhat crazy about that! Like using stones that—though small—remind you of boulders, vases of thick, solid materials, like rusty metal or granite with a deep hole drilled into it etc. etc. Heavy, heavy, heavy! And thick blooms: garish red daisies, for example. Crocuses with beaks. And I never interfere, I just ask sometimes questions like: “What is this plant called?” or “Where does it come from?” And with those questions—which they very often can’t answer—I bring them down to earth, and no doubt, really I do get on their nerves. And I wonder: Who’s actually bringing whom down from heaven to earth anyway?
From my desk, I keep looking at the flower arrangement. It’s as if it rounds off my own edges, and fills up my strength and dignity. Sometimes it burns, sometimes it bites, and often it’s a balm on the rashes of restlessness and curiosity.
So, as I’m doing my homework for my stupid Tibetan teacher, writing, I keep glancing up, letting the flowers and the cosiness and playfulness of my canopy bed take effect on me—without slipping into daydreams, by the way. Because „we don’t do that,“ says daddy. Unlike my nannies, who are constantly absent-minded—so much so that sometimes I have to call them back to the present by force. Sometimes, I just say: “Hey!” Short, loud and firm.
Now shouting and anger are ringing out from the kitchen below. Someone must be very cross. Pots are clattering. A door slams and, sadly, I can already guess who is losing his temper again.
I pause. Probably a kitchen helper has burned something, or knocked something over? Or maybe it’s just that a salt shaker refuses to work. A kitchen is a bit like a volcano—slowly the lava rises, then eventually it just takes a tiny impulse for an huge eruption.
Pause. Hmmmm?
Maybe I should go downstairs and give myself a break from my homework? Sure, the homework won’t do itself, but sometimes a short break can even be helpful.
At the door, Obi Van, the labrador—chief of service, overseer of the house and, in addition, my personal protector—is peering into my room, as he often does. He never really comes in; maybe my room seems too sacred to him or to private? Yet from the door (which, incidentally, is almost never closed during the day), he still can’t really see me. And so he has to poke his head—only his head—in, to then spot me behind my desk, busy at work, out of the corner of his right eye. Then he’s reassured, watches a moment, and withdraws slowly and with great dignity. He can never quite shake off his sense of self-importance, no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t see himself as just another guard—no, he’s a “warrior,” a master of his art—and as such, never loses his composure, in a way like what is going on right now down there in the kitchen.
Even that makes him only casually lifts his head a bit.
Just as he peeks in to check that everything’s alright, the shouting starts up from the kitchen again. It’s not very loud—the kitchen is far away—but Obi lifts his head. He gauges what could be the matter, relaxes when he recognizes Chef André’s well-known voice. If you know Obi Van, like I do, and really watch him, you’ll see he’s both sizing up what’s happening in the kitchen, and at the same time, he’s now on alert, opening his senses to the upper floor, the lower floor, the entire garden and beyond. He listens, sniffs, senses the whole vast Kalapa estate, and I go out there together with him, as if being part of him sitting on his back. Once you’ve learned how to open up beyond the walls even, it’s easy. By now I can tune in to Obi Van like a radio, and we both quickly realize the current problems are manageable, that there is nothing bigger or realy dangeres hidden behind them.
I let a few minutes pass, but finally decide, now that it’s quiet again, to gently go down and see if everything is all right, since, as far as I remember, amala is not at home at the moment. My nanny, Hester, is downstairs with some other staff members. They have their own little lounge—the Station, and it’s very cozy down there—and the helpers chased away from the kitchen are probably there too, looking for shelter and comfort and maybe are coming up with justifications already. Hester almost certainly thinks I haven’t noticed anything and am still studying upstairs.
I sneak cautiously, on tiptoe, down to the kitchen, gently push against the swinging door, and enter.
No one there?
At first, all is quiet—it feels like the calm after a storm. But wait…, I hear sobbing, and my ears lead me on.
Cautiously, slowly, I approach. And there he is, of course: André, my good, round, dear uncle André, the chef, who has so often comforted and soothed me in the past. He’s rescued me so many times, always quickly finding some way to calm me when everything threatenes to go off the rails.
He’s sitting on his little stool, which actually serves as a stepladder for when he can’t reach something—since he is quite short for a grown man.
First I approach in silence, playfully swinging my arms to help ease the tension. That always helps. I briefly touch his shoulder and then, after he sits up a bit, carefully climb onto his lap.
Now I gently stroke his shoulder, resting my head lightly against him. He always smells of garlic and wine, and today, also of tears. We’re very close, and it feels totally natural to comfort him. I can clearly feel his shirt’s fabric under my fingers, oddly stiff and textured. It confuses me for a moment. An awakening. For a moment, I lose myself in the patterns of this unusual material. What is it? It reminds me of a doormat. Is it hemp?
“Oh my little dragon. It’s just so awful!” he sobs. I’m surprised by what he calls me. Usually, I’m always his “little princess”—and now a dragon? I wonder if I’ve always been a dragon to him, and he just calls me princess out of respect. Is this a moment of truth?
“Oh, my dear good dragon!—Why, oh why, do I always have to lose it here in the kitchen when something goes wrong?”
And I think he’s not just sobbing out of self-pity—but this might be a real question.
“You should know, I always—yes, always—start the day’s work with an offering at the kitchen shrine, and always—yes, always—I show my respect for the Bodhisattva Manjushri by reciting the ‘Wheel of Wisdom’—that’s a short, twenty-two-line Manjushri practice—which I try to absorb. I really do practice with a sincere heart, with full attention, and I can feel Manjushri, and how I get clearer and more awake. And yet, here in this kitchen, I keep totally losing it, suddenly and out of the blue, terribly, and I…” (he hesitates, looks at me searchingly before going on) “… make a fool out of myself?—though that is exactly what I want to avoid!”
I stroke dear uncle André—my Sancho Panza—on the shoulders and lean against him. I left my doll Kate upstairs, otherwise she’d be here comforting him as well. She’s very fond of André, even though he barely notices her. But he is always there for me, always takes a few minutes to talk to mee, and always conjures up a raisin bun or some tasty something.
We are friends—really close friends!
I think about what he’s said and I do believe that I spoted a big misunderstanding. I often keep my insights to myself, but let’s see if I can explain this one at this time, since we are friends:
“Listen, uncle André: it doesn’t work that way. You can’t banish the demons and forces of the kitchen just by letting the light of the Bodhisattvas and saints shine in. That’s not how it works! The wisdom, energy, and compassion of the Bodhisattvas aren’t going to wage war against the entanglements and emotional energies in this kitchen. Instead, they awaken cleverness and clarity—which often helps you to see. Phenomena very clearly but might also highten the energies. Banishing or destroying are rather not the skills of a bodhisattva? No! You can’t overcome what isn’t to be overcome here, in contrary you even have to make friends with the powers, energies and spirits in the kitchen also with the ugly, hot and aggressiv ones.
Be nice to them! Yes—even invite them in! Make offerings to the dark ones too! Put some salty bacon for them on the shrine, and fruit, on an extra little plate, and speak to them. For example:
Oho, you mighty ones of the kitchen,
Hey hey, you bubbling stirrers.
Around glowing ovens,
Hissing pans,
You sweep, rush, sizzle, and slurp.
Together, let’s achieve greatness.
I’m the chef
And you are my spirits.
Welcome—welcome—Heeyhoo!
Frying and kneading
Stirring and hefting
Scorching and burning
Welcome, you wild and emotional ones!
Most heartily welcome!
I will fill and feel even you.
Take these offerings!
And let amrita be included too!
Stay with me, surround me
And work by my side! I need you!
Together, let’s honor the sages and saints.
Om Sumba Nisumbha, Hara Chara, glowing red, razor sharp, hard as steel—
Let’s go! Svaha.”
Silence.
The prayer song hangs in the air…
We let my spontaneous performance sink in. I don’t remember if I have ever heard it before. Inside, I’m glowing with delight, wondering again about what sometimes just spills out of me.
André, for his part, is clearly moved.
He’s easy to impress though.
Understanding shines in his eyes.
We’re quiet together. We listen within together. We think. We go in and out of ourselves. And slowly I separate from my good old friend, climb down off his lap, and take a few small, carefree, playful steps into the wide mysteries of the Kalapa Court kitchen. It’s a wide, wild world, with its own rules and secrets. I dance to the kitchen shrine and bow respectfully, in this and that direction. Just naturally, without a plan. However those movements want to be They long to happen.
Uncle André stands, places his hand on my shoulder, and follows me in bowing down deeply in front of the kitchen shrine. He nods to me in gratitude.
So, now I better head back to my desk in my “Swedish” nursery. Maybe Hester will not even notice that I had been down to the kitchen.
Ciao ciao!
Yours,
Winni Quijote (Private Correspondent to the court of Shambhala)