Barefoot in Asheville
The night began with coincidence: running into two friends from high school just visiting the city! We wandered the streets in the setting sun, occasionally glimpsing blue ridge mountain majesty between the buildings, and generally marveling at the eclectic and inviting crowd of street performers and passerby that come out on a Friday’s summer eve.
We soon found a drum circle in one of the downtown parks and after only a few moments of watching, the energy was too strong to resist and we joined the dancing mob in the middle of the circle. Minutes later, I exited the circle sweating profusely, and feeling like I had just come out of a trance. I noticed a half-naked youth sitting and meditating on the sidewalk and immediately felt compelled to sit down next to him.
When I next opened my eyes, he was staring at me. I apologized for interrupting his practice, “not at all” he said, “you joined”. After talking to him briefly I conceded that it was time to go meet my hosts for the night. They had told me to meet them at another park where there was to be some brewery/biking film festival.
A bit of wandering and asking directions got me there for the start of the show, and the next hour or so was filled with tasting good beer and taking in the feel of the festival. At 10, the event ended and I wandered off into the night.
Next, I came across a man sitting cross-legged on a street corner with a type writer at his feet; I sat down. Phil Krell, was a world traveler and a poet and he had soon told me that he sat on the streets and wrote poems for the passerby as a way to make sure his writing was never far removed from the struggles of the people, never far abstracted from the lifeblood of the city.
After a while, he closed up shop and we walked on, quickly coming across the Monk from earlier. Here the writer continued on his way and I stayed with Monk (as he later told me he was known). We quickly got deep into conversation about the use (and misuse) of words to describe spiritual experience. We talked of renouncing materialism, the path to enlightenment and why he wandered the streets with nothing but a bedroll, occasionally asking the passerby to spare a cigarette (he wasn't perfect).
In no time I made the decision that I would like to spend a few hours in this man’s shoes…or sandals, as it were. I asked him if it would offend him if I emulated his manner and dress. With his blessing I ran to my car, stripped, threw on a loose pair of elephant pants, and ran off into the night with no phone, wallet, keys: nothing. Immediately, I felt lighter, freed.
For the next few hours we wandered the streets, occasionally interacting with other homeless and eccentric characters that we came across, and regularly sitting down to meditate as the drunken masses flowed around us like water. It is tough to describe how it felt, but ‘transient’ is a start; we had no destination, no purpose, nowhere to be, and we followed our whims.
I am only a novice when it comes to meditation, but that night I was inspired. Being still amidst the noise and flowing bodies somehow aided the removal of the self; I could easily lose the ‘I’ and just be an unfocused observer, like the forest watching animals go about the dirty business of life. I lost myself in the rhythm of the night for immeasurable spans – only aware of the chattering gossip, pounding of feet, and the swish of air as people passed close by.
Monk told me that he loved to do this because you always got something from the passerby, good or bad – harassment mixed with catcalls and dirty looks, or the occasional knowing nod – as if your nakedness and failure to participate gave everyone the right to pass judgement on you.
As the night wound down and the buzzing energy left the streets, I came out of a bout of meditation and for the first time considered my nakedness and the fact that I would have to find my way back to my car. With this intrusion of ‘reality’ I decided my stint of renunciation was at an end. I whispered “Monk”, but he was too deep in a trance to hear, or atleast he did not show any recognition. I almost reached out and touched him, but then I thought better of it.
With a bow, I turned and walked off once more, into the night
I was only able to take one picture this night - one of the downsides to the life of a monk
