Songkran, mangos, and something that doesn’t quite fit

On life in Thailand, spiritual discernment, and learning to trust what does

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Dearest Reader,

Songkran, the traditional Thai New Year’s festival, is this week. It’s often described as the world’s biggest water fight—and, indeed, people of all ages take to the streets with water guns, hoses, and buckets to drench each other, offering relief during the hottest month of the year.

It’s also a time of religious and ancestral remembrance: sprinkling scented water on Buddha statues, giving alms to monks, honoring elders. Spiritually, the focus is on purification, making merit, and renewal. And socially, it’s a time to put on brightly colored shirts and embrace sanuk สนุก—fun, playfulness, and a collective agreement to not take things too seriously (including yourself).

I love the spirit of Songkran. Being drenched everywhere you go is such a relief on these steamy days before rainy season. I don’t love visiting touristy areas during this time. There’s a palpable difference between Thai people—exceptionally aware of others—tossing water, and groups of drunk tourists who use it as an outlet for something harsher and sometimes mean-spirited.

Thankfully, Randy and I live in a small rural village far removed from the mayhem. And while the music carries late into the night—including from our neighbors next door—the vibe is all sanuk, no frat party.

In many ways, the holiday captures something I love about life here: how the profound and the mundane, organized religion and animist beliefs, reverence and play, life and death, indescribable joy and impossible hardship, are interwoven rather than separate. It feels more real to me, this easy acceptance of wholeness. A lived awareness that more than one thing is true, and life includes all of it.

Plus, the mangos right now are pure bliss.

We have scores of still-green ones hanging from the trees around our house, taunting us. Meanwhile, we’re buying golden yellow ones from the market—just on the edge of too ripe.

I add rough slices to nearly everything. Bowls built the same way, again and again: white rice, smoked or raw salmon, mushrooms sautéed in olive oil, an avocado when we find good ones, spoonfuls of tahini and full-fat Greek yogurt, generous sea salt, an unreasonable amount of blistering hot peppers stirred into fish sauce. Occasionally I’ll swap in roasted chicken from a roadside stand, but for months now my body has wanted fish, so I follow that. I find comfort and joy in eating the same simple foods on repeat.

As I hinted in my last letter, another part of my life is feeling less settled.

This year, I’m in two spiritual programs: a Certificate of Theravada Buddhist Studies, which may eventually lead into a Master of Divinity and possibly chaplaincy, and a group that blends A Course in Miracles with Jñāna yoga and ancient Egyptian mysticism. The Buddhist studies—led by my primary teacher for decades, Gil Fronsdal—feel steady and right, though that program won’t fully begin until fall.

The other group is more complicated.

Some aspects are deeply resonant. Some of the practices are deeply transformative. And some of the text feels mismatched with me personally.

I greatly respect (and genuinely like) the person leading the group, and his explanations and interpretations in our weekly meetings often ease that tension, as does returning to Jñāna yoga and ancient Egyptian mysticism. But the ACIM text itself—its tone, its language, its framing—continues to catch. The deeper we go into the book, the more this feels true.

What’s strange is that, before this year, I’d encountered this work through other teachers and writers I trust and admire—shared in a much softer, even sanitized form. And I find myself wondering how some of those same people read the text in full without questioning parts of it. Or if they did, and just didn’t speak to it. Or if I’m the one who’s off here.

And look, I like to be the good student. I do the reading each morning (we’re on day 105), I show up for the weekly meetings (which go past midnight my time), and I’m following the lifestyle parameters (no alcohol, no caffeine or other stimulants, no recreational or pharmaceutical drugs, no red meat or pork, very little sugar).¹ I don’t like to start things without seeing them through to completion. I don’t want to disappoint or frustrate my teachers.

And yet, I realize I’ve become a bit of a turd in the punchbowl of the group dynamic. Because, hey, I’m just asking questions. (And if you’re familiar with ACIM, you know the stock answer to this: you’re projecting, you’re creating, it’s all you. Something I do take seriously.)

So I’ve been sitting with whether to continue through the year—keeping what’s useful and leaving the rest—or to step away. I’ll probably stay. But it feels important, in that staying, to be honest rather than just going along.

Part of what makes this harder is that I feel myself longing for something else. Something that asks for faith, I suppose. Something that has me more comfortable saying the word God instead of the many names I’ve used for the Great Mystery. Something that, truthfully, I may never find.

But this specific text, especially as I go deeper, isn’t quite it. And trying to understand why has led me down some pretty dark Reddit holes.

Through it all, I feel grateful for the exploration and for what is steady. A daily practice that stretches back decades. A clear ethical compass grounded in love and not causing harm. Gil’s teachings. Meditation. Yoga. Deeply insightful conversations with my friend Steve. And the version of Thai spirituality that surrounds me—reminding me that all of this, somehow, belongs.

Sending Thai New Year’s blessings from my heart to yours. And, as is tradition in this series, I’ll leave you with what’s nourishing me and what I’m hungry for.

From the temple next door… to making himself at home.

WHAT’S NOURISHING ME

Clay and bamboo mask. Randy discovered a small shop full of locally made herbal treasures and brought me a cool, tingly, earthy clay mask. I’ve been loving it the week before my period (yes, at 51, if you can believe it). It smells and feels delightfully stimulating and clears the pimple or two that show up like clockwork.

I alternate between the clay and my dependable, beloved standby: pure local honey, used as a mask or spot treatment. Both work well for breakouts. The clay dries; the honey moistens.

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WHAT I’M HUNGRY FOR

Rainy season. Like most everyone here, I’m eagerly anticipating the big rains washing everything clean after burning season, the skies clearing, that particular kind of relief and vibrant aliveness that arrives with daily tropical downpours.

I’d love to hear yours.

Part of what excites me about writing these letters is hearing about your lives—what’s supporting you, what you’re wanting more of in the days and weeks ahead.

With that in mind, I’d love to hear:

• What’s nourishing your body, mind, spirit?

• What are you hungry for?

• What are you questioning—or beginning to trust?

If this resonated, a small heart ❤️ helps these letters find their way.

Thank you, with love,
Dana

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We begin a new exploration of the seven emotions in Chinese Medicine this Friday.

1. One exception: I’m still having dark chocolate, which does contain caffeine.