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ripe for the tilling; thank you merc

Monday, September 8th, 2008

Yes! Solbeam.com just went through a dishwasher of a reorganization and I’ve now got 543 posts in which to fix broken links and sort into the appropriate shelves and drawers.

More importantly, I should be writing less about my heaping to-do list and get down on my knees and hail my praise and gratitude to a Mr. Merc who is probably red-eyed and caffeine-overdosed in his risky and time consuming venture to convert this compose heap of a website into the WordPress rich ground of which I will soon begin my own tilling.

Merc. Thank you burning the midnight oil on this petty little pro bono project out of the deep goodness of your bottomless heart. You’re an angel in my life. And I owe you golden straw AND my firstborn.

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Posted in gratitude | 1 Comment »

17,000 feet of appreciations

Tuesday, July 1st, 2008

IMG_7585, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

(A Punjabi man helps himself to Sangeta’s song on the first of many days of adventure on our way into the Dolpa.)

<img src=”http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3068/2627228383_98a5e45731.jpg?v=0″

You know when you begin to start every sentence with, “If we survive this trip…” that you’re in the middle of a serious adventure.

Well friends. Though we sometimes doubted this day would ever come, we can now official sigh (and sing), “We’re alive!” And there is nothing like looking over the cliff of your life to make you step back and take a breath of appreciation for the simple non-cliff-hanging details of living.

I have a day-by-day account of the adventure of which I’ll soon be posting. But first we need to do things like shower for the first time in a month, gain back the weight we lost living in the clouds that hover the Himalayas, and call everyone we’ve ever known to tell them we love them. Yes. It was the dumbest, bravest and most challenging and beautiful of my seven years of adventures. And, soon, you’ll hear more about it that you ever wanted to. But first. We have things like bed sheets and toilet seats to appreciate.

The above are only two of over a thousand photos waiting to be uploaded….

Posted in gratitude, nepal | 2 Comments »

a stone on simmer

Saturday, April 19th, 2008

IMG_5457, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

Handing me back the piece of paper with the single word on it, my student says,

“Um. I’m not sure I know what this is…”

Part of the mission of my work (in experiential education) is that of fostering eleven (what we call) “core values” in our students. It’s a tricky agenda because there are no simple equations or lists of instructions with which you can assist students in the tasks of realizing such intangible concepts as, “interconnectedness”, “authenticity” and “compassion.”

In fact, giving the word itself away too directly could even prove itself quite detrimental as it is in the nature of any teenager (or for that matter, inquisitive individual) to be suspicious of anything offered too freely. We also have to be careful of words over-quoted and sometimes, these days, even mass-marketed; any word that has made the tagline of coca-cola has most likely lost everything but its jingle.

So much like the popular party word game Taboo, it is our objective to have the students struggle not only with the answer (that we don’t name), but also the equation. And yes, they hate this game at first; especially because we don’t even tell them we’re playing it. (I’m realizing as I’m typing that this is likely to add a lot of fire to students’ friendly fire accusations that the leader team is, “secretly strategic.”) In any case, now that we are two months into our semester of intensive experiential lessons, we have seen our group, as individuals and a whole, give us easy evidence proving that they are now quite experienced with (even if they cannot name or define) all eleven of our core values. We’re confident that they have harvested all the raw vegetables necessary to put this recipe together.

Back to the student holding the word and prompt with which I started this post. And let me add the disclaimer that it is quite ironical that the student in our group who embraces and exemplifies the quality most doesn’t know that her most natural inclination is the very definition of the word in her hand (adding the final mark of purity to her quality).

Yet I am not going to fault her English teacher or general education for this vocabulary mishap. In fact, I’m going to enter some very dangerous territory and suggest that the responsibility might lie on the broad shoulders of American culture and society. But before anyone calls me a separatist or unpatriotic, please hear me out as I make the case by serving it in compliment-sandwich (a sneaky way to pass to some tough meat). For just as we (group leaders) encourage constructive criticism in our group, I think, as a country, we should also be taking some time to gently and compassionately give and receive the feedback that will evolve us to our highest nation.

With our students, after having them work to discover and define the words, we then asked them to each choose the “core value” that they, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in their personal development.

Now I’m clearly going to take some liberties here and choose a word for the United States of America, of which, if it matters, I am a citizen. And I hope to make the case a little more edible by emphasizing that the States does embrace many of our core values exceptionally well. As a country, we have proven ourselves quite skilled in the categories of, “courage,” “responsibility,” “ownership,” and “curiosity.” And then there are some classes in which we understand the term or goal even if we’re still sorting out which verbs we actually have to put into action to complete the realization of the lesson. But I’m looking for the word that we, deep inside, intuitively know as the next most appropriate step in our country’s personal development.

And the word I choose is Humility.

Now just as my student didn’t know the meaning of this word, I think this term is so far from the mind of American culture that we can barely conceive of a sentence to put it in. But let’s reach for a minute.

(And I know I’m predictable, but…)

Let’s reach across the world to my personal and favorite teacher and Guru-ji of all.

India.

For while India has her own set of core values that are in particular need of development (perhaps actually, even the same that we in the West have mastered), the quality that I have witnessed her culture, society and people to embrace with eloquence and grace, on both conscious and subliminal levels, from sunrise to sunset and from child to great grand parent, is that of Humility.

Modeling by example, let’s work on the definition first.

And instead of words, like a good experiential educator, I am going to use that which I’ve actually witnessed.

I am quite fortunate to be living between six sacred temples near Tulsi Ghat in Varanasi. The sacred pool outside my door is called, Lolark Kund and beside it is a temple dedicated to the planets with which our own is in orbit around the sun. So I need not step father than my doorstep to watch the following: a family approaching the temple, the father kneeling down and touching his forehead to the front step of the entrance, the youngest daughter delicately holding a string of fresh flowers between her hands clasped in the “namaste” of respect, the mother covering her head out of modestly (to the gods) and gently lowering her 4-year old toddler grandson from her hip so that he too can touch his head to the ground.

The family enters and proceeds in their circumambulation of the inside of the temple. They approach the statue of Ganesha, touch his feet, ask for him to give them the wisdom to remove the obstacles from their life, and place a mala of orange carnations around him. They approach the mother goddess Durga, light incense, and ask for her to bless upon them the weapons of her protection. They approach the monkey God Hanuman, offer him his favorite sweets (usually Ladoo), and ask for him to bless them with his unfaltering devotion. They approach Vishnu, bow to his feet, and light a butter lamp praying for the preservation of their good health and prosperity. They approach Shiva, represented by a lingam, offer milk and throw flowers while chanting mantras that might invoke his blessing of finding the fortunate new beginnings within his destruction.

In this way, the family proceeds to each enthroned god, lowering their heads, humbling their beings, bowing their respect, and making offerings to those divine beings and virtues that they host closest to their hearts. When they leave the temple, the dare not turn their back on the Gods, but walk out of the temple backwards, reaching down with their hand to first touch the step, then their forehead, and then their heart — in a symbolic gesture of holding themselves at the feet of their beloved.

Yet this family does not leave their humility in the temple. When the family returns home, they walk in the door and approach the 98-year old great grandmother. Each person — father, mother, daughter, toddler — before any chore or toy, approaches the elder and touches her foot and then their own head to symbolically swipe the sacred dust from her feet. Depending upon her mood, the great grandmother will either accept the gesture or, humbly, push it away. Either way, and even if only for the pangs of labor through which she birthed the existence of this family,
she deserves this show of respect.

The daughter in this family is of the age to marry. Contrary to what you might expect, she does not cry every night wishing she had been born in a Western country where she might have had the opportunity of a “love marriage.” Most likely, if you ask her, she will say that she respects, even more than the Indian tradition, the advice, experience, guidance, and ultimately, the choice of her mate by her parents. She questions her own lack of years and experience. She trusts their better judgment. She loves her parents and is loyal to trusting their love of her. She knows that they will make the decision that best befits her long-term and overall happiness. She shows her respect by submission and trust in their ultimate decision.

Okay. NOW let’s get out the dictionary and define the word on the piece of paper that my student is still holding…

hu·mil·i·ty (noun) the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one’s own importance, rank, etc. a lack of false pride; freedom from pride and arrogance; An act of submission or courtesy.

So where do we take this as a culture and as a nation? Well, the truth is, while I’m great at isolating problems (aren’t we all?), solutions are never as simple. And even if I had one, neither would I be allowed to provide something so easy. For just as with the definition, it would be stealing something to give away the answer. We owe it to ourselves to allow and embrace the struggle, for only through that process can we ultimately claim full ownership of the resulting revelation.

So what we did with our students was simply ask them to hold the word in their minds.

humility

To see where it would take them.

For I think as individuals we have to do this first, as it is only in our collection, that we become a nation.

Perhaps it sounds like a funny recipe: to just “hold” the word in our consciousness. But as I learned from my favorite childhood storybook, “Stone Soup” – sometimes the best way to start is to just put a rock in the pot and then add as you may; stewing and stirring and building upon your stone ’till the soup starts to smell good. Perhaps even forgetting, in the process, with what (now irrelevant) intention we may have started.

Funny, actually now that I think about it, is that it would seem that the first step in recognizing our humility would be the very act of recognizing our lack of it!

In any case. Humility is the rock in my pot and I now have two weeks trekking in the Himalayas to stew on it. So do be patient with me as this post feels like it’s only at a simmer and still missing some key ingredients. Maybe I’ll find them growing in the mountains? In the meantime, will you just help me by holding this stone for a minute?

Posted in culture, gratitude, india | 4 Comments »

a blessing recipe

Wednesday, November 1st, 2006

Popes, priests and prophets have their methods. Merchants, and those who buy from them, name it in terms of this or that currency. But the value and blessing upon any object, for me, cannot be determined by karat, weight, age, dollar or any element measure- or calculable. Additionally, I have a sneaking suspicion that we are only meant to keep the things we are gifted, and that we are meant to give away anything we personally purchase.

On my last day walking the Chemin de Compestella in Southern France, a mysterious man whispered into my ear tales, mirrored in the magic I’ve found along my own, of pilgrimage along the caminos and around the world. Before we separated, he left me a very powerful message; one too personally sacred for me yet to share. But to officially mark the occasion of transmission, he took the red Tao off the chain he wore around his neck, opened my hands, dropped it in mine, and cupped his hands around my own.

“No, no, no. I can’t. You received this in Santiago a year ago upon completion of one of your pilgrimages. I can’t take this from you.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know what it means to you, and look…” He pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and showed me the goosebumps on his arm, “It’s right, you see.”

It is right.

And it is wrong to deny any honest offering, as it’s a gift to the giver that one graciously receives. So I accept.

*****

tal-is-man:?
noun, plural -mans.
1.a stone, ring, or other object, engraved with figures or characters supposed to possess occult powers and worn as an amulet or charm.
2.any amulet or charm.
3.anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.

*****

Now I’m in the business of secret notes. I can’t get enough of them. I’ve left them tucked under tree trunks in Spain for friends, taped behind picture frames for myself in India, and hidden for a number of other lovers and friends in corners and pockets around the world. Additionally, I’ve collected a number of such from my best friends which remain unopened inside the zip-pockets of my Kangaroo shoes; I like to fancy that these secret love notes give me magic feet. And some day, perhaps on a sad day, or perhaps on a triumphant day, I will open them. (Many such days have passed, but the right day has yet to come.) But anticipation is sweet, especially when, daily, worn on one’s feet. :)

So…

Quite natural was my evolution from secret notes to sacred talismans.

And that would all be the background behind the following, not-so-secret, note to my Parisian hostess and dear friend. In my departing-France haste, I was unable to edit and leave it under her pillow as I had originally intended. Not trusting of the Senegalese post system, instead I post it where I know she’ll eventually find it; here.

****

Dear friend,

As all mountains do, the Pyrenees hold wisdom, secrets, mysteries and magic that match only their looming size. Perhaps their proximity allows them to catch runoff from the rainfall of understanding from the heavens. Perhaps from their studious observation of all below them, they have the concluding peace of seeing the cycle of life full circle. Perhaps in their silence, they have simply heard all. I will respectfully leave this mystery so. But albeit tight-lipped, the Pyrenees do not selfishly guard this knowledge, but whisper, sing and sometimes even shout to those who, with open eyes, ears and hearts, traverse its reign.

Before I set upon my pilgrimage across the Pyrenees, I found a small silver scalloped seashell. Virginous to experience, and the energy with thus consecrated, I set upon the small task of transforming, through alchemy, this simply metal symbol into a talisman. At the bottom of the mountains, I put my ego on the ground, raised my offering to the Pyrenees and asked for their assistance in this quest, to which they graciously agreed. And thus, backpack on, talisman initiates in hand, I ascended. And as I did so, with chain wrapped around my wrist, and initiates dangling and dancing between my finger tips, I reached out and at the same time, touched and asked for the blessing of the following…

I touched the wild Rose petals, and asked for their velvet undulations of Grace. I touched the Thorny bushes and asked for their discernment on when to take defense and when to pardon those whom there is no place to tread against. I asked the Air for its Lightness and ability to at once traverse and fill all space. I asked the Sun for its ability to Warm all inhabitants, indiscriminately, around the world and I asked the Earth, underneath all, for its unconditional support. I asked the morning Sky for the awe it, daily, inspires and I asked the first Star of the setting night for the constant reminder of the unknown which behind it lies. I asked the wooded Forest for its shadowed Mystery and I asked the Dandelion for its simply Beauty. I asked the spider Web for its ingenious complexity and corner reminders of life’s Interconnectivity. I asked the Clouds for the wisdom of peaceful Presence and silent being. I moved a fallen sparrow from the road and asked that Death might always be held so respectfully, consciously and closely. I asked the falling Leaves for their ability to let go of life in a similar show of colorful Brilliancy. I climbed up sharp Rocks and asked for their Strength and Solidarity. I raised my arms up in the air, spread my fingers through the Wind, and asked for its inherent talent for touching all, but attaching to none.

And at the top of the rock, on a summit of the mountain, I sat down, closed my eyes, cupped this scallop shell in my hands and made a meditation: “Let this shell be
(only) a symbol; a portal and channel, through which its bearer may tap the fountain of the Divine and all these healing, protecting, witnessing, loving and inspiring elements.” At this, my hands began to pulsate as they were intuitively inclined, to find and beat in rhythm with the heart of All, once again — with mine — aligned. And in answer to my humble request, I took the congruent beating of this gavel in my hand, within my chest, and upon Divine’s desk, as a motion signaling a silent, but resounding, “yes.”

Dear Friend. Thank you for being a special messenger along my path. I hold the mirror of inspiration and hope for many, as magical, to cross your own. Representing my wish for all the blessings that Divine’s instruments can kiss upon your head, you will find the silver scallop shell pinned, to the pillow on your bed. May it add to the magic, guidance, grace and protection of all Earth’s elements, on this pilgrimage through the last, from this life to the next…

with undefended love,

sol

*****

So yes, Mom, and all other curious; I did successfully cross the mountains. The last four kilometers, (where I took a “wrong” path), were especially blissful as I walked through the forest’s full fall rainbow. There are new photos in the France album, but they are insulting impersonations of the reality I witnessed…

And while at the top of the Pyrenees, the Wind was a might force to reckon with, on my way down, she only chased me playfully. Watch…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS7TjMES2oU]

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in Le Chemin de Saint Jacques, gratitude, letters (my craft), magic & alchemy, on spirituality & religion, prose & ramble | No Comments »

love, picasso, parades & pilgrimage

Saturday, September 16th, 2006

So for the record, I am now officially giving exact change, correctly ordering vegetarian food, and making it three or (sometimes!) even four sentences deep into conversations. It’s probably not particularly exciting for anyone else, but these are achievements I’m eager to lean over the cake and blow candles out over.

When I was about seven years old, my older brother and sister came up with most ingenious idea to rid themselves of their pestering younger siblings; they made a fake “treasure map” that plotted out the forest behind our house as well as the locations of a number of secret, buried surprises. I’m pretty sure that our subsequent absence was barely noticed (as the nature of discretely disappearing annoyances usually is) until the day, months and millions of holes later, that we actually DID find a buried box, and to my mother’s horror, and our dogs delight, unearthed the bones of a former pet.

The digging stopped that day, but not my fascination with maps. And so I still, perhaps out of habit, ripped one of Paris out of a guidebook and delicately taped it into my journal. But out-out-of-habit, I haven’t taken a single glance at it in my three-day wandering walking tour of Paris. And this is what I have learned; to “stumble upon” the Royal Palace, Bastille, Opera House, Louvre, Notre Dame, Pointe Neuf, Eiffel Tower, Arc De Triumphe, Red Light District and the thousand other bridges, cathedrals, parks, museums, fountains, playgrounds, markets, tunnels, walkways, etc., is to add miles of magic and majesty to the unearthing of a destination. Paris is a gold mine of mind-blowing beauty. One would be challenged to dig anywhere without hitting. And, in three days aimfully wandering, I have yet to find a dead cat. ;)

If Paris and Parisians have the reputation for being arrogant, it’s only because they are rightfully so. They have mastered the recipes for the most aesthetic courses of architecture, food, drink, pleasure and love. Ah love. Today alone I must have seen a thousand thoughtful kisses delicately distributed to the foreheads, fingers, cheeks, noses and, finally (because I think the French know everything is done better in five courses), lips. I love lovers. For this reason I snuck up on a few…

I couldn’t help it! I spent only one day with my camera before I quickly and miserably resigned myself to agreement with the Mayan philosophy that, “taking pictures steals a piece of the soul” and since poor Paris, with all its too-obvious beauty, has had every angle shot more times than Kate Moss, it has resultantly been left flatter than the super model herself. But Paris would never stand for such pity; so I’ll stop. My point being only that the above shot was the single vision I captured with any warmth (still, I added a few lackluster attempts to the new France Photo Album).

I snuck up on a few more lovers at the Picasso museum.

Museums and churches, by the way, are generally not my up my agenda alley, but back when my imagination was bigger than my body, a particular Picasso hung in my bedroom that inspired a wave of reoccurring nightmares. And as is my approach to all fears – even those under the thick dust of years passed – I investigate. What I found in Picasso, was a passionate man with a mission in accord with all great artists, teachers, prophets and musicians; “to recreate the complexity of reality.” The question, as I see it, that we’re all struggling to recreate with either note, curve or word is, “what is it, the single element, the essence, that defines?” For if we can isolate that element, we will find it to be a single letter of the language of the divine. Picasso, by my interpretation (only), put the hologram of objectivity on canvas. He saw the multidimensional, and summarized it in a few, but scattered the pieces as to provide us only clues to the enlightened view. A scavenger hunt of secrets are our scattered perspectives, at best clumsily pieced together, as Picasso, a humbled man, knew.

A more modern glimpse of Paris blew a whistle in my face, when the ground started shaking to the tune of a mid-morning Techno Parade. The partakers had quite obviously started at least a day (or two) earlier in clubs that gathered their crowds while I was busy sleeping off my jet lag…

If you didn’t notice the headbands, Mohawks, legwarmers, colored hair, piercings, hi-tops, legwarmers, mesh gloves, day glow, ribbed leather jackets, rattails, shredded shirts, and plastic jewelry; let me just officially report from the front line that Paris is leading the charge on bringin’ the 80’s back. And I wave a jelly sandal in FULL support of this movement.

Now I kiss Paris’s two cheeks adieu, as my pilgrimage calls.

I will not be carrying a computer, or have regular internet access for the next five weeks, so please be patient with responses to any emails. I will have a journal to which I’ve committed to jotting my every observation and revelation down; these I will share here, at each opportunity afforded. Along with the pictures to match.

Now would be a very good time for me to send out some gratitude and good karma to WorldNomads Travel Insurance, who, thanks to their continued sponsorship of my travels, have so kindly replaced the camera that I had stolen during my last adventures in Guatemala. Pictures and video over the next few months are compliments of a Cannon S2, of which I’ll eventually give a review. She’s shiny, new, full of optimism and has no idea what’s become of the nine digital cameras before her; shhhh…

I leave with a quote from the one book I’ve chosen to bring with me on this pilgrimage;

“Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.” Joseph Campbell, Hero With a Thousands Faces

Thanks for embarking on this journey with me.

sol

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in gratitude, on love, on pilgrimage | No Comments »

soft spot

Tuesday, June 27th, 2006

(Evening update follows the original post.)

*****

The surgeon’s assistant finishes his explanation of the procedure and asks, “So do you have any final questions, concerns or requests?”

“Yea. My family knows me for having a tough heart and I’m concerned about what you’re going to do to it. Don’t put any soft spots in my heart, okay?!”

The doctor cocks his head quizzically as the joke threatens to make a dash over his head. The rest of the room, however, snickers, giggles and laughs loud enough to create the first echo of a ruckus that will later ignite the complaint of a neighbor and messenger nurse to “keep it down.” But if there’s one thing my father is known for not doing, it’s “keeping it down.” Not even the six valium he swallowed from the small paper cup can curb the adjective that the nursing staff have attached to the name and fame of the patient in Rm. 634; “ornery.”

Having been prodded and poked every hour throughout the night to gauge insulin levels, monitor rates, and prep the surgery, he hasn’t been allowed a sequential thirty minutes to sleep. My father looks gray and frail in the pale hospital gown and narrow bed, but the fiery resiliency of his spirit flares as he mumbles with eyes half closed to the 200 lb male attending nurse, “Let’s go out to the parking lot. I’m going to kick your ass.”

The audience (my family) goes off task and bursts out laughing again; It’s hardly the first time. While other waiting families clutch tissues and pat swollen eyes, my family turns a white laminated “heart healthy” menu around and proceeds to play “hang man” using the medical terms from the “Guide To Heart Patient Recovery.” The stick man is pathetically underdeveloped as my sister-in-law just recently replaced “Mrs.” with “Dr.” and I only get a head and one “X’ed” out eye before “Incentive Spirometer!” is correctly shouted out. But it’s during our tour of the CRU (Cardiac Recovery Unit) that we really begin to appreciate having a doctor in the family. While watching a myriad of machines assisting with the breathing, beating and bodily functioning of a recent patient yet to awaken, my sister-in-law swiftly cuts across our group to position my brother on the ground upon recognition that the color of his skin (green) was a go-light indicating that’d he was on his way to finding a much quicker and less conscious way to the floor. We find the space for seriousness when after reclaiming his normal color we agree to my brother’s request to, “not let Dad know that I *almost* fainted in the CRU until AFTER the surgery.”

Both of my father’s parents died while he was a still a young child. Raised an orphan, he dedicated 67 years to creating the family he never had while growing up. Right before my dad is wheeled through the double doors, his four children and wife pat his shoulder and whisper words of support and love. And I feel the recognition of his ultimate life achievement warm him.

In the waiting room I fall asleep. I dream of my dad. We are outside of the hospital and we’re surrounded by the dark and crisp freshness of a day before sunrise. He looks confused and stares through the dark to the horizon. “Dad, aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” I ask. He is completely calm. But he doesn’t answer my question. He just keeps watching the horizon. And it’s apparent that he hasn’t decided on the answer to that question yet.

I wake up.

It’s now 9:45am. The nurse just stopped by and told us that my father is on bypass and both his heart and lungs are officially on their first vacation in life from beating and breathing. Our own hearts skip as we too hold our breath – and wait.

*****

4:30pm

One visitor is allowed every two hours for 10 minutes in the CRU.

My father is awake and as I come closer he rolls his eyes, groans and chuckles.

The attending nurse says, “You know. He’s been giving me a hell of a time.”

I try to tame my laugh noticing that my father’s recently cut chest plate is heaving up and down in a motion only made possible by a sizable shot of morphine.

The nurse continues, “but you can give him some ice cubes if he’s nice to you.”

I pick up the plastic cup and select a few of the larger ice cubes and with a spoon move towards the parched lips of my dehydrated father.

He hesitates only long enough to say, just loud enough for the nurse to hear, “got any vodka for this ice?!”

He doesn’t drink. And he won’t remember this conversation.

But we all laugh out loud.

And the question in my morning’s dream is answered.

*****

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in gratitude, on love, on tears & loss | 4 Comments »

unbiased auspices

Sunday, June 4th, 2006

An hour passes by in minutes before the stranger and I finally inhale from our excited conversation when we are alerted, via a passerby, that the bus we were waiting for has stopped running. We laugh, swap names and numbers, hug and make a tentative date for me to shadow him (as a union organizer and activist) in the near future.

The boy throwing poi in the park is the most talented I’ve ever seen spin on any of the beaches on the five continents I’ve visited. I approach him, tell him so, and we pledge to find a plot of grass and time where, as his poi-disciple, he might share a few of the secrets to his skills. Before I have a chance to do so, he salutes me with, “namaste.”

Despite my reluctance to miss a night of salsa, I ditch my dancing plans because someone whom I’ve never met (via this site) has emailed me a note with the final (of three) omens indicating that I must attend a talk that night by a Swiss mystic named Manuel Schoch at Naropa University. After the class, a student of Manuel asks me if I’ll be attending the entire weekend workshop. When I tell him I can’t afford it, he tells me to speak with the director himself who, after hearing my story, puts his arm around me and says, “You just come. And tell anyone that tries to stop you to talk to me.” On the last day of the course Manuel “reads in my aura” a very powerful secret of my self-understanding that I have always known, but only with the help of his talented fingers of insight, was plucked and brought to the front of my consciousness.

Waiting at the bus station, I am composing in my head the prior post about “loving to be alone” when a gentle man that I recognize as being somehow mentally disabled approaches me. He speech is slurred due to an illness but I know that it is not as important for me to understand as it is for me to listen. And so I give him my full eye contact and attention. I can’t comprehend most of what he says but neither do his sentences have to string together in any perfect order for me to understand that it’s a story of his illness, of his father dying, and of his brother reluctantly taking over the care for him. For some reason, his last sentence is unexplainably coherent; “No one wants to be friends with a sick man; My life is very lonely.” I immediately recognize the impeccable timing of this message. Waving goodbye to my kind messenger from my bus, I bow down my arrogance and raise my gratitude to the blessing that, in my life, loneliness is a choice.

Despite the fact that I sometimes like to deny my connection to this country, the abundance of messengers and magic that I continue to find on a daily basis confirm that I have chosen, and walk, the correct path. Although my intuition nods with unclaimed certainty that I will spend a majority of the next few decades abroad, I know that one day, as is the natural progression of any personal myth, my walk will graduate and I will end where I began. And although I am still only a freshman at the school of life, having returned “home” for a short holiday break, I have equally fresh appreciation and hope for my future courses and they wind not only “away,” but intertwine my experiences and existences of “here” and “there” until there is no distinction between the three; as is the final examination in Quality of Presence that, as a perpetual student (too), I pursue.

———————————————
*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in culture, gratitude, magic & alchemy, on lonliness | No Comments »

silence squeaks

Tuesday, October 4th, 2005


bean and corn field outside of Nebaj

Like a child who has witnessed a tragedy beyond their vocabulary of comprehension, my mouth has been closed in silent surrender of the search for fitting words that don’t exist.

For who am I to speak? In every country I travel to, and with every firsthand story I hear, I am forced to look at the color of my skin, my country’s obvious inheritance, my deafness to ugly truths, my addiction to numbness, my aversion to action and realize that although I may be a witness, I am anything but innocent.

The following words aren’t mine; they belong to Santos and Santiago, our Guatemalan walking guides that led us through the Cuchumatanes mountains (and the history of the “civil” war) in the highlands of the Ixil Triangle in North Western Guatemala.

******

I indicate to the long grass growing in thick patches along the trail. Santos kneels down, grabs a patch of it, pulls on it to demonstrate its strength and begins to explain to me its history as he has done every other plant on the path…

“This is an excellent grass. It’s very, very strong. We used to use this grass to make roofs for our houses. The roofs would last through more than thirty years of sun and rain before needing to be replaced. But in the 80’s, when the army came, they too realized how functional these roofs were to their needs. They learned that by setting fire to these roofs, they could burn an entire village down with one torch. This grass still makes for a perfect roof, but we don’t ever dare use this grass for construction of our houses again. Now we use concrete, because it doesn’t burn.”

When Santos finds me admiring a purple flower with vines crawling low to the ground he explains, “Yes, it’s a beautiful flower. Its roots are edible. After the army burned down the villages, the survivors escaped by hiding in these mountains. The army killed all our livestock and burned down our bean, potato and cornfields as well, so we had nothing to eat. But our ancestors lived in these mountains, and we remembered how to live off of what grew wild. This flower’s roots are similar to that of a potato. We had no salt, but we mixed it with wild herbs and ate this for sustenance for the years that we hid in the mountains.”

When we pass through a small town, Santos stops to explain, “This is Acul. After they bombed it and burned it down, the Guatemalan government returned, resurrected it and called it the first “model village,” an example of a new order of discipline and development. They forced every man in the town to join the, “civil patrols,” which they instructed on how to clean the town of “subversives.” Anyone suspected of siding with or aiding the guerillas was tortured, murdered or “disappeared.” In this way the government turned neighbor upon neighbor and brother upon brother. In this way, they turned our people upon our people.”

We sit down to dinner in a small wooden house with dimensions no bigger than 20 by 8 feet. A brand new and full drum set takes up half the space of the house and an American flag spans the width of one wall. Obviously a son of this household has successfully crossed the border and is sending cash and presents home. I ask Santiago, our other guide, of the risks of trying to cross the border into the United States.

“Risks? Yes. There are risks. Many people die trying to cross the border. But what is that risk when you face death every single day of your life in Guatemala? When you watch your brothers and sisters die here of malnutrition, what is the risk of crossing the border to a country where you can make in one month more than what a Guatemalan can toil for twelve hours a day in manual labor to make in one year? “

He continues…

“When I was seven years old, my parents both died. I had four younger siblings. But they all died from malnutrition. To survive I went to the market and stole fruit; a mango, some bananas, a melon. I used to cut down branches from avocados trees and bury the fruits in the ground like a dog. Then I’d return in a few days and dig them up. I didn’t have salt. I didn’t even have tortillas. But I would eat the ripened avocados and they kept me alive. When I was 11, I went to the coast of Guatemala where I found work on a sugar cane plantation . After working for a month, I got my first money. I went out and used all that I had earned to buy two pairs of pants and two new shirts. And the next month, I had enough money to buy myself a pair of shoes. Wow, do I remember that day! I felt like I was in heaven. I was so proud that my new shoes felt like they never touched the ground.

It was always my dream to travel on ships to far away lands, so one day I went to the boat docks and asked for a job on one of the fishing boats. The boss gave me a job. And I was so happy. There, I met my wife. Before I knew it, I was married and had a new baby son. I was 18 years old. But I had nothing. No house. No land. We moved back to the highlands. My wife was pregnant again. I wanted to go to school and study. But then, one day, I realized that I didn’t want my children to live such a hard life as I did. I realized that they didn’t know how to work hard, but I did. So I decided that I would work hard my whole life so that I could provide a life to my children where they could go to school and reach the dreams that I always wanted for myself.

My first son, now he’s a policeman with a uniform and a motorcycle and a helmet and dark glasses. And my second son? In two years he will finish his schooling to become a teacher. And my baby girl; she knows how to type and is very good on computers. And you know what I have in my house? We have a toilet made out of white porcelain. Not even the teacher in my village has a toilet made out of white porcelain.

All I’ve ever wanted is for my children to have what I didn’t; for them to be able to purse the dreams that I couldn’t. You must respect your parents. For this is the desire of every parent, in Guatemala or in the United States; for their children to have the opportunities that they didn’t. It makes me crazy to see people fighting with their mother or father or brother or sister. For this is the only thing I still wish with all my heart. I would give anything to only be able to say to my family, “I love you, Mom.” “I love you, Dad.” “I love you, brother.” “I love you, sister.”

They are not here, and so I cannot tell them these things. But yours are. So don’t fight. Give thanks to God that you have your family. Respect them and tell them you love them.”

******

<More information on the massacres that took place in the Nebaj area in the early 1980s.

******

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Posted in getting political (warned), gratitude, guatemala, on fear | No Comments »

stalker or…

Thursday, July 7th, 2005

Making her first appearance in the Spain Album…

And then quickly popping up again in the Lagos, Portugal pictures…

Which smoothly moved into sharing a few hundred miles along The Camino de Santiago Pilgrimage….

And curiously enough, led to pictures of her with all of MY old friends working (also) as a photographer at Club Med in the Dominican Republic…

And suddenly sipping on sunsets with me again in Ecuador?

And just last week, brilliantly assisting me with my American re-assimilation in her homeland LA…

WHO IS THIS GIRL?

Oh yea.

My best friend.

******

(Who else would forgive me for publicly posting such pictures?)

******

Love you L.

See ya next continent.

******

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Posted in daily life on the road, gratitude | No Comments »

on fire

Wednesday, January 5th, 2005

(Noah Leaping)

My third grade teacher used to have a “mood thermometer” that rested on the wall in the front of the classroom with a big black arrow that she would slowly and deliberately slide over the rainbow of colors in relation to her, and thus our, general wellbeing.

Luckily, both her and my arrows spend most of their time kickin’ it in the cool-as-a glass-of-Blue-zone, but I’ll tell you what has sent mine racing to the other side of the rainbow where it trembles over the border of about-to-outburst-Orange and no-running-will-escape-my-rage-Red.

It’s this comment, that I have received in both written and verbal form, and from both family and friend, that makes me want to show my five-year-old niece how to throw a real proper tantrum…

“It’s just human nature.”

(Just typing it makes me clench my jaw and wring my wrists.)

“Chill out Sol. It’s just human nature to rape, burn, pillage, murder, exploit, destroy, be self-serving, lie, cheat, beat, and commit violent and horrific acts against animal, Earth and brother being. Look! We’ve been doing it for millennia. It’s just human nature.”

And in response to this comment, I think this;

Well then, if I am human, why is it not my instinct? If it’s my nature, then why does everything in my heart and soul scream out in protest when I see violence and exploitation flash across the screen? If it’s my human history, why do I weep at the thought of it continuing? And if it’s in my blood, why is it that although I have searched, I can not find this cell in my body or being?

And this is my conclusion;

Violence may very well be a provable fact of our horrific human history. But violence will not be reduced to a mysterious and unnamed, and oh so conveniently blamed, gene of my molecular construction. Not in my body. And not in my reality.

What baffles me most is why people point this finger? Why respectful, intelligent, loving, and compassionate people, who have never lifted a hand in a single violent act in their lives, will so lazily lift a finger to point to “human nature” and shrug it all off as “the way of the world.” Does it come from the couch of comfortable detachment? Give them a gun and they’ll put it down. But show it on TV and they’ll turn it off?

I just don’t know.

But I do have a finger.

And if you don’t mind. I’d like to point it right now.

Cause there’s another war going on in this world. And the people on the front line are not fighting with guns. And they’re not sitting on couches. And somewhere on their individual paths, they each realized that they could do more than take a trip to the ballot box to vote for tweedle-dee or tweedle-dum. They’ve seen it on TV but they haven’t turned their attention off. And instead of pointing one finger, they’ve taken action into their own hands, and employed all.

These are real people. They are all personal best friends and leaders of inspiration in my life. And when I am down in depression, or high in hate – or when my emotional gauge, for any reason, digs deep into the bloodier tones of red, it is THESE people, that send me, and my faith, soaring back to blue…

(AND, they are all Americans!)

*****

Meet Gregg…

With a collection of over 2000 exchanged emails, Gregg knows my heart and soul better than even I’d like to admit. In our 2300-something-th email, he informed me that he will soon be embarking on a 16,000 mile bike ride, from Alaska to Argentina, to raise money for the American Diabetes Association. In his own inspiring words;

“I can remember first dreaming of embarking on an extended journey through exotic and distant lands after reading JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit at an early age. This dream further solidified after years of learning about the explorations of scientists like Jacque Cousteau, Jack Wattley and Captain James Cook. As a child, I promised myself that I would embrace my dream in some form before settling into a long-term career or relationship. This promise also included a clause that disallowed a completely selfish pursuit of adventure, and that in some way, shape, or form its execution would benefit the greater good of society.

We began bicycle touring for the sense of adventure. Slowly, we realized that our efforts could help others. We also noticed that other charity rides spent considerable sums on maintenance and promotion, something we thought we could avoid. The result is Ribbon Of Road and our inaugural ride of the Pan American route.

We’ll ride to gain an intimate glimpse into the heart and sole of the Americas that can only be achieved on a self-powered journey. We’ll ride for the thrill of having each day be an adventure of its own. We’ll ride to take the risk of a road less traveled. We’ll ride to raise money for the American Diabetes Association and to help spread awareness of how global and how devastating diabetes really is. And in doing this, we’ll see a dream become real.”

< Read More about Gregg and “Ribbon of a Road”

*****

Meet Hanley…

I worked with Hanley for six months in the Guatemala city dump within her non-profit organization founded to provide an education to the children living in its squatter community. My own quote from a blog I posted years ago…

“The founder of the project, Hanley Denning, is probably the most devoted and diligent person I`ve ever come across in my life. I want to use the word “crazy” to describe her day and night dedication to the project. I`ve never, in three months, heard her speak on any subject that isn`t project-related. The Antigua office of the project is actually located in her house, which perfectly symbolizes how her life is consumed with her “work.” But how could it NOT? How could you NOT go “crazy” working from 5am to 10pm, 7 days a week, when you knew that your work meant the difference between 260 happy, fed, shoed and safe children – and 260 garbage-scavenging and glue-sniffing children? Hanley scares me. She scares me because she shows me the power and potential of what one human being can do. She scares me because she shows me the potential of what each one of us could do. She scares me because she shows me what I could do, if I were brave and selfless enough.”

< Read More about Hanley and project “Camino Seguro”

*****

Meet Slava…

Slava’s a personal little miracle worker in the world of Sol. He is right on top of my list of persons of perfect integrity and an absolutely inspiring example of altruistic attitude. One of his favorite little charities happens to be solbeam.com, which if it were not for Slava, wouldn’t be, for he has been donating the hosting of this site for four years running. Additionally, he’s also donated the team, energy and resources to build a new website for Hanley and her non-profit (see above) which we are still working on together. And as if this all weren’t enough (because it’s only the beginning), the mission of his new project in my hometown Portland, Oregon sends shivers of joy straight up my spine!

“Our mission: The Portland Peace and Justice Center is anon-partisan, not-for-profit organization working to advance global peace and justice by promoting local economics and grassroots democracy. Pledging to actively resist, we withdraw consent from forces of war and injustice. Believing that the most daring act of resistance in times of brutal oppression and war is to push forward, we choose to promote alternative answers to local and global problems. Strongly condemning all wars as immoral and grave crimes against humanity, we seek to advance global peace and justice.”

“What are you doing to change the world this summer?” Cause Slava is looking for riders for his new 2005 Portland Peace and Social Justice Bike Tour right now…

> Read more about Slava and the Portland Peace and Justice Center

*****

Meet Carla!

The first day I met Carla, we hugged before any words were exchanged. And the day I left her office (after she hired me to work my first LEAPnow semester), I cried in joy. She also is directly responsible for my inspiration to walk the Camino de Santiago. This woman is a mentor, example and inspiration in my life. Having spent 10 years leading semester abroad programs, she paved the path, and then opened the door and spread her arms wide to introduce me to the field of my own life calling: Alternative and Experiential Education. We both have chosen to focus our life missions on the youth, and her current project, The Mosaic Project, is another to make me throw a fist in the air for the good fight…

“The Mosaic Project, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, works towards a peaceful future by reaching children in their formative years. We unite young children of diverse backgrounds, provide them with essential skills to thrive in an increasingly diverse society, and empower them to strive for peace. We seed the future population of middle schools, high schools, and all the venues of adult life with thousands of individuals who can: appreciate others without diminishing themselves, identify and respond constructively to prejudice and discrimination, create and lead diverse teams to resolve conflicts across different perspectives, and build inclusive, just, peaceful communities.”

> Read More about The Mosiac Project

*****

Now meet Noah…

I met Noah at a crossing of life paths during our shared adventures in Ecuador. He flipped over my world with the steady and strong grace of his well practiced break dancing moves. The man makes magic with words, so I’ll let him use his own…

“My name is Noah Moore, and I’ve spent 19 of my 21 years in my hometown of Eugene, Oregon and the other two unaccounted for years in Peru and Mexico. My diagnosis of diabetes came on the day after Christmas when I was 16, and if any diabetes diagnosis could be called “well-timed,” I would slap the label on mine. Within months, the Oregon chapter of the American Diabetes Association offered me the newly created advocacy position of Southern Oregon Youth Diabetes Ambassador. The title, although sometimes too lengthy to remember, brought me speaking engagements and event hosting opportunities that I had never dreamed of, specifically because these opportunities involved large audiences and thus held nightmare status. I held the Youth Ambassador position for a number of years until sadly, I was alerted to the fact that I was no longer classified as a youth. Attending college at the University of Oregon, I slipped into an advocacy identity crisis, until now…

Mission: Get information to all diabetics living non-complacent lives.

I have had a nearly lifelong love for South America since my yearlong visit to Peru when I was four. This love, combined with a worldwide need for global outreach, has revved up the metaphorical outboard motor for my upcoming South American voyage. I plan to work as a correspondent for diabetic publications while engaging in the most non-complacent and atypical travel lifestyle possible. River raft guiding, trekking, breakdancing, and foreign advocacy work are some of the steps on the yearlong adventure ahead. The correspondence will be designed to increase the physical and mental wellbeing of diabetics who need influence and motivation the most; namely, youth. I will achieve this feat by providing articles that take the form of Q & A for youth regarding touchy subjects, an adventure travel log with reflections on diabetes, and a how-to manual for diabetics traveling or living rigorous and abnormal lives. There are so many facets to the journey you can’t afford to miss any of it. Diabetes doesn’t limit one’s life, but becomes a part of it.”

> Read more on NoahsVoyage.com

*****

And then there’s Renee(to whom I wrote and posted a letter of gratitude a few months ago)…

She absolutely changed my world by introducing me to veganism, anarchy, protest within the system, alternative versions of American history and a life of voluntary simplicity. She taught me to look closely at my own life, to reanalyze the consequences of my personal actions and means of living with new critical eyes. She is a living example of Gandhi’s vision and advice to, “be the change you want to see.” And the best part? She will stomp, scream, (or just) smile and sit in jail to do it. And while she’s quite anxious to get back to New York to take her power to the marching front line, in the meantime, her work for Planet Drum is still quite honorable;

“Planet Drum’s Vision: What approach can we take to move beyond environmental protests and actually begin living sustainably wherever we are located? Planet Drum was founded in 1973 to provide an effective grassroots approach to ecology that emphasizes sustainability, community self-determination and regional self-reliance. In association with community activists and ecologists, Planet Drum developed the concept of a bioregion: a distinct area with coherent and interconnected plant and animal communities, and natural systems, often defined by a watershed. A bioregion is a whole “life-place” with unique requirements for human inhabitation so that it will not be disrupted and injured. Through its projects, publications, speakers, and workshops, Planet Drum helps start new bioregional groups and encourages local organizations and individuals to find ways to live within the natural confines of bioregions.”

> Read more about Renee and Planet Drum

*****

Meet Christian…

In addition to a hundred other gifts, Christian is an acupuncturist, Thai Chi master, stunning salsa instructor, and one of the most eloquent, intelligent and innovate people I know. He’s taught me a turn or two on the dance floor in exchange for a few care packages from India full of precious natural medicines you can only find in Asia to help him with his new non-profit in Guatemala, The Calacirya Foundation…

“The Calacirya Foundation is an organization of international educators, volunteers, and indigenous communities participating in the exchange of knowledge across cultures. As indigenous cultures continue to be eclipsed by the modern world, now more than ever, the need is apparent to create an environment where students and teachers the world over may learn from each other. The Calacirya Foundation connects people from different cultures, the modern and the ancient, discovering and sharing the best of both worlds. The current focus of the Calacirya Foundation is the people of rural Guatemala. Hosting volunteers and sponsoring programs in healthcare, practical education, housing improvement, sustainable building and sustainable agriculture, the Calacirya Foundation helps people to help themselves.”

Christian’s in need of volunteers, if you’re looking for a place to put your passion…

< Read More about Christian and The Calacirya Foundation

*****

Meet Dwaba…

I helped Dwaba prepare the gardens for the children that live in her orphanage in Rishikesh, India. Dwaba is the woman, through her extraordinary example, that gave me the courage to finally and completely say “no” to an ordinary life path. I had given myself my own permission to start following my dreams, but she game me permission to continue to do so for a lifetime. Her mission and drive are the strongest I’ve ever encountered. Tell her no and she’ll show you her fist. She has the whole universe on her side, and she knows it. And it’s for this unfaltering bravery that I admire her so. A bit of her story…

“In 1991 a Spiritual Teacher in India suggested that I move to a small Ashram on the banks of The Ganga in the foothills of the Himalayas near Rishikesh. “Just be with the river,” he said, “and everything will be revealed there.” As days flowed into months what revealed itself was a large population of beautiful tribal people living in severe poverty and malnutrition, with no medical assistance available to them. The children bore this burden and many didn’t survive the harsh winters. Their situation weighed heavy on my heart and made it difficult to” just be” there without wanting to do something to help them in some way… but which way? I didn’t know how to help and I felt incapable of making any contribution that would make a significant change in their lives, and yet uncomfortable to remain there among them without doing so.

I began with one small free clinic / dispensary and one primary school. I was amazed to discover how much I could do with so little money and effort. Within a year there were 2 clinics and 5 weekly medical camps in remote villages. Things just seemed to create themselves if I could just trust and stay out of my doubting mind and keep saying “Yes.” The schools blossomed into 13 primary and two Jr. Highs with hot nutritious lunch for 600 kids everyday. Today we provide assistance to 68 rural, below poverty-line villages, serving a population of 12,000.”

< Read more about Dwaba and “Ramana’s Garden”

*****

And please meet Alex…

This man’s mug makes me want to hug the monitor! Alex was my wonderful co-leader for our shared semester in India. In addition to looking just like “lamb chop,” his optimism, vision, insight and intelligence stagger me in my admiration. Alex is a front line fighter, and his current project, “Citizens For a Better South Florida” owns yet another mission statement that will bring a smile and brighten any day:

“Citizens For A Better South Florida is a membership-based, non-profit, environmental education organization dedicated to improving our quality of life through instilling environmental awareness within South Florida’s diverse multi-lingual communities. Citizens for a Better South Florida was founded in 1988 as one of the first multi-lingual environmental education organizations in the United States. Our mission is to improve our quality of life through instilling environmental awareness within South Florida’s diverse multi-lingual communities. Over the past fifteen years, Citizens has designed experiential, multi-lingual education and outreach programs for students, teachers and community organizations, including activities such as community festivals, environmental field trips, curriculum development and trainings, tree plantings, workshops, in-class visits, and habitat restoration. We take a community-based environmental education and partnership approach to achieve our mission.”

> Read more about Alex and Citizens For a Better South Florida

*****

And people wonder where I get my inspiration?! I’m SURROUNDED by it! (For these are only the people who have websites!)

Humanity perhaps has a brutal history. But I REFUSE to excuse or continue such abuse as a simple matter of bad human habit. And Yes, Yes, YES! I DO have hope and faith and love for our future. First, I will be the change I want to see, because I know that peace starts in no other place but me. And second, I will surround myself with those that share the dream. For inspiration is like a single candle. The people attracted to it come as mirrors. What they see in the flame is a reflection of the flicker of a fire within. When two come, and the mirrors sit on either side, the light multiplies infinitely…me seeing in you, what you see in me, what we see in we. Inspiration is contagious. And the bonfire has begun.

*****

Passing the passion.

Igniting inspiration.

Sparking imagination.

With one shared vision.

Two hands at a time.

Lifiting up one heart.

A flicker and a flame.

Seeing in each other the same.

A divine dream inspired.

By a human heart consuming fire.

Posted in NGOs & service learning, books & travel recommends, gratitude | No Comments »

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