Category Archives: gratitude

on fire

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(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.

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sowing seeds

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Renee,

My time here is coming to a close and I can feel the slight pull and excited unease inside of me that comes at the end of each and every of my 3-month semesters in life learning. And before I start using that nervous energy to prepare for the next segment of my journey, I would like to properly wrap this one up. And to do that, I’d like to present you with a story and a gift.

First the story…

Once upon a time, in a small village on a beautiful lake in Guatemala, I went to a little house to have my story told to me by a Mayan shaman. I felt immediate kinship with the woman, perhaps recognizing something of my own spirit in hers. But is was not out of this sisterhood of spirit, or in anything that she told me about my life, that I received the important message she was to teach me. From a wooden shelf sitting next to us, something winked at me. I asked to see that which has shinned its silvery attention at me and she reached over, picked up the item, and dropped it into my hand.

It was the most beautiful stone I had ever held; Placed perfectly and uniquely in a set of silver in a style I had never seen before. And inside the large, oval, aqua stone was a swirl of misty white that could be interpreted by the observer according to her personal character, history and dreams.

“Oh this is incredible! I see the spotted eagle ray! Just as it is seen from the bottom of the sea looking up, with the beams of the sun backlighting and streaming through it! It’s the scene of one of the most beautiful visions I’ve witnessed in this life. And it’s all been captured right here in this stone!”

She took the necklace from me and searched the stone for my vision, but not finding it, re-placed it on the shelf behind her and informed me, “Hum. Yes. I like it too. A man came to my door one day and told me he needed money and asked me to buy a piece of his jewelry to help him out. He told me it’s supposed to bring me closer and keep me in communication with my soul mate. Anyway, are you ready to proceed with the reading?”

*****

Six months later I found myself sitting cross-legged and sipping chai in the back of a silver shop in Varanassi, India. I was taking silversmith classes from one of the most warm and wonderful men I had ever encountered on my travels; A man named Agam.

Agam taught me many things about how to use fire to blow out the shape, size and style of silver. But over our long nightly sessions (some of which we’d never even get to the silver) he’d also graced me with a glimpse of what it means to live life as an Indian through his personal experiences of arranged marriage, Hinduism, family life and work ethic.

It was during one of those nights that Agam delivered to me one of my most important lessons in life; Spreading out his arms to include the dozens of tiered shelves full of his silver work he told me, “…do not think for a minute that I do this work for money. I do nothing for money. I shape silver because I love to shape silver. Every link of every chain in this shop was made by my hand. Yes, they were made with these tools, but they were also crafted with patience, kindness, inspiration and love. Even if you forget everything I’ve taught you, please remember this; That it’s not important what you do or what you make in this life. The only thing that matters is HOW you make it, and that whatever you do, you do it with love.”

(And the gift…)

I sculpted many pieces of silver at the side of Agam. But this piece I present to you today, he sculpted at my side. I found the large, oval piece of aged Turquoise in his secret and dusty box of loose gems and stones. From the first moment I saw it, I was immediately reminded of the piece I had seen in the Shaman’s house in Guatemala. So I drew out what I remembered of the design and stone setting (of the piece that I had admired so) and then handed my sketch with the new stone to Agam. A few days later he proudly presented the crafted creation to me. When I put on the necklace, I indeed thought it absolutely lovely. And of course, more than the piece itself, I loved the love that the man who’d created it, had put into it himself.

But I noticed quite quickly over the following weeks an almost subconscious trend; Although I loved to wear the necklace, I was always also torn by the unexplainable urge to take it off. So finally one day I surrendered to this unclaimed will and gave in; “I suppose this necklace does not belong to me. To whom then does it, I wonder? I guess I’ll just wear it until I find out…”

Since that day, many people have approached me with compliments on the pretty piece of stone around my neck. And with each admirer, I tilted my head and asked myself, “Hum. Is it you?” For the important lesson that I DID learn from my interaction with the Shaman was that many things that you own, don’t belong to you — and some things that you don’t own, do.

But it wasn’t until a few weeks ago when YOU picked up the piece from my bed table that it smacked me in the head with the clarity of its obvious intention; This necklace belongs to you! And the reason I know it is so is because in the moment that you picked it up and held it, I saw in your eyes the exact same thing that the shaman saw flicker in mine; Some kind of unnamed, but certainly claimed, recognition.

So this is now your necklace. (I supposed it always was. I just got to carry it to you from India.) And how perfectly befitting! For the stone has always reminded me — in shape, color and depth — of the Earth itself, and I so dearly wanted a way to show you my gratitude for all the new worlds you’ve opened up and exposed to me. With such unending patience you have been my ever-compassionate teacher over the last few months in your introduction of me to the subjects of ecology, veganism, cooking, gardening, anarchy, activism and greenism. This last semester in life has been one of my favorites, and is always the case, it’s not the course, but the teacher that makes it.

I know that sometimes our little trees get eaten by grazing cows herded by lazy shepards. And I understand how frustrating it is that the municipal tells us something different every single time we try to figure out what public land we can and can’t plant on. And I sigh with you every time the 80-year old land-owners ask you out on a date after a restoration plan meeting. I also roll my eyes at the fact that the university students are constantly trying to sneak in and plant marijuana seeds in our greenhouse. And I know that no matter how often and early we rise, we can NEVER seem to find the compost man…

But I just want to remind you, that aside from the never ending and exhausting work you put into growing these trees, don’t ever forget the OTHER seeds that you plant in the minds and hearts of the volunteers, and in particular, those that you’ve sown (past tense of “sow”) in me; The seeds of good will, honesty, interest, consciousness, right-living, inspiration and integrity.

Agam will be delighted to learn that his piece has finally found its perfect place – on a person who is in perfect agreement with his work, life and love ethic. Thank you for planting with patience, kindness, inspiration and love.

Namaste (“recognizing the diving in you”),

sol

(sol’s travel photos) (about sol) (some sol stories) (LeapNow.org) (travel disclaimer) (packing list) (photogallery guestbook) (blogger profile)

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In This Life

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I once had a Life.

And in it there were cream colored carpets, umbrellas, sweet coffees, vacations, white gowns, red roses and a box at the end of my driveway that received in it, each day, neatly typed letters with my name spelled almost correctly.

And one night – I can´t remember which – a letter arrived.

“From My Soul, To My Heart”….with my name spelled right.

In the morning, the letter was gone, but the messages imprint on my mind and heart all too strong. It was an issue of emergency, requiring my most immediate attention. I packed up bag and Life — and set out on a mission.

Around the world we went, my Life and I.

Dancing on cream colored carpets of sand. Embracing the rain as we would the sun — arms spread wide, face upturned to the tide. Coffee from the bush – bitter, black and strong. Brief vacations “home”…hasty returns to the wild flower fields where Reality streaked red.

White gowns lost their allure — my attention caught by the whirlwind of white butterflies. Love – I found – was not of rings, but wings. And not confined to one, but ALL beings.

Dizzy in my flight, I did not see Time slip out the back door…

And one day, at the thud of an avocado on my tin roof, I woke up from reality.

Frantically, I dug through the depths of my bag, but my Life was not there. My heart raced down hallways disturbing dusty ideas that opened their doors, wiped the sleep from their eyes and replied, “no, we haven’t seen it (or you) for ages.”

Life. Was gone.

Something inside sunk deep in defeat. My hands, exhausted in their desperate grasp for the ungraspable, covered my face. My vision cupped in darkness, a single tear was shed. As I wiped the loss from closed eyes, the pain distorted view was cleared.

And before me I saw again — for the first time — my hands.

Curved in question marks of their own, I unrolled my fists and opened an observation…

What did these hands really want? Have they, for one second, ached to swirl elegant mixed cocktails? Craved to shake stiff handshakes with cold strangers? Wish to wither under the brashness of cuticle clipping manicures? Return to race on keboards at the pace of 80 words per minute? Do these hands feel inspired to autograph the thousands of neatly typed letters that come in the box at the end of the driveway with my name spelled almost correctly?

And did these hands — calloused by labors of love, naked of paint but colored in a shade of the sun, scarred by escapees of the full moon campfire…Did these hands, that know the beat of the drum as it resonates with the pulse of passion, did they really LOSE Life? Or had they in fact, in their release of the shadow of another’s dream…..FOUND it?

“Seen through at last!” my hands sighed in guilt-ridden relief.

New life tingled in the tips of eager fingers as I picked up a pen, and approached the white slate to begin…

“In THIS Life…”

In my old Life I did everything right.

Everything forward, in order, upside, and even.

Obeying logic, law and sense,

In accordance with rules and reason.

But that Life is gone, and now I start again.

And I watch my hand shake…

On the adrenaline of Intuition?

At the potential of embarking upon a clean slate?

Something stirs deep inside.

And it screams to scribble.

And so I do this;

I take down my white slate from its right-side up stand,

And I put it wrong-side down on the off-white colored sand,

And I note with curiosity,

where its square corners and straight borders….dissolve.

Into their proper place; Into obscurity.

Ah! I observe.

THIS is a very good sign.

And then I put down my pen,

And I pick up my paints.

For THIS life, I decide,

Will NOT be confined to black and white.

I pick up Green and begin,

In THIS Life I shall do everything wrong.

Everything backward, out of order, downside and odd.

Obeying heart, soul and intuition,

In accordance to the voices of spirit and inner vision.

In pursuit of the magical, mystical, and mysterious

A step behind my spirit to light all that is curious,

A new alliance of heart, body, mind and soul,

Set about on a mission to bring the cycle full,

Open eyes, perked ears, eager fingers stretched to embrace,

That which guides the orchestra for the first time I face,

And to pick up my own instrument of that which resonates musically,

With Truth, Self-Consciousness, Inner Spirit and Integrity.

But I have much work yet to look back upon,

So that the shadow of custom on the future won’t cast on,

Cobwebs must be swept and windows opened to expose,

The dusty corners of ideas that I always supposed.

Time to turn the light on, to that which I’ve been told not to do,

I pick up Gray, and think back to continue…

No more answers or definitions, but lots of animated banter about Why?

I’ll believe in my dreams, and recount the silliness of Life.

No more Yes, No more No. Letting silence just be.

Complimenting the quiet with smiles and cocked brows of curiosity.

Time not confined to a cell of 60 small seconds.

Letting the rooster caw attention to where it begins and it ends.

No half truths. No hidden truths. No flat out lies.

Only holding to that which rings true to the voice deep inside.

No more guilt. No more shame. No more hidden internal pain…

Due to rigid arms with fingers pointed at reasons they can’t name.

No being told not to talk, not to touch, not to hold.

Learning first hand from the bite, the sting and the cold.

No shame for what I don’t know, but pride for who I can be,

Honesty with and health of self, only My responsibility.

No talking proper, being silenced, no sitting straight and mundane.

No secret whispers hushed, no dancing told to tame.

No blushing over sex and the pleasures my body brings,

Expressions of Love allowed to sing, allowed to scream.

No rules on the order of who, what, when, where and why.

Reveling in the beauty of that which can’t be defined.

No clinging to far away futures, or doubts about my path,

Cupping gently each moment with respect before it’s past.

No more believing in history books because their voice is in print.

Becoming my own Truth detective, delighting in the chase of each hint.

No more accounting of Life in simple years passed by,

Validating my existence in sweats, screams, smiles and sighs.

No more pink, no more blue, no more sexual definitions of Who,

Each to her own path of discovering exactly who is You.

No more tall, no more short, no more fat, no more thin.

My spirit can hardly be confined to the body I’m in.

No more black and no white. No more wrong and no right.

Knowing all shades of gray only depend on the light.

No more scoffing at magic. No disclaiming daydreams.

Both exist in realms where what Is doesn’t Seem.

No more participating in traditions that I don’t understand.

But treasuring those with meaning I can grasp in my hand.

No more planting in zones of comfort and security,

Drifting on a wind of change as would the flower’s seed.

No more borders or barriers or titles to land,

Claims to ownership melting as a wave on the sand,

No more taking tickets and waiting in line for a Life,

Getting lost in the isles and in its pursuit finding delight.

No more sightlessly following the letter of law or of rule,

Asking my inner spirit for guidance on how I should choose.

No more bicker and banter about what’s real and what’s not,

To each to her own on what’s found and what’s sought.

Blue not confined to one single color dye,

But falling on a spectrum of shades of water, bird and sky.

Not just applauding the single moment the sun sets,

But encoring the night show for which the deepest sighs are kept.

No more bombs on the personal or war line fronts,

Fighting brutally for peace with unconditional Love.

No more TV, or movies or envying celebrities,

Finding the adventure in my own life, and meeting the Hero in me.

No more gossip or assumptions of those I don’t know,

Turning that energy to learning on instead how I might grow.

No more self-centered worlds based on “I” and on “me.”

Turning to “us” and to “we” and the web of our interdependency.

No more filling in voids with material toys,

Filling my chest with Truths that to only my heard I can hold.

And with new light cast from the past to the present,

Perhaps it’s time to extend from what isn’t.

Addressing what can be of the future starting now,

I pick up Yellow, and allow my thoughts to follow…

I will slow down my step and reach out to the wall,

No moment worth rushing, but to each attention being called.

I will congratulate death, recognizing it as pregnant with Life.

And hold every product of my being as gently as a child.

I will say sorry first, and get in line last,

Knowing Time is not limited to Present, Future and Past.

I will talk with my eyes and hear with my heart,

Understanding Truth as a 6th sense of creativity and Art.

I will feel my body, even when there is no pain,

I will dance without music, and laugh without aim.

I’ll celebrate birthdays as I would any other day,

But I’ll celebrate EACH day, as if it were the 1st day.

I’ll never reject a gift, even those I don’t need,

Knowing it’s a gift to the Giver that I happily receive.

I shall stare at the stars blankly for hours on end,

Enjoying the mental play they inspire and the questions wherein.

I shall value the life of an ant as my own,

Our similarity respected, our interdependency known.

(To Be Continued)

And with blue, I conclude;

With this promise,

I thee wed.

To Love thee Life,

Till my deathbed.

A material bundle you no longer are.

Not lost from my bag,

But a promise of the heart.

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Lost in Found

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Spain Photogallery

There are times in my travels, when I simply stop and sink hard into the present moment. The world, for timeless seconds, spins around me — and in that dizziness, all I can do is smile and send my thanks to every single thing, person, place or event in my life that has led me up to that very moment.

And one of those precious moments came to me last night.

It’s 2 am and I sit on a stool in a small bar, drinking a white-wine Sevillian concoction with “compañeros” I met in the street the day before. I suddenly realize that I have been speaking only, and fully comprehending, Spanish for over six hours. This realization is enough to startle a solid smile. A song comes on the radio, and Alex disappears behind the bar and returns with a type of box drum, of which he sits upon and begins to bang out the pulse that resonates with the heart of life in Southern Spain; Flamenco. The rain beats outside on the street in unison. Juan pulls me up off my stool and demonstrates to me the “paseos basicos” de Flamenco. A few minutes later, my arms are in the air, and his chest is puffed out in the manner of the Matador. We “dar vueltos” and stride around each other in pace to the “feel” of the music. Juan, in a rusty and enchanting voice begins the song. The couple that owns the place kiss silently behind the bar.

Alex is lost in his beat. Juan is lost in his song. The couple are lost in their kiss. And I am lost in what I have found.

For this is it. This is one of the moments I’ve been seeking all my life. And finding such a moment is comparable to that high I receive on the salsa dance floor. It’s like I’ve grasped hands with life, followed its lead into six consecutive turns, and fallen into a dip. I watch the world turn upside down, come back up, and smile out loud in the dizziness that ensues.

For this moment alone, I have lived. And for this moment again, I pursue.

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i claim them all

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She has found yet another minute to put her fingers to practice….

And the update is brief…but inspired. For there is nothing like a momentary, but acute grasp on those few paralyzing, but surprisingly conscious moments, that separate a person from one life to the next. What am I talking about? A car accident. Or rather, a “petite” crash with a grand spread of devastating outcomes – all of which were *so gratefully* unrealized. A few thousand dollars worth of damage covered by an invaluable rental car insurance contract. A precious realization of the inestimable price of life.

Today I finished reading “A Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley, and this is the quote that I copied into my journal:

“I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry. I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.”

Real danger I got. Startling, nerve-wrecking, dollar-depleting, life-appreciating Danger. And I can tell you this; this evening when I sat under my palapa and watched the full moon rise over the ocean, my list of things to love and be grateful for was lengthened by at least a chapter.

And while making that list I realized this…

I was in a car accident. And in that same 24 hours I also: discovered a new city; danced merengue in a cave; went skinny dipping; met and chatted with the Ambassador of the United States for the Dominican Republic; tasted for the first time a tomato-based chocolate soup; had a first kiss; visited the Casa de Colon; and drank two truly fantastic pina coladas on a beach bar with a best friend. And there’s where I found the rhyme and rhythm of my poem.

For I never asked for comfort. And Lady Risk is politely recalling this fact — whispering into my ear, and reminding me to swallow my dose of danger with my glass of God and food of freedom. Such is the price of living life. And I’ve signed on that dotted line.

“I claim them all,” said the savage at last.

Counting all of her beautiful blessings,

Sol

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Letter to Leah

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I roll over and pull the wool blanket closer around my head. I’d adjust the blankets to tuck around my feet…if I had the strength. But I don’t. I don’t have the strength to reach my water bottle. I don’t have the strength to put on an extra pair of pants, like I’d like to. I don’t even have the strength to call for assistance. I don’t have the strength to pull myself out of bed and walk twenty feet to the bathroom. But I do. And every muscle in my body screams from fever pain as I do. My brain swells against my scull as I rise, and I have to keep one hand on the wall for balance. The stomach cramps start kicking my insides out and propel me forward. I make it to the bathroom, but on my return I actually stop and fall to my knees in exhaustion. I listen and notice that no one is home. No one here to help me if I pass out, which I suddenly realize is a serious possibility. I stare at my hands. Despite the gallons of water I have drunk, they are cracked from dehydration and purple under the nails from cold. I stare at them for a long time, procrastinating the rest of trip back to bed. The chills race up my back and through my hair and help me muster the energy necessary to make it back to the temporary warmth of my bed.

This was my condition for roughly thirty-six – fever-and-cramp-ridden and thus, mostly sleepless – hours. Thirty-six hours spent wondering if I’ve ever, in all my amoeba days, felt to absolutely and completely terrible. Thirty-six hours spent in astonishment that my body had failed me and so violently violated my trust in it. Thirty-six hours not having the will or desire to appreciate a single thing in life. Thirty-six hours spent only asking for mercy for all those people in the world that suffer like this every single day of their lives.

IT hits me. But I don’t have the energy to cry about IT. Not yet.

I rustle through my backpack and find in my medical kit an old set of antibiotics I picked up last year in Guatemala. I read the instructions in Spanish and it says the pills say will kill a list of six different intestinal parasites. I’m not diagnosed, but I’m desperate. I take half the dosage…and wait.

I tell my mother every few hours that I feel a little better. She knows I don’t. What she doesn’t know is what a comfort JUST her presence provides.

The next day I take the second half of the antibiotics. “Fast and Effective” the box claims. I pray so.

Twenty-four hours and liters of water later, I’m finally re-hydrated again. The fever is gone. The abdominal cramps are gone. I don’t feel “good”, but I can smell the pine, I can hear the birds and I can feel the warmth of the sunshine. Energy has come back to me.

Enough energy to cry.

I have a friend. A best friend. Once upon a time we lived together in San Diego — where the boys would line the boardwalk every day at sunset just to catch a glimpse of the 5’10 figure with bronzed skin and golden hair *that trailed her body by four feet* as she coasted by with the ocean breeze on her skateboard. Even more beautiful than her appearance though, was her stride in, and appreciation of, life. The first person I have ever met who could grasp a moment – a really nice moment – right at its peak and give it love. Recognize it for the minute of bliss that it brought. Most people don’t seem to recognize the best moments of their lives until they’ve passed. But she didn’t. She felt them, and she loved them, AS they happened. Maybe it was her unique ability to be so susceptible to the highs of life that made her so susceptible to the lows. For she had pain. She had terrible migraines. I knew they were in town when her door would close for all daylight hours and she’d emerge from her eye-cover only for a pizza-pocket, a Dr. Pepper and an episode of Friends. Those days started off only once a week. By the end of our year living together, they were four days of week. But she still had life, beautiful life that could not be denied, and her special way of grasping it by the minute.

This was the condition I left her in when I kissed her goodbye on my way out to Guatemala.

We passed email updates throughout the year. Her letters were mostly comprised of under- exaggerations of the pain she was in and crazy tales of the multiple doctors and treatments she was experimenting with. Her “migraine days” increased to seven a week, thirty days a month. She couldn’t go to work. She couldn’t skate the sunsets. She couldn’t get out of bed. She moved to her parent’s home to meet more doctors, go to more pain treatment centers, and take new meds and have new surgeries. But none eased any pain and no one provided any answers.

How many times could I tell her I was sorry? How many times could I urge her to keep hope? How many times could I tell her I loved her and would do anything for her? And would be “there” for her…when I was thousands of miles away? It hurt. All I could be was honest and supportive.

Today, right this minute, she is in pain. Pain that is constant and unrelenting. Pain that weakens you and wrestles constantly with your simplest will. Pain that numbs the senses from feeling the beauty in life. Pain that deeply violates the agreement your mind made with your body upon birth. Pain that makes you fall on your knees in exhaustion and beg for mercy. Pain that consumes your soul.

Pain that I didn’t have an inkling of an understanding about until three days ago. Pain that I experienced for less than two days. Pain that you, Leah, have lived with every single day of your life for years. Pain that you live with this very moment….when I don’t.

So I cry. I cry because I’m so sorry I didn’t understand your pain…. and that I never really will. I cry not only for you, but for all those in the hospital beds next to yours. I cry because I’m out here realizing all my dreams, and despite all that pain (that you don’t talk about), you just keep cheering me on from a hospital bed. I cry because I wish there was something more I could do for you than cry. Well there IS one tiny little thing I do.

I take you with me. I take you with me up every Guatemalan volcano peak. I take you with me to every Thai sunrise. I take you with me on every dive in the Caribbean sea. (And you’re coming to Fiji with me this week.) For you taught me how to “grasp” the moment. To seize it, and appreciate it, AS it happens. To hold it for just for a minute, sigh, smile, and love it. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received. And I think that if someone told me that I’d given them the best gift they’ve ever received, well…that’d make me really happy. And if someone told me they thought of me every time they did something wonderful or saw something pretty… well, that’d make me happy too. And more than anything in this world, and more than any person in this world, YOU deserve a little happiness.

I miss and love you Leah.

(Please, no emails regarding this post.)

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on inspiration

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Inspiration is contagious. Pass it on.

The “L” and “F” words I have no problem with. It’s the “I” word that never ceases to humble, motivate, challenge, influence, move and shock me.
“Inspiration”
*There. I’ve said it.*
When I think about the people who have inspired me, I do so with the utmost respect and admiration. And I also do so with endless gratitude — for they are the people that have inspired me to push my boundaries and take the chances that have led me to become the person I am. When I think about it, those people just seem to have walked into my life, at JUST the right moment, and with JUST the right message. And those messengers, through the magic of inspiration, have led my life in directions I didn’t even know existed. I’m in awe of their influence on my life.
So imagine my surprise when I started to get letters in my solbeam@solbeam.com inbox with messages that included the “I” word.
*astonishment*
Someone’s giving me the “I” word? The idea that anything I’ve said has been an “inspiration” to anyone never fails to shock me. This whole project has been for my own personal enjoyment, I love doing this. Adventuring, writing, sharing — this site — it’s all simply a reflection of my personal progressive development. That someone might actually find something useful from my blogging-banter *although astounding* brings me great happiness and makes every inch of energy, every penny of investment, and every keystroke of type – worth it.
Inspiration is contagious. And I’d like to share my own story of how I was first inspired to make travel a priority in my life.
Around March of 2000, I was on this little ferryboat on the Southern Coast of Brazil, a few hours south of Rio near an island called Ilha Grande. There I met a group of Aussies. One of the guys was named Saxon. Saxon didn’t say a word for the first few hours that I sat next to him but I could NOT keep my eyes off him. He had this calmness and peace about him that reflected he had “seen” and “heard” enough things in his travels that he had learned the values of listening and quiet observation. That look that I saw in his eyes — that I had never seen before — was amazing. Inspiring. And I wanted it.
“Complications” arose with the boat and there was no way we were going to make it back to catch our connecting ferry to the mainland. My pack, money, and passport were all locked up at a hostel hours away. All I had was my bikini. Two of the girls I was with decided to try to make it back to the mainland. I decided to spend the night with the Aussie boys on this essentially deserted (one extended family lived there) part of the island. I waved the ferry boy and his boat on…knowing full well that he was probably not going to come back, and there was a good chance I was going to miss my flight home to the States.
I could write a book about that that night on the island, but in short, that night was one of the best of my life. I can’t even begin to describe the magic that was present. I remember all the sights, smells and sensations of that night as if it were yesterday, but most of all I remember the influence of that overwhelming peace that radiated from this Aussie boy who had been on the road for over a year and a half. Saxon inspired me. It was that day that I made some serious promises to myself in regards to what exactly was going to happen in my life over the next year. I scribbled all these plans and goals out in my travel journal, and collapsed in the relief of finally making the decision to follow my heart. All I had to do now — was make it happen.
The day I announced my resignation to CC (about a year later), I e-mailed Saxon for the first time and told him that I had bought a one year ticket to Central America. I then told him exactly how he inspired me and expressed my appreciation. This is what he wrote back:
“Thank you for the greatest compliment one could receive. Inspiration is a powerful thing and, to the soul, more precious than all the diamonds on sandy African beaches. I hold my inspiration in the highest regard because with all of them collectively you can move the world. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Now, two years later, I can smile in a silent and consuming confidence that I have realized those promises I wrote out in my journal that day; Promises inspired by the silent and consuming confidence I saw in Saxon’s eyes. So I understand the power of inspiration. And if I have sent out one message to one person that has moved them a fraction of how I was moved that day in Brazil a few years ago, I will be hopelessly happy. So don’t thank me. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

(That unforgettable night in Brazil.)
See All Brazil Pictures

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stick men with guns – confession of an armed robbery victim

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Stick Men With Guns

Confession of an Armed Robbery Victim

Place: Livingston, Guatemala

Date: May 9th, 2001

Time: 11:00 a.m.

Stina was my hostel hammock neighbor. She and I exchanged introductions in the morning over shared banana bread and it was quickly decided that we would motivate our hammock-numbed bums to go see a “legendary” 7-tier waterfall called “The Seven Altars”. We pulled out the lonely planet guide and read, “a beautiful, serene and safe 1-hour hike along the beach to one of the most magical spots in Guatemala”. We stopped at a tour agency in town and I inquired as to if the trail was indeed safe or if a guide was needed. “Completely safe” the agent told me and she pointed on a map where to start the walk. We ran into a guide I had met the night before on our way down to the beach….”It’s safe right?”, I asked again. He waved us off with a smile….”totally safe…no worries.” We threw some snacks and bottled water in our bags and made our way to the ocean. Within an hour, we had reached the end of the beach. We had been told to look for a path into the jungle, and that 15 minutes along it we would find our magical waterfall. Well, we found two paths, one leading up….and one leading down. We opted for up and 15 minutes along the path we found the awe-inspiring “Seven Altars of Mud and Mosquitos”. Whoops. No one had told us that in the dry season there wasn’t actually any WATER in this FALL, but rather just dried out ponds floating under fluffy clouds of mosquito-mating-heaven. BUT the smell of a heated and wet jungle happens to be my favorite, and in combination with the snow-like fall of white seeds from a particularly interesting tree in it’s own season of heat, was enough to arouse my attention and interest for a good hour. After the mosquitos had eaten their full of our blood and we were craving a lunch of our own, we decided to make our way back. We ran into two young American girls with a local guide on our way out. We exchanged hellos, made dates for evening drinks and progressed DOWN the *other* trail that they had taken.

Five minutes down this trail I glanced up from the rock and tumble and saw two men with guns running down the trail that we had climbed an hour earlier.

My heart stopped. (My heart stops right now as I write this.) When it chose to beat again, it did so at double pace. My stomach dropped with nausea.

*Robbery. Rape. Rape. Robbery. This is how it happens. I’m going to be robbed. I might be raped. This is happening. Look around. What am I going to do. What are my options.*

My thoughts are rather sane and calm and I’m astounded at this fact. I look around. Ocean. Small path over rock. I realize the men were waiting to jump us on the path that we took earlier, and are running to catch up with us as we foiled their initial plan by changing routes. Stina sees the men, but she doesn’t realize what’s going on. I stop her from walking and I look the men in the eyes as they approach. They stop five feet away and the one in front half-smiles and waves us forward…

“Pase Adelante”

For one second, my heart eases at the idea that this JUST might be some type of police. After all, we see men with big guns every single day, strolling the streets, in pick-up trucks, outside of every bar…..

He raises the rifle up and points it at us as we pass.

We stop. So does my heart.

*Remember what he’s wearing. Blue pants. Green shirt. Rape. Short straight hair. Mustache. Machete in his belt. Rape. The other man is skinny. Blue shirt. Blue pants. Younger. 20′s? Black boots. Rape.*

He motions with his rifle towards my bag.

*$500 dollar digital camera. Gone. He won’t have any idea how to use it. It can’t be used without the parts I have in my room. What a waste. How do you say that in Spanish? Rape. Where can we run?*

He pulls out the camera and turns it over a few times. He takes out the money. He takes the pocket knife. He hands me back my bag. He motions his gun towards me again. Towards my pants.

*RAPE, RAPE*

My mind screams for two seconds before he motions again….towards my pockets. I understand. I pull them inside out and show them they are empty. The skinny man empties the bag and pockets of Stina.

The first man motions for us to walk. We walk.

There is a man with a gun pointed at my back. I walk.

*Do we run. Will they shoot us if we run. Will they shoot us anyway. What will I see if I look back. This is how it feels to have a gun pointed at my back. If I die, these are my last thoughts, these are my last feelings.”

We walk. We don’t turn around. We walk fast. And then, we run.

We reach the beach and stop three pairs of travelers on their way….we tell them what happened. It’s almost like they don’t believe us…or like they don’t WANT to believe us. None of them want to walk back an hour without seeing the altars. They all have to sit down to think about it. As if there is a decision to be made? It’s shocking to me.

Stina and I stop at the nearest restaurant on the beach. The waiters see it in our eyes. We try to tell them the story in my limited Spanish while they call the police, but it’s useless, both our Spanish and calling the police. We find ourselves ACTING out the scenario…and it’s SO silly, we break out in hysterics. We laugh. We laugh until we cry. After our laughing fit, the waiter offers me a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I take it and stare at my shaking hand. The police never answer the phone, so we leave. On our way back to town we see a motorized cart with three men in police uniform. We chase them down the street and try to tell them what happened. They take us to the “station”, a small open-aired room with a desk and a note pad. One officer sits at the desk. Two stand at the door asking us questions. Stina speaks no Spanish. I try and end up resorting to my game of charades, but it’s not their game, so I give a shot at Pictionary instead. I grab the note pad. I draw stick girls walking on the beach, on the trail, at the altars, and walking back. I draw stick men with guns. I make small sound effects as the stick men run down the path toward the stick girls. I draw stick machetes and a stick man with a stick mustache and stick boots.

They ask me my mother’s name. And my mother’s maiden name. And my father’s name. An officer takes the blank note pad and writes, “Victim, daughter of Mr and Mrs….”. I’m baffled as to what my parents have to do with this, but just shake my head and laugh again. There are eight policemen now. They pass around my stick men drawings, chatter and laugh. Then they tell us to go home and pick up the report in the morning.

It isn’t until we return to our hostel that we remember the American girls that we met at the altars. We find them sitting on the stairs of our hostel. Their shoes and bags are gone. They have cuts and scratches all over their hands, arms and legs. They tell us that as soon as we left, three men with rifles and ski masks on, jumped them. The armed men told the local guide to stand up. They told him they were going to kill him. He stood up. And he ran. And then, they too, turned and ran. Through the jungle. They left everything. They had heard gun shots later and had been worried mad about us.

Place: Antigua, Guatemala

Date: January 27th, 2002

Time: Now

So that`s the story. I’ve summed it up into five sentences at least a hundred times since that day, each time with a laugh or a no-big-deal air. People ask me where my digital camera is and I tell them I donated it to the black market or gave it away to a nice man I met in the jungle who had a gun. But my ease and humor with the events of that day are false. This is my confession.

When I arrived in Guatemala ten months ago, I had read all the Embassy warnings. I excused most of them as over-exaggerations on the part of the media and rationalized with, “Nothing`s fun if there isn’t a risk involved!”. I tromped through my travels with a pair of sun glasses, courtesy of American society, that painted the world school-bus-yellow, the color of that seemingly impenetrable sense of security I was raised to believe in.

Seemingly.

Sometimes when I see those glasses on other fresh travelers, I don`t know which I do more…. resent them or long to wear them again. But those glasses came off that day in the jungle. Those glasses were thrown in the garbage can in the following eight months when I heard dozens of other first hand tales of gun and knife point robberies. Those glasses were pulled from the garbage can and cracked in half when I witnessed the before and after face of a rape victim. And those glasses were cried over when a friend was murdered in a robbery so like my own that it raised an entire set of questions I’m still trying to answer. I see my old confidence in others’ eyes. And I want it back. I want to NOT have to take a taxi for a few blocks because the street is dark. I want NOT to have to skip out on a hike because there have been reported attacks recently. I want NOT to cross streets to avoid suspicious cars or persons. I want NOT to second-guess a person or car in trouble. I want NOT to doubt the intentions of a person’s hospitality.

But more that I do not want those things, I do not want to walk away from my experience without accepting my lesson. And my lesson was to find that delicate balance between safety and adventure. Awareness comes at a price. And honestly, I know that my price was small. I`ve heard my story a dozen times with terrible endings, with the ending that my mind was so silently screaming in my head that day in the jungle. My price was only an expensive camera, some cash and a pair of yellow-tinted, American-made false-sense-of-security-sunglasses. Those things add up to a penny compared to the value of my life and health. I like to think that the swap from sunglasses to bi-focals hasn’t hindered my passion for travel, but only expanded my peripheral vision, for there are a lot of things still in this world that I intend to see. Meanwhile and moving forward, I will just continue to walk this tight-rope of safety and adventure, learning through experience, how to find my balance.

(For those planning on traveling Guatemala, I HIGHLY recommend heeding these precautions. From my experience, they are right-on the mark.)

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ode to mom

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“Madre De Sol”

Note: On Mothers Day, I called a taxi to pick me up at the Ranch and take me to town so that I could post this blog. I waited for an hour outside the door of the only office in the city that had ONE computer with internet access, before a man came by and told me that the boy who runs the office had decided not to come to work that day.*Then, based on his guess and my whack *but getting much better* Spanish, I scouted the town in the pouring down rain for a mythical computer school. BUT as with every flower pot, coupon book and crayon scribble posted on the fridge, MOMS, of all people, know it´s the thought and effort that count.

(Same rule applies for the following silly ryhme.) Aren´t moms lovely?

*clears throat*

Madre de Sol

(An unmetered, unprofessional poem for Mom.)

An easy job,

it certainly was not,

to answer to “mom”,

by the little sol-tot.

Dance classes, piano lessons,

girl scout cookies galore.

basketball, volleyball,

at every game, keeping score.

Crazy eights and yahtzee,

A million games we must have played.

Hour after hour,

her enthusiasm without fade.

Long weekends out camping,

chili burritos under stars,

story telling in tents,

and singing games in the car.

“Big Fish”, “Salty”, and the “Billy Goat Gruff”,

“again mom!, again mom!”

Never getting enough.

The uncanny ability,

to pull the invisible from the fridge,

Bags full of bread,

to feed the ducks by the bridge.

“Fish eggs” in tapioca,

and “sour” mushrooms she´d swear.

Question her honesty,

we never did dare.

Pancakes she made for me,

everyday for three years.

She knew it was a phase,

and never did fear.

Trips to the Dairy Queen,

and other special treats.

As a “cone-cleaner-upper”,

she couldn´t be beat.

Circuses, zoos,

parks, parties and more.

Always a quick answer,

to “Hey mom…I´m bored.”

At the front of the church,

tamborine in her hand,

“The Principal´s Daughter”,

…always proud did I stand.

And today all grown up,

my imagination still runs wild,

because my world was safe, secure…

and beautiful as a child.

And though I may have torn up,

a “dating contract” or two,

with the same rigor and passion,

I now walk the world through.

A happier daughter,

in this world does not exist.

Your roles in the creation,

too numerous to list.

Of beauty and light,

my life today is full.

All endless thanks,

to la madre de Sol.

Happy *belated* Mothers Day Mom.

*****

(I´m back in Antigua and plugged in once again. I´ve got a backlog on both blogs and e-mail responses. Please be patient with me! Thank you Merc for entertaining during my retreat…didn`t know my old site was still live! Had me rolling!)

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and Merc gives birth to solbeam.com: congratulations & thanks

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*taps the microphone*

*clears throat*

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. If I could just have your attention for a minute…I’d like to take this opportunity to recognize a very important person among us. In fact….if it weren’t for this person, I wouldn’t be here right now talking and you wouldn’t be here listening…*cough*…reading what I have to say. You see…all of this *sweeps arms across site* has been made possible by one exceptionally talented individual who deserves some serious recognition. Not only does this person have some pretty incredible design and programming skilz, but he has also gone completely out of his way to offer and donate his time and talent *all out of the goodness of his heart* to help some poor cyber-chick combine a few of her passions to pursue a dream. Yes, this person has suffered dry eyes, multiple pizza dinners and an inbox full of annoying sol-mails with notes like “oh…don’t kill me…but can we do this too?” over the past couple weeks — and accepted all with only a smile. MercuryFrog….. *hot spotlight drops on merc*….. I hereby grant you major heaven brownie points (kinda like c-points…but edible). My eternal gratitude goes to you. Thank you so very, very much for getting me so stoked on this project and making it possible for me to share my travels with my friends, family and the world. Okay….enough with the cheezyness….where’s the Gatorade?

*winks*

Thank you Merc.

:) Sol

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