Category Archives: letters (my craft)

at the end of the day

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WRITING HAS MORE TO DO WITH MATH than luck, talent or training. It’s simple statistics: discipline and exercise make a writer. This MAY be more naïve hope than natural law, for I started writing with no particular education, talents, mentors, or skill inheritance in the realm of literary arts. I was 23 when I for the first time in my life searched a blank page for an internal prompt (a failure on so many social and personal levels, it physically hurts me). Or maybe I just wore a helmet of adolescence cinched so tight that my self-awareness suffocated. We are lucky that “the kids these days” are smarter. I work with them, so I can confirm the fact. My students have internal prompts and thank God they do, for this fact saves me from the hopelessness that would otherwise drown me in the New York Times every morning. As a professional, I work in the field of Experiential Education – which is exactly what a dictionary would suggest.  But at the end of the day, quite literally, I want to be a writer. And aside from about seven years of weekly blog posts (before “blog” was awarded the word of the year), I have no training in the field.  I’d rather be thrown on a pyre than re-read my first essays: the compound-curse of the dynamic evolution of revising and static nature of web. I am finally old enough to have learned that you have to know the rules to break them. I would like to get back to the math, science, rules and discipline of writing. But my ultimate aim is to write more – and cringe less.

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letters of intention

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I HAD TO GOOGLE IT: “LETTER OF INTENTION” but the clip-art frightened me, so instead I reached for the dictionary. A statement of my designs? Now that creates some white space and makes my fingers twitch. In fact, if I let my eyes float to the left corner of the ceiling where my memories tend to hover, I come to the surprising realization that everything I cherish in my life began with a letter of intention. Not of the formal sort, of course, but what I would call, “to the wind” letters. The kind that, sealed and sent, left me light on my feet with the over-confident conclusions of, “If he loves me, I’ve risked nothing” and, “If it’s the kind of organization that doesn’t want to hear it from the heart, let them shred it; I want as little to do with them, as they me.”  Today, I sleep soundly and live meaningfully thanks to such seeds thrown into the wind.  A letter involves the most pure form of active listening. Every single word read is an agreement to engage and be silent at the same time. There’s little tactical advice I offer that doesn’t include the crafting of a brave and gentle letter.

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non-dualism

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*show of dualism on Ganga-ji’s ghats*

For the third time in a year, I’m in India. I feel ourselves in something of a desperate love affair; one, and just as often the other, on her knees, begging the other to come back, just go, or not leave.

Four months ago, in a dizzy spell in Delhi, I realized that my eyes no longer wandered. That in terms of travels, I’d become blinded by my loyalty and love for only one city: and nothing less than the, “oldest continually inhabited in the world”: Varanasi. This devotion I scribbled into a journal, confessed to a best friend, put the contract on my heart in fact and pen. Twenty-four hours later, an email arrived under the subject title, “when direction finds you” and in it, a job with outstretched hand and ring, proposing to marry all my passion-trodden directions, at the crossroads of my favorite city. Yes. The very same. Varanasi.

So here I am again. Hindi finally finding a more confident, or at least playful, place on my tongue. Swooping wide circles around the bull whose horns I know to catch those walking unaware and pull them, with a flash of adrenaline, to the present. Identifying which ghat I walk on by the very same cesspool I remember hop-scotching even five years ago. Waving hellos and bowing namastes to the shop-keepers, rickshaw-wallas, and restaurant owners, who no longer need to scratch heads long, before finding my name. My Hindi teacher, he knows exactly when I need the umph of chai to push me through the end of class. My host family, they know that my task list is endlessly long and that I’ll fall asleep on their bed once the Bollywood flick trespasses nine. The restaurants, they specially serve me the dishes no longer on their menus but still on mine.

And just as much as Banaras remembers me, I remember it. From the mantras chanting from loud speakers in devotion to the Ganga-ji, to the orange globe of India’s ever dusty sun. From the yappy white dogs with red tikkas on their foreheads to the smell of detol and scream of wedding speaker bollywood beats. On every corner, a principle of non-dualism in demonstration: jasmine and cowdung, temple bells and techno, cell phones and water buffalo, purification rites and pollution, saris and jeans, the city with the longest timeline in the world, living tightly confined to the present moment. Timelessness wordlessly understood by all as same, same, but different. Varanasi. Banaras. Two names. One place. Same, same but…..yes. Non-dualism. You get it.

Anyway. It’s just like me to ramble on. But lucky for me, at least in India, I can get away with it; where the baba might even agree that one endless, run-on sentence we are all living, writing, weaving. Still, for your relief, I know I saw a period around here somewhere…

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alchemy

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IMG_8843, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

(The problem is that my blog is a mass of congested intestines in need of its own colonic! Again, I have daily notes on the entirely of my 7-day “master clense”; a story I will type out and post just as soon as I have the chance to sit in a proper chair with a cup of coffee and do it. But for now, out of guilt for lack of live action on this site, I post another clip from an email to another beloved friend of mine. Don’t worry. I’ll try to stop this nasty habit soon.)

*****

…and I’ll end with a story and token. A real token. Maybe a trinket. But a trinket that I will transform, by the very act of alchemy (!), into a magic amulet! (That sentence is meant to be read in the ridiculous voice of a circus ring master). So I had your name on my mind like a mantra. And I happened to walk into a Tibetan shop where I met a beautiful woman covered in turquoise with a fall-colored striped smock who proceeded to pull out the contents of everything on the velvet underneath her glass case. And so my eye is pulled in the direction of one particularly unnotable and cheap looking trinket which she holds up and says…”Tibetan medicine! Made of many metals. To ward off evil spirits and inspire good healing and health. You can hold on your wrist or put under your pillow.” And so I buy it. At the exaggerated price that I allow all Tibetans to charge me. And then we sit and talk and as I proceed to tell her the story of my pilgrimage in Dolpa, she says, “I can’t believe you’ve been to Dolpa! I was there! When I was 8 years old. My father and many family were killed by Chinese and so we ran away from Tibet and crossed the mountains and reached to Dolpa. Oh. Such beautiful wild flowers like I’ve never seen! Only in Dolpa. Did you see the yellow ones? Near the rivers? You did! So beautiful! And have you seen the women there, how big their gold and turquoise earrings are? Oh, how beautiful I thought they were! I used to run down to the river, and pick those big yellow flowers by the stream, and stick them behind both my ears, and wave my head back and forth and look into the stream and pretend like those yellow flowers were big golden rings…”

As she tells me this story, she puts her hands to her head and tucks the imaginary gold flowers behind her ears, and then she closes her eyes and swings her head back and forth, laughing like an 8-year old.

And I suddenly am SO happy for the Amchi and Alchemist that has given me this amulet; for the 8-year old girl that found flowers and gold in the midst of death, danger and exile and for the same power that, in her touch of this amulet, she transpires to you. I imagine all the people that I will ask to hold and put their good energy and prayers into this for you, but I know it is her hand, and her story, that transformed this trinket, by her alchemy, into an amulet.

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through my window

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Internet on this island costs a much as a small island, so instead of a proper update, here’s a simple clip from a letter to a dear friend:

Hello Love!

I hope you are well, I feel father away now that I’m on an island with distanced communication and also immersed into this friendly little fasting community.

I come to you from my “fasters dorm”, which is an air-conditioned, partitioned and Zen little place with dim and sunlit lighting. I’ve been eating only raw foods the last two days and passed something called a “PH test” yesterday which cleared me for my “masters phase” 7-day fast which I started this morning by swallowing a clay and bentonite “shake” at 7am (stuff that absorbs the toxins in your body that you release during fasting so that you avoid all those nasty symptoms of detoxing like headaches, hunger, etc.)

I spent the last two days flipping through piles of pages of books on whole food health, the medicinal benefits of fasting/detoxing, the corruption of the medical industry, and learning, in detail, the geography and functions of my body: intestines, liver, colon, stomach, etc. None of this is totally new to me, which is good less I thought myself entered a cult, but it is the first time I’ve really just SAT in a hammock for hours and looked closely at the information, and it’s REALLY refreshing to see that there is solid backing and science behind a lot of things I knew intuitively or through experience, already, about my body.

It’s all women here, mostly older. And it’s nice to be surrounded by their wisdom, life stories, and support. It’s a relief for ME to be the younger one who gets the guidance, mentorship and elder advice!

The “Wellness Center” does a really good job making sure your days are TOTALLY full here, knowing well that one of the hardest parts of fasting is the boredom left in the absence of eating. So they have a pretty strict schedule that keeps you hopping from one place to another. My day starts with waking at 7am and making myself my first of three daily clay shakes. Then there’s a stop at the, “fasters bar,” for my first set of vitamins and glass of tea (with a whole ginger root in it!), then one of two daily organic coffee colonics (which, yes, does involve a tube, your butt, and 5 gallons of water cycling through your body; I’m definitely a little nervous about that). I have an hour and half session of yoga today, one hour at the spa getting a body scrub/massage and wrap, and then an hour in the steam room, which smells like cinnamon coffee cake. I like to plunge between the. “coffee cake room,” and the, “fresh river water pool” – which creates the most amazing sensation on my skin that might have ever felt. Yesterday I spent two hours simply sighing between the two.

The rest of my time I just swing in a hammock, swapping my hours between serious literature, health books, and metaphysical books. I’ve, thankfully, already read half the metaphysical books on the shelf and am happy to have finally exhausted myself, mostly, of the subject. But also happy that the my metaphysical life interest survived, and has renewed itself in something calmer, something less ambitious, something more experiential, and something…of a middle path. This must be the new phase of my life. The one that also wants to plant gardens, have a dog, and practice making really nice meals to share with my family, friends and loved ones…

Anyway. That’s probably enough from me today as I don’t want to bore you with more of my bathroom details (the subject of every table in this place), but just give you a glance into my window.

———————————————
*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.

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waking up; looking out

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(Photo courtesy of friend, co-worker and fellow travel blogger, Tim Hare.)

Hi friends.

Obviously I have been busy.

Today I walked in the door from two weeks spent in the California Sierras conducting an orientation for our 20 summer abroad programs that just departed for different developing countries around the world. It was a blissful two weeks filled with some of my best friends in the world and if you’re interested in seeing a bit of it, I did pull out my camera on occasion: Dragon’s Summer Orientation 2007.

Today, also, my life takes on a new pace. It’s the first day that I get to begin to look forward instead of down at my immediate; I’m leaving for Peru in two weeks. And for India in two months. And for Africa in 5 months — so you can probably easily imagine the relief and excitement with which I jumped out of bed with this morning.

Having not written for weeks, I’m so excited to compose, but in the meantime just wanted to post a quick happy birthday note to my boss, to whom I am ever grateful for creating an organization within which my life passions and career can walk alongside each other, hand in hand…

Dear Chris Yager,

I think everyone in this world has a dream – an inkling, a suspicion, a hint of hidden passion, an intuition – of something really great they could do with their life; of something that would be the catalyst not only for their individual evolution, but also a catalyst to ignite the catalysts of countless others towards a widespread movement and cumulative revelation.

Most people ignore this seed of personal potential: Bury it too deep in denial. Ignore it, giving precedence to matters of feigned importance. Maltreat it, in an effort to keep it contained. Plead ignorance for fear of its potential. Whatever the excuse, most people on this earth live with their true potential forever haunting their heart.

So I have to congratulate you. You are 40!

Now, I can see how such a number could inspire a little fear or regret for a person who has clocked those years into a machine, wasted them away on mindless activity, or spent them abiding the demanding voices that drowned the sound of those haunting his heart.

But for a man who has spent every day of his 40 years of life working tirelessly and passionately, despite betrayals, financial losses and at the expense of great personal sacrifices, all to care for the seed of a dream – well those years are only an amazing achievement! They are forty years of living in alliance with a mission that whispers, but speaks above all, intentions. I hope by now, that peace is creeping in. The peace of an unhaunted heart. The peace that settles in with the realization that you have made no exceptions, given into no excuses, put your complete faith in your dream, to live the only life you could have lived with no regrets and all honor.

And like every dream of right intention; yours is not only succeeding, but also setting fire to the hearts of all those touched by it. Like the best of dreams, yours is not only a goal, but a tool via which other dream seeds are dug, exposed, and held up before the noses of others who knew it was there, but couldn’t quite find or see it. Your dream teaches others how to care for theirs; how to find it, develop it, care for it, believe in it and take those first steps towards achieving it.

I’ve heard that our society is shit and, at the same, manure. And I think this is true. Perhaps our current condition is quite rotten – but at exactly the same time, it is also ripe for change and growth. And there are few people ready to accept the dirty work of tilling that land. But I do believe that’s exactly what you’ve jumped to the task of doing, and encouraged, by your example, an eager crew to do the same. Your faith is contagious. We see the dream, because it’s ours as well. But I can’t thank you enough for the dozens of years you’ve diligently put into prepping and preparing this adventure; directly facilitating the dream chasing of the dozens that work one-one-one with you, who then facilitate the same for the hundreds within their rein, and the thousands that those who have been touched, then, touch in turn.

If you haven’t already, I hope today, on you’re 40th birthday, you’ll – just for a minute – relax in the well-earned peace of an unhaunted heart, take pride in 40 years of a life fully lived, and throw your hands up in the air and feel the faith that has overwhelmed your life, being channeled through you to the (truly) countless numbers of those affected, moved, and inspired – by, within, and beyond – the seed of a dream that you fostered till it grew on its own.

Congratulations and thank you.

with love and admiration,

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.

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a blessing recipe

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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.

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haunting home

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(the sunrise, this morning, in oregon)

*****

(A letter to two former neighbors, dear friends, and fellow divemasters, who continue to live in Taganga, in the hotel of the house where I was living in Colombia.)

Hey boys!

Haven’t forgot you at all. In fact, I gather lots of fine stares every time I pull out my rabbit book and pet the stuffed bunny face (you guys gave me) pasted onto the cover. I think it (the bunny) is lonely for the old times, when it was attached to a birthday bag and used to distribute gifts of tacky taste. But it’s found a happy home now with the other rabbits of “Watership Down”, who are all quite accustomed to a life of pilgrimage and adaptation, and I think it’ll be very content with its new burrow on the bookshelf of my 6-year old niece.

As for me and being far away from our own old shared burrow, I don’t “long” for South America, so much as I simply hold love for it. After all, there’s no need for me to dwell in a past when my present and future have managed to match in adventure and excitement (which I consider the ultimate “trick” to living in the present moment). And although my arrival back in the States was safe and without major complications, it hasn’t been without slight and expected turbulence…

On my first connection, the airline stewardess tried to put no less than six “disposable” cups on my tray table; 1 can of apple juice “double-cupped” with a plastic cup, with 1 more plastic cup full of ice, and then 1 styrofoam cup of tea, double-cupped again inside another plastic cup with 1 more empty cup for water. I handed them all (but one) back. And an hour later, when I denied her offer of three more plastic cups and asked instead for my requested refill in the exact same cup that I used the first time around, she looked at me like I was crazy.

Am I?

This I am beginning to wonder.

And, accustomed to a life of tuning IN to everything (because it’s either silent, new, or not quite understood) I suddenly feel like some one has reached over and swung the life volume knob round 360 degrees . During my layover in Miami, much like a rabbit, I scurried around the airport, hiding from the obvious and bombarding clarity of English cell phone conversations, overhead speakers and televisions. Having no tent to retreat into (as I did during my last lay-over in the Miami airport), I finally found a sunny corner in a hallway that was in the quieter process of remodel – and tuned myself out. You can probably imagine my relief, when I finally took cover in the cozy, quiet and known surroundings of my parent’s home in the hills of Portland, Oregon.

But yesterday, at the movie rental store (while coincidentally renting, “Supersize Me”), I picked up a washer-machine sized “pre-packaged, ready-to-serve” bucket of microwave popcorn (with the popcorn, butter, salt and seasonings pre-mixed in a plastic bag at the bottom of the well) and laughed out loud. I held it up (it took two hands) and showed it to my mom, “God I wish I could show this to my Colombian host mother, Diana! Wouldn’t she have a laugh at this!” And my mom cocked her head and me and asked, “Why? What’s funny about that?” And then my 2-year-former self cocked her head inside of me and said, “Yeah. Why? What’s so funny about this?”

Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s more disturbing or relieving when you come to those moments in your life where you suddenly realize, with inner-self-cocking clarity, just how much you’ve changed over a recent life course. Seems “home” — along with hugs, flannel sheets, organic tofu and 6-year old nieces — is also great for setting that life learning limbo bar.

And I can’t help but notice that my bags are still unpacked and wonder if that might be reflective of some subconscious reluctance to settle in. (Although I think I’ll give myself a break on this one in consideration of the fact that as soon as they are emptied, they will again be repacked). I feel a bit transparent; haunting my old house, dropping in and out of new and old versions of “me,” and letting my mind wander and wonder how a 10-hour flight can really define the difference between “here” and “there.” I probably sound perplexed, but truth is, I’m quite comfortable on this couch of confusion. The world is definitely spinning around me right now, but is there any better way to seek what’s straight, solid and still?

Enough of my ramble. It’s time for me to get going. The sun is about to rise, and honestly, the show here is just as impressive over the mountains and tall pines of Oregon as it is over the hills and smooth beach of Taganga. Thank god the Divine is not prejudiced or biased with where she exhibits her daily displays of brilliancy.

Please give Freddy, Diana and Mayra my hugs and love. Remind Freddy to figure out what (American) size he wears in Chacos so that I can bring him a pair the next time I come to Colombia. Let Diana know that I’m still crying in the isles with laughter at her comic levels of shock over the American pre-packaged and processed food fetish. And tell Mayra that I demonstrated her reggaeton dance routine to my niece, who in turn, tipped over in her own fit of laughter at me.

sending more warmth to your tropics,

sol

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

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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

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Fire My Spirit

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Earth my Body

Water my Blood

Air my Breath

Fire my Spirit

(From the window of the “Planet Drum” Volunteer house in Bahia de Caraquez, Ecuador.)

***********************

Dear Ev,

The day you left, I had to walk in large circles around the city for hours. Cause every time I stopped physically moving, the grief of your being gone would catch up and so overwhelm me that I’d topple over in the hunger of heartache.

Do you remember when we were walking on the beach and you asked me, “This is going to hurt isn’t it? This lesson in Love is going to be really painful.”

And I replied, “Only if you want it to be. If you seek pain, if you think pain will make it meaningful, then yes, this lesson will hurt. But Life is gentle in her lessons if we let her be. Yes, if we resist, she’ll probably resort to a sludge hammer, but if we listen attentively, consciously, she might only tickle us with a feather. And I hope I can graciously choose to decline Pain in my life just as I do guilt, shame, and anger. It’s as easy as saying, “No thank you” to redefine our reality, and our lesson in Love, as pain-free… “

I know those words are still true. The strength did not seep from them, but from me.

And I suppose it was exactly that seeping of strength from our individual paths and persons that was our feather. But we were too busy with the moonstruck motions of lovers to be bothered to notice the threat that Life was dangling over our toes with a smirk.

So we unconsciously opted for the sludge hammer didn’t we? We glided by on the bliss of the union of our being until your subconscious left you awake in the dark for a week with a case of insomnia that would leave you no option but to confront consciousness. Till after a final fight with that which you did not want to admit, you waited for me to wake and when I did, took my hand to your heart and said:

“I have to go. I love you more than anything I ever have in this world. But I have sacrificed my path to walk with you along yours. And now I’ve lost myself in my love for you. But now my Truth, MY path, calls. So urgently that it keeps me awake through the night. I have to go. And I would ask you to come with me, but I already know the strength of your pull to your path. You must continue. And I must go find my own way again. And if you love me, you’ll let me go. Because this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do and I don’t have the strength to do it on my own. I need your help. Please. Help me go by letting me go.”

And so we let each other go — in the most bitter but beloved lesson of Unattached Love.

But still the sledgehammer’s bruises mark my heart.

And the tears continue to make trails down my cheeks.

And I feel the vacancy your hand left in mine.

Yet in the center of the heartache and under the swollen eyes of overworked tear ducts – I feel strength seeping back in. For in embracing my pain, I think I have somehow embraced my humanity. And perhaps it was THIS lesson that Life needed a sledgehammer to show me; That Love humbles us.

And that there is nothing more worthy of our humility.

And so in my empty hand, I clench onto my vision of you; On the top of a mountain, at the summit of YOUR path, at eye level with the eagle and its flight of freedom that inspires you so. And in seeing you not lost in love, but in your Inspiration, I suddenly understand. I instinctively and immediately throw my arms into the air and free also the creature of flight that I hold onto. And this time, my hand does not feel empty, but full of the freedom that it has released. And I clutch my heart instead in shared joy.

Ah ha.

Letting go of my attachment.

And ALSO my desire to hold on.

So THIS is unattached love.

…..

When I made the ring for you, I wrote this into my journal knowing that at some point I would give both to you;

“Just as this silver has melted and changed from one existence unto another, so has and shall our love; Born in one form – melted into another – re-birthed into yet another new shared existence. Eternal is that, as is all, Love. Continually intertwining like the very Knot of Eternity that brought us together. Having listened to our hearts and followed our unexplainable intuitions, our souls found and walked the paths that would meet in each other. And in this manner will our essences continue to weave, intertwine and dance. And these paths will naturally stray, for the space in the Knot is just as important as the Knot itself – balancing the dance and keeping the cycles of life and loving fresh and flowing. But always will these forms curve back toward each other. For we are not individual and straight lines living out solitary and linear existences, but momentary glimpses of a divinely chaotic and united cycle of love. In the Knot, there is neither end nor beginning, just as we knew each other before we met and know each other without end. And through each other, we shall not understand only one love, but Know all love, as each and every crossing of Life has the capacity to inspire. May we continue to listen attentively to the guidance of the inner voice of Truth, so the sooner that we may follow our individual paths to reunion.”

with undefended, and unattached love,

sol

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

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