Category Archives: NGOs & service learning

a day in the life

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Sometime in the last few months I picked up a new personal meal-prompted ritual. And it only slightly (and admittedly irrationally) bothers me that onlookers might presume I’m Christian (which I, although a fan of Jesus “the pilgrim,” am not) when I bow my head, close my eyes, and whisper down the inner halls of awareness my gratitude for and debt (in some currency divine) to all the people, events and natural elements that conspired in order to provide the offering at my table.

However this exercise is often a stretch of the imagination for me (as well as others raised in “developed” countries) where the distance that my food has travelled is so far that it often leaves me an equal number of emotional miles distant from knowing anything of the source of my sustenance. This fact evidenced by the fruit in the photo above, which, contrary to many 1st-world-first-guesses is not a cranberry, but the colorful coat of the very same coffee bean (coming in equally flamboyant shades of yellow as well) that fuels the entire of the developed worlds’ digestive fire; moving along board meetings, news readings, exam studying and, in general, the full flush of the other bowel movements of (at least) the American social, political, work and educational systems.

So in an effort to follow the umbilical cord of our addiction to “happy-ccinos” (as my co-leader likes to call cappuccinos) back to the pachamama (“mother earth”) source, we (me and my students) wrapped palm-thatched baskets around our waists and took to the fields of a local Guatemalan coffee finca (“farm”) for an exercise that those of us working in “experiential education” like to call, “A Day In The Life”; which is essentially our own little “life-swapping” reality TV series — minus the cameras, crew, cast and lack of credibility.

In order to combat reverse discrimination by the bugs (which consider the blood under our lighter skin of a tastier blend) we slather ourselves in mosquito and sun repellents. As I smear the cream across my neck and face I feel quite like I’m preparing for the frontline of a war. And why not? With statistics like the fact that the Guatemalans that I will be working alongside will spend a full day filling a single 100-pound sack, for which they will receive a daily wage of 25 Quetzales (or $3.33 USD) which will, in turn, need to be spread thin enough to feed an (average) family with five or more children — well warring countries might not be involved, but a daily and frontline fight for survival certainly is.

But as is usually the case with all my assumptions about the lives of those living in “undeveloped countries,” instead of the bugs and sun, I should have come better prepared for my personal battle against the stuck-up and self-centered nature of statistics and stereotypes. Thinking back, I’m not sure what exactly I expected, but as soon as the camion (“carrier truck”) drops us off on the most beautiful sloping hillside with panoramic views of looming volcanoes and lush valleys, I immediately begin to question if we could really call the boring synthetic box of an office cubicle a more “civilized” or “healthy” working environment. Breathing in the tropical forest is like drinking water and the breathtaking views inspire such heavy inhalations of an air so sweet, rich and refreshing that even the thought of an air-conditioned office closes my throat on a choke.

One of the Guatemalans with us suddenly yodels into a valley of the rainforest. And to my dismay and delight, a dozen yodels, from all sides of the hills and in all tones of the human vocal rainbow, sing echoing yodels of geographic location and greeting right back. Based on the information relayed in the secret yodel code (of which we are hardly privy to comprehending), our group tromps to our destination with the ungraceful and shuffling step of those foreign to the jungle and ignorant of the language it, too, speaks.

When I finally I arrive at my first coffee bush, a sweet woman, with wrinkles appropriately placed in proof that she spends more time smiling than not, quickly explains to me the dynamics and detail of a full and efficient pick. Her hands move with expert quickness as she demonstrates the art of defining that which is ripe and that which is not; “See? More red than green. This one, yes. This one, yes. The black ones, yes. This green one, no.” Her hands move like a wand over each branch, turning a heavy red mass to a thin and trim green one. With each swipe of her magic hands limbs bounce up and lift with new lightness and life. My imagination is (ever) active and I fancy myself hearing the branches, when they spring, sighing with appreciative unburdened relief.

The woman’s magic-wand hands stop and it takes me awhile for my fascination to wear and my imagination to wander back to reality before I realize that she’s looking at me expectedly and offering me my turn at a try. I move my hand to the bush but I’m slow and I stumble; “This one, yes. This one, um, no. This one is equal in green and red, yes or no?” The woman is immensely patient; a virtue, I fathom, in which she’s a practiced expert given the amount of time she studies in the shade of her guru, Mother Nature.

I’m not a quick learner. In fact, I pride myself on being a slow one. And so at the expense of swiftness and with deliberate concentration to detail, I diligently begin to clean my first bush of berries. And as I do so I realize that, contrary to all my petty presumptions, this is surprisingly pleasant work! My SPF 35 war paint was hardly necessary for, had I asked instead of assuming, I would have learned that this is shade-grown coffee — and thus the sun pleasantly trickles down its warmth between the tall macadamia nut trees planted and placed specifically for the purpose. Work songs, location yodels and laughter bounce and banter with the songbirds of the valley. Children too work alongside us but against all my “big bad” notions of “child labor laws,” these kids are talking, laughing and playing with their parents and neighbors, and I question if the children in neighboring continents could really be better off putting an equal amount of finger power into navigating a gameboy or television remote control. This being one of the very few organic farms in the country, no masks or gloves or worries over future birth weights and cancers are necessary. (Although at this thought, I do look up and envision for a minute, an American plane flying overhead and, without warning, darkening my sky with billowing clouds of poisonous powder. This “plan” as part of some covert and corrupt “aid” package devised — in misguided aim to eliminate the naturally thriving coca plants that grow innocently in lands Latin American — by the upturned and addicted noses of Northern neighbors wrongfully projecting blame.) But back to the berries — they are beautiful! And compared to their red fruit cousins of the forest and field they are (thankfully) thorn-free and come off the bush with incredible ease. And yes, it might be true that I have a touch of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) that’s being tickled with a curious feather of fancy by each green and lean branch picked (so obviously!) clean. But recognizing the satisfaction as not so different from that which I feel after sorting a full email inbox, I muse that productivity and organization perhaps are universally innate human inclinations met by many, and/or any, repetitive motion.

But I am only a silly American girl worthy a place to observe, but none to judge. And so I turn to the woman working beside me and ask her instead, “Do you like working here?”

Her mouth slips back into the smile that fits her face so well and she responds, “Of course! I love it here. But it wasn’t always this way. The owner of this finca did not pay us for two years and during those years it was very, very hard. But we organized ourselves and brought him to trial, and the banks, they didn’t get him to give us our money, but they did decide to hand over the land to us, the workers. And we still owe so much money to the bank. But this land is ours. And all the work we put into it comes back to us. And I am so happy to work my own land — with my own people — that it doesn’t matter if I only make 25 Q per day. Because I know that it is fair and that I am investing in the future of this land for my children and for our community.”

I mentally pinch myself a reminder that this story is unique, special and single; that the majority of coffee pickers in Guatemala are discriminated against for being indigenous and work in dire conditions under corrupt and manipulative ladino management for far under the (un-enforced) national minimum wage.

And then I revisit a memory of myself in high school; skipping sixth period for a jaunt to the Starbucks down the street, where I place an order for a non-fat, extra-froth, tall vanilla latte…and slap down an amount of cash that easily surpasses this woman’s entire daily wage. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder under what corrupt and manipulative management the ladino finca owners succumb. I wander up the chain of responsibility, above the ladino owners, above the slick-talking multilingual middlemen, above the multi-national and mega-corporations, and there, on top of my pyramid, I find myself — the ignorant consumer. I hang my head in shame with the realization that slavery in America wasn’t outlawed; it was simply exported. And with this new consciousness, I can no longer hide my culpability in either ignorance or distance.

“Do you like picking coffee?” the woman wakes me from my shame with this question rooted in piercingly pure curiosity.

“Yes I do,” I eagerly and honestly respond, “especially because I’ll never drink another cup of coffee again without, first, a pause and prayer of respect, responsibility, awareness and appreciation.”

In response to my pledge, the warm smile of the woman spreads, and with this wave of expressed emotion, her magic wand goes again into action to relieve me too of my shame and guilt burden. Wordlessly forgiven, I gratefully sigh and then spring up light with renewed right intention.

*****

< More information on the “Nueva Alianza” fair trade coffee finca in Guatemala.

*****

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on the altar of humility

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October 13th, 2005
Xela, Guatemala
Tropical Storm Stan Evacuee Camp

“psssst!”

I look around the room, but there is only an old woman stooped over a broom sweeping the floor.

People have been hissing at me all day, discretely calling me over to this or that corner and whispering a request to politely fetch them an additional bag of beans, extra bottle of water or second sweater beyond that which has been sanctioned to them.

Hesitant to source the hiss and address its subsequent plea, I return to my task of untying a difficult knot that cinches together another black bag of donated clothing. I pull out a tiny pair of jeans fit for either an 13-year old or an American celebrity and deliberate which pile, “girls” or “women,” is appropriate…

“pssssst!”

The woman with the broom is now standing erect and points at something on the floor near me. I follow her finger and find the destination of its direction to be that of a naked doll which, with no appropriate pile, lay abandoned, awkward and alone on the floor. The old woman’s manner is that of an experienced grandmother with a command and resolve that negates all hesitation and demands only immediate attention.

“Well pick it up!” she furrows her brow and says with noted impatience for my delayed comprehension.

With the loyalty and respect of a granddaughter of an age fitting into the jeans I hold, I immediately obey her command. The old woman resumes sweeping and when I collect the doll and hand it to her, she looks up at me as if I have gravely disturbed both her sacred work and sanity and then rolls her eyes at my obvious idiocy. “Not for me! Go upstairs and give it to the child! Give it to the girl taking care of her baby brother!”

Not because I can’t find the right words in Spanish, but because I can’t find my comprehension in any language, I stand silenced between my desire to comply and confusion over the command. Accentuated by an exhausted sigh, the old woman finally realizes the foreign nature of whom she is addressing; she gracefully leans her broom against the way and then gathers both her compassion and my hand and leads me through a door.

As she leads me up the stairs she explains, “You see, there is a child here that I want to have this doll. Her mother went back to their house to recover what items she could before they fled during the storm to take rescue in this evacuee center. The mother left her young daughter here to care for her baby son, but the girl is too young to be caring for the child, and she keeps leaving her brother alone, and I think that perhaps if she has a toy, she will not go straying out into the hallways and will instead stay in the room and care for her brother.”

When we reach the top of the stairs, we begin to walk down the hallway of, what appears to be, an old school building. The old woman, still holding my hand, pulls me into one of the classrooms. Against one wall a dozen miniature-people-sized school desks that are piled upside down on top of each other confirm that the building is indeed a school in its off-Storm-Stan-evacuee-house hours. On the floor thick blankets are spread marking the territory, and fencing the limited rescued possessions, of each family of evacuees that occupy the room. The old woman shakes her head that this room is not the one she seeks and tugs on my sleeve and wandering eyes to move along.

When we move back into the hall, the old woman’s ears suddenly perk and her steps fall with renewed certainty as we follow the wail of a small child towards a neighboring classroom. Blankets, here too, patchwork the floor into individual camps marked by one or more sleeping bodies sprawled across each site. On the blanket nearest the door, a child, owning not more than two years, sits with back erect and mouth open, crying for the return of familiar company that’s evidently disappeared.

A small group of young boys kick at a makeshift ball nearby and the old woman grabs the attention of one with a firm hand. The boy stands quickly to attention and I see that I’m not the only one that falls into order under the observation of my companion commandant.

“Who is the guardian of this crying child?!” she assertively questions. The young boy turns and takes notice, as if for the first time, of the toddler with the red and tear-stained face sitting nearby. Suddenly silenced by a binky of unaccustomed attention, the toddler’s wail stops as he too falls into the same silent trance graced upon all by the old woman’s grandmotherly gaze.

“Well?!,” she continues in demand of an answer.

The boy lowers his head, heavied by grandmotherly-inspired guilt, and shrugs his shoulders in shamed uncertainty. One of his playmates jumps to his rescue and says, “I think his sister is caring for him, she’s in the hall.”

Perhaps intuitively sensing that she was being called upon the small sister makes an appearance in the doorway.

I am shocked. The girl could not be any older than six years old. She’s a year younger than my little niece who isn’t allowed on the street sidewalk alone. And this child’s duty is to care for a toddler of whom she is, at the most, four years senior?

“Come here child,” the old woman commands softly and the girl obeys.

In a voice on a bed of compassion and love the old woman instructs, “You are a very good girl to be taking care of your little brother when your mother is gone. But you must stay close to him, in this room, so that he knows that you are near and doesn’t feel lonely. Now look, we’ve brought you a present…”

The woman cues me with a nudge to offer the doll. I squat to the girl’s height and offer her the gift. The small girl’s eyes widen with wonder and delight as she eagerly embraces her new toy.

“So you stay in this room and take good care of these babies okay?” she finishes with a loving pat on the girl’s shoulder. Then with the safe soft hand she takes mine again and leads me out to the hallway.

On my way out, I turn and look back at the mat where the baby brother is now gurgling giggles of joy at the dancing doll that the small girl bounces in front of him in a successful effort to entertain them both.

Three babies.

Sometimes I think that humanity is long overdue for a huge dose of Humility that Pachamama (Mother Earth) will be all too happy to administer with a reality -crashing and -questioning course of tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes. Having to silently witness the rape of the world on a daily basis, I find myself sometimes secretly cheering for her well deserved slaps back. Very aware of the red on my own hands, each morning, I offer my own existence for sacrifice on the Altar of Humanly Humility, alerting the Earth that I would be honored to donate my life to the lesson that will humble humans to their proper earth-kissing place on this planet.

But it’s never me.

It’s always the poor, the young, the sick, the old, the homeless, the dark-skinned, the disadvantaged and those that live closest to the earth that get humbled to it first. Babies, today, sit innocently on altars in Guatemala, Mexico, India, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan and in every other country, state, county and camp in the world. So what will are we willing to sacrifice before we finally learn our lesson?

For in (merely our) end, even if we Humans continue to discriminate, Pachamama, teaching by example, will not.

And oddly enough, that brings me peace.

******

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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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My Day, My Life

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“Shasta-boy, you’re a handsome dog…from an angle.” – Shasta’s Owner

*****

The last of my sleep wafts away on the gobble of a turkey outside my window.

I start to walk the path back to waking reality and as soon as I become conscious of the road I’m walking, I spin on my heels and run back into my last dream. Some of the visions come back immediately. Others I have to stand and wait patiently at the door (wondering what I’m doing there and if anyone’s home) before they silently and slowly open by the hand of my subconscious accord. When my mind is sufficed with its collection of memories from last night’s mental vacation, I open my eyes.

I pull my pen and journal off my nightstand and jot down the captions to my night visions.

I sit up and cross my legs — American legs, Indian arranged — and salute Truth with a Namaste (“I recognize the divine in you.”) greeting to That Which Inspires my thoughts, intuitions and visions. I soak into the silence and find the place where I feel my insides peeling away from the outside. And there I simply sit. Suspended in my soul; Buoyant in my being.

****

I Namaste the Divine again and finally stretch back into my body. Shasta has heard my wakening rumble and runs to the foot of my bed. He points his nose down at my feet and looks at me from the curious corner of his eyes asking permission to lick my toes. I smile my consent and his tail curls up in a whipping white circle of its own excited 360 degree smiles. He saturates my feet in his saliva. He then tugs on the foot of my pajama pants as I slip on my flip-flops and grab my house keys.

As I cross the studio apartment I take delight in the sound of my shoes sweeping across the wooden floor. So I add a couple of foot-notes with a some salsa steps and spins. Shasta springs onto his hind legs in his desire to dance too and I note the musical addition of his clicking toenails.

*****

Shasta hops down the stairs in front of me, pausing on every step to make sure that I am only one behind. “Attached Love,” I define to myself and chuckle.

I step outside. The sun is brave today. The overcast mornings that it usually wears during the dry season have been left in the closet, and it steps out in the gleaming colors that it usually reserves for the “winter” holidays. I rise up on my toes, close my eyes and lean in to receive my warm morning kiss. I wave of goosebumbing joy craws over my skin. This is definitely a partner I can wake up to every morning. I nod my re-agreement to the sun, “till death do us part.”

*****

“Shaw-shaw!”

“Shaw-shaw!”

The neighbors call over in a language that can’t be bothered with English pronunciation.

“Shaw-shaw!”

They wave the dog and I over.

Shasta’s small rump wags in full circles in a desperate attempt to catch up with his erratic tail. The neighbors all pat his back and repeat his name to his ecstatic delight. They all laugh out loud and say to me, “You know that this dog doesn’t understand Spanish?! An Ecuadorian dog! That doesn’t know Spanish! Have you ever seen such a thing!”

I hear their laughing trail off behind me as I make my way to the market. I cross the street, but turn around when I hear the heel of an angry hand on a horn to see Shasta in a perfect squat in the middle of the street and a red faced taxi driver sign language-ing his hysteria over the situation.

“Shasta! Venga!”

But his furrowed brow tells me that this is a matter beyond language barriers. And in consideration of the parasite inspired dysentery of which he has a case, I give my best “sorry about my dog sir” shrug and wait patiently for duty to be done.

*****

At the local market I stroll through rainbow towers of fruits, vegetables and small animals. I am certainly the only gringo in the market and me, my pajama pants with snowmen on them, and my funny dog that doesn’t speak Spanish are easy destinations for wandering eyes.

I settle on a shop run by a woman who I know from experience can’t be bothered with ripping gringos off. I select a Shasta-sized papaya and give her 30 cents. I offer her my burlap sack to drop it into and she laughs. She tells me she’s never seen a gringo come to the market with a burlap sack before. She wants to take a picture of it. We both laugh and I swing the bag over my shoulder and say goodbye.

*****

While preparing breakfast I hear the door downstairs unlock and open. All the other volunteers have gone to the city for a convention, but I know the only other person who has the spare key to the house.

“You know, you’re driving me NUTS with these questions!” I hear echo from the hallway over heavy steps.

“Good morning Steffan. What questions?”

In his Danish accent he continues, “You know. These questions about the meaning of your life, my life, and all life. All these things that you keep talking about. I really don’t know how you can live your life this way. It’s just too intense to question life so much. You know, I would call you an intense person…but I usually reserve that term for people who overwhelm me. And I don’t feel overwhelmed by you. But how can you life your life like this? All these questions? How will you ever find the answers?”

I open up the coffee jar and drink in the deepness of the dark roast. Then I turn to him and say, “Steffan, I don’t care about the answers. I’m interested in the search itself.”

He shakes his head at me with frustration.

“Hum. We I have to go to work. I just came over to leave my organic waste in your compost bin and tell you that you’re driving me crazy. So. Do you want to have coffee later?”

I smile and agree.

*****

While crossing the street on the way to the bus stand I suddenly hear horrific howling behind me.

I turn around and see Shasta whimpering wildly at a paw that was just run over by a bicycle. With his three good legs he hops to where I stand on the street corner, crawls between my legs and continues to yelp out the enormity of his painful paw. I crouch low and hold him till his whine whimpers out. I notice that many pairs of feet have congregated around me and think that I hear them talking again about how the dog doesn’t understand Spanish, until I realize that they are not talking about Shasta, but about ME.

I turn my attention upwards and declare,“I speak Spanish.”

The startled crowd jumps back at my unexpected smile of comprehension.

“Who are you? What are you doing? Is this your dog? What’s its name?”

The children in the crowd come forward and a half dozen pairs of small hands begin to pet Shasta. His sad eyes lift in excitement of all the options presented to lick and he miraculously puts weight on his injured paw in order to give a full body turn to allow all his new admirers a proper pet.

I suddenly grasp how entirely odd I must look. For not only am I dragging two enormous rice sacks full of empty two-liter plastic bottles, but I also have empty milk jugs hanging from my backpack and a machete in my hand. And I’m a gringo. Actually. I’m a gringa. And in Latin America, a girl alone (let alone a North American one carrying a machete) is ALWAYS a crowd-worthy curiosity.

“His name is Shasta. He’s not my dog. He belongs to a girl I live with. I’m a volunteer with Planet Drum. I’m carrying all this stuff because I’m using these things to plant trees.”

One of the men in the crowd nods his head wisely in agreement and explains to the rest of the crowd that he knows our house, where it is, and who else lives there. (Because this IS the business of people living in small towns: to know everyone and everything.)

“Ahhh. She’s a volunteer. She plants trees,” they all turn around and inform those standing behind them.

*****

The bus is full. I manage to squeeze into a small space near the front passenger seat behind the folding entrance door. As I sit down I glance through the window and see a girl and immediately return the warm smile she sends me. Or did I smile first? And then I realize that the window in the folding door is not in fact a window, but a mirror.

I lean closer to the mirror and look for the fleeting vision of myself as not-myself. I know it’s hidden behind a layer of dirt, but did I really just not recognize my own face? I shake my head in unison with the girl in the mirror. We are one again. The bus driver motions for me to put my machete on the floor and asks me where “Shaw-Shaw” is today.

*****

I make a stop at a construction site where a canal is being built. I ask for the foreman and the workers tell me that he’ll return in twenty minutes. I don’t have to look at my watch because I know that the effort is useless. “Twenty minutes” in Latin America can span anywhere from twenty seconds to twenty days. Time consciousness is not valued in the culture. And I note that neither is efficiency as I watch a dozen men watch one in their group break up concrete with a single sledgehammer. The American in me cringes. And then I cringe at the American in me.

I sit down next to a donkey tied to a light post. I watch him dig into a large heap of powdered cement. I can’t imagine what smell could survive the smother of cement powder, but he digs, and digs. And then he looks at me, curls his lips above his teeth, strains his neck into the air, and belches out the most comic cry of life absurdity relief. I nod my head in agreement.

A burly yellow tractor excavating the canal passes me. The driver watches me scribble notes onto a paper pad, and then puts the machine into neutral. He jumps out of his seat, traveling a good five feet to the ground, and walks over to me. Without a flinch of hesitation, he takes the notepad out of my hand. He cocks his head, tries to read it, and then looks at me.

“It’s in English.” I confirm.

“What are you writing about,” he states more than questions.

“I’m writing about what I think,” I reply.

“Humph,” he manages and tosses the notepad back at me, turns around, climbs back up the tractor and proceeds.

An hour later, the foreman approaches me. I tell him that I’m a volunteer working on a reforestation project and that we are in need of bamboo poles to help us with our dry season irrigation system. I ask him if he has any old ones that could be donated. He asks me how old I am and if I’m single. I consciously footnote how accustomed I have become to the sexual under-over-and-obviously-on-tones of every interaction I make with a Latino man. I ignore his questions (as I do most of the kind) and hand him an example irrigation pipe. He tells me he’ll deliver the pipes to our house in the afternoon and leans forward for a “customary” cheek kiss. I step back, let the American in me step forward, and offer a handshake.

*****

I open the tarp to the greenhouse and step inside as a few butterflies make their excited escape. I inhale deeply and wonder what it is about the smell of soil that makes my insides smile. I walk around and touch the delicate leaves of the small plants. I try to remember each of their names as I go; Guachapeli, Guayacaan, Fernan Sanchez, Colorado, Agraobo, but I can’t identify the one with the white veins on the leaf. I note to myself to look it up when I get home.

I dump out the plastic two-liter bottles and begin sawing off their tops with my machete. Although the other volunteers never bother with it, I also strip the bottles of their labels. I imagine the marketing department of Coca Cola frowning in disgust as I free the plants’ future potters from a branded identity. What a shameful marketing major I am.

I inspect a small Guachapeli whose roots have outgrown its small bag and have broken straight through the plastic constraints to gasp and grasp for life in the ground outside of its container. I carefully dig up the ground around it, free its fleeing roots, and lift it up to the sky. I smile and say, “How similar we are young Guachapeli,” (Because this is what I do, you see; Have silent conversations with everything. And I’m over being shy about it.)

I put some nutrient rich soil into the two-liter bottle, slice open the bag of the Guachapeli and with the care of a heart surgeon, transplant the small tree its new home. “It’s not the wild, but you are still in need of special care until you are of suitable size and we have found you a suitable place. Here you can build your strength. Because you’re going to need it when you’re ready for the wild.” I top the plant with more new soil. And as I do so, I wonder what it is about the feel of soil that makes my insides sigh.

*****

The late afternoon light is my favorite. It has the color of warm toast and the feel of softened butter. And it is this light that casts itself like as a slide of soft light through our front windows asking if I’d like to play.

I push our brown leather chair to the hopscotch sun squares on the floor and open up the large windows. The wind exhales upon my entire upper body and I can smell the strong flavor of the ocean on its breath. I inhale deeply and fall into my chair.

There is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could ask more of this day, this life.

I open Ralph Waldo Emerson and on the slide of afternoon light, fall into his words:

“If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how men would believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the of City of God which had been shown.”

*****

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

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Monkey Message

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>New Pictures in the India Album

(Those that have been following this journey know the story behind the bracelet, but let me retell it because it figures into this one.)

So, around midway along my pilgrimage from France to Portugal, a man came up to me and told me; “You must go to India. Take this necklace. It’s from India. Its desire is to return and you may ride on the combined will of the Universe to take you there.”

So I twisted the necklace around my wrist and wore it for seven months.

In January, LeapNow asked me if I would go to India instead of back to Central America. A piece of my life puzzle snapped right into place as I glanced down at that bracelet, smiled, and said, “of course.”

But the bracelet, being made in the finest of Indian quality, broke no less than twenty times. Each time I pulled out my pliers and patiently twisted the cheap copper back into union.

But the night before I left home, the bracelet broke once again during a restless night of sleep. And so I put it on my bedside table to wait till morning to put it back on. And, in my haste of last minute packing, I forgot to grab the bracelet before going to the airport. So unfortunately — not in India — but on my night table in Oregon, it remains.

When I got to India, with a hint of sorrow, I kept my eye out for another similar one in the markets but could not find one. (I learned later, that the particular style is only found in the state of Rishikesh.)

Regardless, I kept a third eye out. And eventually I found the bracelet.

I had just entered the Mother Teresa House for the Destitute and was doing my round of morning greetings, bowing my “Namastes” and touching the feet of the “untouchables.” I sat down on one of the cots and started addressing a small line of tasks; untying the knot in a drawstring, buttoning an unreachable button, adjusting the fit of a dress, when suddenly, into my hands a broken necklace was dropped; An identical reflection of the bracelet that sits at home on my bed stand.

I made not a single movement as the understanding of the omen set in.

“This is your place. Everything you have ever done had led you to here. You are on the right path. Continue.”

The small act of incredulous magic in my hand almost smirked right at me. And all I could do was shake my head and smile…again.

(I share this example because these are the type of omens that proliferate my life. People always ask me what I’m doing, where I’m going, but I haven’t any idea! Like a trail of breadcrumbs, I simply follow the omens along my path with insatiable appetite.)

But my story with the bracelet is not finished!

I have had the great fortune to spend the last two weeks with one of the most inspiring women I have ever met. Her story is 52 years long and one I would never dare repeat, for my words are meager and pale in comparison to those that roll off her sharp tongue. She will write a book one day, and then all will have the fortune to sit by her fireside open jawed and enraptured by tales of her enchanted existence. What is important in regards to my story is that she left home when she was 17, and has been bouncing off the walls of this world ever since. In sharing with me her example existence, she has spread her arms and opened the potentiality of my path up to me. And horizons clear, I now understand the scope of my mission.

So I have made a decision.

I have decided that my journey shall never end and my travels will not be counted in years, but at least one (this) lifetime. My path treads through, but never again IN the United States. My place is not there. It’s here; Outside. From now on, my home will be carried within me. I hereby happily give up all my false (socially conditioned) inclinations towards a homestead, motherhood, social normality and financial stability. From this day forward, I gleefully soak into my bubble bath of a lifetime of outer exploration and internal realization. I dedicate my life to seeking its inherent meaning. No more voices except for the one that whispers directly from my heart. And I won’t stop until I can look up at the stars with perfect understanding of my place in this Universe. And since that will never happen, from this day forward, I shall identify myself in the occupation boxes of country border crossings only as a “perpetual pilgrim.” And if I should perish along this quest, than so be it. For to die while living out my dreams is all I could ever ask of this life. And thus, I slam down my gavel and declare my personal verdict: Liberation.

I hereby set myself free.

So I made this decision while mediating on a cliff facing the snow peaked Himalayas. That night I went to bed and dreamt the following;

My house in Oregon had been taken over and occupied by dozens of monkeys. I distracted one and made a sly entry through a side door. I ran downstairs to my bedroom and began packing everything I loved all together for a journey. Suddenly I stopped. I looked at the pile of things and said to myself, “What am I doing? I don’t need any of this for where I’m going.” I dropped everything I held and scanned the room one last time. And then I saw on the bed stand the bracelet. I walked over to it, picked it up and held it in my hand and examined it. And with an odd grace I realized that I was dreaming. In consideration of this I said, “Nope. I don’t even need this anymore.” I dropped the bracelet back onto the bed stand, went over the window, opened it, and went out.

****

Wait! So the story continues!

After I wrote the last piece, I went through Reiki Initiation (a process of fasting, meditating, ceremony and “vision quest” that initiates a person into the field of healing hands). And on my vision quest (essentially being sent out into the forest alone and asking the universe to open up and reveal to you a personal message that can come in any life form) just guess where I found myself?! Surrounded! By over 30 Languor monkeys! I wasn’t the only one surprised to find them. A forest ranger told me that he’d NEVER seen a Languor monkey up so high in the mountains. Apparently, rising temperatures (global warming) have sent them scrambling up to a place where they can breathe again. But monkeys in a PINE forest?! It was outrageous! And as I sat there marveling at the oddness of the sight, I said to myself, “What are you doing here? You look so odd, so out of place!” And thirty small black faces turned to me with curious, questioning stares that asked back, “Oh yeah. Well have you looked around YOU? You don’t fit in so well yourself. What are YOU doing here?” And I cocked my head and thought about it and decided, “Well, the place I come from doesn’t sustain me anymore, so I had to move.” And then the silent answer came back, “…well so did we.”

And then one jumped on the tree over my head and peed on me. :)

****

As if the Himalayas haven’t done enough already to me — we are now off on a 9-day trek through Kuari Pass. That picture below is our camping spot on the 7th day.

*!!!*

(sol’s travel photos)?\&nbsp(about sol)?\&nbsp(some sol stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)

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pruning

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New Pictures in the India Album

We are going up to the new mountain center home to spend ten days preparing and planting the gardens so that they will be ready and producing food in time for the children’s arrival. The heat has come early and particularly unbearable this year. The children will move up from Rishikesh to their new home in the Himalayas as soon as the garden is producing sufficient food.

(I will be completely electricity-less and offline until April 13th!)

“Man is not yet a finished creation but rather a challenge of the spirit; A distant possibility dreaded as much as it is desired.” — Hermann Hesse, “Steppenwolf”

(sol’s travel photos)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some sol stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)

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Sleepless

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Journal Entry

March 31st, 2004

Rishikesh, India

Volunteering at Ramana’s Garden Orphanage

I can’t sleep.

There’s a light inside my head that won’t stop flickering. It keeps me tossing and turning in search for the darkness that used to let me rest in peace.

The ideas that flash across my mind are the trailing sentences from conversations today…

The light flickers and I turn.

“…she can’t tell you how old she is because she doesn’t know. She’s new to our orphanage. She is a refugee from Nepal. Her father killed her mother and then prostituted the children. She was found stranded in their house in the woods. No one knows what happened to her brothers and sisters. We think that she might be nine years old…”

The light flickers and I toss.

“…we have to grow all our own vegetables here. We have no other choice. The vegetables grown by the Indian farmers are not safe to consume. When DDT pesticides were recognized as seriously poisonous and became illegal in the United States, no restrictions were put on the US manufactures on how to dispose of them. So they sold them to third world countries where there were no safety standards. The farmers here are completely uneducated as to the dangers of the pesticides. They only see that they work. They weren’t even properly informed on its need to be diluted. I’ve seen farmers take the amount that would normally be used on acres of land and sprinkle the deadly chemicals undiluted, directly onto their crops. The vegetables are poisonous. And these are the crops that are sold in the market.”

The light flickers and I open my eyes and stare blindly at the wall.

“…we used to move the children up to the mountains in May. But we had only one month of winter this year. The temperature has been steadily rising for years, but this is incredible. It’s only March and the kids are already sick from heat stroke and exhaustion. In combination with the pollution in the air, their skin literally boils. We have to move them up to the mountains as soon as possible. But without the winter, even the mountains are dry. Forest fires are already consuming it. And the great glaciers of the Himalayas are melting. They won’t be around much longer. Why? Because of global warming of course….”

The light flickers and I throw my sleeping bag over my head.

“….water is scarce and Coca Cola, Pepsi, Fanta and all the big soda manufactures are tapping majority shares of what’s left of ground water sources while the wells dry up and the people go thirsty…”

The light flickers and I sit up in bed.

“…one day twenty children, refugees from Nepal brought from across the border, just showed up on our doorstep. We don’t know their history. But what could we do? That’s when we became an orphanage…”

The light flickers and I put my hands over my face.

“…many of these children have one parent living, but they can’t live with them. Sometimes the father has killed the mother. But they don’t really have laws against that kind of thing here. And the Nepalese refugees are exploited. They are forced to take the harshest jobs — often of construction. The men cut concrete and bricks. The woman haul it on their heads. They work all daylight hours. They haven’t the time, resources or choice to care for these children….”

The light flickers on and off.

I toss and turn.

And finally, without the comfort of a lullaby, the lyrics of the song the children all sang together before going to bed begin to cycle through my head in more open-ended sentences…

How many times must a man look up — before he can see the sky?

And how many ears must one man have — before he can hear, he can cry?

How many deaths will it take till he knows — that too many people have died?

How many years can a mountain exist — before it is washed to the sea?

How many years can some people exist — before they’re allowed to be free?

How many times can a man turn his head — and pretend that he just doesn’t see?

The light flickers on and off.

I can’t close my eyes.

I can’t sleep.

*****

If YOU would like to sponsor a child or otherwise help Ramana’s Garden Orphanage, you can find information on how to do so by going to: www.sayyesnow.org.

seeking sleep,

sol

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

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At Her Feet

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> More India Pictures

Journal Entry

Feb. 13th, 2004

Varanassi, India

The Mother Teresa House for the Destitute

I walk into the house thinking I have offered to volunteer my time and hands, but what I quickly learn is that it is my humility and touch that outstretched arms reach out to receive.

I manage my way through the maze of cots in the dimly lit room. Dark and slim bodies dangle, rock, cry, bang, mumble, laugh, smile, scream, sing and sway — their definitions merging into the shadows themselves.

This is a house for the destitute. And the haziness of my 8th grade vocabulary class gains suddenly sharp clarity as I find myself confronted with a room full of example forms.

Destitute: lacking all money, resources and possessions necessary for subsistence.

The cots and bodies are all only a few feet off the ground and as I make my way through the room, I feel too tall, too strong, too tanned, too fed, too foreign, too full, too different, too BIG.

Who am I. and what place do I really think I have here?

A bony arm reaches out and tugs on my apron. The small bundle of bare life turns desperate eyes up to me and pleads in Hindi for a favor that I do not have the language to understand. There is an impression in the bed that indicates that this body has spent a lifetime depressing the form of its meager shape into it.

She reaches out a frail hand to me. I shy away and struggle with hand signals to explain to her that I don’t understand. That I don’t speak her language. That I don’t know what she needs. That I can’t give her what she wants. And then I scan the room desperately for one of the Sisters to assist me.

But with another low groan of demand, both my hand and attention are grabbed. She pulls me down.

Without any other option, I squat down onto the cold floor and, for the first time, really look at her. Her kind eyes soften my stiff hand. And as my disinclination dissolves and I allow myself to settle into her smiling eyes, I begin to wonder what it was that I was so afraid that I would see in her eyes. Having finally hurtled the last of my hesitations, I sigh my relief. And she, satisfied with finally assuming all my attention, smiles.

My anxiousness melts and my hand warms as I sink into this comfortable place at her feet. And as I do so, I notice with sudden relief how much more comfortable it is down here, looking UP into her eyes, offering myself not from above, but from below.

My eyes take rest in hers. Having stopped searching, stopped seeking, stopped speaking, my shoulders and the worries of the world they support, drop into the shadows around us. And in the silence and space of this moment, she speaks to me. Not in Hindi, and not in English, but in the universal language of shared humanity.

And suddenly, I get it.

I put my other hand on top of the one she has put on mine, and hands embraced, reflect all the warmth in my heart back at her.

How simple. How easy. How obvious. How could I be so silly as to think that I was not familiar with the alphabet of this universal language? Did I not speak this language through the wordless years of my infancy? Is this not the language that still peacefully fills the silence when the clutter and clumsiness of idle and formal conversations inevitably fail and finally fall mute?

The shyness of my hands step aside from the arrogance they hid behind and I cup both her hands in mine and gently massage into them my new understanding of our shared being.

To be touched. To be recognized. To be loved. Are these not my own needs? Are they not the needs of every human being? And did I really think her above receiving them? Or I below giving them?

Recognition is all she asks of me. Recognition of our similarity. Recognition of our shared humanity. Recognition of not only her humility, which is physically obvious, but of MINE, which ALSO rests hidden in a dark corner, but under the heavy cover of good health, youth and opportunity.

To look into my eyes and see herself reflected. To look into her eyes and see myself reflected. And to know that aside from a shade of skin color and a seed of sickness, absolutely nothing differentiates these two images. Stripped of our identities, and both humbled to the floor, in each others eyes, we find our shared existence.

And if I had one wish in this world it would be that every single person in this planet have the opportunity to sit on this floor, at the foot of this woman, to look into these eyes, and to find shared humanity held in these hands.

The dark hand gently releases and pats my hands a silent thank you.

I smile, stand up, and feel smaller.

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

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The School of Life

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“Ah! Such fascinating work you have! Whatever did you study in school?”

With a laugh and shrug I deliver one of the punch lines of my life; “Business.”

Today my hundred thousand dollar investment in my private school education delivers little more to me than a terrible little white envelope in the mail each month reminding me that I will owe them a check for the rest of my life.

And when exactly did my education lose my respect, I wonder?

Because I do remember a girl that took pure delight in finding the point of equilibrium on the supply-demand charts of economics courses. I remember a girl that spend three summers doing internships creating company surveys and reveled in the cleanliness of statistical analysis. I remember a girl that could work the numbers on an accounting balance sheet with the swiftness and enchantment of aligning one of those little sliding number puzzles. What happened to that girl?

My favorite course was Economics. My teacher was brilliant.

I remember one day when he declared to the class, “today I am going to show you the actual dollar value of a human life.” He then proceeded to use statistics of how “high-risk” jobs (street construction work) pay higher salaries in direct relation to the value of risk of death. From there he found a dollar unit value of life. And two hours later, with a whirlwind of white chalk power wafting in the air, thirty 20-year olds dropped their jaws in awe and declared in unison, “why yes, it makes perfect sense, a human life is worth exactly that little point on that graph!”

Another day he declared to the class, “today I’m going to show you that the best thing we could do to save the whales, is to give them to the poachers themselves.” And once again, in a flurry of swift statistics and sloping curves, he produced the ingenious answer, “privatization of the whaling industry!”

His rationale made pure and perfect sense.

Little did he know that his teachings would one day suffer from one of the very laws he taught me; The Law of Diminishing Returns, which I fondly remember as, “the more burritos you eat, the less you want to eat a burrito.”

Whales and Life are one thing on a chart, but they are another on a silver platter. And I declined my business school education on one life-changing day when they were delivered to me together in a formula that my Economics professor had never taught me…

I was frolicking in the last low and golden lights of another beautiful day on the beach of Tamarindo, Costa Rica when two men on horses galloped down the beach with unusually hurried speed. They abruptly stopped at my camp, where I was working with a sea turtle conservation effort.

The alarm in their faces was crudely accentuated by the red streaks of blood on their arms and shirts.

“…we tried to push it back in…but it won’t go! It’s smashing up against the rocks and it’s bleeding everywhere….I’m not sure what it is…it looks like a baby whale or something…”

The local managers of our camp, without a single moments hesitation, grabbed their gear and ran with race-worthy speed down the beach. My own steps fell behind their feet, but I found their natural pace quickly outdistanced mine.

The tide was coming in and, with parts of the beach inaccessible, I summited a small cliff to get to the final strip of rocky beach where the animal reportedly lay. At the top of the cliff, I delayed my dash for one minute to turn around and witness a single glimpse of the most beautiful sunset light I have ever seen grace a land. The red dirt of the clay cliff flared the bush, sky and water into an array of technicolor that blinded me to the reality of life.

The world swam around me and finally stalled long enough for me to briefly wonder, “Is this real?” Distant shouting turned me back to the path and sent me scrambling down the cliff to where my co-workers stood huddled waist high in the crashing waves of the incoming tide around a black thrashing mass.

I slowed my step considerably as I approached the shiny, coal-colored creature that it took three men to restrain.

“What is it?!”

“Is it alive?!”

“A porpoise.”

“Barely.”

I stepped deeper into the water and reached out to the creature. I placed one hand near its pale and desperate eye.

Tears welled up behind my own and threatened to break with the tide.

And suddenly I remembered something that I had read online in the news that very morning…

A large pod whales had beached themselves “for no apparent reason (although there was a recent experiment with seismic airguns in the local area of water)” on the coast of Tasmania, Australia that day. Despite all local efforts, the whales could not be moved back into the sea and the whales all lay awaiting imminent death.

My heart turned back to the porpoise. My hand rested gently upon her resigned life. Life was slipping from her like the water gliding down her oiled skin. And as I reached out to her and touched that moment inbetween life and death, my heart lept across the world and felt also the pulse of her great sisters of the sea, as their despair grew to match their enormous size and their pulse diminished to match their will to live.

Life stalled again. My heart with it. And I felt the pulse of all life weaken.

My despair clenched my throat around my own breath of life and something inside of me screamed and fell down on its knees. The tide of my inner cry crashed violently against the rocks of my being.

“THIS is life! THIS is life!”

Life is not a number, or tool, or factor of an equation, or possession to be owned, or statistic to be manipulated, or point of equilibrium on a chart! It’s not clean, or mechanical or predictable! It’s here! THIS pulse is life! And it beats in pace with all living creatures, just as it resonates with my own. And when it fades, mine does also!

And suddenly the bowels of the porpoise broke. And the water we stood in turned black with waste and blood. The man restraining the tail of the creature let go of the fight that had faded with the heart.

And it was somewhere there in the soiled water of death, and in the silence of life lost, that I let go of my education, and stood in understanding.

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So if you’re wonderin’ what the heck I’m DOING in Brisbane right now….during the DAY, it’s THIS:

“THIS” is the war on “lentana” — a non-native plant to Australia that grows like a weed. Primarily because it IS a weed. And it grows. A lot. Consuming all the poor little native plants by suffocating them of air and sun. That is until people like me break it down and rip it out! It’s backbreaking work, especially under the heat and ozone hole that halos Australia. To keep the pace and spirits high we busy ourselves with the creative “re-word-ation” of the 70′s top 40….”L-A-N-T-A-N-A. Better back down ’cause you’re in my way.” And in the end, it feels really excellent to give something nice back to nature.

So when we return home, we do this…..

I think we’re averaging about 2.3 ticks per person. I would go into the gruesome details, but I did that once before on this site (in regards to some ticks I picked up in the jungle in Guatemala) and I actually got emails telling me I’d taken my personal disclosures…. “a little bit to far.” So no more tick talk (kinda like “tick tock”, but not).

And AFTER work we….

Dress up like superheros and hit the locals pubs….

Make out with manequins….

Chill out on Brisbane’s enourmous fake beach….

Make movies and pose for silly shots with my new digicam…. (videos *hopefully!!!* coming)

And get felt up by Koalas.

Yep. Just your normal day down under.

(New pictures can now be found in OZ Photo Album Round 3)

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