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Footprints in Peru, Day 9: romancing pachamama

Sunday, August 26th, 2007

a community service project sponsored by World Nomads

After a night of tossing through below-freezing temperatures, the sun finally rises. And as I peer out of my tent to watch it chase away the shadows, melt the frost and fill our valley with fuzzy light and flushing warmth – I clearly understand, and immediately convert to, worship of the Incan sun god, Inti.

Watching the clouds traverse the sky, I come to the slow conclusion that I have no idea what day, date or time it is. I only know that the light is golden, the shadows heavy, and the sky clear; my first, second and third clock hands all pointing at the precise time of, “morning.”

When given the rare opportunity, Nature quickly reassumes her authority over my senses, replacing my watch with new, but natural alarm clocks like, “wake when the light opens your eyes” and “eat when your stomach sounds for it,” and “sleep when the sky shuts its lids.” After only a few days in the Andes, I can already feel my umbilical cord to the revered and worshiped, pachamama (mother earth) tugging me closer. Can I imagine the implications of being born here in the mountains: feet accustomed always to being bare upon the earth, life dependent on what yields the seasons fancy, years measured by the movement of my earth among the stars. No I can’t imagine. But I can intuitively understand. I understand that when the earth is your god, its elements and inhabitants are its messengers. And it makes sense to me that the people of Quelqanqa spend endless hours embedding the intricate outlines of suns, moons, pumas, condors, eagles, humming birds, serpents and jaguars into their shawls, scarves and skirts.

They say that even the language, Quechua, derives from the sounds of nature. And my ears attuned, finally, to the silence in which all mountains whisper, I too hear the voice of the river scouting the fastest route south, the wind blindly winding its way through the passes, the odd beeping talk of llamas and alpacas shouting warnings to each other, and the Andean condors silently swooping while the finches bounce their calls of mountain walls.

For me, it is this devotion to pachamama that distinguishes the people that populate this continent as special from the rest. While I highly respect that spirituality is so well researched, studied, explored, termed and given such specific method, form and expression in the East, I am equally awed by the simplicity of understanding your relationship to the world, not in terms of what you are not, but as a function of exactly your physical interdependence and relationship with all that IS. The Earth is clearly respected here as the provider, the nourisher, the sustainer – and also the destructive – but always equally fertile – Mother of all life. And to Her, all respects are paid.

In the Incan cosmic vision, kaypacha is the world we live in, hananpacha, the higher world of spiritual beings, and ukhupacha, the interior and bridge between worlds. Yes. I am a romantic, and while it’s perhaps unfair for me to romanticize others’ lives, I’m entitled to my personal, even if rosy, experience of my own. And here in this little lost valley in the Andes, this is what I experience: the height of the mountains humbling me, the brightness of the sun blinding me, the extremities of the weather sensitizing me, the constant physical connection to the earth grounding me, and the immensity of open space shrinking me. This pummeling, of my ego and senses, back into the Earth and my place of interdependence within her, is what I experience whenever I find myself surrounded by, and surrendered to, the Earth’s elements. And if I have ever come close, it’s only been under these conditions that I’ve found myself on the bank of the ukhupacha — the bridge between worlds.

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

Posted in on nature, tibet, travel (uncategorized) | 2 Comments »

monsieur peanut

Wednesday, July 18th, 2007

(story continued from prior post: curvy)

Now I pulled this same idiot move in Guatemala when I spent a day working at a coffee finca and was baffled by the red and green candy-colored skins masking my coffee-shop bean incognito.

Again, I have no excuse except for unadulterated ignorance. Perhaps I was misled by the airs of that top-hat-ed, cane-tapping, Mr. Peanut, who looked down at me through that funny one-eyed looking glass from the TV. Perhaps he was rather happy to bury that part of his history, now living the American dream of pulling himself from the working-class earth and earning himself the prestige of a truly refined peanut. I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting peanuts to tap dance out of the bushes, but I just didn’t expect them to be uprooted from the earth either.

But they there were. A more petite and varied version with each shell distinctively claiming its own separate space and style. Some holding the double curve of two nuts, but just as many proud to claim only one, And none afraid to protrude in any way out of whatever could be construed as, “ordinary.” Have even the nuts in my country subscribed to unquestioned conformity? Am I reading too much into my peanuts? Perhaps.

I squat, observe, and easily tug a few nuts from the root. I roll them in my hand and then look up, to my hosts, for permission to investigate with a third sense.

Now which is more ridiculous: that this white girl has traveled from her country of *purported* milk and honey and asked to work in the fields, that she didn’t know a peanut field when she was standing in the middle of one, or that she’s asking for permission to eat a nut she picked herself from the Earth? Do I have to continue to describe the faces contorted in questions of absurdity?

So put whatever expression you’d like on their faces as they witness and realize that it’s the first time this silly toubab ever seen or tasted a raw peanut. And if you also were fooled by the costume of our American ambassador Mr. Peanut, you too should know that a raw peanut has green undertones and is a little chalky on the tongue, but is just as tasty in its un-roasted form. I bite. I chew. I hum my delight. My hosts, in turn, briefly smile their happiness with my approval of their humble and naked nut, but this game is ridiculous and over and it’s time to get to work. I’m handed the shovel.

I don’t get to use the shovel long. It was a test. And I failed. I tried to mimic the sweeping motion that the younger boy was modeling, but there is clearly experience-earned skills that the expert has mastered in order to not slide deep enough under the earth to expend extra effort but sweep low enough to clear the roots and not damage the shells – like I am doing.

After 15 minutes, the older man sighs heavily and takes the shovel from me. He indicates that I am to take his job of rounding up the scratchy bushes into nice organized mounds while pulling out all the weeds and vines belonging to anything other than the peanuts. This, is quite a task at first; my eyes blind to the discrete details defining one from another. But slowly I begin to recognize the jagged shape of a leaf, the tiny thorns, the soft felt of a vine, or the darker shade of green; all cues that identify the invaders of the field from the harvest.

In this way I sift, and sort, and bundle; every hour passed proving further my durability and earning the soft and curious respect of my hosts till finally the older man comes over and claps me on the back and shouts in Wolof to the younger boy.

The boy smiles and translates to me, “He says you work HARD for a woman.”

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

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

enter tinkerbell

Friday, October 13th, 2006

Once upon a time,
in the Caribbean waters on the coast of Honduras,
where the water and sky constantly compete in an indiscernible photo finish for the definition of turquoise,
I was working as a divemaster with a Swiss and an Australian boy.

One day,
about 100 feet under the sea,
in the corner of my peripheral vision,
I caught the two of them in an underwater fight.

Fins were being chased,
wetsuits grabbed,
masks snapped,
tanks yanked;
all in tango over some hand-sized treasure seized from the sand.

As we ascended,
large air bubbles bottled my laughs and sent them to the ocean top,
as I watched my two friends somersault over each other in the acrobats of pursuit and play, that only underwater weightlessness permits.
Forgetting my roughhousing comrades as I un-buoyed the boat,
their tangled tantrum of enthusiasm tumbled its way back toward me with shared shouts of delight:

“Look! Look!”

“It’s amazing! Look!”

I immediately saw that the umbilical cord between the two had been cut,
by some definite, if unsatisfactory, result,
when each pulled from a sleeve of his wetsuit,
a fragment of that which they’d spent the entire underwater session in tryst over.

As they produced the two halves of the treasure,
and recognized the broken beauty of that which could not have been shared complete,
one reached over to the other,
smacked him across the back of the head and said,

“Look what you did! I can’t believe you broke it!”

While the smack was being returned with a matching slap and accusation,
I grabbed the two pieces before the boys began another battle, where blows weighted with gravity, would inevitably wield deeper bruises.

Taking the two pieces,
and matching the hems together as easily as corner puzzle pieces,
brought the attention and awe of the two boys back into alignment…

“Look!” one shouts, “at the fine inscriptions, the delicate handiwork!!!”

“Yes!” the other echos, “Do you think is an ancient Mayan artifact? It must be!”

Indeed.

Indeed,
the most perfectly symmetrical flower is stitched seamlessly across this ornate piece.
And by an equally divine hand, the fine design was obviously devised.

But I cannot hold back any longer,
and one small air bubble of a giggle breaks….

The boys’ eyes narrow at me in suspicion,
and I know well enough to be gentle not to pop this spell of wonder.

I shake off the smile,
and quite seriously tell them the story of a creature I know well,
but which has quite evidently evaded the closer shores of their own homelands.

They pass the flowered piece of pottery between the two….

“Really? And it’s called a what?”

“A sand dollar?”

Time passes,
and as as is the effect of all explanations,
the Wonder sadly wears off.

The two boys stash their respective pieces back under the sleeves of their wetsuits and one thumps the other over the back of the head and says, “Yeah. Just a sand dollar.”

I distance myself from the re-initiated game of brotherly tumble,
and myself marvel at the magic which something
- anything -
simply unknown,
can inspire.

Today.
I am reminded of this story;
As I spent a full fancy hour dancing around a bush,
Chasing the curious little creature captured in the picture above.
Wings faster than a humming bird,
Body with more dimension than any bug I’ve ever encountered…
For the measure of my enchantment,
It was Tinkerbell herself.

Later,
I passed this photo around the dinner table,
to which her recognition was met with indifferent shrugs.
Apparently a common apparition in Southern France she is.

But still unnamed,
by any with whom I shared her description and vision,
“Tinkerbell”,
in my Walking Fairy Tale,
She’ll continue to be.

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

Posted in magic & alchemy, on nature, prose & ramble | No Comments »

web

Friday, September 29th, 2006

words.
borrowed and recycled only
they are a poor and crooked outline
of my dot-to-dot understanding
and web through which I see the world

A dozen pilgrims pass me,
strange glances they leave me,
except for one who stops to ask,
“Why? What do you look at?”

Some prefer strings of pearls and diamonds,
adorning a long neck or slender wrist.
But I will ever swoon first,
for the morning’s dew-laced web,
on the snow-white skin of dawn’s fog.

Not a fault of my French, but for forgiveness of all languages,
I sigh a wish to the world where words are stunned mute, and silences speak.
But my wish is a coin,
tossed into a well of unfathomable depth,
and with the padded softness and simplicity,
of that same coin’s awkward splash,
I reply; “Je l’aime.”
And put my pen to paper,
let its point sit and bleed,
adding one more crude period,
to my dot-to-dot understanding,
of this immaculate vision.

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

Posted in magic & alchemy, on nature, photographic journeys, prose & ramble | 5 Comments »

the last turtle

Thursday, December 15th, 2005

14.1, 3.1, 2.1

15.2, 3.4, 2.3

12.5, 2.7, 2.0

“Oh my gosh, this one’s so little!” I put the slide rule down and, with two careful fingers, lift the little creature up. His width, as measured exactly to be 2.0 centimeters, is small enough to make my eyes cross when I hold him up to my nose for closer examination.

His little eyes blink back at mine but, blinded by will power, he shows no fear. For with the clockwork and inexhaustible motion of a wind-up toy, this flawless miniature replica of an adult Olive Ridley turtle paddles with impressive and indiscriminate strength against sand or hand in search of the swim in the sea that he will spend the rest of his life in.

I look into the wire mesh enclosure that circles the sand where this nest hatches and a dozen tiny sea turtle heads poke their exhausted beaks from the sand. Despite that they appear to be identical hund-lets, here already the hatchlings begin to demonstrate their individual character as, upon the same first breath of fresh sea air, some collapse in relief and other are re-invigorated to a new full charge towards the sea. And both are quite validated responses, for after being abandoned by my mother, breaking out of my egg and spending the next 48 hours digging out of my own birth-grave, I too would fancy myself deserving of a break — either from work or for the water.

Although instinct (alone) has taught this hatchling the dangers of the swooping shadows of predators, the collective unconscious of this species has yet to imprint the intuitive instructions on how to swerve the myriad traps human beings have put in place to successfully impede the survival of these little life seedlings. The literal “dead ends” of the sea turtle’s life path are extensive, and almost exclusively the fault of fallout from (what I can only assume is) man’s suicide mission here on earth. Pesticides and heavy metals from the mass pollutants dumped in the sea cause a multitude of mutations and fatal diseases. Heavy ship traffic results in numerous propeller collisions. Shrimp trawling and fishing drift nets entangle and drown untold thousands of adult turtles. Trash, particularly plastic bags, are confused with jellyfish which are then eaten and cause suffocation. Nests are excavated at industrial levels with the eggs sold as purported aphrodisiacs throughout Latin America. Pregnant turtles are captured on their way to nest and are slaughtered for their meat, liver oils and/or shells which are used in making jewelry marketed to tourists. Artificial lighting caused by developments on beaches both dissuade mothers from nesting and disorientate hatchlings, leaving them lost so long that they die from dehydration in their unsuccessful quests to find the ocean.

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I put the hatchling into the bucket and as he crawls upon the backs of his brothers and struggles so desperately to climb the impossibly slick walls, his frustration with this woman-made obstacle is obvious. But what the hatchling doesn’t know is that 45 days ago, a poacher followed his mother during her annual adventure from the sea, waited for her to give birth, stole her eggs from the nest, and saved his chance of survival. Yes, saved. For another fact unknown to this hatchling is that that thanks to our massive global pollution of the Earth and a phenomenon that men in suits to this day deny, the black sand beaches of Guatemala have warmed to temperatures that make the land nothing but an underground oven that bakes the nest at lethal temperatures and cooks each and every hatchling alive. The poacher that spared this hatchling only did so because he is mandated by Guatemalan law to donate a percentage of the eggs he collects to the local hatchery (the one I am volunteering at).

But the good fortune of this hatchling neither starts nor stops here. For his mother was the very lucky one in 5,000 of her species siblings to reach the age of sexual maturity that brought her back to nest on this beach. This beach, by the way, is the exact same beach that she herself was born on. Despite the fact that it’s been over a dozen years and thousands of annual miles migrating to far and foreign seas since she hatched and crawled across this sand to her first swim, she still knows her way back and returns to the very same beach that she herself was born on. This navigational marvel still humbles the best of human scientist: some say sea turtles travel in alignment to the stars, others hypothesize that they feel the subtle gravitation pulls of the moon, and still others theorize that they simply follow their noses recognizing the most delicate and directional smells of the sand that once housed the outer womb of their first home. In any case, it’s a mystery we do not, and most likely will never, solve. For every single type of sea turtle found in the ocean today is endangered. Leatherback turtles have been swimming in the Earth’s oceans for over 150 million years; they actually swam with the dinosaurs! Yet on my last night strolling the beach scouting for nesting females (while volunteering for the Leatherback Conservation Project in Costa Rica in 2003), I asked one of the long-term local workers if he thought the leatherbacks had any real chance of surviving the age of humanity and he replied, “if things continue the way they are now, there won’t be a single leatherback in the ocean in ten years.”

I turn my attention back to the next hatchling I pull out of the nest. I struggle to hold her still as she tirelessly does consecutive push-ups on my palm in her impressive attempt to paddle herself out of my hand.

When and by what hand was this adamant will to live wound, I, with admiration, wonder?!

I don’t know. But I pledge to her my support. The statistics are indeed dismal, but quite an equal match for the enormous will exhibited in my palm. And if she thinks she can do it, or even only asks for a chance, I will match her instinctual willpower with my intentional optimism.

Finally I manage to measure her weight, length and width…

14.9, 3.1, 2.2

She is the last turtle. I mark down her measurements, put her into the bucket and carry her out to the sea, whereupon I find a nice spot a few meters from the water line and delicately dump the pile of hatchlings out. I turn those upside-down right-side up and then quickly walk down into the water and turn my flashlight on to help guide their way, on this moonless night, towards (what would be) the natural light of the sea. The salty air and damp sand instantly invigorate even the sleepers and the race towards the water, towards a lifetime, towards opportunity, is on. Their hydrodynamic and streamlined flippers are hardly appropriate for land travel, but they make so light of the first of many disadvantages they will encounter in this life. They struggle forth making fast and outstanding gain towards the water and finally, the first far-reaching wave and fastest paddling hatchling collide. As she catches that wave and rides, I swear I hear her sigh. I watch her tumble with a wicked current into the adventure of her lifetime and realize that the shared sigh of longing and hope for life — was mine.

Feeling inspired to adopt a turtle nest of your own?

< Adopt a turtle nest at the ARCAS Hawaii Hatchery in Monterrico, Guatemala.
They do not yet have any way to receive online donations, so if you trust me (I do), I’m very happy to collect donations ($15 USD per nest) through paypal and will make sure the name and donation are handed over to my friends running the center in Guatemala. For a detailed explanation on what it means to, “Sponsor A Nest” at Parque Hawaii in Guatemala, go to: www.sponsoranest.com.

Official PayPal Seal

OR…

< Adopt a nest at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium in Florida

< Adopt a nest at the Sea Turtle Restoration Project in San Diego

< Be a turtle benefactor at Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge

Posted in NGOs & service learning, central america, getting political (warned), on nature, on tears & loss | 1 Comment »

a day in the life

Sunday, November 6th, 2005

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.

*****

Posted in NGOs & service learning, culture, getting political (warned), on nature, story time | No Comments »

apology

Saturday, February 26th, 2005

“Apology”
Conversation with a Snow Leopard
February 22nd, 2005

“I’m sorry.”

It’s all I can think to say to these eyes that demand from me, in unblinking boldness, a response.

I drop my eyes in shame and break from the naked contact we have made.

Like a guardian who is left to explain to the bewildering, trusting and truth seeking eyes of a toddler whose parent has died, I stand speechless, seeking words I’ll never find.

Words and will lost, the curiosity of this beautiful beast reaches right through the wire fence and pulls my spirit directly into the cage.

Unexpectedly, I find myself without breathe. I gasp…

And am released.

The eyes blink and suddenly they speak…

“What is this word, “freedom” of which you think and are trying to breathe?”

My heart drops down. My eyes well up.

“Stop!” I demand of my whispering soul. “Be quiet!” “These secrets are not for you to share!”

But the voice chatters on…

“500 snow leopards living in captivity. Four to five thousand left living in the wild. Poaching continues. Human homes swallowing up their dens. Only in these breeding centers have they a chance to procreate. But such a small gene pool. So many still births. They will not survive, as a species, beyond the next few decades. But this one. This is one of our successes. She was born here this year.”

She blinks again.

“I’m one of the last?”

Under this gaze I am transparent. So I shut my eyes in closure of the confession I cannot make.

Like the last unicorn, we (humanity) have chased another into the sea.

Dashing madly in denial, that in black and white photos, we will all one day be.

I hang my head and repeat, heavily,

My final and heartbroken apology.

*****

< New pictures in the Darjeeling, India Photo Album.

(world photogallery)&nbsp(about sol)&nbsp(some stories)&nbsp(LeapNow.org)&nbsp(travel disclaimer)&nbsp(packing list)&nbsp (photogallery guestbook)&nbsp (blogger profile)&nbsp(World Nomads Travel Insurance)&nbsp(WhereThereBeDragons.com)

Posted in on nature, on tears & loss, southern asia | No Comments »

sowing seeds

Tuesday, October 12th, 2004

Renee,

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

First the story…

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

(And the gift…)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namaste (“recognizing the diving in you”),

sol

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

Posted in gratitude, letters (my craft), on health, on nature | No Comments »

Defining a Non-Violent Reality

Thursday, August 19th, 2004

- New Pictures (nabbed from my roommate´s camera)

*****

Having made my tracks on only the whiff of whim, I find myself once again looking up to the clouds for the source of the fairy dust on my shoulders. My books all tell me, “You define your reality,” but I wonder too many times a day, “Am I really capable of this kind of creativity?”

I look around my room right now in attempt to capture what exactly IS the essence of that defined reality. Should we start with the books on my nightstand? For this pile always seems to be reflective of where my priorities and pursuits are stacked:

“A People’s History of the United States” Howard Zinn,

“Latin America, From Colonization to Globalization” Noam Chomsky

“Bagombo Snuff Box” Kurt Vonnegut

“The Nature of the New Mind” J Krishnamurti

“Be As You Are” The Teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi

“The Story of My Experiments with Truth” M.K.Gandhi

“The Vegan Sourcebook” Joanne Stepaniak

I read them all at the same time. How I picked up this habit, I’m not sure. But the more books I concurrently read, the more I recognize how curiously their messages concur.

The last book, I would say, is probably the pepper in today’s leafy salad of living. I picked it off my roommate’s shelf last night and put it down (finished) this morning while still fanning the heat of its implications from my mouth. When the spice was soothed, I grabbed my favorite Peruvian Albaca sweater from the coat rack and tossed it to my roommate.

“I love this sweater! Are you giving it to me? But WHY?”

“Because I’m vegan now.”

Although I’ve been vegetarian for almost four years, I’ve never had any “good” reason other than feeling “intuitively inclined” towards the lifestyle choice. But in India I was re-introduced to the principle of “Ahimsa” (a Sanskrit term that means the practice of “non-violence” or “non-harming” as the path to compassionate living). I say re-introduced because although I had never heard the word, somewhere inside of me it had always been defined, even if officially unnamed. (And now that I furrow my brow over it I realize that such are all the greatest omens on my path; Not so much DIS-covered, as they are UN-covered.)

So I lifted the top off the pot and found Ahimsa inside. It was one of those, “ah ha!” moments; “So THIS is why I’m vegetarian. Because I understand all sentient life to be interconnected and cannot, either directly or indirectly, cause harm to another living creature and still live with Integrity.”

I had always known that I’ve never had, in these hands, the power to take another life. (Although I certainly paid henchmen to do exactly so for me for a couple dozen years.) But not for any means or end could I personally, with my own hands, ever kill a mouse, bird, fish, cat, dog, rabbit, chicken, deer, fox, wolf, bear, cougar, ox, cow, elephant, whale or butterfly. I have watched and seen that these creatures display such charm, wit, agility, beauty, intelligence and natural grace that I am humbled in my clumsy humanity.

Perhaps there is a natural order, but in my opinion it is not the hierarchy that our social institutions are so busy painting in all the history, religious and science text books for the purpose of justifying the exploitation of “lower” rungs by the elite (Are we really still talking about the food chain of “animals” here?). From my observations of life (and perhaps in particular from my mediations on the spider’s web) I have understood the natural order of life not to be hierarchical at all, but spherical in shape and motion. And my little node on this web is not only unique and powerful, but equal and interconnected to every other. Life is not for me to deliberate of whom it is worthy or not. It is only for me to respect as I do my own.

Exploitation is exploitation. Whether it be of animals, the Earth or of other humans. And I do not see an end to one without the others. For me to make a daily practice of Ahimsa and non-violence means that not only must I work to eliminate the overt and obvious, but also the discreet and indirect, violent and harming consequences of my living. And if want equality, I must begin by assuming it. This is how I’ve learned to materialize all my dreams; Just define the reality as I want it, and start living it.

For the last seven months I have explained (to the questioning) my Vegetarianism as a simple side effect of my practice of Ahimsa. And I even fancied my response unique until I opened “The Vegan Sourcebook” to its first chapter and read:

“The American Vegan Society published its first issue of Ahimsa magazine in May 1960. Each issue of Ahimsa delineates the six pillars of “the compassionate way.” Combining the first letter of each pillar spells out the word “AHIMSA”:

1. Abstinence from animal products

2. Harmlessness with reverence for life

3. Integrity of thought, word, and deed

4. Mastery over oneself

5. Service to humanity, nature and creation

6. Advancement of understanding and truth

Well look at that. A whole crock-pot of others stewing on the exact same stuff.

Veganism has not only ethical, but deep spiritual roots!

And suddenly my Integrity, with a green-eyed glance at a new realm of conscience, pursed its lips, stomped its foot in my insides and said, “Vegetarianism just isn’t gonna cut it here anymore. If you think you’re gonna live with me, you’re gonna have to clean up your act and take more responsibility for this place!”

And who’s to fight with Integrity? I’ve learned from plenty of experience, that no matter how hard, wide or wild I swing, she places a single finger on my forehead and smiles patiently until I collapse in my own exhaustion of exertion.

So I started swinging: cheese, chocolate, yogurt, cookies, those hot rolls from the bakery downstairs, mayonnaise, milk on my cereal, honey, leather shoes, Jello, cakes, buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, cappuccinos, pudding, my favorite Peruvian Albaca sweater?! You want me to give up my favorite Peruvian Albaca Sweater too?!

And my Integrity yawned.

“Are you done with your little tantrum yet? Cause when you’re done beating yourself up, we’ve got work to do.”

So I surrendered. And the initial fight, having taken so much out of me, suddenly cleared the space for something new to sink in.

So I read the next 19 chapters of the book; manipulative mass-media marketing campaigns, corrupt government industry administrations, slaughter houses methods, veal farm conditions, chicken coops, beak trimming, physical mutilations, overgrazing, animal agricultural water pollution, corporate green washing, human labor conditions in the animal agriculture industry, hormone induced mutations, agrichemical industries, Bovine Growth Hormones, zoos, hunting, rodeos, vivisection, circuses, xenotransplants, animal testing, rainforest clear-cutting. Animal agriculture accounts for 80% of annual world deforestation?!

When I closed the book, there was no choice be made. For my decision to live as a Vegan, was not discovered, but UNcovered. It had been sitting inside of me, patiently, awaiting my arrival at its awareness.

And suddenly I no longer had any craving for cheese or crackers or chocolate or cakes…

I was full.

And Integrity opened both her hands and smiled with a slight shake of her head, “Now see how I take care of you when we work together and walk in alignment on these matters?”

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

Posted in on health, on nature, on spirituality & religion | No Comments »

My Day, My Life

Friday, August 13th, 2004

“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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