Category Archives: on transitions & “home”

just being

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Call it a block, but I just haven’t any will to write. I’ve returned to the blinking cursor no less then twelve times today and begun fifteen different sentences that I deleted before I came to a period. And I’ve bitten my lip and fingers in frustration of my fruitless mental dig for a single carrot to hold over and entice my fingers to type. But nothing! Not that the content isn’t there. Because it is. I see the story on the other side and I’m standing in front of the bridge. But something in me just won’t budge on taking the steps necessary to cross. So I surrender. I’ve certainly seen my life to be an undulating wave of giving and receiving, acting and waiting, phases. And I suppose it’s time for me to just sit on the bank of these thoughts and let what wants to surface, surface. And what wants to sit, sit. My sudden case of shyness is nothing to worry about or take personally. All week, I’ve been quick to turn every inquirer’s question around as fast as proposed, and even my father is accusing me of “hiding something.” But I don’t think it is so much hiding, as it is holding. It was my nature as a child to hide the small sacred charms I found or was given. I would find a secret spot: a hole in a stuffed animal, a knot in a tree stump, the bottom of the old sewing chest, a forgotten drawer in the garage, and stash my small find to be treasured in silent moments when I found the time to slip away from playmates and siblings. I can only guess this is what I’m doing: hoarding my experiences, revisiting them in silent spaces, touching them to make sure they’re real and fondling the fact that they belong to me. Although my loyal and high self-standard striving self would like to deliver a few self-inflicted mental bruises for not “coming through when due,” it equally respects the rule of, first, following ones own advice. And so, instead of “dancing on tables,” I’m going to “sit in the corner and be shy” on this one; Breathing. Forgiving. Embracing. And just being fine with it. :)

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

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unasked answered

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This week, on the streets of Pondicherry, I was blessed by an elephant.

And she raised her trunk to deliver, upon my forehead, a sacred thump, a story that I always felt compelled to compose, but never found the time to type, came back to mind. So please pardon the travel, and we go back in time, to…

Rishikesh, North India Spring of 2004

After turning the last page of my book, Living With The Himalayan Masters, I take a walk with one of my students along the Ganga to visit the part of the ashram where we make our morning mediations. As we stroll along the banks of the most sacred river in India, I share with my student some of my comments and thoughts left open on the book that I have just closed, “…he tells a story of when the elephants ate the roof right off the hut they were meditating in. Can you imagine? In this same exact place, only fifty years ago, wild elephants strolling the streets and taking meals of roofs where they please?!” Neither of us can imagine these dusty and motor-rickshaw-ridden streets being graced with anything more wild and savage than the Kashmiri merchants, and so we sigh and fancy the vision only.

We arrive at the ashram, spend an hour in guided mediation, and share breakfast with the community of teachers and students. After cleaning our dishes, my student says she’ll go to the bathroom and be right back. I wander out towards the gardens to wait for her.

As I’m taking a picture of the lotus pond, I notice an Indian man, and by his appearance (clean and modern) evidently a guest, look out the door of the kitchen and scan the area in search of someone. Settling on me, he approaches and finishes a conversation we’ve never started, “You wanted to see the wild elephants, yes? You sit on the Ganga, directly outside of this ashram, and at sunset they sometimes come to bathe.”

I put my hands out to steady the world as it spins around me for a second, and by the time I’ve found my balance, the man has said goodbye and is gone, and my student is back.

Sensing something off, she inquires, “Hey, are you okay?”

I look around and wonder the same, and then, thinking for one second that I still might be in reach of my reason ask, “I think so, but, hey… did you just tell someone about how we were talking about elephants this morning?” Her head cocks and her brow furrows, and on the slope of these doubting angles the rest of my sanity slips through my fingers like sand.

“What are you talking about?” she says with a squinted and suspicious eye.

My eyes dodge around as I scramble to string the pieces, and at the same time, a coherent sentence, together. But I’ve never been good at doing two things at once, and what comes out is a jumble of pauses and over-punctuation. “This man. He just came up. And said the elephants. The elephants! He said. Yes, wild elephants. Here? At sunset. Wait. You really didn’t? How’d he know? Do you think? Wild elephants?”

As the instructor, I really shouldn’t let my students see me in such a state. She gives me a look I remember giving my mother; one of those, “I’m gonna let this one slide” looks, and I, still unbelieving myself of what has just transpired, am all too happy to take her up on the subliminal offer.

When we meet up with my co-leader and the rest of the group, disregarding how I came upon the knowledge, I put out the proposal for a riverfront rendezvous at sunset. One of the less faithful students blurts out, “Wild elephants? Yeah right. Who told you this? I don’t believe it for a second.” Even my super trusting co-leader gives me a little side nudge and lowers his voice to say, “I’ve never seen any wild elephants here. Are you sure someone wasn’t playing a little joke on you?” Actually, I do feel like someone is playing a big joke on me, but I don’t think it was the man who told me about the wild elephant, and neither am I ready to laugh quite yet. So I tell the students I can make no promises, but the invite remains open.

I’ve never seen the Indian sun weak, but today in particular you can actually see the heat shimmering and sweating off the skin of the river. At a prime napping hour, and with a heavy yawn, I glance at my watch and easily understand why neither my students nor my co-leader have walked up the Ganga’s riverbank to join me. But that’s okay. Anyone who has ever witnessed a sunset over the Ganga knows that it’s always worth the watch and like no other sunset; it’s thicker, deeper, longer and lingering. It’s like the sun is loitering on the Ganga, and why not? If you were being worshiped by the earth’s largest congregation of followers who were all throwing arms and alms up into the air with offerings of carnations and candles and prayers, while chanting, singing and requesting of your sacred blessing, wouldn’t you also lollygag around just a little longer than usual before retiring?

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At this spot in the river, there are not many revelers. But lit candles in banana leaf boats and orange, yellow and white wreathes of flowers float gracefully downstream in belated evidence of the presence of worshipers upriver. I pull out my journal and scribble some setting thoughts, but as the sun goes down and the light softens, I begin to scan the other side of the now backlit shore.

Suddenly, and to my jaw-dropping astonishment, I see a huge dark mass push its way through the trees on the far bank. Since everything is backlit, it’s only the outline of a shape that I see, but the mass shifts its weight, from one foot to another, in the telltale shuffle of the largest land-walking beast that still roams our planet. I can’t believe it. I rub my eyes. But I still can’t believe it. And as if it senses my doubt, the elephant slowly turns exactly ninety degrees, and with certain, clear and curving lines, presents one of the most identifiable shapes in kindergarten classes worldwide. Its trunk swings. Its ears flap. It shifts back and forth. And then it turns ninety degrees more, and disappears into the same shadows from which it emerged.

I want to cry. I want to cry because of the man who answered a question I didn’t ask him. And I want to cry because of the existence of an unnamed mover that used him to deliver the message. I want to cry because the elephant existed. And I want to cry because it was wild and free. I want to cry, because I’m all alone. And only by witnessing alone, could my faith have solely been owned. I want to cry because if it’s possible for such a sequence of events to pass, then any other sequence of pure magic can too. I want to cry because I don’t understand, but don’t need, or even want, to. I want to cry, because Life just paused, and bothered to take a single second of its time, to turn around and wink back at me.

My eyes well up as I raise my own silent song and alms in praise and appreciation for the sacred blessing not asked for, but so gracefully received.

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

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midnight monsoon

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pouring. drenching. pounding. drowning. rain.

When I was in Pune, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Mumbai, when you were there?” When I was in Goa, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Pune, when you were there?” When I was in Kerala, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Goa, while you were there?”

And every time I cocked my head, eyed the clearly barren sky behind me, and thinking I was stating the obvious, replied, “no.”

In fact I have not seen a single drop of rain for six weeks. Still chewing on the grit of Senegal’s sand and coughing on the fumes of Mumbai’s million motor rickshaws, a powerful thirst I have felt myself building for exactly such of cocktail of Earthly element. And so it is with hesitant optimism that I follow the eyes of the locals as they search the horizon while asking me these questions of the temperament and mood of the house and home (the North), from which emerges their revered monsoon. Shadows of history and habit must darken (only) their sky, for as I follow their narrowed eyes, I find that not a single cloud lends like credibility to the claim of daily rain. They tell me that Monsoon has yet to leave this Season’s house; that it stormed, in fact, just the day before. But as I look around for this phantom whose presence still clearly haunts, it seems I’ve arrived only in time to hear the echo of the Monsoon’s last knock on a now-closed door. Yet I do not doubt that I am, indeed, on the heel of the annual and auspicious guest, clearly evidenced by its footsteps freshly left: the dust is still matted and sticking softly to the ground, the palms and plants are hues of green made so only by months of overindulgent drinking, the driver – incredulous to clear skies – puts the roof on over our jeep, and we don’t see any animals in the wildlife park because there’s no need to visit the watering holes when faucets run freely from the trees.

But this week, for the first time in three months, I put my backpack down with the intention of staying more than three days in just one place. Noting the pause in my pilgrimage, the Tempest of intense, rugged and relentless experience that chased me over the Pyrenees, across Senegal, and down the Southern coast of India has taken this opportunity to make up lost ground in haste. As the sun goes down, my hair curls up, a clue as clear as any that the humidity of a storm’s wet breath is now breathing down my neck. Exhausted and thus unsuspecting and unguarded, I go to bed. But I am startled awake when Monsoon’s midnight footsteps approach my window and, at the same time, the reading lamp under whose light I fell asleep, with all the electricity, goes out. Blindly feeling my way out of bed, I approach the full-wall-window frame that holds not glass, but only a screen, between myself and a jungle of second-story limbs of trees. And here I search in the darkness for that which boldly stares back at me, while unseen clouds grumble angrily and the softly padded footsteps pick up deliberate speed. My heart races, not with fear, but only to match the anticipation of the whetted air. The Monsoon gasps, as it claims its long awaited prey, and at the same, I sigh, in willing surrender to this welcomed fate.

pouring, drenching, pounding, and drowning,

indiscriminate and immobilizing,

stripping, purging, purifying, and anointing,

on the altar of the blessed and resounding,

rain.

Replenished and revitalized, I feel my way back to the bed. But the same rhythmic song that normally sings me to sleep, tonight, keeps me awake. Perhaps it’s the dark hidden eyes, still staring in my window and surrounding me, and the case of being “watched” that brings with it insomnia. Of unknown origin this energy that ties the sheets in knots around my tireless feet. So like I did the storm, I simply surrender to knowing that, this night, I will not sleep.

And that’s okay. The monsoons of rain and experience have, in perfect time, caught up to me. And there is no better place, than in this darkness, to begin the work of digging through and digesting what I’ve seen, done and been to reflect, relive and revise, the ever-evolving script of my life.

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

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wonderfully raw reality dip

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Where the line narrows at the neck of the plane, instead of offering extended arms of right-of-way (as I have been accustomed), men briskly step in front of me with unknown, but unquestioned, authority on the order. Downcast eyes discard my presence so naturally that I am conflicted between feeling relief and insult. And although we are still in Europe, I recognize a thick foreign air, along with the cabin pressure, to have already filled the negative space between the seats. The confident finesse I have earned from six weeks of successful navigation around France, without any fight, cowardly flees. Not the adrenaline of ready action, but the equally excitable serum of surrender, floods my system, and like a faucet left long running, brings my soul to the surface of my skin, where it there beads the pore-purging sweat of suspension.

I close my eyes and ride this rush; a rush that France’s elegant capital and all its pretty castles combined, could in her fairest day not inspire. A flash of blond may catch the initial fancy, but too-easily-earned beauty paves the path to the brunette forest beyond the town of Known’s borders. With glass slippers, decorated dress, ornamented accessories, painted face, and bejeweled skin, I may have danced days away at France’s ball. Senegal, however, is hardly the ugly stepsister. No. No. Senegal is slipping out the side door at midnight, stripping eagerly of a costume that suddenly only constricts. Senegal is skinny dipping in the ocean, in the dark, where something slimy slides along your side and sends chills up your spine, and although you know not what it is, you love it, for it makes you feel raw, naked, exposed and alive.

If France’s French whispers softy, West Africa’s French sings. And to this tune I am eagerly greeted; “Se Va? Se va! Se va. Se va!” Three kisses, as opposed to two, emphasize the added touch and match my welcome in warmth to the air that greets my pores likewise by opening them with heavy sighs of my ever-enamored passion for the tropics. A handshake speaks a sign language I don’t yet know, but I play this game of knocking knuckles, bumping fists and thumb wars amidst the same round of giggles such games inspired from me as a kid. In a sea of dark faces, I am the only white. And I cling on to this fleeting awareness for I know that this rare isolation, and adjoining sensation, is at once precious and fading, by the minute, towards extinction.

During the car ride home, my receiving host and I share in animated conversation. It’s early morning and the night allows me the peace of keeping quiet the view that would otherwise command all my attention. Under my mosquito net, in my bed, I toss and turn through the night, tied up in the sheets of my anticipation. At some point I finally fall asleep, but when I, a few hours later awake, I find in my journal scribbled (as sketches of my dreams often do), the following leftover of excitement-inspired insomnia noted:

“Like a live wire; so deeply charged, my skin feels stretched and challenged by the task of containing me. Everything I touch, I find to already be reaching toward me, and I at once feel both the touch of It, and It’s touch of me back; the flower of my every experience greeting me by blooming. Now I understand the metaphor of Buddha’s step.”

In Senegal I have officially arrived. And although the chapter on my fairy tale has officially closed, on the rugged path into the dark and enchanted forest I now find, the messages sung from my six senses only multiplied. Stripped and faced not with fantasy, but raw reality, I dive into this dark sea, feel the mysterious thing that touches my side, sends chills up my spine, and makes me love it for making me feel raw, naked, exposed and alive.

****

Although I have seen hundreds of visions photo-worthy, taking out a camera is entirely, and almost always, inappropriate. Just a few new pictures, I have since uploaded…

And THIS GUY, was found in the shower of the house where I’m being hosted:

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

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pinched but not popped

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Journal Entry
Condom, France
(How unfortunate to have a contraceptive device named after your city!)
Mid-October

Four days ago, my brother (by blood) and my sister (by marriage) jumped off a two-car train and onto the tracks of my walking dream; hands shading the sun in scout for a sister they have heard much about but never actually seen beyond the borders of Oregon’s four corners.

I wish desperately now, that I had filmed that moment; that instant when, while their thoughts roamed only on the plains of my whereabouts, the bubble that I thought to contain my existence, despite the waking pinch, did NOT pop, and was gloriously realized, instead, to actually exist.

Suspiciously similar to the conversation had between self and subconscious the moment one becomes lucid in a sleeping dream, my mind chased its tail with the full-circle understanding; “You’re here. And I’m here. And we’re both here together. And everything else is still here….so this must be real!!!”

The only thing better than lucidly living a dream, is being able to witness with beloved company.

And for three full days, my brother and sister witnessed with me…

They met the magical cast of French cartoon-like characters, who swooped into scenes in full color with hearts equally overflowing in offers of unexplained generosity. They watched castle tops emerge without warning from behind hilltops covered in leaves caught between seasons of gold and green. They marveled at roses of every shades and all colors, that crept wildly over cobblestone on every street corner. They played twister with the language, laughed through game upon game of charades, and just shrugged or smiled at the beds of riddles left unmade. They too, were confused, by the red and white bars giving directions, that clearly take delight in dancing pilgrims off the route of their intention. They shared five-course meals with tables of fellow pilgrims, as listened to histories of enchanted towns, while locals’ cheeks turned rosy with wine. They dunked chocolate croissants into steamy mugs and spooned saucy crepes, while commenting on the absence of such luxuries in the States. They bedded down in lofty hill-top towns, in bedrooms with balconies that cast warm purple shadows over the lands just traversed. They picked plums and apples off passing orchard trees that reached out their branches and offered us Earth’s best-baked delicacies.

And when they left, a sensation that I rarely feel, completely overcame me.

Only a vague acquaintance of Loneliness, I took off my bag, sat down on it, and felt out the dimensions of this foreign emotion; its emptiness, its fullness, its presence, its absence.

Finally, I settled on the definition: “absence of presence.”

At this exact instant, two white butterflies in a tumultuous tango, mimicking (if not mocking), my own game of mental tag, swung a net and caught my attention.

As I followed their flight with my eyes, my horizons suddenly spread as I moved “out of my head” (a narrow space to live in really) and inhabited the 360° space around me instead. The sun of understanding rose as a second dawn set upon me, and at once everything awoke and started buzzing all around me. A million leaves began blowing, as the wind brushed my hair from my face, and into my ear, disclosed, at once its agreement and dissent:

“About Loneliness…” it said, “you are more right than you know.”

“For exactly as you’ve defined it — the absence of presence — it is only.”

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

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transfixed

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*a few of my travel journals*

As fingers stall in the shadows of my thoughts, I pluck slow minutes, in time with a bowl of grapes, wondering to where and when my words have wandered.

For the purpose of paying taxes, I was recently asked to create a calendar of my 2005 whereabouts. At first annoyed with this incomprehensible task, I quickly realized the ulterior motive of this disguised divine mission, when I found myself — three hours later — still curled up with my travel journals reading, with fascination, of a girl suspiciously unknown; “Who is she? Who speaks so easily? Who never needs to try, but finds adjectives rolling down mental slides with careless speed? Who is this girl, that cleans inspiration from under her fingernails with a flick of curiously calm confidence in causality?”

I hear it in my parents’ voices when they call. I hear them seeking too, in my own tone, for some lost song. No questions pertaining to the strings that might conveniently hold a daughter down to a continent much closer. No. Instead I hear the sigh of expected relief in the end of their exclamation marks when they ask, “and when will you be leaving!”

A bardo (Tibetan word meaning: liminal passage, intermediate state, the state of consciousness in the course of migration between death and rebirth), I again wander. Gone is my desire to spend five days a week dancing — as my heart strays to allow the distance that, at once, breaks the love affair of my immediate community and looks to the horizon of a new one brimming. At the supermarket, I hesitate. Coffee, olive oil, peanut butter; commitments to long-term condiments I haven’t the time to make. 28 days left. Tickets purchased, I have only to hold my breath. But so sad for my boss! My passion for work officially tapped, projects of which I am now guilty of emotional abandonment and neglect.

“I’m DONE!” I want to shout. “Done. Done. Done. Now let me leave.” But the details, like vines, they creep from the jungle of established expectation, cling on, and hold me down.

I am the girl that always disappears from the party without hugs, goodbyes or parting pleasantries. Where, when, how, with whom and why I went always on the list of the next morning’s mysteries. Strangers with whom I may have wandered home they often hypothesize; but little do they know that he who has caught my eye is but the dark handsome hand of a breeze, that beckons and whispers with a rustle through the trees; “Come. Come. There’s nothing left for you there. Your part in that party is done. But your calling over here has just begun…”

This dark, handsome, hand. It beckons me now. Distracts me. Dissuades me. Calls me. Encumbers me. Tells me that this party – of stationary friends, steady salsa circles, social commitments and solid workloads – is done. Waves me to the edge of the cliff. Where I stand now. Transfixed.

And I feel her. Reaching out to me. Tingling at the touch — where her fingertips meet mine. And I hear the words in the distance. Rolling in like waves. Yelling out fair warning of their impending crash against my cliff. I’ve turned my back on all behind. But my eyes have not yet adjusted to the darkness and I find myself — despite my determination — dizzy, deliriously, blind. Not here. Not there. Not present either. Standing. Questioning. Seeing. Seeking again my song through which those who know me hear my smile. I remind myself that the first step on instability is inevitably imbalanced. At once a subtle skill, a disciplined dance, and a clumsy climb, this is the one and only nature of bardo migration: intermediate, transitory, liminal, divine.

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

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the still in movement

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All my belongings are back in boxes.

My long winter coats. Silk Indian scarves. Short summer skirts. Leather boots, salsa shoes and my favorite old cotton t-shirts. The odd jewelry collected from countries around the planet that wrapped a time, place or memory around my wrist, finger or neck. My bank statements. My checking books. Renewed credit cards with verification stickers still unpeeled and signature boxes unsigned (some tasks for which I’m happy to have never found the time). Spices, seeds, teas and other treats whose form of bulk are repacked for the next sedentary life period. Hair combs, colors, brushes and clips. Soaps, mascara, and lip gloss sticks. Back into clear plastic bags a fashion-influenced face is zipped.

I am not yet catching a flight out of this country (still not for awhile). But today I move out of my den of seven months retreat (and only the distance of a couple miles) to sit a friend’s house down the street. And as I strip. The closet. The desk. The bathroom. The kitchen. I come again to the conclusion that pilgrimage has less to do with physical measures of time and distance than it does with change, movement and rotation. And that the path has always had so much more to do with departure, than it ever did destination. The revelations, realizations and enlightenments I forsee I will find, hint at having much less to do with what I bring with me, than that which will be left in these boxes behind.

Is pilgrimage essential for spiritual awakening?

I don’t know. I feel myself still sleeping. And every time I think I have just shaken off the sleep, I pinch myself, wake and find myself sitting up in the bed of another dream. But if I had to answer, I would say that “going somewhere” is not essential but that “leaving something” is. Knowing it’s not so much one task, as a lifelong discipline of recognizing, choosing and clearing away. And to each her own on the “boxes” with which we part ways. To name only a few that I’ve now labeled with a black sharpie marker; “guilt”, “ entitlement” ,“prestige”, “costume” and “class”. “ Ignorance” ,“discrimination” “ego” and “arrogance.” Titles, ideals and faulty definitions of self always teeter, totter and stack high on my storage shelves. And like Santa’s famed sack, it doesn’t matter what I put in, as I am forever finding more to surrender and discard to bottomless boxes accommodating endless additions. Perhaps the biggest boxes though, that I am ever struggling to find a way to wrap my arms around, are those labeled, “past” and “future”, which for pilgrimage I’ve found particularly heavy, awkward and cumbersome.

And when it’s all packed and put away, what do we find in the lull? Well that would be the mystery reserved and awarded, after a good dig through direct experience, to each unique individual. But it is at the very bottom of THAT box where I think spiritual awakening awaits rediscovery – which I do not think to be foreign, apart, untouched or unknown. A most basic sense of awareness in which we reveled in the years closest to before and after birth; grown from the seeds of intuition, instinct and unexplained inclination with which we were born. A presence that was buried by the louder voices in our lives, but I have recognized to still stand, just a little behind and to the side. Reaching its arm across my back, tapping the shoulder farthest away, and snickering wickedly when I look the wrong way.

In any case, kudos to those who can leave without leaving, not answer to names their egos find pleasing, and pack up their mental boxes while physically sitting. I have found such people in rural caves, monasteries and like places off the map and I admire them with depth undefined and awe equally uncharted. Although I do fancy such a period in my life that will be as long and still as this one has been dynamic, the same that taps my shoulder whispers into my ear that I am not ready for that phase yet. It’s an interesting and perhaps illogical equation, to move everything in order to discover what’s left. But for me it’s never been about any outcome, goal, static state of being or heaven. To be “awakened” has never been the objective, nor any other country or destination. It’s the “ing” that interests me; packing, unpacking, leaving, challenging, redefining, changing, walking, being. Let Irony laugh, but I find stillness in moving. Stillness that I do not envision at the end of my peregrination. But stillness as small smooth stones that, along the path, I find, touch – hold only for a moment – and let go.

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

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a Jekyll agenda

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My boss says, “You’ve got to anticipate.”

He, of course, is referring to the formidable mountain of projects sitting on my desk that’s currently making my inner sherpa shudder in fear under the overload.

However when I speak of anticipation, it is usually in direct yet indefinable association with the tingling that dances up the back of my neck, for instance, when my Pilgrim Guide to the Caminos de Santiago in France arrived in the mail from overseas this week.

*!!!*

It’s really not so much a book as it is a pamphlet. And although it’s suggested, I’m not going to bring any additional guidebooks that provide specifics of the path.

My friend Sara said of my last pilgrimage:

“Remember when you were in Portugal, and you didn’t have a map but were just following those blue arrows backwards? Yeah. We didn’t tell you at the time, but now that you’ve come back, I think it’s safe to let you know; We thought you’d totally lost it. We decided you were crazy.”

That makes me the Hyde in my giggle. The Jekyll, however, smirks. Because “crazy” as I may have been, that is exactly where I long to return; onto the edge; walking that fine line between the rational and the magical; where the slightest sigh of silence pushes me right over. Having no idea where I was on a map, nor where I’d been or was going, and surrendering my myth to those silly blue arrows led something inside of me to a timeless and placeless experience of existence that made my heart burn with the excitement of a first crush. I’ve found only one name that comes close to pinning itself on the shirt of that sentiment:

Presence.

A pure, permeating, and soul-saturating sense of Presence.

I think that because I am not enlightened (nor foresee such in my future) and am yet unable to be entirely present from the inside out, I still seek the environments that force me to surrender to presence from the outside in; salsa dancing, dreaming, scubadiving, first kisses, reading, writing, speaking in another language, meditating, and learning anything new. But what is exciting about being in a place — ANY place — unknown, is that then everything transforms itself into an exercise in presence: eating, walking, sleeping, thinking, speaking, listening, being. And it is my hypothesis that a diligent diet of surrender to environmental unknowns will eventually lead me to the slimness of ill-conceived self-stability necessary for inner stillness.

But back to anticipation, which I have only for the first time recognized as being a balance of both inaction (excited patience) AND action (disciplined preparation). The countdown to my departure turned on about a week ago. Although countdowns, by nature, are disciples of Time, perhaps contrary to their intention, they too, bring me Presence. Those funny little tabs sheets in time mark the beginning of anticipation, the duration of renewed appreciation, and the exciting start date of actualization.

Let me explain; I have exactly 108 (which happens to be the sacred number of beads on a “mala” *mantra counting beads* as well as the final tally of braids on a Tibetan head) days before I leave the States again. And although my heart wants to leap out of my chest in (excited and patient) anticipation of that day, I have also already broken down that 108 days into the following (boss-approving) schedule of disciplined preparation anticipating my upcoming adventure:

72 French lessons. (I’m on lesson 18 right now of Pimsleur’s French Series – which is an incredible language learning method. I can’t give a higher stamp of approval without sounding like a cheesy infomercial.) 12 Fridays of advanced salsa classes (although I’m currently dancing an average of 4 nights a week; which would be the reason why I’ve been slacking on posting recently.) A summer school drawing course (for new visual perspective and recording of my upcoming journey). 12 sunny weekends of prep walking and hiking (a few pics from this Saturday’s adventure). 3 months to finish reading my new photography books & practice shooting (I read the rest of my camera’s manual last weekend, and to my *squealing* delight discovered a secret “super-macro mode” — as demonstrated by the photo above). 108 days of appreciating a super soft bed, a consistently hot shower, access to delicious vegan food options, proper time to foster both old and new friendships, 24-hr access to internet, time and silence to meditate daily, a book shelf to hold all that I like to peruse on a regular basis, organic veggies, mountains within walking distance, water from the tap, a kitchen, and all the blessings of a life that gives ample space for healthy habits and repeated (sacred) rituals.

So much to appreciate. So much to anticipate. So much Presence before, at and after 108 that my heart stutters in indecision over whether to sigh or hold my breath for…

109.

*!!!*

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

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emotional cartwheels

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I’ve got the question, “But what ARE you doing right now?” doing cartwheels in my inbox so I’m going to step out of my meditations on moments passed and give a quick personal update.

Colorado is a state I had never been to before I stepped off the plane three months ago and found a house, work, friends and routine to intertwine these elements. In this way, this particular little plot of land and people hold adventures no different than those I’ve found along my pilgrimages through South American or Asian continents.

I spend a lot of time at work; my “job” is super challenging, but my daily task is getting hundreds of young Americans ready and hyped for truly authentic experiences in developing countries (from Bolivia to Senegal to Mongolia). I get people equipped for the experience that they will eventually sigh over and stammer, “it changed my life.” I assist the world’s richest 1% with becoming emotionally and physically prepared to bathe out of a bucket and live in a nomad tent with yak headers in rural Tibet. And do I think this plays a role in changing America? Yes I do. I would have a lot more respect for our petty little president if he at least had been a guest in the house of an Afghani family before mindlessly putting his machine to the task of destroying them. I do believe the key to realizing any peace in this lifetime will be the world’s realization that every “enemy,” stripped of distance, skin color and ignorance, is a sibling. It’s quite a task, but I put myself to it – one teenager at a time.

I walk to work everyday and usually I walk home too. I went to a writing conference all of last weekend. I take salsa-dancing classes every week. I registered for French classes last night and I’m in conversations with the local art school on when I can begin my drawing classes this spring. I detest the TV, but have spent a lot of hours this week at the feet one of my favorite teachers watching a 6-hour series on, “The Power of Myth,” by my favorite “JC” guru/prophet/missionary, Mr. Joseph Campbell. Also on my desk I have more texts on myth, symbolism, archetypes and image; all words that I consider keys to my, yet to be discovered, inner mystery. During my lunch hour I’m reading more Herman Hesse. Before bed I’m reading more Rumi. And Amazon has just sent me the pile of photography books I’ve ordered with the purpose of adding new corners to the creativity of the visions I capture and share via camera on this website. I have been adventuring at sunrise and set to shoot, but my new digital camera outputs quality and resolutions to which my computer blinks, “no memory,” with a blank text box. As is often the case, I need to delete in order to make room for the new. And as soon as I put the tired to rest, I will post some new pictures as well as some rough drafts of the podcast that I am brainstorming to begin posting on my next adventure across borders.

And, of course, yes, I will be adventuring cross-continents again soon. I have three quotes right now in my inbox for ATW (Around The World) tickets; another walking pilgrimage (across Southern France this time, and yes, that’s what the French classes are for) and a more stationary stint in South India are priorities 2 and 1 (in that order) on the itinerary. I won’t be leaving till the end of summer, but that is but a bat of Time’s eyelashes. In the meantime, I’m feeling fully charged and challenged, which is all I ask of life on a daily basis. Despite the illnesses around me, I have not been sick since I’ve been here and I’m back to needing only 6 hours of sleep, which are both signs that my body and mind are subconsciously feeling very healthy and happy.

It snows in Boulder all the time. And I’ve never seen anything so beautiful as the white blanket being knitted in the sky, at the hands of the snow gods, right before my eyes. The next day the sky is clear and blue and it’s 70 degrees. The next day it snows again. This is Boulder. And the rapid evolution of weather emotions and experiences matches my character perfectly.

It snowed like this yesterday. On my walk home from work I pulled on every branch of every tree I passed to watch the white confetti spring into the air and fall like magic (always tends to do) on my path. At a street signal, one particularly large nest of snow on a tree didn’t spring so much as it did dump…on my head. And me, and the man in his car stopped at the red light, silently laughed out loud together.

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

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city funhouse

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Oh. He’s looking at me funny. Yep. He’s cocking his head and scrunching up his nose. It’s definitely coming. Uh huh…here he goes!

“Did that hurt?”

I play dumb. I know exactly what he’s referencing because it’s the same question I’ve encountered five times in two days. I’m baffled by my new citizenship of a freak-dom that I’ve never known to exist on the coasts. And I’m not exactly sure why this is my response, but I play dumb.

“Did what hurt?”

“That nose ring,” he says and points at my face.

There’s something about having a finger pointed at my face that makes me feel subconscious and so I full-stop the conversation with, “Nope. Hey, this portabella mushroom is excellent.”

“Is it?” he asks.

A bit of a strange response, I note, to get from the waiter that has just served me the dish I’m complimenting. This time I cock my head at him, to which he responds…

“Do you have vegatitis?”

Okay; that’s not a direct quote. He actually asks me if I’m a vegetarian. But there’s something in the curve of his question mark that insinuates that vegetarianism is something one picks up from an infested mattress. And by the amount of time it took for me to find the single meat-less option on a 6-page menu, I hypothesize that not many of “my type” are found in these parts. But I recognize his innocent curiosity because I’ve gotten the same line of questions from my niece and so I decide to drop my, “I’m-entitled-to-oddness” act and answer affirmatively and with sincerity.

Having rarely wandered so far from the West Coast (where nose rings and rabbit-food habits are but hardly noticed), I’m still surprised when he shakes his head in incredibility and asks, “But why?”

“Well, because I try to live a life free of both direct and indirect violence,” I answer honestly. Recognizing that this statement is a deep well to simply dip into without commitment and consent, I give the comment a minute to settle. He peers over the edge, squints his eyes, does a quick estimation of depth, and instead shrugs and turns to tend to his other tables.

I return to my book and copy from it a quote into my journal, “There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn’t count.” – Rabbit

I glance at my watch and wonder briefly again when I became I watch-watching person. “When I started needing to catch flights on time,” I answer myself. I pull out my company credit card and put it on the table.

The waiter returns. He picks up the card and reads the inscription under my name. “What’s a WTB Dragon?” he asks.

I think this is very funny. But I smuggle my laugh because I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him. “It’s who I work for,” I answer.

“Ah. Business woman,” he says and walks away. But the impression of his assessment is left standing in my face…

“What? Business woman? Me?” I stand back, aghast and…insulted? Hum. I am wearing a long petticoat. And black slacks. And I have a laptop with me. And a rental car. And I DO have a company credit card. And I am traveling for work. Wait. Could it really be? Am I a business woman?!?

These questions are all swiftly spinning in my head as I sign the receipt, gather my belongings and head to the women’s bathroom. But when I push through the swinging door, the bickering in my head is suddenly deafened; outspoken by the volume of music that, for some reason, is blaring in stereo sound only in the restroom. I don’t consciously choose to step into the handicapped stall, but when a terribly joyful 90’s song, to which I’ve danced around many a campfire and know every word, comes on, I do consciously use every inch of the stall space to my stepping, sliding, spinning and singing advantage.

Quiet relieved with my unanticipated and unsuppressed dancing outburst, I wash my hands and mind of doubt and exit the bathroom.

“Businesswoman; That was funny!”

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

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